Adventures in Negroshire

2010- Haiti, the world, and a glass of water

2010-01-29T16:15:00.003+01:00

Happy New Year everyone! I know it’s been some time. 2009 was a rollercoaster of a year filled with deaths, lack of jobs, temporary deportation out of the UK, feeling the blues, exercising, and of course, just trying to figure my way through life just like everyone else.

By the end of 2009 I thought ‘this has got to be the end of this bad streak! Both parents are now dead. More friends have died. I’m finally back in the UK after being kept away from my son and husband for a time to straighten out immigration status’. That had to be it. 2010 has to be better. This year, I said to myself, was going to be about positivity and hope.

And then the earthquake hit Port-au-Prince. Despite learning that those family members who still live there survived, I couldn’t stop crying for my friends whose family were so lucky. I couldn’t stop crying for Haiti itself.

But that’s the way it works sometimes, isn’t it? It takes strength and courage to find hope in bleakness. There must be a boundless will to find positivity in the darkness. But does it always have to be about the superhuman strength and will?
For many people, it seems, I am the only Haitian descendant they know. Therefore, all of a sudden, a horrendous tragedy in some Third World nation was brought all the more closer to them. And for this and other reasons of course, they needed to reach out to me. I was flooded with Facebook wall postings, emails, texts, phone calls from truly beautiful people. They wanted to reach out, to know if my family was ok, if what little they could give would be helpful and/or comforting somehow.

It was. It still is.

I am amazed at how fast the world has pulled together to lend assistance and support to a tiny island country that has no relevance on most of this world’s lives. I have always felt that Haiti was like that little kid who everyone tried to hit first and repeatedly during a dodgeball game. After getting pummelled, the little kid would get up, brush herself off and limp to her next class. All the while, she’s either ignored when something pretty walks into view or viciously teased and tormented when she’s tries to interact with others. But there is she again, the next day in P.E. class, ready to survive another day.

And yet this time, when something large, hard, and random fell out of the sky hitting this little girl in her head, knocking her down with a severe concussion, bleeding profusely, a bunch of kids ran over to help her.

Personally, I’m not interested in all the competition over who gave how much more. I’m just happy to know that people are helping. I’m happy for the millions of people that I will never know and who may never know me felt such humanity to help my ancestral homeland.

How can I not believe in positivity and hope?
So, world, I thank you for helping Haiti and making me believe in the future of humanity. I promise to return the favor!

As someone who by nature tends to see the glass half-empty—I’m cocking my head to the side and thinking ‘hm, there’s a lot more room for more water, isn’t there?’

Adventure in Negroshire will return in 2010

2009-12-30T12:41:00.002+01:00

Hiya to those who've still checked my blog from time to time. I was surprised to hear that there were folks who were interested in hearing more. I will return in 2010 with more anecdotes about living overseas! In the meantime, Happy Holidays!

I Gots Me A Job!!!

2008-10-31T10:40:00.011+01:00

Well, hello, faithful readers. I know, I know! It's been a long time. The longest I've ever been away from my blog. Please forgive me. It's just been a very trying last few months for typical reasons.

But I did want to tell you that another reason why I've been too busy to write more is because I got a job with the University of Edinburgh! I am now an official member of the Department of History staff! I am a tutor for their American History 2 course. It's basically the same job that we term "teaching assistant" or "TA" back in the States. It's only once a week but for that day, I feel like my old self again.

I can't tell you how much it's affected me. For months, I've felt my brain slipping- wasting away without other intellectuals to converse with on a weekly basis.

I absolutely love commuting by train, walking out of Waverly Station and walking up the hill into Old Town passed the Royal Mile onto George IV Bridge and onto campus. I have my iPod and some fashion magazine to pass the time on the train. Then I have the formidable views of the smog-coated medieval and renaissance styled churchs and municipal buildings to keep my eyes darting from one side of the street to the other.

Now, although I'm an anthropologist, more specifically, a historical archaeologist by training, I have enough academic background to feel secure in teaching American history to second year students. But I will admit, I was taken aback just a bit. The students (at least in my classes) are ridiculously smart. Far more, by numbers, than students I taught in some parts of the US. But then, University of Edinburgh is one of the best institutions around. I believe it is ranked within the top 50...in the world!
From what I gather, if one does not make it into Cambridge or Oxford, one goes to Edinburgh.
According to wikipedia: In the Third European Report on Science & Technology Indicators, compiled by the European Commission,[10] the University of Edinburgh ranked as follows:

* 5th in Europe
* 3rd in the UK
* 1.35 score of citation impact (0.2 points below the leader, University of Cambridge)

The 2007 Times Higher Education Supplement [THES] World University Rankings ranked the University of Edinburgh as follows:[11]

* 23rd in the world
* 5th in the UK
* 5th in Europe overall

And because of this, there is quite a large population of English and Welsh students here; larger than I would have expected for a Scottish establishment. But in both my classes, the English and Welsh students outnumber the Scottish. This seems to be a demographic pattern found in many other departments of the university, although I was told that the differences in numbers between Scottish and other British students has shrunk some over the years.

So far, I am thoroughly enjoying my students. I've never dealt with such small numbers for my groups (no more than 10 students per class!). I'm used to 50 students or more at a time. But I've no complaints.

After my classes and office hours are done, I walk through Old Town and have lunch, maybe do a little bit of shopping over in New Town before I catch the train back home to Perth.

Not a bad way to spend my Tuesdays. Not bad at all!

Why I Can't Seem To Get More Posts On This Blog These Days!!

2008-08-20T08:45:00.007+01:00

I have heard from a few of you that you miss more update or current posts. Well, if you had to run after a child like my Baby Bear, you'd understand. For me, this motherhood thing is a BITCH!!!
The boy was walking (without assistance) since he was 8 months. But now, at 15 months, he's figured out how to climb onto everything. So now, we can never leave that boy alone! He's determined to play with (i.e., destroy) everything above 2 feet now.
Here's a cute version of what I'm talking about...

Now, I gotta run because the boy is climbing on my boxed dissertation files trying to manhandle everything on daddy's table.

Summer hiccup

2008-08-04T22:20:00.000+01:00

As the picture says, I send you all apologies for not writing sooner. This summer has been very taxing and well, something had to fall by the wayside. But fear not dear readers, I will be blogging again within the next week.

Until then, I hope you're enjoying your summer where ever you all are!

Baby Bear's First Birthday!!

2008-05-28T07:40:00.001+01:00

As some of you know and care, Ruben turned 1 earlier in the month. I can't even tell you what that meant to me. It meant that I was able to keep that boy alive and well without doing him or myself any permanent injuries. And for that-- we needed to celebrate.

You know, I never really got the whole party for a baby thing. They are too young to understand what's going on, much less remember such an occasion. But I know now that it's really for the parents. It's a public proclamation of survival and success. "We didn't kill my child!!! Yeah for us!!"

The festivities went on the Cinco de Mayo theme, so Mexican food and drinks! The snacks were there: salsa, sour cream, and tortilla chips. We also made signifiacnt culinary effort: Non-alcoholic white sangria for the kiddies; watermelon margaritas and cold, lager beer for the older kids; 7-layered Mexi dip (apparently, many Brits have yet to enjoy this dish over here) and bbq ribs/chicken were a big hit; so were the spicy shrimp wraps and veggie wraps.

Birthday cake: lemon (sponge) with lemon buttercream frosting. The birthday cake was made by the Mitchells from Kenmore, a lovely little village beyond Aberfeldy. They made our wedding cake last year that people are still raving about!

Ruben got lovely gifts from his friends and family. His older friends helped him open the presents which as much fun for them as it was for Ruben:

The suckiest part was all the cleaning we had to do afterwards. We were all exhausted hours later. But so what? My BabyBear had a great time with his biggest fans.

A New Toy!

2008-05-12T19:40:00.001+01:00

Hi all! Yeah, yeah...I know it's been a while. But give me a break! I'm trying to raise a family, do my wifely duties, and finish my dissertation at the same time.

There's another post to come in the next few days. But I wanted to do this one and give you a peek of me and my new toy: the video option on Blogger!

I think I may be using this quite often. Of course, I don't believe in flooding the net with video after video of my son doing the most monotonous things (although to his parents--it's just genius!).

I'll be reporting on surviving the first year of Ruben's life soon. In the meantime, check out my boy:

Cultural Pride!

2008-04-04T13:50:00.002+01:00

I cannot tell you how humbled we are by all the wonderful gifts that friends have sent to our son. Toys, clothes, even diapers (nappies for you Brits)! We cannot thank you enough.

As Ruben is 1 month short of celebrating his 1 year birthday, two dear friends, Gloria and Sky from NY went to swirlz.net website and had a shirt made just for Ruben. It couldn't have made me happier! I LOOOOOOVE IT! It captures my son's mixed heritage and proudly displays it right on his "wee" chest for all to see. Normally, I'm not a fan of merchandise advertising but I'm a sucker for this. Because Gloria and Sky are also two people who are biracial and bi-cultural, they know how important it is to stress cultural, racial and ethnic pride in who you are...especially when no one else around you falls into those categories. I naturally have worries about my son becoming confused about who he is; worried that he'll feel the need to "fit in" and downplay his uniqueness. But I can breathe easily, I have great folks already looking after my son.

Course, the bad side of all of this is: I want more shirts!! We need to get ones with "Haitian Highlander", "Kreyol Caledonian", and "Toussaint Wallace" made.
In the meantime, we'll keep thinking of crazy combinations to demonstrate Ruben's Haitian and Scottish heritage.

Anyone else wanna offer up some good titles?

Things that are Confusing Me Right Now

2008-03-28T12:00:00.000+01:00

(by the way...that's not me above. Just wanted to use a pic of a confused black woman like myself)

I don't want this to be a serious gripe post. But if anyone anywhere can enlighten me on this, I'd be much obliged.

1-Why in the hell do commercials play at a such a louder volume than the movies and sitcoms before them? I am constantly having to keep the remote in hand to lower the volume down as soon as it goes to commercial. I'm telling you, it's TWICE the volume when the commercial comes on? Why is this legal? Why is it allowed to happen?

2- Why does SkyMovies on Virgin Media (cable) TV play Christmas movies at least twice a month EVERY MONTH before December? Here's my Americanness coming out but...damn it, Christmas movies should only be shown around Christmas time!! Not year round. It takes away the sentiment and special-ness (if you'll permit me a fake word).

3- Why does Virgin Media TV (our cable company) always behave like an irksome robot from some bad 1960's sitcom? We constantly have to reboot the damn thing just to get to see movies or tv listings for the next hour.

How Does One Make A Proper British Cup of Tea?

2008-02-18T12:20:00.002+01:00

As if I don't have enough crap to be stressed over, I find new things to keep me up at night. For my American readers, this may sound silly but, serving tea makes me super nervous.
I don't think we (Americans) really know how invested the Brits are to the culture of tea. Well, maybe we did once back in 1776 in Boston when we decided to show them what they could do with their tea. But honestly, I don't think we have anything in our food culture that equates with British tea. I actually have dreams where I hear a repetitive, screeching voice asking "Cup o' tea?! Cup o' tea?!" much like Polly the parrot would mimick.

There is soooo much to learn about making a "proper cup of (British) tea". For example, while there is the popular notion to avoid over-processed, bleached foods like white flour and such--the Brits believe that only white, granulated sugar will do for tea.
"White sugar for tea; brown or otherwise for coffee," they say.

Jeez! here I was committing serious faux-pas by serving tea with raw, unbleached sugar.

Let me tell you...serving tea the "wrong" way will have people talking about you for YEARS to come. And heaven forbid you don't offer a guest in your home tea within 1 full minute of their arrival time. I believe you may have up until you've taken their coat and they've sat back fully into their seat to offer tea or else!
Apparently, my mother-in-law is still talking about how this person or that person from how many years ago didn't offer them a cup o' tea when they arrived at their home.

Even my freaking husband is somewhat ill-at-ease in the US when someone doesn't offer him tea.

WE DON'T DO THAT!!!!!
We may offer you juice, water, a soft drink; maybe even coffee. But not tea. And I swear, I get the feeling that deep down, Andy finds it rude--even though he knows that tea culture is not apart of the American way. He is just the tiniest bit disturbed by it.

So, when we have company, I'm constantly stressed now about the damn tea thing! I welcomed them into our home. I take their coats. I show them to our couch. And before they can sit back and cross their legs, I press my face into a tight smile and mimick, "may I offer you a cup of tea?".

Despite doing this, and properly presenting white sugar, there are so many more RULES I still have to learn.

How long are you allow the hot water to sit in the kettle before pouring into a tea pot? How long to steep the tea? When to pour? Do you offer to pour or let your guest pour for themselves? Do we always keep a bit of whole milk in the house or will our guests' blow a blood vessel in their brains if we offer skim milk with their tea?

When I press people for answers on the dos and don'ts, they ALWAYS try to say that the stiff rules are of the past; this generation is so much more laxed about such formalities.
Uh huh. Yeah, right.
So, I just come from another angle and just ask what they'd prefer or not prefer...what their families prefer and little by little those DAMN RULES come flying out until they sound like water gushing out of a broken faucet.

My blood pressure is going up now...stressing me out just to even write about it.

I need to go lay down or something. This would be so much easier if they were addicted to crack or heroin. No stress there. The only rule is to just keep serving it up!

But if any Brits catch this post, please send me a list of the dos and don'ts for British tea.

I really need the help.

2008--Will I be Good Enough This Year?

2008-01-13T06:00:00.000+01:00

2008...wow, gotta say, it's already starting off scarey for me. I have so much to accomplish this year--most importantly, I MUST finish my dissertation. It's been the cause of my emotional and inner strength's deterioration for some time now. December, as hectic as it was, coudln't have been more amazing! But my, how much has changed in my life! My husband and I just shared our first Christmas with our baby bear, Ruben!

I try to recount the happy memories of the holidays, all the blessings I have because of my son and husband, and delicious meals we make to sate our tummies and have them smile from the inside."

Even now, the peace and ease I felt only two weeks ago in the month of December has melted away and a feeling of dread is washing through me.

To be more frank, I am facing one of my greatest fear--to make myself vulnerable on hundreds of paper and hope professors I respect and studied under for years will think me worthy to be a colleague. That's what this is all about...can I measure up? Will they say that my ideas and writing is good enough?

How the hell did I get here? I spent all my formative years avoiding scrutiny. I was a rebel! I was unapologetically irreverant about everything. I didn't need my parents' approval for anything. I was going to be me and only me and if my parents or the world couldn't take it, well then, screw 'em!
But how long can most of us live like that? At some point, we want...hell, need approval--to be told you are good enough. But now, I feel like this pinheads chip away at me with every critique and comment of every line of every page of every chapter of my soul. They appear to hold the key to my self-worth with just the scribble of their signature on my yet-to-be-completed dissertation--a document that is only suppose to introduce me into their fold; not boast as my greatest accomplishment!

Well...regardless, I have to get it done and done very soon. I know that I will be walking down some dark paths to get to the Emerald City (even though I already know the Wizard is not some all mighty being). I hope this journey doesn't make me any more jaded and resentful of academia than I already am.

I hope it doesn't make me into one of those professors I've come to despise--the ones who lose a bit more of their humanity with every passing year.

Pop Crimes Christmas Style, Part 2

2007-12-24T12:45:00.001+01:00

Here we have Ricky Tomlinson's Christmas My Arse".

This certainly isn't the Post Modern Dickensian taste many Americans have of a British Christmas. But you know, this "artist" is still making some money off this...er...song.

To each, their own, I guess.

Pop Crimes Christmas Style, Part 1

2007-12-20T11:54:00.001+01:00

I figured I needed to put some of these European "gems" for my people back Stateside.

This is Boney M. performing their hit, "Mary's Boy Child". There's something sooo Milli Vanilli about this. Probably because the same guy who put this group together in the 70s was the "genius" behind the tragic duo too. Check out my man and his amazing dance moves (if you can get past the hairdon't).

December nights in Dublin!

2007-12-12T22:10:00.000+01:00

My boys and I took a weekend trip to Dublin to see some friends. Here are some quick (if not the clearest) pics of Christmas rearing its cheerful head around the city. I'm a sucker for Christmas lights--so, if you're like me, well then, enjoy!

This last one is in Irish Gaelic-- "Nollaig Shona dhuit" which translates to "Happy Christmas"

Pop Crimes

2007-12-08T16:19:00.001+01:00

Living in the UK provides me with endless, painful music that I'm soooo glad we never got in the US.

So every once in a while I will be posting various videos from Youtube of songs that were huge in Britain.

This song, "Ay Ay Ay Ay Moosey" by Modern Romance stayed on the British pop charts for 12 weeks and went to number 10 in 1981.

There is a special dance treat if you can make it to 44 seconds in. It's brief, but classic!

Let me know if anyone of you could make it to the end of the song. I still can't.

Food Bites: An American Thanksgiving in Scotland

2007-12-05T22:00:00.000+01:00

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. There's no stress involved (unless you have to cook and you can't). No gifts are required. Long stays are unnecessary. You just show up, eat as much as you can, then regret that 5th helping, maybe watch some
American football or maybe not, take a nice nap, then start all over again.

This year we had two Thanksgivings: dinner on the Sat. after the official holiday and then lunch and leftovers the next day for a couple of friends who couldn't make it the night before.

Here's a quick rundown of turkey day for me this year.

The dinner table was set for 10! We probably shouldn't attempt that many again. It was a tight squeeze but that only made the party more fun.
We invited dear friends who have been supportive and oh so helpful to Andy and me since I arrived to Scotland. Since our marriage and Ruben's birth-- their friendship and love have only made my transition here easier. Thanksgiving lunch was very mellow since all the cooking was done. Just reheated the dishes (although I had to make more mashed potatoes--Brits LOVE potatoes!)

Also, Sunday's lunch allowed my girlfriends to play with Ruben without fighting 10 others for his attention.

The Menu:
Roast Brined Turkey
gravy a la Andy
Mashed potatoes with creme fraiche
Brioche stuffing (with carmelized onions, garlic, mushrooms, and minced sage sausage sauteed in marsala wine)
corn
cranberry sauce

I didn't vary too greatly from last year's thanksgiving feast...I do think some dishes should always be a staple. However, it was far more taxing trying to prepare and cook for two days while managing my gotta-touch-everything-then-see-how-fast-I-can-break-it-before-mommy-finds-out son.

Over the years, I've found that a brined turkey is the best for flavor without losing moisture. Basically, I SUBMERGED the entire bird in a salt-sugar solution for 24 hours. I also added crushed garlic, fresh thyme and peppercorns to give the bird a better kick for taste.
The bird soaks up the water and flavorings which keeps it moist when I roast it the next day. I never had to baste it. I just put it in the oven, covered with foil for the majority of its roasting time.
The last 20 mins, I remove the foil, touch the turkey skin with a bit of butter to assist in browning and voila! The juiciest turkey with flavor that permeates throughout the layers of meat.

As for Dessert:

I made some southern classics-- sweet potato souffle tart

As far as I'm concerned, pumpkin pie is a poor subsitute for sweet potato. But then, I've spent much of my time around the American South. I love sweet potato pie but making it as a souffle makes it lighter and its light, airy texture it tricks me into thinking I'm not eating something too sweet and caloric.

I thought that my British friends should get another classic southern American treat: red velvet cake!

It's too delicious to not have once a year. For those not in the know, red velvet cake is a rich sponge treat made with cocoa powder and colored with red dye then topped cream cheese frosting. It's not for the faint of heart.
According to wikipedia.org, the tradition of baking with red dye arose in the mid-20th century:
"The use of red dye to make "Red Velvet" cake was probably started after the introduction of the darker cocoa in order to reproduce the earlier color. It is also notable that while foods were rationed during World War II, some bakers used boiled beets to enhance the color of their cakes."

There will be more Food Bites posts since we are in the midst of the holiday season--and we all know that means eat, drink, eat, drink.

Food Bites: British Fare and Scottish Favorites

2007-11-15T10:45:00.000+01:00

The other day, while reflecting on my last post, my friend, Helen commented on her identification with her English background and most especially with English food. She's so happy that her local grocery store in Florida does carry English tea, chocolate, biscuits, and branston pickle.
"There's also a tea room near me and they have delectable delights such as fish 'n chips and steak 'n ale pie," she added.

Then she asked me what are my favorite British foods.

Now, for those of you who know me quite well, I can talk about food until the cows come home! And with Thanksgiving and the Christmas season just around the corner---food is all I'm thinking about these days.

While many Americans (and I suspect, continental Europeans) believe that "great British food" is a paradoxical statement, I think they'd be surprise to know there are some really tasty, noteworthy examples.

So here's my list. For general British food I've come to embrace steamed (instead of baked) sponge cakes, dessert scones, potato scones, mincemeat pies, and of course, high tea with all the tasty delicate sandwiches and mini-cakes.

When it comes to Scotland, there are some tasty goodies I never want to go without. No, I'm not going to say haggis, although I do enjoy my share from time to time.

In no particular order here are my favorites:

Scottish lamb-- there is nothing like it. We rarely eat beef now because it's just soooo succulent and flavorful. And believe me, my Andy's roast lamb is like crack cocaine!

Arboath Smokies--I've talked about them before in a previous post. Wish I could get this once a week!

stovies--there's nothing pretty about it but it is comfort food; made with potatoes and leftover roast meat.

fresh fish from Scottish waters--A mainstay in Scottish diet for good reasons! Cod, haddock, halibut, and my new one--plaice...they are all easy to get, easy to cook and taste delicious!

Cullen Skink-- a thick, DEE-licious, creamy, Scottish soup made of smoked Finnan haddock, potatoes and onions

bridie--variety of savory pies--mincemeat; onion; etc. They look a lot like Jamaican patties in shape. Actually, I do enjoy most Scottish meat pies...however, they are far from healthy so I limit my indulgences here.

If there are any amazing dishes I'm missing out on, let me know! I'm willing to try them out!

Identity Check and the Realization of Reality

2007-10-13T10:07:00.000+01:00

I am constantly juggling my identity...as black; female; of Haitian ancestry; American; woman...the list goes on and on... and I absolutely hate it when my identity is challenged. Like others with transnational identities, I occasionally deal with some people considering me to be "too American" to be Haitian. That was a typical thing my father would say to me.
Only recently, in the Ft. Lauderdale airport, a Haitian worker was admiring my son sleeping and she mouthed "belle" to herself. She looked up at me and I responded with "merci". In Haitian Creole, she asked me if I spoke French. I continued the conversation in Creole and said 'no, I speak creole'.
This surprised her and she asked who taught me. I was a bit taken back by this.

Couldn't she just tell I was Haitian like her?

I said my parents taught me; they are Haitian too. This made her laugh. She said she would have never taken me for Haitian. "American or maybe African instead," she clarified.
"Why? Because of my dreadlocks?" I asked.
"No, it's in the way you move, your disposition."

What could I say? She wasn't the first Haitian to mistaken me for anything but one of her people.
While not completely surprising, it still hurt a bit.

Before, I left the UK for the States to get my spouse visa (which I did get-thank you all for your support), I had a minor identity meltdown. I was passive-aggressively hit in the stomach by a colleague I was suppose to respect. This person wanted to make sure that I knew that another student who had begun their dissertation work after me had not only finished before me but was now in employment by a well-credited university.
I felt like this colleague was telling me I was a failure.
What have I done with myself in the last two years?! How many professors have I let down?!

When my shame spiral ended, leaving me in a pool of my own disgust, I managed to call a good friend and colleague back in Austin.

"Am I a loser? You'll level with me, right? Just tell me the truth," I begged him.

Chet chuckled lightly and replied, "Peg, you've had a lot going on in your life. You moved across the ocean--that alone is a huge adjustment. Then, you had a baby and got married, and oh, managed to write most of your chapters. I just moved across town, and I haven't written anything. So what's my excuse!"

I grumbled something but Chet knew I needed more reassurance. He said that my accomplishments of late are far more superior than that of my counterparts. Yes, had I not lost my mother two years, then dealt with my father's refusal to treat his cancer, undergo surgery myself, move to Scotland leaving everyone I love back in the US, then having a baby, marriage...I too, should have been finished with my doctoral writing.
My friend had to remind me that I've never been one to follow the same well-trodden path of others and thus, my route to success will always be questioned (if not controversial). But it will always be on MY terms.

Basically, I just need to suck it up and not be swayed by the voices in my head mirroring my critics back in the US.

As of late, I've taken to reading, just before bed, about the early female blues singers such as Bessie Smith, Ma Rainey and Billie Holiday (although she was technically a jazz singer).

The inner-strength and perseverance of these women as they forged a career by their own rules is inspirational to me. It reminds me that the petty crap that I deal with from this person or that professor can never compare with the true adversities of racism and sexism that these women experienced in the early 20th century.

Two encounters from friends hark back to the realization of my reality. A few years ago, Jodi, my friend and archaeological colleague, would patiently listen to me whine about all the work we had to do in gradschool. Her answer was always the same: "Well, Peggy-Peggy, at least we aren't picking cotton."
Deana, an older friend who has seen some strife and pain in her 50 odd years, once said that she never wanted to hear me complain about classes, professors or anything of the sort.
"Until you've had to survive on the steps of (Philadelphia's) City Hall with a baby while you're homeless, not knowing how you're going to make it through the day--sweetie, you don't really know what hard really is."

Enough said.

I truly need to remember the reality of my situation. As down as I can get about not accomplishing this or that by this age or constantly sweating and crying over the disapproval of that colleague or that professor-- I AIN'T GOT IT THAT BAD!

I am a wife and mother now. I still have a career and academic future in process but it does not define me.

More Visa drama!!

2007-09-11T12:05:00.000+01:00

AAARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!! Man, people make it hard for you to move to another country. I gotta skedaddle back to the US. Turns out, I can't get my spouse visa while in the UK (which will allow me to come and go as I please for two years only). So, we're packing up the family and heading back to the US to get everything sorted out.
And oh, don't get me started on the whole fiasco with the Life in the UK test--turns out I was wrongly informed that I needed to take it immediately. FALSE!!! I didn't need to do it for another 2 years!! (grumble grumble bitch and grumble)

Can I tell you how scared to death I am to travel overseas with my 4 month old baby??!

Please oh please let this all pass with minimal trouble. Hopefully, we'll all be back in a couple of weeks.

Wish us luck!

Party of the Year! Part 2: The Food! Lawd, the Food!!

2007-08-24T16:10:00.000+01:00

Ah, I could spend pages complaining that I don't have the pictures that capture the our food properly. But you know what? I was busy! Playing hostess and bride doesn't allow you time (much less the mind to remember )to take pics. That's why I've got to depend on other people's pics instead.
But at least, I can describe it all.

From the very beginning of our planning, we wanted to have the food represent us in the best way--to demonstrate a blend of his Scottish and my Haitian backgrounds. Since Andy and I do a fair bit of cooking and deemed (in our friends' eyes)foodies, we knew we would be completely involved in deciding exactly what would be served.

Friday night
That was our icebreaker dinner/dance party.
Weeks earlier, we conferred with Duncan Shearer (no relation to Andy's family), the chef for Kenmore Hotel. First, we needed to know if he was willing to prepare meals, not only of our choosing but, with specified Haitian recipes and ingredients that were unfamiliar to him. It's quite typical that the British have some knowledge of food from certain parts of the Caribbean (typically Jamaican). But one of the greatest complaints by West Indians is that most of the world thinks of the Caribbean as singular and that includes cuisine. (Of course, there is always some reason that Cuba stands outside of this ridiculous concept. There's always the false distinction that there is the Caribbean and its islands and then there is Cuba--as if it stands floating 10 degrees up and away from the region.)

For the icebreaker, I chose recipes that were Haitian or dishes that had a French Caribbean flavor. Thankfully, Chef Duncan Shearer was intrigued and up to the challenge. We had chicken marinated in traditional Haitian style then fried. For non-meat eaters, we served delicious cod puffs. Now, normally, Andy and I try to avoid fried foods however, this was a party and exceptions were made. But for those still concerned with their diets, some of our lovely sides were creative salads and healthy, vegetarian dishes.

Of course, for dessert, we had to serve a variety of fruit and Haitian sweet potato pie! YUM! YUM! It was interesting to note some of the Scots' reservation about sweet potato pie. Sweet potatoes are relatively new to British tastes. Moreover, to use the tuber in a sweet, rather than a savory manner, was somewhat disconcerting for them. These poor people have yet to understand the magic that is this incredible dish--loved throughout the American South and the Caribbean. But once prompted (pushed?) to try it, they heartily enjoyed it.

Included on the menu is one of our most beloved dishes, "diri ak djon djon" --rice with djon djon. Djon Djon (pronounce "jawn jawn") is a rare mushroom that only grows in the mountains of Haiti. The mushrooms are collected and dried until they turn black and brittle. In this form, they have a particularly pungent, musky but not displeasing odor. We steep the dried djon djon in hot water and cook rice in it. The rice takes on a dark grey to black color and the most delicious flavor! Haitians LOVE djon djon. It's integral to our identity.
The problem was trying to get the dried mushrooms into Britain. At my request, my cousins in Florida got me a stash and tried to bring it with them. Unfortunately, they were stopped at customs and forced to discard them. (I could grumble about this for another 5 hours but I'll not bore you). Fortunately, I had a backup plan and had others bring bouillon cube versions of djon djon made by the Maggi company just in case I couldn't get the true stash. It's close enough.

Saturday
So! Andy and I were adamant about creating a menu that would demonstrate a melding of our cultures and tastes. There was no way we were going to sit back and let a caterer do all the creative planning, esp. when it would end it boring choices of steak and or baked chicken. And trust me, we did interview a number of caterers. We immediately dismissed any and all who could not share in our dream for a delectable culinary fusion. We didn't want to hear "well, if you wanted to have that...it would be very difficult for us; oh really? not sure that's possible..." and so on. We weren't asking for a Donald Trump-style production.
We chose the company,FEAST Glasgow and weren't disappointed. While FEAST Glasgow does have extensive menus for weddings and other events, they were more than willing take our ideas and match the menu to our specifications.
We settled on having a buffet so that everyone could mix, match, or try whatever they wanted. No need to go into meal specifics. Just read the menu for yourself.

We thought it would be cute to give "tablet" as a wedding favor since the Scots and the French (and post-French colonies) both enjoy it. For Americans, tablet is akin to toffee-like fudge.

Wedding cake
I'm always amazed at how much time and concern is spent over the way a cake looks. Don't get me wrong; I believe cakes should tempt the eyes, but in preparation for satisfying the tastebuds. I rarely came across wedding books and wedding sites that emphasized the possible flavors of cakes. Isn't that important to people?? Especially if they have serious sweettooths?!
Our cake was made by the Mitchells of local Kenmore Bakery. Once again, we knew exactly what we wanted and the question was if the Mitchells could deliver it. And g*ddamn, did they!
Traditionally in Britain and most especially here in Scotland, wedding cakes are fruit cakes. Now, for my American readers, fruit cake in Britain is NOTHING and I mean NOTHING like that crap we suffer through during the Xmas holidays. While it is very dense, it is definitely pleasing. Here, there's actually FRUIT (dried and candied) in it-- unlike that confectionary disaster that we use as gag gifts or biodegradable doorstops (actually, I can't say for sure that the US fruitcakes are truly safe for the environment. I know they can last for years...just getting passed around from not-s0-friendly friend to the family member you hate to see if only for 2 days out of the year to the office coworker who annoys the living hell out of you with their funky breath and even worse jokes and their cubicle isn't even that close to yours).
If one chooses fruitcake then the bakers must be notified at least 3-6 months in advance. I guess it just takes that long for it to achieve the right texture and taste. Knowing we wanted to appease as many tastes as possible, we asked for three different flavored (sponge) tiers to be all covered in a lovely chocolate ganache and fresh red fruits dusted with powered sugar-- bottom tier was chocolate cake with raspberry filling; middle tier was banana/toffee with toffee filling; top tier (my tier) was lemon chiffon with passion fruit-buttercream filling. Amazing! Absolutely delicious!!

Sunday
The BBQ

Well, it couldn't be any more relaxing than this. Guests and family who were still in the area joined us back at the village hall Sunday afternoon. Dear friends, Pat (who's a chef) and Randy helped out with the grilling. Even Randy's son, Geoffrey was getting some culinary lessons from dad. We decided to keep it simple for the main reason that Britain doesn't really have a bbq culture the way we do in the US. Hence, the complexity of grilling techniques and recipes couldn't truly be accomplished. However, we had the basics and that was good enough for us. Nothing extraordinary was served: chicken, burgers, and sausages. Side fixings were green salads, potato salads, chips, dips, etc. Sweets included specially ordered chocolate coated apples, candy apples (known as "toffee apples" here in the UK), and the remains of the wedding cake.
For those without much of a hangover, more beer and wine was consumed. Not much was left. The weather wasn't terribly cooperative so much socializing and dining happened inside the hall.

I had hoped for a brighter, drier day for a round of soccer, kite-flying, and some dominoes outside. But honestly, we were all too exhausted for much beyond eating, general talk while sober, and conversation around the various parts of the Haitian flag.

By the way, if anyone can tell me what that thing is on the top of the palm tree pole(?), I'd love to know. My cousins and I had hot debates about it.

Party of the Year! Pt. 1

2007-07-30T22:00:00.000+01:00

The week leading up to June 30th was one of the most stressful times in recent memory. Andy and I needed to get ready for a huge weekend party in which our dearest friends and family would meet us in Perthshire, near Glenlyon, to celebrate our union.
Yes, Andy and I were married officially back in December but many (esp. family) wanted to see and participate in a wedding.
I was against the idea for a number of reasons at first. One of the strongest reasons was that I didn't want to deal with the burden of decision. We would have to decide who we could invite and who we would not invite. Andy and I are broke-ass people and now that we have a newborn, our budget is ever tight. I have seen people get their panties in a bunch over not getting invited or not being asked to be maid-of-honor and other stupid crap like that. People have a way of making you feel like YOUR wedding is really about THEM. I hate that crap.
Honestly, if we were rich, we'd have the wedding to invite everyone. As it stands, we kept it small. Only our nearest and dearest.

But for what we could do, we wanted to do it right. So, it wasn't about the wedding or the wedding day but more about the sharing of love, music, fun, culture, and food for the last days of June. Andy and I were quite meticulous about every detail of our wedding weekend. Every flower, each song, every color, meal, decorative plan was carefully thought of, discussed and executed by us.

Most guests were to arrive Thursday morning at Glasgow International Airport to be picked up by us in a shuttle bus. We had friends and family flying from as far as Brazil and as nearby as the next neighboring house in the village. Generally, my guests were flying overseas, from the US and Latin America. Andy's guests came from various parts of Ireland and Britain.
There were a few glitches. Bad weather on the east coast of the US caused horrible delays and even a few cancellations of flights.(Oh yeah, not to mention that bomb scare at Glasgow airport on the big day).
Eventually, most of our American and Caribbean guests made it Friday if not Thursday afternoon (two couldn't make it at all, sadly). Friends and family stayed in the beautiful, and tiny village of Kenmore..housing at Scotland's oldest inn, Kenmore Hotel.

Here's a brief of the weekend (most pics are from friends and family and from our AMAZING photographer Caroline of Candysnaps):

Thursday, we picked up my American guests from the airport and took a nice, leisurely scenic tour up to the Highlands. That afternoon was simply for our guests to check in to the Kenmore Hotel, get over jetlag, meet new friends or catch up with old ones and if they still have the energy, do a little exploring of the beautiful Perthshire countryside.

Friday
A few friends who were delayed overnight due to ridiculous airport issues finally arrived. Some, unfortunately, had nothing but the clothes on their back because the dumbass airlines lost their luggage for DAYS! Amazing as they are, they checked their attitude at the door and immediately don bright smiles and got ready to party. The male guests from my side went to get their kilt attire. Renting, as we say in the US, was pre-planned and so off on a field trip to Pitlochry they went.
The ladies joined me for a nice British tea at the Fortingall Hotel. Rather than have a "hen party" or a bachelorette bash of tasteless, mediocre fun, I settled for relaxing with my girls over tea, scones, salmon sandwiches, and lovely cakes.

Andy was off making sure that the sound and lighting folks were able to set up and decorate the village hall stage for our reception performances.
He and I went for a quick wedding rehearsal and met up with everyone back at Kenmore Hotel for the Friday night dinner/dance mixer.

In a private room, we and our guests dined on Haitian and French Caribbean-inspired dishes. After that, those of us who knew how to dance various ceilidh steps taught me and my people. Then we taught everyone else how to dance salsa. This was all in preparation for the two bands we hired for the reception dance. Folks stayed for impromptu Jamaica dancehall and Haitian "kompa" music and dance. When we couldn't stick around there, everyone just moved over to the hotel bar for continuous merriment.

Saturday
Final touches and details were added to the village hall and Fortingall hotel garden with the gracious help of friends and family. Friends helped me get dress and apply makeup, do my hair, as well as tend to Ruben when I was busy running around acting like a chicken with its head cut off.
I didn't want to buy a wedding dress that would cost hundreds or thousands of pounds...esp. now that we have to watch our budget with a baby to feed and clothe. The dress was simple and pretty...one I could wear again if I wanted to. My jewelry were elegant pearl necklace and earrings--not a matching set but suited well enough. I loved my shoes the most!
Beautiful, comfortable and god-awful cheap!
Jim, our hired florist from the neighboring town of Aberfeldy, hand-delivered my bouquet--Red Grace peonies
We hired buses to carry our guests the few miles from Kenmore to Fortingall church. At the appropriate time, guests were invited to enter before Andy and I made our appearance.

Because Fortingall is the home to the Fortingall yew tree, the oldest living vegetation in Europe (5,000 years old), many tourists make a stop for a tour and pictures. It was unavoidable that some tourists stuck around to see the bride and groom walk through the church grounds to enter the holy building. We were received smiles and applause from complete strangers. I felt quite out of my element.

Once inside the church, we were greeted with loving smiles and camera flashes from the people we love most in this world as we made our way down the aisle.

The ceremony was brief but beautiful and all heartfelt. Two of my cousins gave a Haitian welcome and blessing. Valery spoke in Haitian Creole and Nathan translated in English. There was a couple of goofs that left Nathan unable to translate and he said as such--much to the laughter of the congregation. (for example, most Haitian Americans have never needed to learn the French word for Scotland--"Ecosse" and so it threw poor Nathan for a loop)

It was so well orchestrated that the guests thought it was a planned comedy act. It wasn't. We had two musical performances: one by Inge. She sang "Come Join the Band o' Shearers" in the most poignant and moving way. It brought tears to many of the guests.
(when Andy and I decided to include that song, we thought it was a cute idea since I was to become a Shearer and the chorus goes "Bonnie lassie will ye go and join the band o' Shearers". It's normally a bouncy, jolly swing-your-mug-o-beer-and-sing-along type of song. But Inge's rendition was a wonderful and touching surprise)

A dear friend, Diane, recited a poem that Andy picked out. Then Andy and I exchanged vows we wrote. The second song was sung by Nada and accompanied by Angela on piano. My selection was "All That I Can Say" by Mary J. Blige.

No words speak more than how I feel for Andy. We exchanged rings that I designed. One of the things I really wanted was to have my wedding band and engagement ring not slide on next to each other, but rather, fit into each other to become one. I could go into the design of the ring but let me not bore you. I just prefer to have something that is unique to us and represents our relationship. No ring that others could buy out of the box would work. Although we were married in Dec. I continued to wear my engagement ring only.
Next, my cousin, Sabine recited a poem that I had chosen.
The reverend gave her blessing to us and to Ruben (a very nice touch to include him) and we were done.

Everyone followed us over to the Fortingall Hotel for French Caribbean rum punch and champagne cocktails.

It kept drizzling on and off so we spent the majority of the time inside. Smiles and hugs were bountiful. Drinks were consumed in plenty and pics were snapped off most rapidly. Like other brides, I had to make sure not to touch skin too often or all my makeup would rub off. I don't wear makeup often so I was unusually conscious of it.

Of course, we did venture outside for a few pics. Everyone (particularly the locals) admitted that the Glenlyon valley had never seen anything like it. We had such beautiful people from so many places.

We had friends hailing from Ireland, England, France, USA, the Caribbean, four corners of the African continent, and Asia.
And what beautiful people they are! Moreover, all the men in kilts was quite a sight to behold. Men of various skin color, ethnicity, and race made for the most unique and endearing photo.

Course, it didn't hurt that the men looked pretty damn good!

Guests had to make their way to a crabapple tree in the center of the garden to find their place card for table assignment for the reception.

When it was time to head to the village hall for dinner, we assembled two by two and promenaded down the road. We were led by Andy's dear school friend, Gary and his bagpipes
It was a short but scenic walk as we passed the handful of homes that is Fortingall village.

People driving by hastened to pull over and whip out a camera for few shots. It was a spectacular way to arrive.

At the village hall, we had the Haitian flag flying high (can you imagine seeing that in rural Scotland Highlands?!).

The hall was gorgeous and the stage was perfect and ready for the evening's performances.
Planned and surprise speeches were given.

Tears fell from men and women alike.

If it wasn't obvious before, it was definitely clear that we were encircled by the greatest friends and family anyone could ask for.
Each guest had a wedding cracker to pop. Most Americans are unfamiliar with the Christmas cracker tradition here so I thought it would be a blast to some crackin' fun. And so everyone did--streamers went exploding into the air, over people's heads.

It ushered in the time for drinking and dining.
Dinner was a buffet, comprising of Scottish and French Caribbean dishes. More details on the food will come in my next post.

Next, was the cutting of the cake and then we cleared the tables and chairs back for a night of abandonment and dancing. Besides jamming to hiphop hits through the trusty iPod, we had two bands- the Ceilidh band, Squashy Bag Band and Cuban salsa band Asere.

In the US, we have our reception after a wedding. That incorporates the dinner and the dancing. As I've learned, in the UK there's the dinner and then there's the reception in which it is common to invite more guests just for the drinking and dancing portion. I hear this comes from the tradition of having only a small group for the wedding, usually the family, and then friends come for the party after that.
That's just not done in the US. It's considered rude to not invite someone to the wedding but only to the festivities later in the evening.
But so it goes! We mangaged to keep everyone happy for our "reception" started at 4 p.m. and didn't end till 1 a.m.

Andy, Ruben and I left to head back to Fortingall for a partial night's sleep (as much as one can have with a newborn) while our guests were getting dirty groove lessons from Asere!

Sunday

We all headed back to the village hall for a grand bbq! The weather was typically Scottish again and so we stayed inside most of the time. Sunday was everyone's time to just relax, eat, and talk more to new and old.

While most guests left by Monday, some dear friends stayed on for several days as an extended vacation which couldn't have made me happier. Darling Courtney must have been sniffing glue when she decided she'd spend an extra week with us and help me with Ruben. Bless her soul for that.

I was exhausted after that weekend and did need some extra help with Ruben. But Courtney extending herself just to help me was just the typical thing that my friends do for me.

Honestly, that's why the wedding was so fabu--not just because we had an entire weekend to allow everyone to really meet and party. It was because of the people that love me the most in this world came all this way for us. Yes, the food, music, dancing, ceremony was wonderful. But only because of the extraordinary friends and family Andy and I have.

The next post will highlight the food from that weekend. For many, as we were told repeatedly, it was the best they've ever had at a wedding!

Another Step Toward Settlement in Scotland

2007-07-10T22:03:00.000+01:00

Man, what a crazy month June was for me! I had a party to plan (more on that in my next post) and still learning how to deal with a newborn who will NOT stop nursing and worse--I had to study and take my "Life in the UK" test.
For those who don't know, there are a series of hoops one must jump through in order to settle in the UK. Some of you know from a post last year, Andy and I had to produce a ton of documentation just to apply for my fiancee visa. After receiving it, I was allowed to marry. I thought that was that! Married to a Brit, so I can stay, right?
Wrong.
Next thing I knew, I had to apply to settlement in the UK. If accepted, I may remain in the UK for 2 years, work legally, and THEN I may apply (without necessarily being accepted) for citizenship.

But before I could produce another boatload of documentation to apply for settlement, I had to take the "Life in the UK" test. And what a procedure that is!
This 45 minute computerize test had me stressed out! I could barely find time to study because taking care of Ruben is sooo demanding.
There is a Life in the UK Test website that details everything--all the what, when, where, how, why one needs to know this form of adult torture. The whole experience threw me back to my days of high school multiple choice exams.
The worst is that most Brits couldn't answer many of the questions. I agree that much should be known if you plan to reside or become a citizen, but damn it, some of them were just plain stupid.
Seriously, how many born and raised UK folk can tell me what year British women won the right to divorce or what year they could claim property?? How does that make you a better citizen if you did know??

I ran many of the sample test questions past my UK friends here and nearly all of them failed! Many of the questions required you to memorize years, percentages, proportions, various differences of the UK's regions (Wales, Scotland, Northern Ireland).

The test costs 34 pounds. There are 24 questions and you must answer at least 18 correctly in 45 minutes. The questions cover such topics as:

Children, family and young people
Population
The regions of Britain
Housing
Money and credit
Health
Education
Leisure
Travel and transport
Looking for work
Equal rights and discrimination
At work
Working for yourself
Childcare and children at work
Migration to Britain
The changing role of women

If you failed, you are more than welcome to take the test again as early as 7 days later (if you can get scheduled that soon--which you can't). And of course, you have to pay again.

I had to travel to Dundee, which was my closest test center to Perth. The other test takers were quite diverse: young, old, male, female, of various races and ethnicities. Some were taking it settle and others were taking the test for citizenship. All were just as nervous and friendly as myself and so we spent some time quizzing each other minutes before the test. Funnily enough, when we hit a question none of us could remember the answer to, we tried to ask the attending test administrators--none of who could tell us ANYTHING. They admitted that they could answer most of the questions.
There's something kinda weird about that to me.

The test was nerve-racking and harder than the sample tests in the back of my study guides! I hate that kind of test-taking. Multiple choice questions can never test your intelligence...just how well you are at memorizing stuff.

Anyway, my fellow immigrant test-takers and I all passed that day!

So, now I am allowed to take my test results and make an appointment to provide another encyclopedia-worth of documentation to apply for settlement. And oh yeah, that's gonna cost about 1000 pounds.

Check out some of these typical questions from the Life in the UK test:

Children, family and young people

Do many children live in single parent families or step-families?

When do children take tests at school? How many go on to higher education?
What are the minimum ages for buying alcohol and tobacco? What drugs are illegal?

Population

How many people live in the countries of the UK?
What is the census and how is census data collected and used?
How many people belong to an ethnic minority and which are the largest minority groups? Where are there large ethnic communities?

The regions of Britain

Where are Geordie, Cockney and Scouse dialects spoken?
What languages other than English are spoken in Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales?

How the United Kingdom is governed

What type of constitution does the UK have?
What is the Queen's official role and what ceremonial duties does she have?
What is the House of Lords and who are its members?
How do elections for the House of Commons work? What do the Speaker and Whips do?
What is the role of the Prime Minister? Who advises them and what are the main roles in the Cabinet?
What is the Opposition and what is the role of the Leader of the Opposition?
What is the civil service and how do civil servants work with government?

Housing

How many people in the UK own their own home?
What do estate agents do? What do solicitors and surveyors do?

Money and credit

What are the values of the UK bank notes? Where can people get or change foreign currency?
How can people open a bank or building society account?
What types of insurance do people buy?
What is social security and who receives it?
How can people get information about benefits?

Health

What is the NHS?
How do people receive medicines from a GP? Which groups of people receive free prescriptions?
What is NHS direct, and NHS direct online?
Which groups of people receive free dental treatment?
What services are available to pregnant women? Which organisations offer information on maternity and ante-natal services?

Education

What are the ages of compulsory education? How does this differ in Northern Ireland? Who is responsible for ensuring a child attends school?
What are the different stages of education? At what age do children leave school?
At what age do children go to secondary school?
How does this differ in Scotland?
What are faith schools? What are independent schools?
What is the national curriculum? At what ages do children take key stage tests in England? At what age do children take GCSEs and A levels?
How is education different in Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales?

Leisure

What is the film classification system? What are the classifications?
What is a television licence? What is the licence money used to pay for?

Travel and transport

Which organisations provide information about trains, buses and coaches? Which groups of people can get discount tickets?
How long can overseas driving licences be used for in the UK?
What is motor insurance, road tax and MOT? Where can people purchase a road tax disc? Who can provide an MOT certificate?
What are the laws covering seat belts, crash helmets and holding mobile phones whilst driving? What are the speed limits for cars and motorcycles?

Looking for work

Where are jobs advertised? Where can people access advice on finding jobs and claiming benefits?
Who can be a referee?

Equal rights and discrimination

Which organisations offer information on law and discrimination?
What can individuals do if they are subject to sexual harassment?

At work

What are the legal responsibilities of employers?
What is National Insurance? How is it paid? How can people obtain a National Insurance number?
What is a State Pension? What is the State Pension age for men and for women?
Who can offer information on occupational or personal pensions?
What is an employment tribunal?
What is redundancy? What is jobseeker's allowance?

Working for yourself

What responsibilities do self-employed people have?
Where can people get advice on setting up their own business?

Childcare and children at work

Where can people access information on childcare and registered childminders?
What is the earliest legal age at which children can do paid work?
What documents must a child have before they can work?
What type of jobs can children NOT do?
What are the limits on working hours and times for children?

Migration to Britain

Where have migrants come from in the past and why? What sort of work have they done?

The changing role of women

Do women have equal rights in voting, education and work, and has this always been the case?

May I introduce to you the Haitian Highlander: Ruben MacDonald Shearer

2007-05-31T21:50:00.000+01:00

At 11:42 a.m. May 3rd, 2007 I delivered by planned cesearean, my liitle boy, Ruben: 6 pounds and 12 oz. He is named for my older brother who died 10 years ago and his middle name is Andy's mother's maiden name.

I could be wrong, but I believe that my baby bear is the first of his kind here: half Haitian/half Scottish.

Ruben came out very pink and screaming--obviously pissed at being stripped away from his dark, warm, wet home of 38 weeks. He cried for a solid 10 mins. And thank God--not one red hair strand in sight!

Although I was pretty out of it due to the spinal injection, I did cry a little when I thought that my mom wasn't there to experience the impossible: me becoming a mother.

As you all know, I had many fears about becoming a mother...and although I did mention a few in my last post, trust me, there were plenty more. Many of you have sent me support through the blog comments and through private email correspondence and I thank you for them all. They all have kept me strong and provided more confidence.

But I will tell you that one of biggest concerns was my fear that I might not feel a connection with him.
I do. He is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I can't believe he came from me.
He's healthy, if often grumpy with a continual frown, and very hairy.

Now, Andy and I set about to do our best with parenting and raising another human being to hopefully, be a happy, contributing member of society.

Everything is new and everything is a learning process. Even bathing him was a lesson.
One of the wonderful things about giving birth in the UK is that you depend more on midwives than the OB/GYN. Even better, after we left Dundee, I checked into our local hospital in Perth where I could recover and slowly get my head around motherhood and how to take care of a newborn. I was allowed to stay for several days and had the midwives at call at any moment, day or night.

In particular, the midwives were very much on hand for helping new mothers learn how to breastfeed.

Ok, let me tell you...breastfeeding is nothing like those bogus pictures you see--with the mother looking down at her child in her arms, smiling happily as the baby suckles and gazes at his/her mother.
My lord, the amount of pain was unbearable in the beginning. Every time I had to put my darling boy to my breast, it felt like razorblades. I sobbed and shook all over struggling to hold on so he could eat. I started thinking maybe it was just best to do formula feeding but I inevitably felt guilty--esp. with the pressure to breastfeed coming from books, doctors, midwives, websites.
So I was flooded with guilty feelings that I was being too selfish and not thinking in the best interest of my child.

I stuck it out. I'm still sticking it out. It's not like razorblades but it's far from enjoyable. Breastfeeding has me starving much of the time and all of a sudden I have a sweet tooth! But they do say that breastfeeding does help you lose weight and by the third week after Ruben's delivery, I was back in my old jeans.

Now that I have a baby and all these ovewhelming responsibilities for another human being--I completely understand how women slip into post-partum depression. Everyone makes the arrival of your first baby the most amazing, joyous experience. And it is...however, there's a lot more to it than that. It's all so overwhelming: the confusion; the fears; the secret feelings of guilt--all that married physical exhaustion while recovering from delivery.
With a baby attached to my breast so many times a day every day--my sexuality wanes quickly. Personally, I can't imagine my breasts as anything but a milk factory these days. I hope this changes soon.
While we have been beseiged with lovely gifts, cards, and calls of congratulations, some of my friends have noted, after seeing Ruben's first pics, that he was extraordinarily "fair". To be honest, he did look quite white.
But he is half black and Haitian at that...so my boy is getting darker with every passing day!

So, it's been a month since my baby bear has arrived. He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I can stare at him for hours. He's very serious much of the time--studying everything within 8 inches of his brown eyes and constantly frowning. And damn, if he isn't an active baby! We're in serious trouble,here. I wish my boy would sleep more.

While the feeding and the changes are constant, day and night, with little sleep in between, every day with Ruben is always a new experience. Much of the time, I'm damn near in a panic about something because I know NOTHING because none of it is instinctual--except the drive to have him survive and be happy.

Honestly, the only reason I could possibly keep going without ending up depressed or in a soft cell, restrained, is that I luckily have Andy with me much of the time helping me 50/50.
If only he could breastfeed too...

Ok...gotta run! His majesty calls and I have no idea what he wants. But I'll hold him, soothe him, talk to him, feed him, change him, rock him until one of those choices puts him to sleep.
He's just damn lucky he's the most precious thing in the world to me.

My Last Day before Motherhood

2007-05-02T21:47:00.000+01:00

(Deep breath) In one day, I will ship off to Nine Wells Hospital in Dundee for my elective cesearan surgery.
Let me take a deep breath again. Actually, it's in a matter of hours now.

This is my last day on this planet of being solely responsible for myself. And I'm absolutely terrified.

The last month has been hectic and stressful while Andy and I try and tie up all the loose ends and get the apt. and ourselves ready for the new member of our family to arrive. It's been interesting to see how people friends and strangers react to us as well as seeing my reaction to others.
I've been learning so much about myself. For example, I hate leaving the house because I feel that everyone stares at my belly as we walk down the street. It feels like there's this big spotlight on me belly in a town where I already stand out racially. I don't like that attention. And so, I just want to hide.

I'm also learning that people (particularly family members) have very different reactions to the coming birth. Some members are more concerned with keeping their daily work routine rather than actually being present for the child's first day on this planet. Some members haven't even bothered to send a gift, much less a card. (This is a truly pathetic display of parental love considering I have friends who have spent literally hundreds of dollars on essential baby needs and my family has done nothing).
At this point, there's no telling if they will even make the journey from America to see the child...possibly one of the only chances before they die.

I wish I could say I had that close-knit family that would drive me crazy with attention and love. But that's not the case. That has never been the case. It will never be the case. I accept that now.

My true family have always been supportive and joyful for me. They are not blood related but their dedication and loyalty to me, Andy and our baby is thicker than blood.

My entire pregnancy has been difficult physically, emotionally, and mentally. I can't say I've enjoyed it. I've been sick every single day since I found out I was knocked up. There has been nothing that anyone can do. It's just what some "lucky" women experience.
Sometimes, I feel down because I'm just worn out from being sick all the time and I am not enjoying the pregnancy. I feel selfish for wishing I had my body to myself again and I was in control of what shape and size I am. I wish I only felt only excitement instead of fear and worry.

The propagation of our species is the most innately natural aspect of life and yet, none of this feels remotely "natural" to me.
There's always that voice in my head (sometimes quietly, sometimes blaringly loud) saying: what the hell did you get yourself into?!

Becoming a mother was never something I imagined for myself. But now that that role is immiment, I've oscillated between terrifying feelings, others of excitement and slight depression.
I am a worrier. I don't want to be the kind of parent my parents were. Andy and all my friends try and reassure me that I will be a great parent. But despite that, I wish I had my mom here for support.

This is the first time in my life I find that I actually need her and she's gone.

For whatever reasons, my friends and husband are 100% sure that I will make an excellent mother. I can only trust that my friends are right--that I am instinctually maternal and will be a great mother. I keep repeating to myself that I must, that I will love my child and show them that I accept them completely. And then I have the image of them ending up on Jerry Springer 15 years from now, as the newest "video-ho" or explaining that going through life lazy, fat, and stupid with a string of kids from multiple partners is the best thing.

I swear, I'll kill that child!

But I am a person of logic, an observer of patterns, and most importantly, "evidence". I have nothing here to guide me that would make me believe what my friends and husband seem to just "know".

For the first time in my life, I will have to go simply on FAITH that I will be a good mother.

Home is where...my stomach is!

2007-03-27T13:08:00.000+01:00

You know, I've been really good. Since I've gotten pregnant, I haven't had real cravings; eaten badly or anything like that. I have stayed healthy and gained very little weight.

But while the countdown has begun before my delivery and chapter deadlines are rolling in faster and faster, I find myself thinking of home a lot. And when I think of home, I dream of food. Since moving to the UK, I can't say I've had trouble finding good dishes and restaurants for fine dining. However, there are numerous occasions when I wish I could have some foods that I miss--foods that give me comfort.

To make it stranger, two friends recently asked me what foods I miss most. But these people know me. And if you know me, then you know how important food is to me.

So, pardon me while I briefly lament the loss of these products. And if anyone out there has any idea how I can get my hands on such products here in the UK, please contact me.

As it turns out, I miss foods from all the different places I've lived in the US.

Growing up in Miami: I miss Cuban baked goods.
I don't know why I was dreaming about it, because I haven't had a slice since I was 12 or so...but I really miss Cuban birthday cakes. Extraordinarily light, fluffy, sweet, cake layers with a kind of gooey, fruity filling and iced in a sticky, airy, ultra-white, glossy frosting.

I also miss buying cans and cans of coconut water with tiny chunks of coconut meat. This is one of my worst cravings for comfort. It's the drink you eat and drink. If you're from the Caribbean, most likely, this is comfort for you as well. I couldn't imagine never touching coconut water again. That's too painful of a thought.

Of course, I miss many dishes...particularly Haitian dishes that you can't get just anywhere. For example, Haitians love our black rice "diri ak djon djon" made with water steeped from a special black, dried mushroom (djon djon) that does NOT grow anywhere else in the world. It's unique. It's Haitian.
But there are all the other Caribbean fruits and delicacies that I miss too. No point in going into all of that. I'll depress myself further.

As for some typical American foods, Pillsbury crescent rolls! If the UK ever discovered these delicate, buttery rolls, it would become the new crack

From the Mid-Atlantic area:
fresh Polish keilbasa sausages! I got hooked on that because of my exboyfriend's Polish mom. Served with some horseradish and sauerkraut--lovely dish.

From the South:
Soul food mac-and-cheese! Damn, that stuff is truly crack. Buttery, cheesy, just the right about of saltiness. I believe it does take a year off your life for every 3 portions you consume. I believe the only thing worse for you is Krispy Kreme donuts.
Sooner or later, the American FDA (Food and Drug Administration) will admit that they have always known that crack cocaine was one of the major ingredients. KK donuts are extremely dangerous for people--worse than smoking, I say. One should not even look at KK baked goods directly. Like the sun, it could cause permanent damage.
God forbid the Brits discover Krispy Kreme donuts. The country would just blow up in weight and die within 10 years. They couldn't handle something as delicious and deadly as KK donuts.

However, my true comfort food is grits.
My husband does not get it how coarsely ground corn is loved, much less tolerated, by our palates. But this man doesn't care for polenta either so, what am I to do?

(Now, my husband comes from the culture where men would pour oat-based porridge into the drawer of a dresser and let it harden. Then they would cut a slice and take it with them as their "snackbar" in the fields while tending sheep or whatever mess they were doing out in the middle of nowhere! Do you people see what I'm dealing with up here in Scotland???!)

To be realistic, anyone who didn't grow up in the southern states doesn't seem to get the love of grits either, and I understand that. For me, like many Southerners, grits is best enjoyed with cheese and garlic!

Something else that I miss from time to time, which surprises me, is Carolina mustard bbq sauce. Now, for those of you who don't know...not all bbq sauces are created equal. And most regions in the US have their preferences dry rub; wet rub; tomato based; mustard based; vinegar based; sweet; acidity; spicy; hot...and so on.
I am no different. It surprises me to crave the mustard variety because I did not grow up on mustard bbq sauce. Floridians usually prefer dark red/brown sticky, sweet tomato based bbq sauce. Which I still do--don't get me wrong. But living in South Carolina for two years did introduce me to their preferred bbq flavors and hell, I guess I grew an affinity for it.

The last place I lived before moving to Scotland was Austin, Texas. It takes quite a lot of effort to not eat Tex-Mex and Mexican cuisines. It's everywhere...and let me tell you, when you find a good restaurant--it's hard to not hit that spot every week.
For me, it was El Chile restaurant--near my old neighborhood. Their drinks (my favorite was prickly pear margarita)and food were quite tasty but, what always drew me back like an embarassed addict was their salsa that they served for free. I can't really identify all the ingredients and I never asked (stupid me). But I know several types of roasted chili peppers were involved. That, I think, was the key...roasted chilis. The salsa is never red but dark brown with flecks of burned chili flecks.
I'm telling you...that is the sh*t!

But enough about that. Next, I want to learn what is comfort food here in the UK and other places.
If any Brits are reading this, please send me some examples of your comfort foods! I'm dying to learn!

I Thought They Spoke English in Scotland??!

2007-02-25T14:30:00.000+01:00

Ok, so, as a tourist in Scotland, you probably travel around a bit and the moment you open your mouth to say anything, it's understood that you're a foreigner-- locals speak politely and are oh-so helpful. More importantly, they let you think that they speak ENGLISH.
However, the longer I'm here, the more I'm understanding that the Scots speak multiple languages, and English is just one of them. What's worse, is that the longer I'm here the more I'm expected to understand what the hell everyone is saying when they are NOT speaking English.
People, some of it is Scottish Gaelic but not all of it is. There are the terms that most of us outside of Scotland have heard and know: "wee" for small; "aye" for yes; and "lassie" for girl. There's also "bonny day" for anytime the Scottish temperature rises above 40 degrees Fahrenheit and there's no rain for a minimum of 30 minutes.
(my friends, it really rains A LOT here).
And EVERYONE says "Hiya!" for hello and "Cheers!" for thank you.

Yet, there are considerable regional differences in local tongues that isn't anything like anyone else speaks anywhere else! For example, what people speak in the Aberdeen region is undecipherable--often to other Scots!
But really, I'm in the dark with everyone once they get comfortable around me and slip into their usual language.

Last week, a friend of Andy's mom asked me "How's the babby?"

She pronounced "babby" the way we would say "bobby". So, I'm wondering what the heck and hoot is a "bobby"? I don't know a "bobby"!

After having a good chuckle at my expense, everyone else spoke up and explained that she was asking about my baby. Great. Thanks. Glad you could all laugh about it.

Last November, a friend called to cancel plans to meet up in Glasgow because her partner had the "lurgy". I briefly hesitated and said, "oh, that's a shame. Well, maybe next week!"
Apparently, it means the flu.

Even my g*dd*mn husband does it to me from time to time. He'll ask for something. I hand it to him. He mumbles "Ta".
"Ta"?
"What's 'ta'?" I ask.
No response.
My blood pressure starts to rise as I search for the nearest thing to throw at his damn Scottish head.
"Hey! What the fuck does 'ta' mean??" I am almost yelling.
Finally, an answer.
"Ta means 'thanks'," he (reluctantly?) answers.

Then why not say thanks?! I start grumbling to myself and then I hear another mumble from Andy...something something "crabbit".

I didn't feel like asking again. So I looked it up online-- turns out "crabbit" means angry.

And it's terribly frustrating to me.

When the Scots get to drinking and feeling really comfortable, you'll hear a conversation like this:

"Wana bridie?"
"Aye. Twaplaineens an aninginan ana. Ta."

Translation:
"Do you want any bridies [savory pastry] today?"

"Yes please. I would like two plain ones and an onion one as well. Thank you very much."

See what I mean??

I'm considering getting a Scottish dictionary--although that doesn't help with the English words that are used differently than the way we use them in the States. I've come to accept that the Brits in general have staged a secret linguistics war against any word that has the letter "t" in the middle of it.
They refuse to pronounce it.
I have no idea what is so wrong with the letter "t"; I don't know what horrible act it committed, but they refuse to say it.
bottle
city
Scottish...
These words and every other like it, is pronounced without the "t".

But at least, I do know what they are saying.

Sometimes, we use the same words but with completely different meanings.

Two days ago, I learned that the Scots only use the word "rock" for "boulder-sized" geological mineral matter. In Scotland, you can't throw rocks. You can't lift "rocks". "Rocks" are too big to move.
Here, you can only skip "stones".

Here are some more Scottish/British uses of English words that are different from US:
Scots/British--US equivalent
television "series"-- in the US, the new set of episodes that starts in the Fall or Spring of our favorite shows are called "seasons".
"purse"-- a lady's wallet
"pants" -- women's panties
"biscuits" -- cookies
"dinner" -- lunch
"tea" -- dinner/meal
"bottle" -- courage
"crack" -- a good time
"fanny" -- buttocks [fanny is the Brits word for "pussy"--and I don't mean kitty]
"?" -- dinner rolls [They don't know about soft, delicious dinner rolls here. And don't bother trying to find Pillsbury crescent rolls either!]
"pudding" -- dessert
"custard" -- pudding
"jumper" -- sweatshirt/sweater
"Bob's your uncle"-- said at the end of a sentence to mean "and that's it!"
"Camp" -- something that is effeminate or gay

The list goes on and on. And so does my confusion.

My language lessons and adjustment to Scottish life hasn't gotten easier.

It only took 37 years...

2007-01-29T14:30:00.000+01:00

Hi Mom,

I found this picture of you the other day. I thought it was appropriate to look at it again today.
Remember when you were this age?

Well, I just thought I'd drop you a little line. Since you've gone, I've thought a lot about our relationship. I know it wasn't what you wanted. Every time I see your photos of how beautiful you were, I wonder how hard that must have been to have a daughter that didn't look anything like you or behave in any manner as you wanted. Our troubled relationship wasn't what I wanted either. But I'm learning forgiveness and moving on. I wanted you to just accept me for who I was.. an irreverent, feisty tomboy with average (maybe less than average) looks and with an unusually strong will. In your eyes, those were not qualities befitting a young woman. You never thought I behaved much like a lady. But I have forgiven you for making me feel like I was too strange and not feminine enough.

Of course, I'm not quite at the point where I've forgiven myself for not being what you wanted. I suppose that will come in time.

But I'm sure you know now that I've gotten the one thing you really wanted for me. I have a wonderful man who's everything Dad wasn't. And now, I'm pregnant too! I'm sorry you're going to miss the birth of my child in a few months--miss he/she growing up; miss me learning how to be a mother.
It's funny to me that after all these years of thinking I could learn nothing from you, I've finally arrived someplace where I wish you were here to help me through it. It only took 37 years for me to get there but, I'm here now if without you.
Motherhood and babies were always so natural...organic to you, while it was the last thing I ever imagined for myself.
I finally managed to become the kind of woman that you'd be happy with, mom. It's just a shame that the cancer couldn't hold back for a few more years. You died just before I met him; before my entire world changed.

Still, I hope you have a great view of us.

So there you have it, mom: I'm finally living that dream of yours--happily married and pregnant.
That's my gift to you, mom.
Happy Birthday.

Reminders vs. Resolutions

2007-01-15T11:59:00.000+01:00

It's 2007 and unlike most people, I'm not bothering with resolutions. Rather, I'm about reminders.
Resolutions always have that undertone of "a fresh start"-- as if starting from scratch with your life. But that's never been me. I've always known what's important, what I should be working on. Usually, my goals are struggles that I face throughout the year; one day at a time.
For example, I don't believe in dieting, at least, not for me. If I want to be healthier, that requires a dietary change to my lifestyle--not a scheme that has a shelf-life of several months or until I reach my desired weight (only to have it ricochet back to fat in a matter of months). So, eating better, exercising more is constantly on my mind, whether I achieve that goal for the day. But it's a lifestyle change that I've been doing for years now. Vacations and holidays tend to detour me, but I quickly remind myself what's most important.

Lately, I've been feeling pretty depressed about writing my dissertation. Writing a dissertation is unlike anything I've ever attempted in my life. I can see why so many students and young professors end up on "the couch" or taking anti-depression pills.
I feel such enormous pressure to create, not just "an original body of work" but to write the next Pulitzer. Luckily, I have some wonderful professors that are just about me getting the job done and producing something worthy. But on the other hand, sadly, I do have some professors that are expecting me to write the diss. THEY would have written, rather than what I should write. They are quite sadistic in their "pep talks" to me. It's just like something from one of those competition-based reality shows. I really think they get an erection by making me feel like shit.

I spend 6+ hours a day, in front of the computer, writing. But now, my writing has gone from what I think I want to say to what I think "those professors" want to hear.
I stopped sleeping well; I started having twinges of anxiety attacks. So, feeling like I was swimming in quicksand, I had a minor breakdown on Friday and had to regroup.

And then I got a reminder of what is important: I didn't feel my baby move most of that day.

My baby has been doing gymnastics every day now for the past month and Friday, I felt nothing.
Was everything ok? Is he/she sick? Dying? What?!

Besides Andy's supportive pep talks that always begin and end with "Ok, so fuck that professor! You know they've got it in for you!" I also received some reminders from friends about what's really important.

Reminder 2:
My health
My family
My husband
My future son/daughter
My friends
Love for them all

Reminder 3:
"It's just a dissertation, Peggy. This does not represent you who are no matter what the outcome."

Reminder 4:
An email from a dear friend and colleague who's a young, brilliant professor in the US South. Her husband was struck with immense back pain that left him bedridden and paralyzed in extraordinary pain for days. Because of the wonderful US health care system, he can't afford health insurance and so, my friend spent every day for the past week driving around between campus to teach, and write grant proposals, AND drive back home to take care of his every need until she could FIND a doctor who could make a house visit.
She knows that while he's fine today and able to walk now, this will be a recurring episode for the rest of her life--one she voluntarily takes because of her love for him.
"I know why I get up in the morning and it is not to do anthropology," she wrote me.

And that was a dosey of a reminder!

So, after putting myself back in the real world of what's truly important, I got up, finally took a damn shower, made some dinner, baked a large loaf of banana bread and settled back into my better self.
And hey, guess who was up doing somersaults and high kicks in my belly again? Since I'm no longer black and moody and crying, my little Haitian Highlander is feeling better too.

My final reminder: what affects me, affects my baby...for better or for worse. When the damage is done, it can NEVER be undone.

So let those reminders continously take heed in me.

What a Year!

2006-12-29T12:30:00.000+01:00

Happy New Year, everyone!! As Hogmanay (Scottish for New Years Eve) approaches, I find myself (like many others) looking back. I can't believe how much has changed in such a short period of time. And all of it, forces me grow in ways I never knew were possible. Honestly, sometimes I wish I had a simpler life where I didn't have to accommodate or adjust and learn tolerance so often.

However, it's always been said that nothing precious comes easily.

This year, I faced the potential of losing my uterus, the non-ability to have children just as I found someone who wanted to love me, marry me and have a family with me. I experienced a few near death situations and luckily for me, I had friends, truly soulful people, who were there when push came to shove.
Thankfully, surgery went well; I didn't lose one of the most basic attributes of my womanhood and my people were there to support and celebrate with fervor. Hopefully, I've been just as supportive and loving to them in their time of need. If not, then what are we here for?? What's the point of it all?

In May, I moved to Scotland and my American-centric ways are continuously challenged. (Actually, the hardest stuff for me was suffering through Scottish folk music, bagpipes, and their incessant love of bluegrass music!) It's so easy to get up on your high horse and sneer at others when they just don't fit your understanding of the world. I miss my friends, I miss my black community, and Americana pop culture.
But patience and silence, coupled with open ears and heart, appear to be my best tactics.
In the meantime, I've met some wonderful new people, slowly finding a new black community and making friends, who I hope to know for many years and grow to love as much as I do my people back home.

While trying to wrap my head around new love, new life, I still am writing my dissertation (arrghh!!!) that I must complete in the first half of 2007. But then, bam! I got pregnant!
Along with morning sickness and new cultural adjustments, I have come to understand that there are some people in the world who have so much anger and insecurity with themselves that they will lash out at you. Yet, I am still amazed and how cruel and vicious some can be.
Sadly, I've parted ways with some who I thought truly cared for me but in reality, lived for every moment to slice and hurt me.
Never underestimate the power of jealousy and what it will drive a person to say or do.

But thankfully, there are some amazing people that I'm privileged to have in my life. People who I would travel half-way around the world to see at their wedding.
Believe it or not, I attended a wedding of good friends who are as beautiful on the inside as they are on the outside. Some people really do live that sickeningly sweet Julia Roberts wedding movie! Even their friends are almost as beautiful as they are.

As of this month, I've gotten married (only a civil service so I can stay in the country), and I'm feeling my baby kicking and squirming around. Andy and I briefly did a jaunt to New Orleans for that wedding and then South Florida so that he could meet my family. And how they loooooved him. Sickening, really. I bet they'd keep him and not me if we divorced!
Haitians are soooo easy to impress: eat our food with gusto and we're yours! Granted, we do have some slammin' food. And Andy is easy to love. Andy quickly grew accustomed to hearing Haitian Creole randomly dispersed throughout our conversations. Much can get lost in translation and honestly, some things just mean more when said in their original language.

Ah South Florida! It was great to be back in the sun and warmth. There's no place in the US like it. It was wonderful to drive around and hear Haitian Creole, Jamaican Patois, and Spanish spoken on most radio stations! You can really feel like a true citizen of the world there. But in many ways, Miami isn't my home anymore...and hasn't been for years.

Still, it was mighty hard to leave the sand, sun, and warm waters for Scotland again. All this cold weather, dark, cloudy and foggy days can really take it out of you! Not to mention, the depressing Christmas orientated specials on tv (see my previous post for further explanation)!!

Most importantly, this year would not have been possible without the love and support of my man, all my friends, family, colleagues, and professors. It has been a terrifying and amazing life--one that was possible to survive and actually enjoy with their love. Nothing is certain in life except death. However, my people make the future less daunting. While still scared, I can actually look forward to it with a smile.
I am, because they are there for me.

2006-12-28T19:11:00.000+01:00

The Snowman

When I pressed Andy for any traditional Christmas children's specials, he could only give me this one. This is why the Scots drink so much.

The basic premise: a snowman comes to life and whisks this young boy up into the skies for a night of magical and merriment with Santa and other snowfolk.
After being returned home, the boy goes into his home and up to bed. The next day, he runs past his parents and his breakfast to see his large, frosty friend.

I'll let you "enjoy" the rest.

Can you imagine growing up with this as a child??

November Recap

2006-12-01T23:59:00.000+01:00

Hey gang,
Apologies, first off! It's been a hectic, stressful, emotional rollercoaster month and I'm glad it's over. But for those who were curious about all that happened when I couldn't find the time to write, here you go!

Old Friends and Old Ghosts revisted
It gets strange, belonging to so many places. After a while, it starts to feel like you don't really belong anywhere.

As you know, I had to head back to the States to get my fiancee visa. Of course, I met up with as many friends as possible during that short visit.
Traveling back and forth to various places I used to live, to see friends hurts my head sometimes.
I constantly have to re-adjust my reality; speak in American terms again, wait out Sunday pro football and not complain when we head for another chain restaurant to eat too salty, over-fried fatty crap.
Happiness is closely followed by nostaglia and finally, sadness. I love and hate the phone calls from my people, telling me how much they miss me.
It's hard to see them for a lunch or a dinner--maybe once or twice before I leave again. I often feel furthest away from them, when we're out clubbing or I'm sitting across a table, play catch up and "who's seen who since..." game.
I want to steal them and tuck them away like a teddybear. Then, when I'm lonely or miss them or need them, I just bring out and hold them close.

We always have to talk about the good ole days. And with that, the old ghosts come back to haunt--and they feel just as real as when I knew them last.

I needed to go (back to my new) home and be away from my old life and walk in my new one. It's becoming to hard to distinguish my old friends from my old ghosts.
Both can be so bittersweet.

Entertainment and the N-word
Even I heard about all the hub-bub over Michael "Kramer" Richards. He's a comic who lost his cool during his show because some men heckled him. Even if you want to believe he's not racist, his anger drew upon something he knew would attack and demoralize another human being.
That was conscious thought in action. And really everyone...no bullshit apology is going to make it better...especially when he chooses to explain the "fifty years ago we would have had you upside down with a fork in your ass" comment.
Anyway...

It's for examples such as Richards that so many people want to banish the word right out of the English language.
Course, that's not possible or even realistic. The erasure of the word won't wipe away the deep-seated problems we (and I meant WE) have with race and racism in the world.

What's most perplexing is that comedy has often been the safe-space to dredge up controversial, explosive issues.

Onto the other side of the pond: Last week, BBC radio called me to participate in a conversation with others,featuring Reginald Hunter having to explain (or defend) his reason for using the n-word in the title of his standup show, I mentioned that I saw his posters everywhere promoting his show in Edinburgh back in the summer.
I did catch the show, which incidentally, had little to do with the title. Apparently, this show title has caused some tensions and the On air, last week, he explained that he sees no reason to hide from the word--that it does not make someone not racist if they still hold such beliefs but choose not to use the n-word.
Here are some of Mr. Hunter's own responses to various questions and complaints from people black and white expressed via phone and email messages throughout the show:

Reg: “I understand. I’m not too surprised. I don’t want that word having power over me. If you want the word to lose its power then remove it from its special place.”

T is in Detroit: “I disagree with the use of the word. Not everybody may have the strength he does to not let it get power over them. He’s from a Southern state – I don’t get it. Not everybody is capable of using common sense. . . .

Reg: “There’s a reason why people can’t use common sense is cos there’s an unofficial reaction we’re supposed to have.”

Reg: “Hearing a word uttered doesn’t give me the right to get with piissy with someone.”

Reg: “I’m not upset with TFL’s (Transport For London) decision. That’s part of your job to keep the peace. My pov is a more artistic mandate, Through comedy I like to point out certain things in society.”

Reg: “There is a thing sometimes about American black imperialism. Anyway, the irony for me is that I know people who are racist but who would never say the word nigger. People think by not saying the word racism will disappear. That’s just not so.”

An email from a listener: “Did you do this for publicity?”

Reg: “It was genuinely an attempt to do a piss-take on Jane Austen. Sometimes you forget other people don’t have your sense of humour. I am quite surprised at what’s come back.”

My First Thanksgiving in Britain
Wow! I didn't think it was going to happen. I love Turkeyday! It has none of the stress of Christmas time. You are simply required to give thanks for what you have and eat as much as your stomach can handle.
But there would be no cheesy Macy's Day Parade to watch as I prepare all the courses. Everyone would be working Thursday and so what would be the point?

Andy, ever sympathetic and loving, demanded we do Thanksgiving to take away a bit of my homesickness. We scheduled it on the Sunday after the real Turkeyday to guarantee patrons.
This is Britain and thus, we hit a few snags along the way. Finding a turkey before Dec. was a chore! But thankfully, a few large chain grocery stores understand that there are 1 or 2 ex-patriots living in the area and stocked 2 frozen birds. We grabbed one and ran! (Well, we paid and all but you know what I mean)
2 snag--Britain does NOT make pies in the same way we do in the US. We searched high and low for the proper pie dish for my sweet potato souffle pie.
Andy was so sweet...almost annoyingly so, trying to track down the right size, shape, and depth for a dish.

"What about this one?" he asked.
"That's a cake pan," I muttered.
"What about this one?" he tried again.
"That's a TART pan," I gritted through my teeth, barely containing my anger and frustration.

He went online to Amazon and found something like a pie dish and had it shipped the next day. A darling of a man.
It was...ok. Not really what we use. But one adapts so I made one in that dish and a larger one in a tart pan.
A success, despite the changes.

We invited two couples and the 6 of us feasted on a delicious free-range turkey I kept in a brine solution for 24hrs. The typical fixings were there: corn, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans topped with hollandise sauce and bacon bits, stuffing.
My stuffing was amazing: brioche base, with carmelized garlic and onions, mushrooms sauteed in Marsala wine, pork and herb sausage.
An amazing combination!

For everyone but myself and one other Brit, it was a first time event for the others. I was a bit surprised how excited and curious everyone was about the tradition and layout of dishes. The dessert was certainly something new for them as well.
What a shame that most Brits just don't know the esctasy of sweet potato pie.

Everyone drank a ton, conversed over intellectual to stupid topics, and stuffed themselves silly!

It was a success. And as exhausted as I was after 2 days of preparing and cooking, I was happy--even more so, cause Andy did all the dishes!

My final word: some of you were told personally by me; some of you guessed; and now the rest of you can know that I'm knocked up. I'm four months along with possibly Britain's first Haitian Highlander baby! So, next up: my 1st wedding!!

Passport Visa? Check!

2006-11-09T03:29:00.000+01:00

Just a quick update while I'm still recovering from the worst flu I've had in years!

Had to fly back to the States to get my fiancée visa paperwork all sorted out. These things really stress me out.

To qualify to join Andy I had to agree to follow these guidelines:

-you plan to marry or register a civil partnership within a reasonable time (usually six months)
-you plan to live together permanently after you are married or have registered a civil partnership
-you have met each other before
-there is somewhere for you and your dependants to live until you get married or register a civil partnership, and you will be able to live without help from public funds, and
-you and your dependants can be supported without working or claiming any help from public funds.

Simple enough.

But in compliance with UK visa application for husbands, wives and partners I had to fill out their
INF4 forms, send them $494 freaking bucks and send supplemental data.

You wouldn't believe how much crap I had to send them!
-Proof of my citizenship
-My birth certificate
-Proof of Andy's citizenship
-A copy of his passport or registration certificate that has been confirmed as a true copy
-My bank statements
-His bank statements
-Proof that he owns property
-Evidence that he lives in Scotland
-Letters/phone call records demonstrating that we've known each other for over a year
-A formal letter from Andy requesting my presence in the UK as his partner
-My actual passport

I was so worried that the British Consulate would find fault and wouldn't award me that visa. Then, that would mean I'd have to leave Britain and my man behind until who knew when.

All is good! I got it and soon I'll be flying back to my legal home to tackle everything else that's harried in my world. I can't wait till I get up in front of those Customs officers... that's right! Don't question me, fool! I'm allowed to be here now!

Next up: marriage!

Black History Month in Britain

2006-10-27T23:37:00.000+01:00

October is drawing to a close and I felt I had to say a little something about my recent observations. While back in the US, everyone is participating in beer and schnitzel-laden Octoberfests or Halloween events (such as my friends' annual Great Pumpkin Demolition Derby) or even food fares such as the Turkey Testicle Festival in Byron, Illinois (check out the website; it's for real, ya'll), Britain has selected the month of October for something altogether familiar to us Americans.

October in Britain is Black History Month! That's right, people! No mere 28 (unless it's a leap, thus 29)day silliness here. A full 31 days to commemorate and celebrate the history and influence of blacks in Britain.

Now, I somewhat agree with Morgan Freeman that having a BHM is ridiculous. As he said in an interview for CBS' "60 Minutes" in Dec. 2005, "I don't want a black history month Black history is American history". However, with the pathetic state of education in the US, especially with the lack of regard to the participation and advancements donated to the American culture by blacks...well, sorry, Morgan, we still need to put it out there.

Seriously, America really isn't the openly liberal country it pretends to be--so there isn't going to be a time in the near future that our general school history courses are going to genuinely teach about how this "mighty" country was built and made rich off the labor of enslaved Africans. And I could go on but you get the point.

Ok, off my soapbox now...

Since we still need a BHM, let me continue. Like most black-inspired celebrations, there are some wonderful pluses and some embarassing minuses.

As far as the great BBC channels are concerned, October is simply the month to catch up on all your missed Dr. Who episodes before the next season starts in November.

I must say, I was quite surprised to not see ONE show in honor of BHM. Well, hold on, that's not true. Today, they did show on an independent channel, a 1987 wretched version of "Uncle Tom's Cabin". God-awful, I tell you.
That was it.

While there is some acceptance that black history does matter, at least by the Education Minister Lord Adonis, you still don't get much on television.
Even after a search online for television program formats for the BBC, I came across BBC Four where (that is, IF they presented any programs) they might have been shown. According to the BBC website, BBC Four is the channel "niche programming for an intellectual audience, including specialist documentaries, occasional 'serious' dramas, live theatre, foreign language films and television programmes and 'prestige' archive television repeats". But all the historical and/or archaeological programs were just descriptions on Anglo-saxons, Romans, Tudors, Victorians, Lord what's-his-face and his entire lineage; the world wars...blah blah blah; you get the point.

The best thing I could find--the hell, the ONLY thing I could fine was UKMTV's broadcast of the "Black in the 80s" (which is strictly based on American culture).

Looking to other mass media forms, there's radio and more specifically, the BBC's black-centered radio station (hip-hop, R&B, Dancehall, Garage, and Drum & Bass) and webpage for 1Xtra.
Now, while we see this repeatedly shown as a 5 second demo spot on most television stations in the US with very little material content behind it, cities all over Britain participate in BHM in some of the most interesting and thought-provoking ways.

Events were organized by all types culturally invested parties-- from the individual to the corporate. Lectures, cooking demonstrations, music/dance/speech performances, special museum tours, and art exhibitions were just a few of the incredible opportunities that cities provided during BHM.
Glasgow, for example, offers a "slave tour" of the Merchant City area of downtown. According to the organizers, Glasgow Anti-Racist Alliance, the walking tour "reveals the hidden clues of the great wealth and prosperity of Glasgow which is inextricably linked to the exploitation of African Slaves and black people from the former British Empire."

Other cities I heard participating included London, Norfolk, Birmingham, Liverpool, and Brighton.

For anyone sincerely interested, one just needed to get online and type in black history month in the uk and several million hits appeared in 0.20 seconds.
The most comprehensive guide but by no means exhausted collection of events is found at
blackhistorymonthuk.co.uk

Days of Decadence, Part 2

2006-10-10T21:37:00.000+01:00

**Let me extend my gratitude to Andy Catlin and Sharyn O'Day for allowing me to use a few of their pictures for this post**

Earlier this year, Andy started doing serious thinking about what he wanted to do for his 40th birthday. The only idea that made sense was to rent a large holiday house in the country and invite a heap of our friends for a long, lavish holiday. We decided it would be for 4 days (considering most of his friends already took their 2-3-4-or more week vacations earlier this summer). Just to make it more colorful, I invited some friends of mine from the US as well.

We wanted our friends to come and be swept up in a Bacchanalian sensibility. Andy and I take party planning very seriously. We spent hours planning menus, debating types of wines to order, and arguing over the best snacks to make everyone happy. The only thing required of everyone else was to eat, drink and be merry! We wanted our guests to want for not and have them crawl away from hyper-hospitality.

In all, we invited 15 friends who were gracious enough to travel from the US, Canada, Ireland and other parts of Scotland to honor and celebrate Andy's day.

Some people arrived by international flight, some took the train, others arrived by car. We all trekked up to the northern highlands to stay at the Pitcalzean holiday house that Andy and I chose.

Let me just say that, it took some accurate details to find this house! I mean, it was out in the middle of NOWHERE! Well, sorry, there were tons of sheep and highland cattle.

We had an expansive area of land associated with secret gardens of apple trees, small burial plots, areas for relaxing on tire swings or getting a bit of exercise on trampolines. Funnily enough, only one person got hurt on the kids' toys. And that same man hurt his back on the trampoline and nearly gouged out his eye by a tree branch, trying to climb the tire swing. Ah, we're just not built like we used to, are we, Rik?

If you chose to walk off the property, there were beautiful hilly and flat pastures of countryside to take in. The little village nearby had an old church with a prehistoric Pict stone, thousands of years old, protected from the elements. Others took drives down to Loch Ness in search of the famous aquatic monster (she's still hiding away from the paparazzi, apparently). You never needed to worry about finding private time. It was always available.
The house itself was massive- large enough for everyone to have their own bedroom. Andy and I shared the Magnusson suite which gave us a huge bedroom with fireplace, a private drawing with fireplace and bay windows, and a gorgeous bathroom with a tub fit for two!

Now, I'm not a huge fan of baths...don't ask, I'm just am not. However, if I had this tub in my home, I could easily become a convert.When were all together, most of everyone's time was spent in either the kitchen, dining room or the library.

The kitchen was huge! It came equipped a large and long counter space, four sinks, an AGA oven and a conventional oven. I am officially in love with the AGA...it NEVER shuts off. It can heat the room while you cook/bake your meals. It even comes in a variety of colors!! You can make anything at the drop of a hat. You can make a SERIES of dishes at once at anytime. I need this oven. I must have this oven. I don't know why we don't have these types more available in the US. Any person who loves cooking would sell their youngest for one of these beauties. As soon as I come into any money (yeah, right) it shall be mine. Wonder if I could sell some crack to...
never mind.

Sorry, for the drooling... but I have my nappie and I'm ok now.
Anyway, as I was saying, the kitchen was the heart of the house. While Andy and I did most of the cooking, everyone was wonderful with helping out with prep work or cleaning up afterwards. It can be quite stressful to cook for so many people but with friends who are just as appreciative of your culinary labors as they are to assist, well, that just takes all the worry out of it.

Daytime meals were simple. There was plenty of fruits, smoked salmon, salads and sandwich fixings. Andy and I saw to it that there was every kind of food that people might possibly need. While breakfast and lunch were self-serving, Andy and I orchestrated most of the evening meals. The first evening was simple enough: roasted chickens stuffed with haggis and topped with crunchy pancetta!
Sides usually included some kind of potato (God forbid you don't have potatoes at EVERY British meal!), mashed or thinly sliced and baked and in multi-cheese white sauce, that accompanied creative and tasty veggie additions or salads. For my American friends, haggis posed a bit of a challenge but they were all up for it! And hey, guess what? They LiKED it!! Back in the States, I swear, we revel in demonizing and despising any foreign dish that sounds...different. Most Americans have NO idea what haggis is, but culturally, we taught to turn our noses away.

"Eeeewww! You eat haggis?? Gross! How could you?"
"Um. Do you even know what it is?"
"Yeah...er...(pregnant pause)...Well, not really. But it's nasty, right? Don't they cook gross stuff in a sheep's stomach or something?! That's just freaking gross!"

There are Americans who will chow down CHEEZ WHIZ (It's not even cheese, for land's sakes!) and weird hot dogs (do most people know what nasty pig parts go into cheap hot dogs??) but yet, have the NERVE to put down someone else's food. We're not talking about eating slugs or other insects. It's ground meat and oats! It's one thing if you've tried it and dislike it. It's ok if you just don't eat meat, domestic or foreign. But shut the hell up if you don't even know what it is and insist on talking trash.
Just shut the hell up, will ya?!

Now...where was I?
Oh yeah...

One couple (friends of mine, Sharyn and Joe) made quite a fancy dinner-- duck a l'orange. The 70s are coming back, people! That was a wonderful evening--I didn't have to be in the kitchen at all! Sharyn and Joe were aided by their Irish sous chef, Fergal and they dished out a meal that had everyone continuously moaning with pleasure.
Not wanting a meat-centered meal every night, we also made a delicious soy-sesame marinated roast salmon with stir-fried veggies on one of our other nights.

Some evenings, we indulged in apperitifs. (This excludes the routine consumption of beer which began around 3-4 p.m. --a couple of hours after people woke up). I made lychee martinis and caipirinhas. Besides that, there were plenty of spirits of all types for mixed drinks.
After dinners, all would adjurn to the library where more whiskey, beer, and wine were consumed. As for desserts, I made a couple of French pear creme tarts. Luisa from Aberdeen made a traditional Scottish cranachan made with raspberries, liquored whipped cream, topped with toasted oats. A delicious and light alternative of what was to come the last two nights.

Late in the evening, someone would eventually bring out an assortment of cheese trays.

Nighttime in the library was unpredictable. We listened to music, mixed, mingled, had tarot card readings, dance lessons, comedic debates about politcs and regional variations on the english language, sing alongs, etc. you name it! Husbands were so gregarious and charismatic that they charmed other men into man crushes! Wives and newborn baby daughters might have felt slightly neglected.
Occasional visits were made to the snooker room but Americans found it too hard to play and back in the library, they went.

Needless to say, all the long days and nights had continuous drinking. I can't tell you how much beer and whiskey people put away. Quite a bit of wine was drunk too but we still had at least 12 bottles left.

Saturday late morning, Andy and I awoke to find a number of cards and gifts outside our suite! What a surprise! It was completely unexpected...and unnecessary. Even I received a few belated birthday gifts. Wonderful treasures that I will always love!

For the big birthday night, we had two roasted legs of lambs a la Andy, stuffed with bits of garlic and rosemary. The gravy was made with the lamb drippings, reduced down with pinotage wine, herbs and spices. It was definitely the highlight of all the meals. You really didn't hear that much talking. Everyone was too busy stuffing their faces with the best lamb they've ever had.
No kidding here. Andy knows lamb. He is a maestro with sauces and gravies as well.

The night before was Rik's birthday and so his darling partner, Diane, baked a heady, rich chocolate torte. Since I'm not a chocolate fan,
I could only sit and watch people get taken DOWN by the dense, alcoholic dessert! So, Saturday night, Andy's birthday night, was not much different.

For Andy, who is a chocoholic, I had some friends help me purchase the chocolatiest cake one could find. It was chocolate on chocolate on chocolate. Very little flour involved here. Truly decadent and not for the faint of rich and sweet palate. Coffee was brought out to help get the solid chocolate fats down to their bellies. It was THAT dense!

Throughout the evening, Andy decided to shave a bit of his goatee off at a time and achieve different facial hair looks. While it was funny, it was not attractive. The Fu Man Chu was bad enough but by the time he got to the creepy 70s cop mustache, I'd had enough! Thank god, it was gone by morning.

After dinner, we went outside for my birthday surprise: sparklers. Fireworks are little bit harder to come by here in Britain. There are sooo many rules and laws. It's unlike the American South where you could get your fireworks, firearms, and liquor all at one convienent stop-shop. Because you know ain't NO trouble can come of that!Still, watching things burst into flames is a popular pasttime for most countries. So, I took a chance that Britain was no different.

Yet, I wasn't sure how people would take to the sparklers. I always find myself worrying or wondering if certain entertainment traditions in the US can transfer to British tastes. This, fortunately, did! I handed out 80 sparklers to everyone and people were transformed into a bunch of 6 year olds.There were some of us leaping about, dancing, running in circles, while the rest of us just kept moving our sparkler sticks around and around for artistic blazing designs in the air!

After the last stick burned out, we headed back to the library for more music and dancing! I suppose you could say we were practicing for our wedding next year. The Brits wanted to see some salsa dancing and we Yanks wanted to know about ceilidh dancing.

A few American friends fell victim to participating in the (somewhat) chaotic, hand-clapping, foot-stomping dance rules. Ceilidh (pronounced "Kay-LEE"), to me, looks a lot like a faster, drunker, less-coordinated square dance. The promenades were easy enough. But the doesy-does looked outright painful! Poor Angela returned to Ireland with bruises on her arms! Still, it brought me many chuckles to see my US friends, Courtney and Joe, suffer under partners' confusion and get dragged around and around until dizzy. I don't know. It was still hard to understand the rules. Guess we should try it again when everyone's somber.
There was a point when we were asked by the Brits to do the line dance "the Bus Stop" or "The Electric Slide"(it has a bunch of different names throughout the US but every black has done it at every stupid wedding they've attended in the last 15 years). I think Courtney and I were confusing some of them. In another corner, Andy and his dear friend, Lisa were attempting some "Dirty Dancing" professional moves. If he was expecting to catch her like Patrick Swayze does at the end of the film, I was going to put a stop to it before someone broke their drunk-ass!

But since noone got hurt, the dancing further degraded to Fergal's dance lessons. If you've seen the dance sequence in the movie "Hitch" then you'll truly know what I'm talking about. I tried to avoid watching much of the hilarity but I did catch something like "Do the Ironing board dance!"

That's right...dancing as if you're ironing clothes.
Oh Fergal...why?

Anyway, I was pretty fuzzy and exhausted by 2 a.m. (did I mention that I had the flu) and had to hit the sheets. I heard guitars and lutes and whatnot were brought out for some folk singing.
The next day, we had to evacuate by 10 a.m. and it was quite a struggle for some, after such late night festivities. But we crawled out into the morning light, cleaned up our drunken messes of the last eve to make our goodbyes. We were shocked that most of us didn't have any significant hangovers (with one exception), boozing up till 4 to 6 a.m. every night. After an experience like that, you want to believe that people in their respective nations can come together and show respect, understanding, compassion for each other. Maybe that's the naive child in me, wishing everyone could just get along. What can I say? I have my cheesy moments.
We were glad to bring old friends together who's last meeting were under funerary circumstances. Finally, they had new memories of happy times to replace the most recent loss of mutual loved ones. New friends and connections were made. If we are making our worlds smaller, we can at least make them more than pleasant. Mixing all these people from different places could have been a potential disaster. But we knew we had beautiful friends that needed to meet others like themselves. Share the love, I say! It was an amazing few days.

Together, we all spent thousands of dollars or pounds (and gained 3-5 pounds!) to make this event worthwhile for all. We came as partners, moms and daughters, married couples, individual friends, family with a new-born --all to celebrate someone who believes that nothing is more important than sharing fun, friendship, and most of all, love.

Days of Decadence: Part 1

2006-10-06T09:30:00.000+01:00

Hi everyone!
The reason for the long silence was the passing of some birthday seasons. We spent a couple of days and nights in Glasgow seeing some friends and celebrating my birthday.
Sept. 23 was mine (Andy was Sept. 30th) but Andy and I celebrated mine the day before. He surprised me with a personal shopper for the day in Glasgow and then with tix to see Jay-Z (Young Hova!) in concert that night. So sorry, everyone! I know it's been a while. But trust me, I've got a lot on my plate. Much of that will be revealed in the coming months. A lady has to keep some secrets...

I thought it best to break these stories up in two parts so it flows quicker for you.
But you won't have to wait a week or more for the second installment.

By the way, I should warn you that there is a little bit of this that might be sensitive to holy-rollers and those who think life has a movie rating of "G" for general audiences, and choose not to believe that the whole world watches (or at least accepts the existence of) porn.

One of the highlights was the Artto Hotel where we stayed. It's a cute, boutique-wannabe-style hotel. Funkey lobby/bar area, interesting architectural lines, blah blah blah.
The weird thing about the hotel was when you changed channels on the tv, you eventually end up on the porno network. You don't order it.

You don't pay extra for it. It's just there! And when I mean porn, I mean, hard-core chicks-with-dicks as prison wardens material.
And much of it Russian,Eastern European, and Castillian (I think) porn.
Strange stuff.
I mean, what if we had a kid staying with us and he/she wanted to catch an episode of Spongebob Squarepants? Instead, they'd get Pat(rick/ricia) boinking Bob in his pants.
I think it scared Andy a bit. It wasn't your basic girl-guy-girl variety.

Now, since I moved here, I haven't done any clothes shopping. I hate doing it in the States and I really didn't feel like trying to learn the ins and outs of the clothing stores here. Andy kept threatening to get me a personal shopper--a person qualified to assist in the searching and buying of clothing that would make one look supa!
The interesting twist to Andy's gift was that my personal shopper was a black woman, originally from Malawi, in Southern Africa.

People, I got to spend the entire day with another black woman! It was wonderful. I've been missing the company of my friends since I left but I'm meeting and making new friends. However, none are black and I REALLY miss my black community. Skin color, culture, music, etc. Sometimes, it's hard never seeing anyone that looks like you. And if you do, they are strangers and want nothing to do with you for that reason. I feel quite isolated at times. You know what I mean?
Anyway, luckily, I have a wonderful partner who understands those needs and tried his damnest to give me something for my birthday.

So Bayile ("my friends call me "Bee") Mbisa and I spent the day traipsing in and out of Glasgow's young and hip shops. Bee seemed to know every fashionable, young person within a 5 mile circumference! Turns out, she and her pals were going to the Jay-Z concert as well. Apparently, Bee is well established in the HipHop and fashion community of Glasgow. We got along splendidly and she even invited me to some African-Caribbean events later in October. So, it looks like I may have some interesting venues to check out.

Lovely woman. Brains. Beauty. Big heart. And very sensitive and attentive as to what I was searching for.

And the Jay-Z concert...amazing.
The man has so many hits, he could only sing half the song (literally) and had to move on to the next song, just to make through the program in time. But I must say, that was the last time I will EVER hold a Standing Area ticket. Why must stupid, young boys spend mucho pounds on cheap beer in a plastic container only to pitch it high in the air so that it sprays down on the rest of us?? HUH? What the hell is up with that?!
Rat-bastards.
punk-bitches...

I'll tell you this, let one of those idiots do that at a Jay-Z concert in oh, say, NY, Philly, and...um, yeah...ATLANTA!!!, and see what happens to his punk-ass! He wouldn't make it to the other side of the arena before losing 4 teeth.
Freaking ridiculous...

Anyway...

It's a shame that I was completely wiped out from the last few days, because Bee invited Andy and me to a Jay-Z after-party. Unfortunately, I had to go sleep-sleep.

The reason why we had to celebrate my birthday on Friday was because a good friend of mine S, and her mom flew in Sat. morning to help celebrate Andy's birthday extravaganza.
But that's for the next installment.
And promise! You won't have to wait a week or more. It will be up in a couple of days!

And 10 partridges and a plum tree!

2006-09-14T12:28:00.000+01:00

September in the Highlands is an interesting place to be. The leaves are starting to lose that vibrant green and you can occasionally be startled by a pheasant (yeah, I did write that) sitting on a stone wall along the road. I'm never really sure how to process any of it. Hell, I'm only just getting comfortable with pulling off to the side to let an oncoming car pass me on a ONE LANE road.

I'm a city girl, for land's sakes. I grew up in Miami when the 1980s witnessed 3 different city-wide race riots. I'm more comfortable with drivebys and hookers on crack cocaine trying to score a trick than I am in the quiet, cool landscapes of cattle and sheep. Thank God, I live in Perth. It's still not the hustle and bustle of Glasgow or Edinburgh but at least, it's a town.

When visiting Andy's folks, I often feel like I'm Joel Fleishman from the show "Northern Exposure"--struggling to make it through the tedium and bizarre world of country-living. Last weekend I felt I was coming apart listening to the stories of runaway cattle and Mc-whatshisname "down in the glen" and his sheep. And can't forget how we have to hear about every little happenings of every single son or daughter in the valley.
But the worse conversations are often about music. Damn it, if one more country bumpkin looks at me like I'm crazy cause I don't like the sounds of bagpipes or Scottish country music, I'm going on a killing spree!
I swear it!

Why do they have to look at me with such confusion and pity?? Do they know anything about any of the music I listen to? HELL NO! Do they know about salsa, Afro-pop, Kompa, Cumbia, or Reggaeton, or even hip-hop? The whole world listens to hip-hop! I have more in common musically, with some little Japanese X-Box-obsessed brats than these mountain folk who prefer the sounds of a cat being strangled (loudly) in a cloth bag! (Incidentally, I borrow that definition of bagpipe music from my girl, S. in DC. Nothing more can torture her than the screeching sounds of the bagpipe).

But when it comes to food, I can deal with these folks. Andy and I found ourselves walking down the road (yes, THE road, not A road) Saturday afternoon when Bert (Andy's father) came zooming up in his truck to offer us a lift. I opened the passenger door and received a mild shock: at the floor were several dead birds. "Oh, sorry! Those are just partridges from today's shoot. Just put them in the back."
Partridges?
Partridges.

Dead partridges: head, tail, feathers and all.

My only reference to such fowls are at Christmas time when one sits in a pear tree.

So, when we got home and placed them in the garage, I learned about the hunting system: beaters (the gamekeepers who stir the game out of hiding), shooters (rich, white men who like to kill things then get drunk and celebrate it), and pick'em up-ers (more gamekeepers with dogs to pick up the deceased). Maybe there are official title names but, that's how Bert refers to it and he's a gamekeeper! He even has to wear a particular tartan/plaid of the estate he works on.

So watching Bert and Andy handle these little dead things had me oscillating between curiosity and discomfort. But I could see my Haitian mother standing there, sucking her teeth at my ridiculous behavior, and yelling 'just pick the damn bird up! It's already dead!'

As a child, my mom used to keep chickens in our huge yard back in Miami. When it was time, she'd reach into the coop, grab a chicken too slow to avoid its ending and the preparation for that night's dinner would begin. I always found it so strange--how cold my mom was when it came to slitting a chicken's neck and watch it run away, spurting blood everywhere until all the life was drained. I never could stomach to eat that poor bird after I watched it scream and screech. Life just seemed to fight too violently. Why couldn't we just have frozen, hormone-injected chicken from the supermarket! It was part of my struggle of negotiating my Haitian parents' ways of life with my American urban way of living.

Anyway...I've grown up some and I appreciate the country ways a bit more than I did as a kid. Bert taught me how to hold and handle the partridge. I couldn't believe I was holding a hunted game--one that has only been more like a fairy tale creature...not much different than a unicorn or dragon or even a dodo bird. Noone knows what partridges look like. Noone's seen one in real life!

It was fascinating to hold someone's dinner in my hands. It seemed a bit more humane: this game wasn't confined and/or tortured before its death. It was killed for someone's sport but others would benefit with a substantial meal.

On the greener side:

Bert has a lovely garden that he tends at every chance. We've scored beets, potatoes, tomatoes, and amazing peas that you can eat right off the vine! Now, it's September and while his garden's yields are waning-- it's now partridge and plums abound! Bert's plums are oval, dark and with slight iridescence. Tender and sweet and ready to be picked. Plums in the US are rounder, bigger with less flavor--obviously more genetic engineering. But these local plums...there's something so lush, juicy, FLESHY about them. I can understand why some English poets connect sex with plums.

So before we left, a bag full of plums was plopped in our rental car. The next day, a friend of Andy's came by bearing...more plums...from his trees. Now, I like a good plum, but I can only eat so many, you know? Maybe in a few years, I'll feel more "British" and start making preserves or canning them or whatever it is they do with them here. For the moment, a plum here or there is enough for me.

The Music Festivals Just Don't Stop!!

2006-09-03T23:00:00.000+01:00

Hey everyone, sorry it's taken so long to write another. Writing this dissertation takes priority and I'm really not up for my advisor kicking my butt over this. Plus, I've been under the weather for the last few days too. Damn Scottish weather...too many temps and seasons in one day....every day!

Here's a summation of the festivals I've attended lately. We've been busy every weekend with these events. First up is one festival we went to a few weeks ago.

Tartan Heart music festival
We took a 2 1/2 hr. bus ride up to Inverness (home of Nessie the sea monster of Loch Ness) for a music festival.
Scotland never seems to run out of music festivals.
This one was in a little hippy community of Belladrum and it's called: the Tartan Heart Music Festival.
It was very small, nothing like 70,000 raging kids at T in the Park. The Tartan Heart festival is family friendly, engaging kids of all ages.

Music featured was mostly rock, folk, country, indie and some weird crap that shouldn't be played anywhere.
You had your staple festival going groups too: the dirty, drunk-stone kids who roll around in the dirt because...I don't know, because it's there; young couples who find themselves extremely horny when surrounded by several thousand music fans bouncing to the loud, distorted music with occasional screeching feedback from microphones; the young, slutty girls wearing damn-near beach/club wear while it's 52 degrees and raining; the gang of guys that alternate between banging the heads or "wrestling" with their best blokes rather than talk to a girl.

Besides these folk, I also saw various kinds of families. The saddest were the ones where the poor 8 yr olds are having to play caretaker to their too-drunk parents. As I said before, there were old, local hippies in their purple velour pants with tamborines in hand. Some of the older men looked like cast-offs from 1950s motorcycle gangs...except they were in kilts and t-shirts. Their look was typical: rough and long grey beards and ratty ponytails with the three hairs on top of the crown doing a poor job of collecting the highland rain.

Fine people-watching all around!

As for festival food, you know how fatty and greasy fair food can be. So, I was pleasantly shocked to stumble across a Arbroath Smokies area. This was my favorite moment of the entire festival! Arbroath is a fishing town in the council area of Angus in Scotland. They're famous for their smoked fish and bless, I now know why. Andy had the smoked salmon while I was curious to try the haddock--what they are famed for. This tradition of smoking haddock fish -- "smokies"-- goes back to the late 1800s. They head and clean the fish. Cure it with salt overnight. And then they gets to the smokin'!! The old method was done in a barrel heated underground.

But nowadays, it's above ground. They smoked the fish RIGHT THERE on the festival grounds between 45-90 minutes until they are juicy on the inside and golden brown on the outside. Viola! hot, buttery, freshly smoked fish in your hands when you want it. Couldn't have been healthier or tastier! And filling too! You get an entire fish for just a few pounds. Damn, it was DELICIOUS!!

Call me a snob if you must but, I don't do festivals unless I have a guest pass. I'm just too old to deal with lines for toilets, lines for alcohol, no restful area to chill for a bit between acts. Being engaged to someone in the music business gets me that special wristband or necklass passcard. Besides, some of the best people-watching happens backstage in the VIP section.
Hanging out in the VIP area, you get to see a lot of interesting people, including some of the musicians before or after they get on stage. For example, I saw the legendary Lee 'Scratch' Perry and his crew hang out near us after their set. Perry is an icon. He's one of the founders of dub music and was producer for various reggae artists like Bob Marley and the Wailers, Max Romeo, Junior Byles, and The Heptones. I hear he's supposed to be off his rocker but he was kind enough to offer our friend's daughter a grape. But she declined because he's a stranger.

The Edinburgh Fringe Festival

After that festival, Andy and I were off to the Fringe festival. Lord, what an insane thing! 12 hours of music, events, comedy shows...day in and day out. I was exhausted. One night, I was so severely dehydrated that I thought an ambulance was going to cart me off!
And we only did it for 3 days...in the middle of the week!
I can't imagine how insane the weekend shows must be.

We saw a variety of venues.
Some were so large that they could hold hundreds and hundreds of folk. Some venues were so small that they were (literally) two site construction trailers duct taped together so they could hold 20 people. Really bizarre.
My favorites: I saw a Soul Food show, "performed" by Momma Cherri, Philly-gal who's been living in the UK for thirty years now. She gave a lesson in history and cooking of soul food and had the audience sing a couple of gospel songs.

That was worth the price of admission right there. 50 white Brits clapping off the beat, repeatedly while trying to sign "This Little Light of Mine".

The other was Havana Rhumba. Great story-telling. Great music and dancing to Rhumba, Cha-cha-cha, salsa, Reggaeton, rakataka. And oh yeah, the dancers were as hot as they were talented. The best part of the show was watching them pick random people from the audience to "dance". Some of the funniest stuff I've seen in years.

Ok...I'm not really going to talk that much about the Fringe cause it would take too long. All the acts spanned the globe and spanned the realm of topics and talent. What we ended up seeing mostly (cause Andy has to always be on the lookout for acts to book) were the comedy shows. I'll spare you most of the crap (cause a lot of it was).

But generally, here's what I came away with: the Scots will laugh at ANYTHING!!!
Seriously, I couldn't believe what passes as comedy here. Now, maybe everyone was just drunk the whole time and even a man playing a guitar with strange computer-generated sounds could be entertaining. I thought it was f*cking bullsh*t!

There was another show where the performer just rambled....for a freaking hour! Just mental-consciousness vomit. For whatever reason, people loved it. He even peed on stage into a cup; pretended he was going to drink (but his lips did touch his piss) and he closed his act by standing on top of the stool, hands pressed together as if he was going to dived into the tiny cup. And of course, he leapt and spilled piss everywhere.
No wonder his wife divorced him.
But yet, this man has children. This man has a woman who lets him crawl up into her every night.

sigh.

There were plenty of quality comedians. But they did like to bash America (and you know if I got picked from the audience, my US accent started something)--easy target and guaranteed to keep the audience on your side. The other interesting thing was all the morality they were constantly trying to push on. They wanted us to have character; for women to bond and stop beating on ourselves, etc. It was kinda strange.

One black female comedian from London was quite odd. Ava Vidal in her show titled "Responsible", talked about how she became a teen mother, all the abusive past boyfriends have been (one tried to stab her in the heart and luckily he only got her hand which still has and always will have that scar), and that she's trying to get her act together now. There were only 10 of us at her show and I felt obliged to laugh at her "jokes". Here again--Strange.

The only other black comedian I caught was "Pride and Prejudice and Niggas" Reginald D. Hunter. Needless to say, his venue was extremely popular...we were in an inflatable upside purple cow! It held several hundred seats. His explanation was putting "niggas" in the title of his show is because it's a word that people do use and don't want to admit so we should.
Uh. ok.
Whatever.

His show was... ok. But it would never work in the States. All his jokes werepretty much whatwe in the US would say..."ok, yeah, so what?" But here in the UK, it's novel; it's deliciously informative and nasty and the same time. Esp. in Scotland. There are so few black people here and just as it is in the States, not too many white people really know blacks personally.

Next year, I'll have a better idea of the shows I want to see. I'm not doing much of the comedy if I can get out of it.

We were supposed to hit another festival, this time in Glasgow. These festivals just don't stop around here! However, I'm sick and we're both tired. Gotta take a break.

"Pride and Prejudice and Niggas"--off to Edinburgh!

2006-08-21T23:40:00.000+01:00

Ok, so, you may not hear from me for a minute cause Andy's taking me to the biggest thing in Scotland: the Fringe festival in Edinburgh. People, I don't even know if I can explain it. Hell, I'm not even sure if I understand it. It's a huge 3-week long party that is part of some large general set of festivals that features everything and anything, it sounds. For example, within it includes the Fringe itself, but there's the International Festival the International Film Festival, the Jazz and Blues Festival, the Edinburgh International Book Festival and also the Edinburgh Military Tattoo every night at the Castle Esplanade.
Hell, we just got back from being in Aberdeen on business yesterday and off, we will head today for Edinburgh. heavy sigh...
(My dear friend R. in Delaware tells me to stop the bitching. Not everyone gets the opportunities to travel and see these festivals and shows so easily as I do. So that's what I'm trying to do. It's just that I get tired of it from time to time. Especially when I'm seeing acts that I couldn't care less about--for example: the Elvis celebration where loads of bands (indie and rockabilly formats)for one long-ass night. I won't go into a review unless asked. Let's just say, you have to be a real Elvis fan to enjoy it...which I'm not.

cough.

(sorry, Andy. I tried to tell you. I'll sit in and watch his "Blue Hawaii" movie, but as the "Fight the Power" anthem of Public Enemy says, "Elvis was a hero to most but he never meant sh*t to me you see...")

Ahem.

Anyway....
Edinburgh's The Fringe:
There will be well over 200 venues with literally tens of thousands of performers.

Course, I did check out the 200+ page guide to see what shows might be of interest to me. But who knows? This trip is for Andy's work: he has to check out these acts, particularly the comedians, for possible booking and promoting of the venues that he runs in Perth and Aberdeen.

There was one poster that Andy and I came across a month ago that caught our eye. Reginald D. Hunter is a comedian from Georgia, USA and is making it big here in the UK. Think of him as a Dollar Store version of Chris Rock.
Our reactions, for a number of racial and nationalistic reasons, were quite different.

God.
I literally cringe, knowing this poster was displayed ALL over Edinburgh (and who knows where else) to entice people to come see the show. Where is Dave Chapelle when I need him!!

We'll be hitting Mr. Hunter's show in the next day or so. With any luck, Andy will have to meet him to book him for potential shows at his venues.

I will have reports next week.

When Friends Visit

2006-08-04T18:45:00.000+01:00

.............a typical street in Old Town, Edinburgh.....................

My apologies to those who've written me privately, telling me that they are jonesin' for another post. It's been a long week. Blah blah blah, you get the point.

As I had said sometime ago, two friends of mine, Mohan and Briana, were coming for a visit. Remember how I said I love to entertain? Yeah, well, I meant, usually love to entertain. It's f-ing hard running around here and there every single day because your friends want to see as much as they can on their few days in Scotland. Travel was done by planes, trains, automobiles, and buses!

Somehow in the few days my friends were here, we saw Edinburgh, Glasgow, Perth (of course) and country drives up to the Highlands. Very, very busy driving or riding all over the area.
I'm also beginning to think that I might have to figure out how to see some tourist sites with my friends without having to do the same thing over and over and over again.

So, as to not bore anyone to death, here's a post with highlights:

A day and eve was spent in Edinburgh. Most of our touristy time was spent on the Royal Mile of Old Town Edinburgh. It's a stretch of streets that's been the main thoroughfare since medieval Edinburgh.
And damn! It was hot! (My apologies to those suffering in the US sweltering heat; I know you're trying to keep from melting... but when it's always wet and cold around here, any day above 85 degrees is hot!)

Typical sights were seen, if not entered (i.e., Edinburgh Castle) due to keeping the spending down. But we did take time to check out a number of interesting shops that sold various types of whiskey that (of course) you can try before purchasing.
Basically, in Scotland, one must work HARD to avoid alcohol and not get drunk. It's there...everywhere, whether you have to pay for it or not.
Next to that shop was an amazing place called "Demijohns" where all the homemade vinegars, wines, whiskeys, and flavored liqueurs are made in these beautiful glass demijohns! Oh, and guess what? Yup, more liqueurs and whiskeys to try.
Seriously, if you're a cheap-ass alcoholic bastard, you can just keep visiting all the different shops that sell whiskey and keep having a "taste".

Later, while my touristy friends were taking the "Literary Pub Tour" throughout Old Town Edinburgh, Andy and I took me around to see the Edinburgh that he knew in his college days.
It's always amazing to get a different perspective of a town when you spent time with locals. It's almost like I was in two different cities at the same time.
We got hungry and decided to hop in a taxi to the historic port of Leith for dinner; which is also the same place "Trainspotting" took place. Apparently, gentrification has hit Leith too. Not one sign of Ewan McGregor, a dime bag or even a used heroin needle to be found!

We met up with my friends a couple of hours later at....yup, a pub--the Cafe Royal, one of the most famous bars in Edinburgh. It looks like it's suppose to be posh (maybe it was 100 years ago), with its ornate ceilings and burgundy couches. But one look at the regulars kinda takes the prissiness out. It's very intimate and lush without the pretense.

After that, we got on the City Link bus to head back to Perth like a bunch of gambling old biddies rolling out of Atlantic City for the old folks home.

Later in week, we rented a car and drove up to the Highlands to visit a distillery (yup, more whiskey drinking!) and to see some of the country towns and landscape of Perthshire.

The Famous Grouse Experience at Glenturret is the oldest distillery in Scotland. For the most part, the distillery makes traditional single malt (aged between 10 to 30 years) which gets sold as is but also is sent to other distilleries for blending malts.
And yeah, surprise surprise: we did do some "tasting" there too.

We drove in and about various towns and villages in Perthshire. (By the way: It was so freaking hard driving on the left side of those tiny country roads). One of the cutest towns to see is Kenmore on Loch Tay. It's like a picturesque postcard village of whitewashed cottages. The 16th century village has a "Main Street" that's barely a block long!And yeah, there's even a little castle. Only dating to the 1800s, though! Tres new, you know...

After, Andy and I had a week or so to recover and now, I have another friend coming in two days.
I gotta figure some other things to do with visiting friends so I don't get sick of seeing the same sights over and over again.

Suggestions are always welcomed.

Food Bites: Sweet Cultural Treasures

2006-07-28T23:49:00.000+01:00

Just to let you know that I'm interested in many forms of food history, not just the gourmet, here are some interesting Scottish culinary finds that some friends have brought into my world.
Most of us have very strong memories of the horrible sickly sweet crap we gorged on as children. Hell, many of us still suck or slurp down some Americana treats. Here are a few that are cultural icons that my Scottish friends have introduced into my world. Now, you know I'm not a chocolholic by any means. Hell, if I never ate it again, I'd never sweat it.

And despite what many of you think, yes, I can still be a woman even though I don't care for chocolate.

The sweets I tried were made by the Tunnocks company. My friends say it's a Scottish institution, since 1890, and how everyone (old and young) has eaten at least one of their products since they were kids. Tunnocks makes caramel wafers, caramel logs, teacakes, some coconut flake-covered junk called a snowball, and some nasty crap with orange-flavored cream filling in biscuits.

I was first given the milk chocolate caramel wafers (there's also a dark chocolate version). It reminds me of a KitKat bar with caramel. Honestly, I really enjoyed them. Sweet, not too chocolately, but very dense and substantial. The next time I get another one, I'll have to break it open and strip it layer by layer just to get at candy's structure. It's basically caramel, wafer, caramel--repeated 4-5 times! I'm surprised they've never tried to sell them in the states. They would be a hit.

The next one was the teacake. Ok, so, I'm still unclear as to the definition of "teacake". I think it's something tasty and sweet that you may have with "tea". But even the definition is confusing. Sometimes, "teatime" specifically means dinner. But I've also heard it to mean generally a "meal" in the afternoon or even an elaborate ceremony of snacks during "high tea time".
I don't know...I'm working on understanding it. Hell, even the differences between cake, pudding, dessert as well as chips, fries, biscuits seem to vary in meaning.

Freaking Brits...

(cough, cough-- clearing my throat)
Ahem.

Now, as I was saying, next came the milk chocolate teacake. Basically, it's soft marshmallow on a cookie covered in chocolate. This is Andy's favorite. I couldn't try it. Just too damn sticky-marshmallows goop.
Interestingly enough, there are various consumption rituals associated with this teacake.
Some people (like Andy) must strip the teacake of chocolate, exposing the marshmallow and cookie. Then, he eats the marshmallow separately, ending with the pure crunch of cookie.

Others, like my Glasgewian friends, prefer to cut a sizable hole into the teacake and gut out the marshmallow first. Then, the chocolate and cookie are eaten simultaneously.

It's funny; it reminds me of the many ways there is to eat Oreo cookies back home.

If you check out the products from the Tunnocks (retro 1930s?) website, you even get the nutritional information! What a riot!! As if you can really make an argument for the nutritional value of candy and teacakes! Oh well, somebody's got to try...

But beware... The site has some games that will suck you in! I found myself playing them and I don't even LIKE video games!! Ugh!!

And then there's the choice drink for kilted folk: Irn Bru. The soft drink has been around since 1901 and it's about to be promoted as an energy drink (like Red Bull) in the coming months, I hear. It's just as popular as (and in certain counties, MORE popular than) Coke. People LOVE this stuff.

Get this: when McDonald's restaurants first opened in Glasgow they didn't serve Irn-Bru. The wee hairy shirefolk were pissed off that they couldn't get their crack-drink with their artery-hardening food. People got their blue war paint and crude axes and declared a Braveheart campaign war. Needless to say, McDonald's is not stupid. Guess it made sense to serve the salt and grease along with a biggie size of caffeine and sugar.

It's much like Mountain Dew: it has a neon color, heavy on caffeine (maybe even more than Mountain Dew) and loads of sugar. I've been told that it's the cure for most hangovers. The strange thing is that Irn Bru also has .002% of Ammonium Ferric Citrate. Who knows why. It has a bubblegum-like flavor that reminds me of a drink I used to have as a kid. Only, I can't remember what it was.

Dinner Party/Postscript

2006-07-23T12:40:00.000+01:00

Saturday night, Andy and I had a 6-person dinner party.

The menu:

snacky bits- cibatta bread, herbed olive oil for dipping, Scottish cheddar, Manchego cheese, chorizo, fancy salami, roasted red peppers, seasoned tomatoes, parmesan, assorted olives in rosemary.
Dinner- roasted Marsala cod with roasted potatoes and brocolini
Dessert- strawberry creme tart with vanilla ice and raspberries

We love to entertain. It's not about showing off what we can make or how much $$ we can spend. It's about sharing the best of ourselves with our friends. I'm sure you've been there, right? A party where the hosts took much time and energy to make sure that you have a fun and sumptuous experience. There's always enough great alcohol, great food, and a bevy of laughter. Call me cheesy, but to give to others and share in their surprise and happiness is an amazing thing. What more can you ask for?
And at the end of the night, after all the laughs, food, wine, beer, and whisky, I'm exhausted.

I reflect back on all the hard work we did: the shopping, the cleaning, the cooking, the baking,setting up, beautifying the joint, receiving guests, making sure their glasses are never empty, their plates are always filled, and at minimum, there's always a smile on their lips.

But damn, I hate the mess that's left.
And then Andy said the most romantic thing yet:

"We'll do the dishes and clean up tomorrow."

Just fell in love with him again.
Honestly, I knew I was going to deal with all the mess in the morning. This is run of the mill for me. But having a partner in crime makes it all the more enjoyable. He's there for all the grunt work before the party as well as for the fun of the party. And he'll be there helping with the cleanup.

For the party and the shitty clean up, he's always there.

It's Sunday and I haven't much time. Tomorrow, two wonderful friends of mine are coming to spend a few days with us. These are really special people--friends who were there for me during my surgery (an extremely scary time for me) a few months ago. So you know I gotta show them a good time.

POSTSCRIPT SUNDAY 9:20 p.m.

While I was making a few phone calls to my people in the States, Andy washed ALL the dishes and scrubbed up the kitchen top to bottom.

Gotta love that man o' mine.

Food Bites: Lychee Martinis and New Culinary Aspirations

2006-07-20T07:25:00.000+01:00

As most of you know, I love food: taste, preparation, history, scent...everything. After living in Austin for several years, I became spoiled by some of the town's better food markets such as Central Market and the gastronomic Whole Foods , with the endless supplies of nearly any kind of food product I could ever imagine needing.
I may be in Negroshire, but at least I have a local gastro-gourmet store,Provender Brown that gives me amazing cheeses, wines, charcuterie, duck confit (Yum!), unique ice creams and sorbets.

So, whenever I travel, I seek out interesting grocery stores and gourmet delicatessens.
This weekend in Edinburgh, Andy and I managed to find a bottle of caçhaca so I can make Brazil's best drink, the Caipirina, whenever I want. Even better, we came across a bottle of lychee liqueur! Back home, Sunday brunch was followed with reading of the Sunday papers or newly purchased books, bossa nova tunes playing on the stereo, and the consumption of lychee martinis!

Very, very tasty. I imagine it may become the new "it" drink soon...esp. among women, once bartenders change the color to hot pink, thus becoming irresistible to people obsessed with pronouncing their femininity and sexual prowess through pink alcohol.

Besides the hunt for culinary delights, inside the hearth, I've been experimenting and coming up with new culinary aspirations. Of course, these pics are not amazing--I'm not a food photographer, but you'll get the point.
Here are a few things I've tried:
For colder days, I sometimes want chili.
Making it from scratch, I found that adding port wine adds just enough sweetness and extra depth without having the taste of alcohol in my chili.
Bacon in the UK is really a cut of ham--like Canadian bacon. To get what we call bacon, you have to look for "streaky bacon". Simple enough. But I want to learn more about British bacon so I decided to roast it with a chicken stuffed with apples and onions. The strips are large enough that I only needed 4 strips to cover the entire top of the bird, legs and all. The drippings add something smoky to the gravy at the bottom of the roasting pan.

As for dessert, I wanted to do something with the lovely cherries since they are in season and pretty cheap. I altered a strawberry tart recipie and it came out pretty delicious. It's creme caramel tart that is almost a clafoutis except for the tasty crust. I always opt to do a pate brisee crust cause it's so buttery and very close to a shortbread. Needless to say, this is not something to eat if you're on a diet. Andy has taken to it like crack, sneaking into the kitchen get get an extra slice.

To make the tart, I had to make a caramel. Since I've stopped using white sugar for the most part, I had to subsitute brown sugar which ended up as a black caramel. Sweet but dark as its color. Much like molasses.
With the leftover black caramel, I found it's delicious when lightly drizzled on slightly tart fruit or extremely pungent soft cheese.
There are plenty of times, I just don't feel like cooking and I don't want to go out either. So, we do a picnic.

In this picnic featured, I did the blueberries drizzled with black caramel in the lower left side. After that, there is my new favorite cheese, the soft Irish Cooleney. Ooo! It's like a pungent brie with wonderful flavor. Next are slices of tomatoes from the vine, dressed with salt and pepper only. Fresh lettuces. Parma-ham (that's prosciutto to the US) baked for 3-5 mins to make it a bit crunchy. Black cured olives. Blanched asparagus dressed with salt pepper and lemon juice. Fresh cherries. Delicious Shropshire Blue cheese. In the center is a little container of shelled pistachio bordered by roasted red peppers. To accompany, sometimes we use good, top-quality fresh baked bread or large crackers.

It doesn't get any easier or tastier than that.

Scotland's Bi-Polar Weather and the Unbearable Sickness of Me

2006-07-17T21:31:00.000+01:00

I'm just taking a break from writing this damn dissertation. I'm sitting on the couch working, while Andy's in his office working...in his boxers. It's warm today. The forecast said a high of 75 degrees. As I check the time on my watch, 4:30 p.m., it's actually 82 degrees.

While everyone (the fish-belly white natives) walk around outside as if it's the Mohave Desert, the weather is rather nice, in my Floridian opinion. But when it's cold, I don't mind the weather too much.
I just need consistency. I can't deal with up-down weather anymore than I can deal with people who run hot and cold.

I lost my voice a couple of days ago. Last weekend, I was in Glasgow running around in the cold rain, then hitting the hot clubs, only to walk through the cold, wet air looking for a taxi.
Needless to say, I got sick. Actually, I'm still sick. I still force myself to hit the gym, but really hate it now. There's coughing, there's hacking and there's the fatigue. But all the week, the weather's been cool--upper 60s. Thinking, I was ok, Andy and I trekked to Edinburgh on Sat. for the day. Take in some shopping, museums, sights, and the cow parade.

Edinburgh was crowded and very, very warm. In the eve, we met up with a friend of Andy's, the head of marketing for the hip Traverse Theatre, for drinks, debates and dining.

Well, I must of had too much fun cause it was a bitch to drag myself back to Perth. By late Sat. evening, I lost my voice.

And I'm still sick. It's 82 right now and tonight, the low will be in the mid 50s--still too cold to sleep with the windows open. By Sat. the daytime temps should drop back to the lower 60s with rain. And if there really is rain, then it will feel colder. What is with this bi-polar weather??

What makes this annoying is that I'm SICK of feeling sick. I want my voice back and I want to stop hacking and coughing and feeling like crap. I don't want to feel like I'm dragging myself to the gym. Andy thinks I should be resting but if you saw the pics from my high school friend's Class of 86 reunion--you'd be right there pumping hard with me. Hell, my 20th reunion is next year!

I feel like crap. But I must press on. I must struggle with the dissertation monkey on my back. I must continue going to the gym. Maybe pushing myself will allow me to be so dead tired that I will finally get some decent sleep without coughing/hacking interuptions. I do rest, however, in front of the tube, watching British tv's import of Black entertainment shows and music videos. In a European context, knowing so many people don't know any blacks or know anything about Black Americans except for the booty and coochie-shaking they see on television, I find that I'm extremely uncomfortable. And let me tell you boys and girls, the stuff they show here after 9 p.m. is uncensored! Racy videos with NAKED black and brown female bodies writhing and jiggling quickly to money, alcohol, and oh yeah, the beat...the skewed perspective Europeans get of Black Americans is pretty scary and worse, sad.

Excuse me for coughing again. I gotta get better soon. I have friends, my friends from the States, coming up next week to visit.

"I love the Nightlife! I love to Boogie (in Glasgow)!"

2006-07-10T22:52:00.000+01:00

What a weekend. I'm still tired. And it's not that I did a ton of drinking and partying. But it was busy. Friends (Diane and Rik) came through Perth Friday and we were up late drinking and eating some nibbles. Since Andy and I decided not to repeat last year's fun in the sun by spending the weekend with 70,000 of our closest friends at the T in the Park music festival, we went, instead, to spend the weekend in Glasgow with them.

After a lovely French bistro dinner, the four of us hit a nice pub for drinks and check out what clubs we should hit. We were given flyers for other cool, funk, R&B, neo-soul spots too. So we were going to have a good time regardless.
Slowly, I'm learning that Glasgow has quite a scene for black music. Various venues support and celebrate new and creative ventures blending disco, funk, soul, gospel, latin, house, drum and bass, house, US garage sometimes with live vocals, horns, and percussion. There are equally interesting terms to describe these new dancefloor sounds: soulsa, dancefloor jazz, souljam, discojuice.
In the end, we headed to the Favela club for some salsa and Afro-pop dancing.

I thought it interesting that the club would be named after the term for a Brazilian slum neighborhood. I saw it as the possibility to hang out in a non-glitzy, maybe even dodgy, gritty spot to have a truly organic experience.
People, THIS was the place!! Black folk (African and Diasporic) were doing their thing. Fine brothers were out and about. More than that, this was an extremely mixed crowd (Persian, Middle Eastern, Asian, African, European)---more so than ANY club I've ever been to ever.
And what a crowd: there were the Hen parties (British bachelorette parties <----and the women always have to be dressed some outrageous, trashy outfits to attract as much attention as possible); gross OLD, wrinkly European men out with their extremely young, Black escorts for the evening (watching them nearly made me puke). Some of the more pathetic people were these women who pretended to have too much to drink and wanted to try the moves they taught themselves after watching a hiphop video on MTV. One woman finally gave up trying to make her pancake ass bounce anad reverted (I kid you not) to doing some RiverDance jig...while dancehall was playing.

Of course, there were the amazing syncopated booty movements by some women (black and white) who really knew how to work their ass and legs to the nastiest of dancehall. I envy that kind of sexual power--you cannot take your eyes off of them and they make it look so effortless. Still, I'm sure some men watch that and think she might pull a move in bed with them and snap his pee-pee off with one twist of her groin.

The most pathetic were these men and women who moved en mass, all members of some salsa club. You can always spot these people. Although they are technically individuals, they moved together as an organism--not an independent thinker among them). Moreover, no matter what was playing the DJ played (hiphop, Congolese music, etc) the entity had to danced their newly learned, heavily processed salsa steps. God forbid they stopped dancing salsa to just shake it a bit to some Destiny's Child song.

What I mean by "processed" salsa is that it's nothing like what any person would dance in Latin America. Real salsa doesn't look anything like that! Sadly, much of what is taught in Europe and the US that passes as salsa is really some strange ballroom aberration with a lot of hands running up and down the womans body, minor aerobics to emphasize how long and shiny the woman's hair is, followed by the stare-down competition between the couple to demonstrate how sexy they look, which then leads to a long succession of at least 25 quick spins of the woman to emulsify her dinner in her stomach, and of course, to end with the heavily exaggerated dip.
What I find so funny is that if any of these idiots tried to head to Cuba, Puerto Rico, god forbid, the Dominican Republic with those moves, they would be stabbed in mid ballroom traditional spin.

Anyway, Favela was wonderfully diasporic. People in attendance were a beautiful racial and ethnic mix. The DJs played a wide variety of music-African, Soca, Latin, Reggae, Reggaeton, Ragga, R&B and Bhangra. We danced our share to hiphop (not the best), dancehall, soukous, and all this other African music I have never even heard of! Yeah, that's the fucking spot!
After dancing, we headed back to their apt. and did quite a bit of political, historical arguing on slavery, and religious/economic domination of empires throughout time. By 4 a.m., the sun started to come up and we decided to call it a night.

The next time, we'll have to check out some of these other funk and soul venues. It's great to know there's some really interesting clubs partying.

"Northern Soul": An Unexpected Cultural Treasure of Britain

2006-07-09T20:48:00.000+01:00

Sitting in a Glasgewian flat, hanging with some proper Scottish friends,can and will always bring about some of the most interesting topics. It's a moment I always treasure but only in hindsight; for I never know that I'm about to learn something amazing.
Even now, I can't recall how it came about, but while deciding what funk venue to check out for the evening, I first heard of "northern soul".

What is northern soul? It's a style of music associated with dance and fashion of the working class youth culture of Britain during the late 1960s and early 1970s. In particular, the soul music in the north of England was said to be quite distinct from any other part of the country.
The music originally consisted of Motown music and similar obscure American soul recordings of Detroit and Chicago labels. Northern soul had to always have that uptempo Motown beat (for dancing).

Due to the rarity of the music, collecting associated vinyl is an expensive pasttime. Vinyl discs can go anywhere from $3000 to $30,000 each!
Apparently, the classic image is of men, dancing, not with young ladies, but alone, competitively against each other.
It reminds of similar contemporary images, much what you still see in dancehall and modern African popular music scenes in nightclubs.
The northern soul culture was influenced by the mod scene in style and fashion. Everyone dressed up like Austin Powers all the time. (lord)
When it comes to supplemental drug use, uppers must have been the thing, in order to do all that fast-pace dancing all night long. There were club badges with the icon raised black fist as a prominent symbol (hm...very interesting). The vespa was the signature mode of transportation tricked out with fancy mirrors and lights. (I gotta find a movie or archival photo book on this stuff)

According to my source of all things musical in Britain (aka Andy), northern soul music scene is still alive and well with original fans as well as some young audiences of 21st. centuy. I'll have to check out when I hear of a club I can get access easily. Check out this more recent venue poster with a raised WHITE fist. I don't even know what to say about that.

Any one know anything about this scene?

American Ambivalence on the Fourth of July

2006-07-04T15:00:00.000+01:00

It's the Fourth of July here in Scotland as it is in the US. And I'm telling you, the biggest event going on right now is if we can get the stupid Apple Airport device working so I can be on the net on my own computer instead of Andy's.

Ok, so I admit. I really wish I was back in the US right now to partake in our greatest national holiday. Not because I'm terribly patriotic, cause I'm not. I'm more than aware of how janus-face the US can be when it comes to capitalism and global power. Hell, being Haitian allows me to be pissy with the US for not sending us help during the Haitian Revolution (which we did more than fine without their punk-asses anyway!) after we helped the fledging colonies in their fight for independence from England. But you know that little thing call the Louisiana Purchase was on the line and the newly founded US didn't want to upset Mr. Napoleon. Basically, they said "sorry, Charlie but, I gots to get paid" and blew us off. And don't get me started on the early 20th century invasions and occupation by the US either!
However, I'm not simple enough to not remember that it was here my parents chose to find a better life for themselves and their family. Despite all the crap that has happened to us, I have a brother who's making a little change with the Post Office and I'm trying to finish writing my PhD. The life I'm living, the life my baby bro lives would not have been possible in Haiti...no matter how much we love our Cherie Ayiti.

I wish I was back in the States to have the big cookout today. Drinking beer, eating great bbq with my friends (cause my people can cook!) and having the world's stupidest debates while putting on bug spray and questioning whether sunblock actually necessary for someone as dark as me. I got serious fieldslave skin tone, y'all!
And of course, the big finale is always the fireworks at our local park. I'm in my late 30s and fireworks still hit me with awe and joy as it did when I was a child.
The Fourth for me has never been about patriotism and rememberance of our country's forefathers Declaration of Independence. I get more misty-eyed over a good "Little House on the Prairie" episode. But it is the closest I get to bonding with the rest of the country...at least the common joys and events that is tradition on this day.

Have a good burger for me! I'm thinking of you all.

Food Bites: On Breton cuisine and local Scottish Farmers Markets

2006-07-01T22:30:00.000+01:00

God, I'm soooo sick of the World Cup. And to be fair, Andy has not tortured me with the insistance of watching every bleeping game from start to finish. However, as we grew closer to the finals (thank you, Jesus), Andy is having to watch more and more of rich men run around the field chasing a white ball with a bunch of hexagon patterns on it...in the hopes that they MIGHT make a goal.
Well, at least England got knocked out. Go Brazil.

Earlier today, Andy and I walked to downtown Perth for lunch at our favorite cafe, and a little furniture shopping. Le Breizh cafe is absolutely adorable and inviting. All waitstaff is dressed in the traditional French striped shirts with black pants. The only thing missing was a beret! The cafe features cuisine, light-fare, from the Brittany region of France. Therefore, much of the dishes are very thin, wide pancakes, called "galette", made from buckwheat or white wheat flour. Toppings include mixed variations of ham, eggs and other savoury fillings. The desserts include French pastries (pain au raisin; croissants au chocolat) and sweet crepes. People, they do NOT play when it comes to the food. Today's featured crepe had pineapple, apple, blackberries, blueberries, strawberries...all of that with ice cream on it too! What an overdose. I didn't even pretend to think I could handle something like that. Even if galettes or crepes are not your thing, guess what, they make phenomenal pizza as well. Some specialities include ingredients such as parma ham, lardon, egg, chorizo, salmon, and scallops. I could go on, because they certainly do. If all of that is still too much, they do have plain cheese pizza--some of the best tomato sauce and dough I've had outside of NY city.
For something different altogether, the cafe offers amazing brochettes of thick chunks of pork, chicken, porkbelly, Toulouse sausage...all, of course, in multiple varieties with several different yet delicious sauces too.

Although we wanted to have lunch out, our true reason for heading downtown was to hit the Farmers Market. The first weekend of the every month, kiosks are occupied by various vendors from all over the shire (Middle/Old English term for "county" in case you wanted to know) with fabulous produce such as organic veggies, meats, fish, spirits and any other products shire-folk may desire.

Today, we picked up some New potatoes and minced lamb to make wonderful burgers and spuds cooked in a bit of duck fat that I've saved. There was an interesting vendor selling whiskey ale! Everyone was allowed a sample. Its bouquet and taste was definitely whiskey, but was most certainly an ale. I will have to pick up a few bottles for some beer snobs friends of mine. I wonder if they've ever heard of such a product.
Andy and I missed out on getting some buffalo meat--they were sold out within two hours of the market's opening.

But we were tempted into getting some wild boar sausages and with cider and apple as well as some wild boar smoked back bacon! MM hm! I bet that is going to be really tasty; grilled with some yellow, green and red peppers and onions.
Much of the veggie selection was nice but not nice enough to lure us in. Our fridge is stocked high with greens.

Andy and I have been making a conscious effort to buy and consume only organic and/or conflict-free wild bred produce. For example, we came across a kiosk selling vension products (you know: steaks, sausages, minced meat, etc).
"Yum! Venison! Shall we get some?" I asked.
Andy gave the stall a brief look, I believe at the name of the vendor, and dragged me on.
"I don't buy farmed venison."
So you know I gave him that look which says 'uh...huh? why?'
"Because I can get wild stuff for nothing."
"Andy, that's it? That's the only reason."
(With Andy, you always have to prod him to get the full explanation. He never willing gives it up. I think it's part of his macho code of being the silent, strong guy)
"Well, [the wild product] tastes hundred times better. It's just like how you can taste the difference between farmed and wild salmon."
(Actually, I can't. At least not yet. But I'm working on it. It's bad enough to know that farmed salmon are not naturally that beautiful orange-rose color. That only happens in the wild. Therefore, salmon farms inject a dye into the salmon so that it LOOKS like the wild variety)
But back to topic cause, Andy was still explaining: "You are what you eat, you know? They get a more varied, tasty diet on the hill that carries through the meat. While farmed animals are fed mostly just grass, pellets and cattle-feed type stuff. They don't get anything with flavor. On the hill, they have heather, wild thyme, blueberries..."

Anyway, you get the point. And that's why we didn't buy venison today.

You know, sometimes it gets harder and harder to enjoy food when you learn of all the tampering humans have done. But many of us are trying to get back a more natural state of eating. We'll never revert to a true hunter-gatherer gastronomic lifestyle. But the less crap we put into our bodies, less crap we or worse, the doctors, have to take out.

Be Aware! The Vikings Are Coming! The Vikings Are Coming!

2006-06-27T22:55:00.000+01:00

The Shetlands are quite beautiful. The weather fluctuates often: sunny one hour, rainy the next. And never really warm. They really are just mossy rocks sticking up, out of the ocean. For whatever reason, people felt they should live there. Nature is subtle here.

We saw shetland ponies grazing on flat, green pastures. We drove passed giant sea lions laid out on rocks, getting a little sun, posing for tourists, and gabbing over whether Brangelina should adopt another child so soon. During the weekend, a school of killer whales decided to attend the music festival too. Unfortunately, I missed all the frolicking in the bay cause I was with Andy who was in music promoter mode.
We ended up caravaning and hanging out a bit with one of the acts, The Hazey Janes band, a young, hip group with great harmonies-- an indie rock mixed with a bit of country-folk sound. They gave a great performance Friday night--they only act that evening to incite dancing from the audience. The Hazey Janes--nice kids. Hope to catch a show of theirs again soon. They're extremely good live. I spent a good amount of the time sitting by and watching the scene while Andy talked music shop-talk with other music promoters.

Saturday, we did manage to see the "Vikings" getting ready for their parade. There were loads of them--at least 10 different groups, all in dressed up and no where to plunder. I mistakenly thought that parade meant: colorful cheesy floats, lots of marching bands, girls twirling batons badly, and maybe some fat marshalls waving to the crowds. Hell, there should have been a Ms. Viking in some sequined dress with bleached blonde hair and bad roots!

But alas, the "parade" was the promenating of several dozens of men and boys walking down their street showing off their "I'm going to rape me a whole village of women" outfits. Oh, and can't forget there was a piper band.

After that, we did what everyone else tends to do in the Shetlands--hang out in the pub and drink. Yup. That's it. But let me tell you, the pub was hoppin'! Interesting clientele... for such a small area, I guess there's no need to have age-specific divisions for socializing. The pub had young and old alike, all getting blitz equally.

Even some Viking participants didn't bother to change back into normal garb and got pissed drunk along with everyone else.

Glasgow Jazz Festival
We flew back to Glasgow and stuck around for a couple of days to check out bits of the Glasgow Jazz Festival. Andy, having music connections all over this country, got us to see the "Homegrown Acts" Sunday night at Ramshorn Theatre. No question, all the acts were immensely talented--most of the performers quite young in age. One boy (emphasis on boy--I'm not even sure if his balls have droped yet) fancied himself a crooner. That was fine and well, I suppose, but I don't think children should try and sing songs like "Mr. Bojangles". They just have no idea what the song really means. There's pain there. There's no sound of resignation or bittersweet nostalgia in the kid's voice. But of course, how could there be? He's yet to experience life.
Anyway, groups varied from traditional trio and traditional quartet to singer with trio backup to saxophone quartet. The highlight for me was the performance of the group Trianglehead. The three-man collaboration include keyboard, sax, and lord oh lord, drums. In their own words, they are "a new forum for exciting, innovative music without boundaries that challenges the smug navel-gazing of much contemporary jazz."

In my opinion, they are full of shit. There was one point that the drummer put one end of the drumstick into his mouth and smacked his cheekto make a popping sound!

That was considered an actual note!!!

Can you understand what I'm saying??! Shall I go on? Fine then.
People, their first song from hell was 15 mins long and absolutely ridiculous to call it music. Let me explain what it sounded like. Imagine Charleton Heston, on an acid trip, wandering through the desert of the Forbidden Zone of the Planet of the Apes. Then, out of nowhere, evil flesh-eating dried apricots fall out of the sky like a tempest, descending upon defenseless apes and humans. But low and behold, the manic fruit storm subsided and out comes a young Forest Gump, who forgot to take his Ridlin and also has turrets syndrome--well, he sits out and masturbates to a feverish end with strange climatic noises.

I oscillated between shock/anger and fits of the giggles. I can't believe that actually passes for music.

There was one trio, guitar, 5-string bass, and drums I enjoyed immensely--the Alyn Cosker Trio. How they could swing. They had an interesting look too.Spikey blonde hair with highlights and slicked up shirts and shiny ties. Basically, they look like the products of a love tryst between Kajagoogoo (remember the 80s song "Too Shy") and Duran Duran.
Andy couldn't stand their look. It upset him to know that I found them rather tasty...esp. the 5-string bass player, for which Andy has a deep-seated hatred towards the instrument...though lord knows why.

After the concert, we ran up to the West End of Glasgow (the young, hip area with restaurants, shops, pubs, galleries) for late night drinks with friends. If I could move to Glasgow, I would want to live in this area. It reminds me of the East Village in NY. I definitely feel most at home here.

LAST NOTES

People, I have finally found a black Brit woman's magazine! (Sidenote: I always wonder which should I emphasize--BLACK British or BRITISH black woman's... you tell me which is better) "Aspire" should be the perfect magazine for me. According to the magazine "Majority (40%) of ASPIRE readers are between 30-39 years of age, but there is a fair representation from the under 30s and the over 40s. Majority are in Middle Management either in the public or private sector. Many are Students, Doctors and Solicitors. 39% are of African heritage and 37% Caribbean. Whilst many of you didn’t like being asked about class, the majority (52%) perceived themselves as Middle Class." I quoted directly from the magazine's website.

One More Thing...
Black History Education in Britain
So, I learned some interesting things over the weekend. The best was that Britain also has a Black History Month celebration. Over here, there can be no joke about getting the shortest month of the year--Black History Month is October! A full 31 days!!!

Viking Parade and No Nightfall...here I come!

2006-06-22T19:30:00.000+01:00

URGH!!! Just as I started to get used to the beautiful, sunny, breezy weather, the Artic cold winds and rains came back to remind me that I am not in the Poconos on a lovely Spring day. It's Scotland and that can and usually mean cold, and unpredictable weather. Look at this pic taken today from our office window. The clouds are dark enough to rain. But will it? Maybe. Maybe not. There's enough sun in the area to thwart that possibility. You just never know around here.
Yesterday was the summer solstice and you wouldn't have known it around here. It didn't get above 55 degrees (without the windchill) and believe me, the wind was a-blowin'! So you know it was cold.
And when the temps start doing a yo-yo dance, I tend to get sick. Luckily, Andy is there to offer (yet another) cup of tea and a nice massage.
He's pretty swell...the man even twists my locks for me. Since there's no one here I can go to (and I HATE doing my own hair) he's extremely helpful. Now, how many men--black or white men would do that for their ladies??

I'm telling you, I will cut a bitch that gets between me and my man.

But back on the subject of weather, it turns out, I'm going to be spending a couple of days in sweaters, coats, and scarves. Tomorrow, Andy and I are flying up to the Shetland Islands, way the hell off the northern coast of Scotland for a summer festival called Johnsmas Foy. The main reason we're going is for the music portion of the "foy" (I think that means festival or hootananey in Shetland talk). I don't think Missy Elliot or Ludacris will be on the venue. But hey, life's an adventure! The Shetlands are depicted by the black dot in this picture of Scotland. It's way the hell up there, huh?
It's a strange area. A group of over a hundred cliff-edged floating rocks..completely deforested and a long time chilling spot for the Vikings. The islands are pretty small with very few roads. In fact, no where in Shetland is further than 3 miles from the sea. Needless to say, their economy is based in fishing and salmon farming. We'll be staying in the main town, Lerwick. I don't know much else about the place except these folk can do some serious drinking and they have their own distinct dialect derived from the longtime connection with Norway. I've checked the weather forecast and we're not expected to have a day over 52 degrees. That's not terribly bad...if it's November!! And I hear the wind is a bitch! So, it will probably feel like the mid 40s during the day....lord (groan), what am I doing?

I'm not sure what else is there to do besides fish, drink, play some music, and drink some more. I know there are some prehistoric and norse settlement to see. And maybe drink there too. But that's all I know so far.

The Shetlands are so far north that they average over 19 hours of daylight. Since we just had the longest day of the year, I am told that I won't actually see any nightfall...just dusk if I'm lucky. I wonder if I'll get any sleep. I couldn't imagine being there in the winter when it's perpetually dark for months.

Besides the music festival (and no, I don't know what kind of music...possibly rock since all the folk festivals usually happen earlier in the year), we're suppose to see a Viking parade! Last night I told this to one of my oldest and dearest friends, Herman. He just laughed and said, "You're a long way from Opa-locka, Peggy."

Yeah, he's right. I've come a long way from my decrepit, poor Miami neighborhood full of crack cocaine, prostitutes, and gang violence. And I've still far to go.

Obviously, I won't be seeing any people of color. So, I'm lowering my standards for this one. If I find one person, just ONE white person with a tan (not redness due to windburn), they shall be my brother or sister for the weekend. Wish me luck, my people!

Thankfully, we'll be back on Sunday and hitting a jazz festival in Glasgow!

We'll see what I have to report when I get back, eh?

Workouts are Aw(e)ful!!

2006-06-20T15:31:00.000+01:00

In an effort to better myself, I signed up at the local gym/club. (By the way, I hate the term "club" because it just reminds me how much those places are pick up spots)
You can look in the mirror and think, 'hey, I'm not so bad. Maybe I'm no model, but I'm not in a motorized wheelchair or worrying how long it will take the men to cut a hole in my house so they can carry my Jabba-the Hutt-sized body out when I die. No one would stop and gawk at me while walking down the street."
Sure, that's true. But I can't eat or drink everything in sight and think there won't be hell to pay. I'm not 21 anymore and haven't been for a long time. Weight seems to pack on a lot easier these days and damn it, it's taking a hell of a lot longer to come off. And what's worse is when you hear that after age 35, everything on your person starts going to hell; a woman will lose 1-1/2 pounds of muscle every year, to be replaced with fat. And of course, if the muscle mass is going, then you know bone strength and density are getting on the bus as well.
That crap scares you.
Well, maybe it doesn't hit everyone but, it scares me.
I've spent enough time around overweight family members and friends who are diabetic, overweight or worse, with heart problems, blah blah blah, you get the point. I've spent enough time in hospitals with inconsiderate, uncaring, health care professions to know that it's a bad way to go when it's your time.
I hate hospitals. I've never seen doctors and nurses who break their backs, do cute entertaining skits, hell or even just TALK to you like a human being the way I've seen it on "ER", "Scrubs", "Grey's Anatomy" and every other totally implausible hospital show. I'm sure they exist, but maybe for the rich or something. God forbid you find yourself at the county hospital. Case in point, my mother. When we knew it was near the end, she decided she wanted to die at home. The doctors told my father that she had to take these medications for conditions that were spoken in Doctortalk (you know...all those weird, half-Latin, 20-syllabled words created to make doctors feel even more superior than necessary).
"Have her take these pills two or three times a day," Dr. Jerk instructed.
At this, my temper started to boil.
"Which is it?" I asked.
The doctor, for once, stopped looking smug and actually seemed human when a look of confusion appeared his face.
"Excuse me?"
"Which is it?! Two OR three pills. We're not giving her Flintstones chewable vitamins here!" I said in a tone just below seething.
"Oh, well. Two will do."

What the hell?! This supposed savior of people from their ailments, who has attended how many years of higher education, medical school, internships at various hospitals, could only non-chalantly toss out an IDEA of how much medication my mother should take.

The best way to avoid jerks like that taking care of you is to take care of yourself first.

So here I am, taking almost as many individual pills as my mother did in her last years. But mine are preventives: multivitamins; cod liver oil tablets, spirulina pills, iron pills. And oh yeah, I gotta hit the gym 3-4 times a week. I know I will never get a body like Angelina Jolie (hell, even when I was at my fittest, at 5 '2", I was still something of the Middle Earth hobbit version of A. Jolie). But I must exercise to maintain fitness and health.
And I HATE working out. It's merely for the purpose of working out. Sports, I love. I have fun; the endgoal is sooner--must score points to win. And yeah, I get a workout too.
But I hate the health clubs. There's always someone in there to intimidate you. Sunday, I had the creepy men who pump excessive amounts of weights and their gaze alternates between their reflection in the mirror or the cutey, sorority-like babes that walk around in the tightest, most color-coordinated outfits.

Today, I had the crazed obsessive-compulsive young housewife. You know those kinds: she's under 5'5", doesn't weight but a buck o' one when fully dressed and soppin' wet. And she's on the damn elliptical/cross trainer machine pumping away for at least 40 mins, at top speed with that glazed look in her eyes. You know she's competing. Doesn't matter who: she's competing against you, slugging along next to her, or the machine itself, or herself for not figuring out that she married a bonehead.
I don't know what she's crazed about...but it makes me really uncomfortable.

I can't workout near them.

Aside from the freaks, I'm still not happy. The super nice health club assistant come by and ask me if I'm enjoying myself. I always answer, "No. Not at all." They always smile with a half-laugh that makes me think I'm the first person to answer honestly.
Workouts are aw(e)ful. Why does working out have to suck??! I've got to be wrong here because far too many people do it every single blasted day for HOURS!! I find them awful while something else is going on with everyone else. Something's making these people feel good when they come here.
I've heard of this endorphin thing--how you're suppose to feel so good after a workout and that it's to be addicting or some bullshit like that.
I don't know. I haven't found it yet. Maybe I'm defective.
All I know is after working out for 45 mins to an hour, I just want some damn barbecue flavored Pringles! And I'm not even into junk food.
Or at least I wasn't until I started working out.

Someone's gotta help me out with this. Why do I not have access to the workout high?
In the meantime, I better go wash my workout clothes so they can smell nice and fresh before I get them stinky and sweaty again.

Food Bites: On Summer Drinks and Bbq

2006-06-13T19:32:00.000+01:00

Punch Drunk
After days and days of planning, shopping, cleaning and cooking, our first cocktail party went quite well. No one ended up throwing up out the second floor window, but it was good. And you all know me…I had to make some of my tasty dishes like my mushrooms with duck confit stuffing topped with pomegranate molasses.
I couldn’t find p. molasses at the stores so I just had to make it. As it always is, I preferred homemade to storebought.

Back to the point- besides the usual whistle-wetters of wine, whiskey and beer, we featured two homemade drinks: Caribbean rum punch and a Catalan inspired punch made with Cava (Spain’s version of champagne).
For those who don’t know, Cubans with their mojitos aren’t the only ones who make a tasty mint drink with cheap booze to help you forget that you hate where you work. All of them are easy recipies: simple syrup or sugar with crushed mint and lime juice, ice, and your choice of cheap white rum. I prefer a little spice to my drink so I substituted dark rum for white.

Good rum punch is a drink to savor slowly, just like the knowledge that your boss’ wife has been cheating on his arrogant but ignorant ass for years and he doesn’t know it…yet.
Most islands have a similar version. When one lives in hot, humid climates, it’s the drinks with mint, ice, sugar and rum does the perfect job of refreshing you, while cooling you down and mellowing you out.

The Spanish punch was inspired by a tapas dinner we had at a Spanish restaurant in Glasgow some weeks ago. Our version incorporated Cava, apple juice and cassis liqueur (since we couldn’t find the Basque cherry liqueur, Pacheran as the original recipe required). The punch was topped off with floating raspberry and blueberries.

Bbq and the Brits

It’s June. Temps are rising just a little every day. The smell of bug spray and sunblock lotion is everywhere. It’s barbecue season-- but not just stateside! In the last 10-15 years, bbq has not only become quite trendy in Britain but it’s a little controversial. Everyone with even a swath of yard space has a grill. But apparently, they do more burning then barbecuing. In general, the British have a culinary history of bad food and some are trying to change that. However, the attempt to mimic the US and their Aussie cousins without truly paying attention to the art of barbecue has brought on the fury of cranky Scottish chef Gordon Ramsey.
This man is as famous for his blunt, outspoken rants against bad culinary endeavors as he is for his cantankerous look and manner. In this month’s issue of British gastronomic magazine, “Olive”, Ramsey’s article on men and barbecues quietly begins with “What is it with men and barbecues? It so frustrates me. Why do men feel they have to be the one in charge For god’s sake all you men, leave the barbecue to the ladies and go and sort out the drinks instead. You are pretty much all useless.”

Well, at least he’s to the point. Now, I think we can still jump around, dressed in our best video-hoe outfit and sing “My bbq brings all the boys to the yard. And they’re like ‘it’s better than yours.’ Damn right, it’s better than yours. I could teach you but I’ll have to charge”. But there are some interesting new ideas on barbecue dishes that we Americans could find fun and different for a summer party.

“Olive” provides American, Australian and British favorites that sound delicious!
For example: bbq leg of lamb (in a butterfly cut), tandoori-style lamb cutlets with minted potato salad; soy-glazed tuna steaks, and prawn skewers with peanut dipping sauce.

World Cup Madness

2006-06-13T19:16:00.000+01:00

It’s the sixth day of the World Cup brew-ha-ha-splth!!*! and we’ve only got 5 more weeks to go! Woo hoo!
Yeah!
Yup.
Hmph.
(yawn)

God, it’s insane. I suppose I’m already sick of it. I’ll admit that technically, I may have watched, really watched…um…10 minutes cumulatively of all games combined. I did see the US team get spanked.
But the damn British television (particularly the ones controlled by English networks) had me exhausted a full week before the games actually started.

Would you believe that for WEEKS (not for 1 program or even a few days), Brit-a-vision has been airing shows like “Best goals made by players with mustaches”?!
I’m not kidding people!
Other segments have highlights like “best Afros on Caucasian players” only to be followed by “Best goals made by Caucasian players with Afros!”

How ridiculous is that?!
Listening to the BBC Radio Scotland on Friday showed me that quite a few people are pretty sick of it too. Two hours of bitching in various Scottish regional accents about how much they are so sick of hearing about the World Cup and how England is going to win again just as it did back in 1966.

So because of weird reasons that bore the hell out of me every time Andy tries to explain it to me, the Scots are not backing England, their colonizer, but rather Trinidad and Tabago. Why? Cause some Trini named Jason Scotland (can you believe that name??) plays for the local Perth team, St. Johnstone. That's his pic right here.

My opinion on the matter: As my Afro-Brazilian galpal, Raquel suggested—“Just watch the games for the hot men, running around and sweating.”
Well, I have stronger political views than that, people! I’m backing any black or brown team. Third World Solidarity, damnit!! So, like the rest of Scotland, I'll be cheering for T&T.
Besides, John Scotland is really cute.

Go Trinidad and Tabago!!
Get yo flag and wave it…Wine yo’ waist, man!

Weekend recap

2006-06-13T19:15:00.000+01:00

Friday night’s cocktail party was well worth all that damn work we put in. The party was attended by coworkers of Andy’s. Not much eye candy for me but, I found them to be very nice people (if not the wildest bunch). And I swear, one of them came right out Middle Earth’s Shire. Just the tiniest person without being considered a dwarf or midget! Technically. I think.
The music was eclectic and jamming (god bless the Ipod). People mingled and couldn’t stop drinking the homemade punch. Andy felt the tv should be on in case anyone was interested in watching the opening ceremonies and first game of the World Cup. Interestingly enough, for all the yap-yap about the World Cup, no one played any attention to it. So, off went the tube.
During the party, I learned that Scotland’s equivalent to the New Jersey is the town of Dundee. Everyone not from NJ talks much smack about the state, and Jerseyites hate it. Dundee people are no different.
A sweet young woman, Fiona, gave me a 50 pence coin stuck in a champagne cork (a Scottish tradition) to welcome me to Scotland and for luck. In all, I received several invitations for lunches and outings with the ladies. I truly appreciated that.

The next day, Andy and I drove up with his older brother and wife (John and Gillian) to spend the weekend with Andy’s parents (Bert and Margaret) in the highlands, for his dad’s 66th birthday. What a lovely time. I was good about alcohol but I did smoke quite of few cigars. Not to worry about the lungs, like Bill Clinton, I too, did not inhale. It’s amazingly beautiful up there. Instead of crickets as background field noise, I got sheep. Laying in bed with Andy, we’d hear the occasional “baaah” and Andy would jokingly say “ah, the voice of my first girlfriend”.

Don’t Judge a Book by its Cover

Sat. evening in the highlands started with a cocktail party in the backyard. All of the neighborhoods of the other 3-4 cottages came. The best part for me was having a conversation with their neighbor Bob. He told me about how he was born in a dirty railway car—his mother, alone to deliver him by herself. This man, now in his 80s, has had quite a life: lied at age 15 to enlist in the Navy and fight during WWII. The ship he was on was attacked and it sank. Most escaped. He later ended up in Kenya working on coffee and tea estates. Bob told me some horror stories like the one with a woman in labor who, crawled to his door for help. He whisked her into his car and tried to get her to the hospital on time. She ended up giving birth in his car, blood and afterbirth everywhere. After all this time, I could still hear a tone of guilt when he talked about how dirty the back of his car was…obviously not expecting to create a sterile environment for any reason.
When he got her to the hospital, the attendants begrudgingly took her in, but took no care to handle the woman or her baby with much care. The medical aides made no attempt to even help the woman hold her newborn baby in her arms.
Bob said that her baby with the umbilical cord was still dangling between the woman’s legs as they took her away.

Talk about not judging a book by its cover! There were more stories that I took away but nearly as much as I wanted to hear. To look at him, it’s easy to think him a rickety shell of a man, with death breathing down the back of his neck. He could just be like any other old man, living out the last of his days in the same place where he was born, a beautiful but quiet glen in the mountains. And yet, the little time I spent with him demonstrated that this man has enough real-life experiences throughout the world to make at least 3 best sellers.
His wife, Thea told me that he wasn’t interested in writing any memoirs. Such a shame, I think. So much we could learn from him. I didn’t get to talk to Bob for more than 15 minutes or so. But I’ll never forget him.

Good Health vs. Good Shape

Sunday, John (Andy’s brother) wanted to take us up the “hill” to an unrecorded Roman fortified site. “Possibly 2500 years old”, John said excitedly. “You’re an archaeologist, you should find it interesting.”
Actually, no. I don’t know anything about Roman sites in Britain. Not that interested either. But one must be polite. Besides, you never know!
“It’s only up part of the hill; not terribly far to go,” John persisted.
“Sure, I’ll go,” was all I could say with any sincerity. Besides, I needed some exercise.
I threw on my sneakers or “trainers” as they are called on this side of the pond and off we went.

Ok, so the climb was a f-ing bitch! Yeah, it was pretty and majestic, and all that shit. But damn!! I was struggling to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
I mean, damn! How high were we going?!

“You doing ok? Can you keep going?” John kept asking me all these questions, as he was damn near TROTTING up the fucking slope. What the hell?!
I could only make hand gestures because all my concentration was centered on taking in as much oxygen as I could with every inclined step. Right foot, step forward. Breathe in. Left foot, step forward. Breathe out. Repeat.

Fuck. These “highlanders” are half mountain goat!
There’s no way one can get fat if you had to go up and down these damn mountains all the freaking time.
To keep going, I rotated various fantasies in my head: Me beating John and Andy to a pulp for making me do this; watching these boys struggle to not get shot in my Miami neighborhood; how nice it would feel to lie in a Jacuzzi while being fed pitted cherries by that hot black actor on the "Grey’s Anatomy" show; Ok, maybe the boys do get grazed by a bullet or two while being chased down in my old neighborhood.

And when we finally got to the site, all one could see was a very large circle of fallen rocks. Mind you, they were big rocks, obviously set there for some reason. But that’s it.

After farting around up there, we decided to trek back down. I figured this would be the easy part, right? Downhill is always better. But what I learned was that it doesn’t always mean easier.
A hill that high and that steep is still work, when walking downward. It was a strain on my knees and thighs. Then I started getting really itchy on my stomach and back. I had to stop and have a full 5 mins stratch-a-thon! I freaked out a little and yelled to Andy, “I think I’m allergic to something! Something got on my skin and I’m breaking out! Oh, shit, my stomach’s on fire!!”
Well, turns out, I didn’t get anything on me. No allergic reaction. All that itchy sensation was due to my back fat and stomach fat forced to move for the first time in god knows how long!
Now, no one would say I’m fat, but I’m no anorexic chick either. I could stand to be in better shape. I’m in great health but I’m in lousy shape! And my body was definitely screaming at me.
Thankfully, my treat came the next morning.
John was in the kitchen making tea. “Did you guys sleep ok?”
“Yup, we slept fine,” I answered. “Why?”
“Oh. Just wondering.”
Turns out, John had trouble sleeping because his legs were giving him trouble. “Must have been climb yesterday.”

Cocktail Parties and the World Cup!

2006-06-09T13:08:00.000+01:00

Alright y'all. Unfortunately, I don't have time to write a real post....yet because Andy and I are hosting a cocktail party tonight. We've been working on it all week so there will definitely be some things to report next week. Also, tonight is the start of the World Cup and damn, I'm already sick of it.

Much to say about that in the upcoming blog. Interestingly enough, the Scots are not backing England (rise up, we Colonized!) and instead will support Trinidad and Tobago!
You should see the stores with all this T & T paraphernalia.

This weekend, we're heading up into the Highlands, near Aberfeldy, to hang with the folks and celebrate Andy's dad's b-day. Did someone say bbq? Yup, had to make my Drunken Love bbq sauce for the event. With the amount of whiskey drinking to come, I expect to lose quite a few brain cells and at least 3% of my liver. The things I will do for my father-in-law to be!

I'll be writing you soon, esp. on my confusion as to why Andy loves that damn Hanson song, "Um Bop". Somebody help me...

PS--I have seen at least 10 black folk walking around Perth. Unfortunately, they always seem to be heading in the direction of the train station and I never see the same person twice.

Hey, who knows? Maybe someone lives around here besides me.

My Friends are Bruce Lees

2006-06-03T17:20:00.000+01:00

This is a view out one of my windows. It’s a gorgeous day here in the Shire. Weather is sunny with scattered cumulous clouds, 66 degrees. And, wait… hold on! I think Julie Andrews spinning around on the top of a nearby mountain.
The sun’s been up since 4 a.m. (don’t think I’ll ever get used to how short the evenings are in the summer) and it isn’t going anywhere before 1-2 a.m. In fact, it’s been nice all week.

Wonder how long it will last.

Its days like this…cool, bright and so perfect; you’d have to work hard to break even a bead of sweat. These are the days I miss my friends the most. These fleeting, peony-sweet days when we should be running around having waterbomb fights while tipsy or arguing over which black exploitation film from the 70s should have been made into a musical. Or should Foxy Brown be made into a musical now? Should the actor who played Steve Urkel from Family Matters have a big role or a minor one?
Anyway...you get the point.

I don’t know about everyone else, but I am privileged to know some of the most amazing people and they call me friend. It doesn’t matter what’s going on; what I’ll say or do either. They are like family. These are my people.

“So, you really like gay male porn?”
I cheerfully answer, “Yeah, I do.”
“But you’re not a gay man. And most women don’t go for that kind of stuff either, Peggy.”
“I’m not most women.”
“Yeah, that’s true.”
Pregnant silence.
Did I alienate them? Is it just too much for someone to hear? Did the joke go too far? Should I have kept that to myself? Shit. What was I thinking?

And what a relief to hear them laugh.
“Well, Peg, guess that’s just how you roll. Ok, whatever then!”

My friends truly accept and love me.
This blog’s whininess was brought to you today by my listening to Brit folk-ish band, Nizpoli. Their cult hit, “JCB” (the British brand name of a backhoe company), is about one of the band member’s memory of his father as his hero during those tough, bullied, early school years. It f-ing just breaks me down every time. It draws the kind of emotion that makes me want to hide in the bathroom, so noone (even if the house is empty) knows I’ve been crying.
Although this song is about a boy’s idolized thoughts for his father, it reminds me of my friends.

If I need my friends, they are always there.
Period.
Day.
Night.
It doesn’t matter.

Sometimes, it’s the little things--I just a need a drink or to have lunch with them. If they have to spend 3 hours straight convincing me that I do have something worth contributing to archaeology, they do it. Have done it. Hell, still do it!

When I wanted to have a “Thank God, I still have my Uterus Party” a few months ago, noone batted an eye over my theme! The night of, the house was packed with people ready to eat, drink, and dance in celebration that my surgery turned out ok.

Friends dancing the night away during my "Thank God, I Still Have My Uterus" Party

They are the people that spent the night with me to make sure I didn’t die of blood loss several months ago. They are the ones that flew across the country, or drove across town to take me to the hospital for emergency surgery at 5 a.m. When I was ill and needed medication but had no $, they got it for me.

They flew to Paris with me when I wanted go and didn’t have a boyfriend to take me. They fed me when I couldn’t feed myself. They are the ones to yell at me when I was getting in the way of a potential beautiful relationship. They’ve sat on rooftops with me, getting drunk and playing with my really badly made voodoo dolls of co-workers that sucked.

When I’ve been viciously attacked professors, and was told I’m “worthless”, I’ll never “amount to anything”, and told that I “have no real friends; they’re just too scared to stand up to you”, it was my friends to stay up night, eating greasy Chinese food and watch Diana Ross overact in “Mahogany” with me.
Why?
Well, cause if Diana’s lack of acting skills didn’t stop her, why should anything stop me?

And when that doesn’t work, they hit with the tough love, tell me to "stop the fucking crying and handle [my] business."

I gotta stop playing this damn Nizpoli song. It’s only making me miss them more.

Damn those lyrics: “And we’re holding up the bypass, me and my dad having a top laugh…
I’m sitting on the toolbox. And I’m so glad I’m not in school, boss, I’m glad I'm not in school.
I’m Luke. I’m 5. My dad’s Bruce Lee, he drives me ‘round in his JCB! I’m Luke. I’m 5. My dad’s Bruce Lee, he drives me ‘round in his JCB!”

And if the simple yet heartfelt lyrics and melody don’t get you, the ridiculously cute animated video, made as if it was drawn on lined schoolbook paper, will rip at you. There are no survivors.

Or maybe it just gets to me because I didn’t have that kind of a relationship with my folks, especially not with my father. It was quite the opposite.
But I do have that relationship with my friends.

All of them…they are all my Bruce Lees.

But hey, maybe I’m just pms-ing.

The Power of the (un?)familiar, or how I dreamed of killing in the name of Frank Sinatra

2006-05-27T17:20:00.000+01:00

Well, I made it to Scotland, landing in Glasgow and hanging out for a couple of days with my Sweets in town before heading on to my new hometown, Perth. Side note: y'all, I saw a bunch (20 or so) black folk in Glasgow!! I was even given a card-flyer about the dance hotspot for black folk so you know to expect something on that when I get a chance to attend. There is hope yet!

By anyway...Glasgow is an amazing town. It's extremely cosmopolitan and stylish--loads of great, eclectic, ethnic culinary spots, along with diverse and forms of arts, music, history, architecture. While I expect that in a great city, I also find Glasgow to be unique in its quiet, simmering sense of violence. Walking around, I see classy and alternatively dressed Glasgewians--coming and going with purpose and flair. But some of them make me a little nervous. There are people that look and sound like they just came out of a 19th c. factory--as if the Industrial Revolution only started 20 years before and they're living a hard, hard life. These people have an edge that I find intriguing and a little scary at the same time. Even the bus drivers dare you to cross the street and the wrong time and "test" your reaction time by actually speeding up--like they are trying to hit you! This happened to me 4 times!! And each time, the driver locks eyes with me as if to say "Bitch, you know you shouldn't have tried to cross. I will get you next time."

Even some of the businessmen, make me nervous. Walking down popular and touristy Sauciehall Street, Andy and I saw a man, dressed in business suit. I'm not talking some cheap poly-blend from Sears or JCPenny, people. The suit was an elegant and expensive cut. The weird thing was that the man was had a good, long scar from his left ear to the area above his upper lip. I hadn't seen a scar like that since I lived in Miami and watched a girl cut open another girl's cheek on the Metrobus for picking on her. (Interesting how easily cheek flesh falls open like the pages of an old book when sliced).

Anyhow, I asked Andy about knife fights and he answered that it's extremely common, but a more effective manner of damage is to take a bottle and run it into someone's face until it shatters!
"If more people had guns instead of knives, Glasgow could easily compete for the murder capital of Britain," Andy added.

All I could think of was to make sure I never make a mistake in this town. I kinda like my face as it is.

So, here's where the title of this post relates to my babbling. Friday night, Andy and I got free tickets to see this musician Paul Buchanan at the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall.

Photo of The BLUE NILE band. Paul Buchanan is the one hanging his head...I would hope, in shame.

Paul Buchanan was to perform for three nights to sold out crowds. Now, by no means am I up on every kind of music genre and their relative kings and queens. However, I never heard of this man and was curious to understand what kind of artist would sell out in Glasgow several nights running.

I asked, "So what's the big deal about this Buchanan guy?"
"Buchanan," Andy corrected.
Thoroughly confused, I just stared at him.
"His name is pronounced 'ba can none', not the way you (i.e., Americans) say it: 'bee u can in.'"

My response to typical tomAAto-tomAHto debates, is 'oh'.

To continue, I asked again, what's the deal?

Turns out this guy used to be with a group called Blue Nile (and performed with most of the Blue Nile band members that night) who only churned out 4 albums in 25 years!!

Let me say that again: 4 albums in 25 years!!
Furthermore, he's only toured once a decade making this tour, only his third time live.

The music was...ok. It reminded me of all those atmospheric songs played during a movie montage where the protagonist is driving around the country, trying to look introspective, seeing this and that. Those montages and the music it accompanies, thankfully, usually lasted maybe 30 seconds or a little more.
Well, imagine sitting in the car with that protagonist and actually having to stare at the back of his head for DAYS while he drills that damn AM Gold music into your blood-soaked ears.
That's what I felt.
At one point, I realized that my heart was beating extremely fast--not because the music grew loud and feverish--no, no. It was because the music has lulled me to the point that I stopped breathing and before I slipped into a coma, my heart began screaming for oxygen.

Interestingly enough, the crowd was wild for him. Here, I'm thinking this man could put anyone into an anesthesiatic state, but the crowd LOVED him. These were his fans--like crackheads, really.

And so, I thought 'this is the power of the familiar', much like that strange relationship of dependency and often love, that occurs between the kidnapper and victim. Because the fans have had only 4 albums to play over and over and over for 25 years, anything that could come from this man--no matter how droll or prosaic--was manna from heaven.

Churning this over with Andy, he disagreed with me (as he usually does). He said it's the opposite. It's because Paul B. so rarely connects with the audience, that every little note and word is a surprised gift--an extra 10 presents at Christmas.

Well, whatever. I tried. I wanted to get it maybe I need 25 years to become familiar.

This is why the American music industry does let just any crap on the radio. Granted, we do have a lot of crap, homemade. But maybe music industry does feel a little bit protective of us.

(alright alright...a girl can dream)

So when I believe that I would go into menopause, sitting there for so damn long with such chloroform-soaked tunes seeping into my head, it ended but not without an encore. Oh yes, one must give the crackheads a reason to wait another 10 years for the possibility of a live concert.

And damn it if it didn't get worse.
For his closer, he sang "Strangers in the Night" to the absolute shock and revulsion of me and the deafening cheers of his crackheads. And when he started whining "shoo be do be do..." I wanted to jump down from the balcony, steal up the aisle towards the stage where I would leap up and stab him in the thorax with my knife that I never have on my person. I would let the blood spew from his throat as I yell, "This is for Frank Sinatra!!"

Now, I like a little Frankie in doses, and by no means am I anyone's henchman. But come on! If you were there; if you heard how he butchered that poor, defenseless song... Why? Dear lord, why would he do this?

Hell, if you heard what I heard, not only would you let me take that man out, you would have covered me.

Haitian Haggis

2006-05-24T11:24:00.000+01:00

Well, these are my last hours in America. There were so many friends I didn't get to say goodbye to and that pains me. But there's never enough time. But those bitches better come visit me, that's all I have to say about that.

Tonight, I fly to the Shire and try "something new". Already I've been getting the jokes--'so when are you gonna make some Haitian haggis?'
Those who know me, know I LOVE food. Technically, I guess I'd get called a foodie. I don't care about terms. I love food. I love making it, talking about it, studying it, learning its history, its cultural dos and don'ts (for example, we put catsup on our french fries but not in our baked potatoes; nor do we put butter on fries but we need it for the mashed tatters). And of course, I LOVE to eat food. It's one of the few things that makes sense to me.

Food, especially good food, I find, is one of the few things that really brings and holds people together in earnest.

My friends know I love to fuse, meld different culinary traditions--create something delicious between ingredients that often aren't married together.

But in Scotland, I have to first learn their food language. The few times I've been there, I have occasionally been stumped as what some of the dishes were or even recognizing some of the ingredients. Last summer, everyone kept talking about "rocket salads". The hell?! Was this some new leafy green that was unknown in the US? Was it illegal? And with a name like "rocket"...I don't know...did it get you high or something?
Well, after traveling to my future in-laws' cottage in the Highlands and helped picked the greens for our dinner salad from their garden, I found out that rocket was just plain ole arugula. The term rocket must come from a bastardization of the Italian word "rucola".

My move to the Shire will certainly extend my culinary skills. Interestingly enough, most of us (Americans) don't think of the Brits as having a distinct culinary tradition. And by distinct, I mean, delicious. Most of us think of fish and chips, maybe some boiled cabbage with cheap meat, and of course, for Scotland, haggis--something from the inside of a large mammal that got chewed up, spit out into the lining of a sheep's stomach, boiled and forced down the throats of the kilt-wearing, bag-pipe slinging unfortunates.

Oh and don't get me started on all that fried crap: deep-fried unidentifiable whitefish, fried frozen cardboard pizza, and even fried candybars! It's no wonder why they have the highest rates of heart disease in Europe.

But I can't skip the innards contribution to their food. The Brits do have that bad rap for eating haggis with gusto. I guess I can't say much on that, considering I've eaten hot dogs. And I do come from a culture that will and does eat everything off a pig-- "from the rooter to the tooter". Growing up, pig tails in red bean soup was my favorite. So, who was I to slam them for their manner of sausage-making? And anyone who's eaten scrapple (man, how Philadelphians love that stuff) shouldn't talk either!

As for the good stuff, teas, chutneys, jerk chicken, curries, etc., we imagine that it was appropriated when the Brits went a-colonizin'. While the Portuguese and and Spanish wanted new lands, to spread Catholicism, and oh yeah, maybe pick up some gold and silver, we joke that the lack of decent food was the true drive behind British colonization.

Whatever the reasons, I can actually say that I've enjoyed some amazing Brit food.
There are those amazingly creamy yet slightly pungent cheeses, grilled and poached cold Atlantic fish flavored with subtle herbs and vegetables such as thyme, tarragon and leeks. Quail, grouse, partridge roasted with a slab of bacon is hard to turn down. And can they cook some lamb! The Scots can do a lot with the tasty little bah-bahs making succulent, lean cuts that surpass (sometimes)a need for beef on your plate. Let me not forget the potato. Brits do know their way around the spud--whether cooked up in a soup with Haddock and cream, or cut up and baked with fat drippings and onions.
Desserts can be somewhat dense rich like butterscotch tart and pudding cake, or sweet, buttery, and light with scones, shortbread, Scotch pancakes with marmalade or jam.
I'll leave the whiskeys and other spirits for another day.

In the meantime, I gotta go pack.

Countdown to a new life

2006-05-19T00:22:00.000+01:00

In less than 7 days, everything in my life will change. Or at least, that's how it feels. Half the time, I wondering 'what am I doing'. I spend the other half wishing time would hurry up and just get me there.

I'm moving to the Shire. Aka, Scotland.
Why? Cause last year, I met someone and well, we fell in love and so I'm moving to be with him, marry him, and start our lives together. It's somewhat of an odd thing to do, if you came from where I did. Haitian Americans who grew up poor during the turbulent and racially violent '80s of Miami just don't go off to someplace like Scotland and marry a Highlander!
But I am.

Funny, I think I was always heading in this direction; this place where many like me used to go-- like back in the 1920s, when the world was starved for jazz and all things black and new (at least for them). Course, many indulged in the croissants, absinthe and wild Parisian nightlife while I'm headed for damn-near tundra-like conditions with haggis and whiskey served at my table. Nevertheless, I always wanted more for my life than what was suppose to be.

Let's put it this way: even when I was young, I was aware of the connection between old age and regret for many. And I wanted none of that. I saw men and women who were brave enough to leave their homeland, the places that they knew and "made sense" to come to another country for the hopes of a better life. Yet, as time went on...I don't know, something happened to many of them. They stopped trying for more and settled to a very simple life, preferrably one surrounded by others like themselves, from their homeland. Often, they only recreated what they already knew just on a microcosm scale; a "Little Haiti" to soften the harshness of a foreign world, a foreign life. That included my parents.
Even then, watching my parents and their friends slowly becoming more and more afraid of the world, of life, I knew that could not, would not be me.

When I'm old, I thought to myself, and crapping in my Depends diaper, I want my memories to keep me laughing and smiling. I want to be that old woman that others look at and wonder why is she so happy in her decrepit shell that only deteriorates faster with each passing minute.

But it is scary to live. It's hard to take a chance on something with no guarantees. Here I am, just short of finishing my PhD in historical archaeology, fell in love with a Highlander and I'm taking off to be with him.

Any job prospects? Nope. Do I even know if I can get an academic job in Scotland. Uh uh. Is there at least a racial and ethnic community for me to bond with and find my own "Lil (black)America"? Yeah, I wish!

I will be the one of the few if not the only negro in the Shire.

And I know...I know my friends and family are thinking I'm a little nuts. I mean, I know they are happy for me but they still must think I never shook that thing that made me such a weird kid.

To some, it's off enough that I'm marrying a white man. "But a Scottish dude, Peggy? I mean, damn! They're only a 1,000 years out of the cave! Shit, they still wear skirts! What about his teeth? You know about them Brits and their jacked-up teeth! If he had to be white, couldn't you stick with an American?"
Well, yeah, my man does wear a kilt on occasion but his teeth are fine. They're all there and facing the right way.

For others, it's the idea of being alone without the support network of other blacks. "Damn, girl! If you were moving to London, I could understand. At least we know there are black folk around. But Scotland? And ain't it really cold there too?! Don't you wear a sweater if the temp. drops below 75? You know that don't make no kinda sense."

And what can I say in response? Not much.
Then they continue, "Have you even seen a black person when you were visiting?"
"Yes, one. A guy."
"One black person in the town?"
"Uh, one black person period."

Then there's the look of horror on their face.

"One black person in 6 weeks?!"
In my most sheepish tone, "Yeah."
"Well, where was that?"
"In the train station in Glasgow."
"Hmph! Yeah, the brother was trying to get the hell up outta there as fast as possible! Girl..." and then I just get the head shake, slowly from side to side with the pursed lips and and heavy sigh, to say 'I don't know what to tell ya'.

Guess there's not much to tell me. I'm just going with my heart. And bless my peoples, they are supporting me through my driven ways.

It is going to be a bit lonely. As much as I love Andy, I need my racial community. I especially need my friends.

But I'm going. I have to go. I have to find my life on my terms.