Porridge Fit for a Queen - Try Waitrose

Can you explain to me why I've just spent the last 45 minutes searching online for purveyors of McCann's Irish Oatmeal in London? The steel cut kind.

I'm missing my favorite comfort foods in the worst kind of way today. Though having grown up as a Quaker Instant Oats girl...the variety packs, especially maple and brown sugar...I was surprised to find myself converted to steel-cut after a trip to San Fran to see my friend M. She made some for breakfast one day and OMG...I wondered how I had managed to exist for all those growing up years without their nutty goodness in my life. I also found out how to get around the impossibly long cooking time (15-25 minutes)...e.g., cook big batches, divide into microwaveable bowls and refrigerate for individual morning delights! Voila!

Unfortunatelly, early results at finding source in London turned up zilch. Sainsburys, nada. ASDA online, bupkis.

I should mention though, I had to give up on looking for oatmeal...it's called porridge in this neck of the woods. Mind you, I kinda associate the term porridge with the gruel of Oliver Twist's workhouse or the stuff Tim Robbins' character, Andy Dufresne, gets served his first day at Shawshank...yep, that's right, the PRISON.

But I digress, potato, poh-tah-toe. I knew what I was after and I would not be deterred.

So back to the chase.

After hitting the major search engines and then wading through a sea of blog posts, including the lively lulu loves bombay, I finally came to Sybil Kapoor's Guardian article How to make perfect porridge. So I'm off to Waitrose to try my luck.

Yum awaits!

The Early Hours

Yawn. Stretch.

Wow, it's bright out. Must be morning.

Yes, it's definitely morning.

Though now, in the midst of winter, in London no less, I realize I've forgotten just how *bright* bright can actually be. To whit, my friend C tormented me yesterday with yet another weather report from Florida..."81 and sunny in the MIA."

Darn it all!

But it is morning, Saturday morning to be precise and like the article I read last week, I'm not giving over my most creative time to the mundane...to email, or Twitter or FB. Nope, I'm going to give it over to...BLOGGING! lol

I guess we all have to pick our poison.

But I can't help it. I'm a digital junkie. This is the space in which I live. I've made my proverbial bed and so I've just got to lie in it.

But back to the story, the author made a good point. When you take the first couple of hours of the day to wade through a bunch of hygiene to-do's, you miss the opportunity to apply the fresh, creative you to your most outrageous, audacious and zesty love-to-do's.

So because I'm rubbish at bookmarking, I've lost track of the article but in searching came across a couple of interesting new people to read and follow, so not a bad outcome after all.

(Yes, I've searched and tweeted in the time it's taken to complete this post. I told you, I just can't help it.)

For example, in a big hello from snowy MN, Caroline, of Caroline Royce Design, tweeted: "Lately been in a creative rut. Cure: Looking at blogs all morning. #productivity."

Similarly, Alex Knapp who writes for Forbes recently blogged on research about night owls making the best of the morning.

And if that doesn't convince you, then what about a little wisdom from the coolest cat to ever put lips to mouthpiece? The Davis himself.

Mike Folsom, self-confessed quote junkie, provides the Miles Davis classic “My future starts when I wake up every morning. Every day I find something creative to do with my life.”

So the point is not to say you should quit emailing from bed, tweeting from the shower or leave FB til lunchtime.

The moral of the story is to give the best of yourself in the early hours to the passions that most move you.

And let the rest of the day take care of itself.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (and Chiswick)

Today is the first day of Lent.

I'd like to say it snuck up on me, but seeing as I had a calendar alert programmed weeks ago, the answer would be no.

That said, I WAS surprised to see the alert pop up when I sat down to my computer this morning. (What a struggle to get it into gear...boy did I need that first cup of coffee.)

On the one hand, I'm kinda bummed that I missed the chance to celebrate Shrove Tuesday, or Mardi Gras/Fat Tuesday as we call it back home, in proper, over-the-top style. I had dreams of hosting a bead-festooned, King Cake-loving, Bourbon Street-themed extravaganza for friends here in London. Show folks how to celebrate like they do in ol' New Orleans.

Heck, I might have even flipped a pancake or two for the cause, as that's how it's traditionally celebrated here in England. Alas, the evening turned into lamb shanks for one and an argument with my boyfriend. More on that later.

But that leaves me thinking, in the spirit of Lent...in the spirit of preparing for Easter with a real sense of expectancy that something great is about to happen...how will I prepare?

In the past I've given up TV, caffeine and alcohol. Of the three, TV was the most interesting choice. Alcohol and caffeine were much easier to kick as I'm a light drinker at best and a "one cup is more than enough to get me going" coffee consumer.

Giving up TV definitely had its hardships. 40 days! Cold turkey? Really???

So that particular sacrifice had to have its own rules. For example, I could watch movies and syndicated shows on DVD but no broadcast/no Internet viewing. The idea being that I should be more thoughtful of what I consumed (or chose not to consume) each day, rather than just mindlessly flipping through the channels at the end of the day and settling for whatever crap...I mean quality programming...was on.

At first it was hard, admittedly. Living alone, I missed the noise, if nothing else. It's called a squawk box for a reason.

But at a deeper level, it felt more personal. It felt like I'd lost an old companion. A faithful friend who greeted me enthusiastically every morning and then sweetly lulled me to sleep every evening. And despite living in a high-rise apartment in the center of Manhattan and having a world of friends just walking distance away, I had to admit that TV had become through routine my first and last "human" contact of the day.

Maybe this Lent thing was going a bit too far.

Then I got more into the spirit of it all and discovered a wealth of classic movies, e.g., Cassablanca, North by Northwest, Roman Holiday, etc., that cried out for viewing. So I started picking a new title each night so I could settle in for some uninterrupted, choice-based entertainment.

Ha!

It didn't take long to realize how hard it was for me to sit still for 2 hours and not be drawn into multi-tasking...a phone call here, an email there, a little web surfing in between.

God how I craved those heavenly breaks...every 8 minutes or so...that you could rely on during broadcast TV. So darn useful for doing odd bits around the house, dashing off a quick text or grabbing a sandwich between cliff-hanging plot points. Oh yeah, that's me saying I actually missed COMMERCIALS!

So despite trying to work my way through Hitchcock's entire ouevre--or maybe because of just that--I found out that I couldn't really be mindful with the tube on after all, which had been the whole purpose of switching off to begin with.

So I simply found myself in front of the TV less and less.

Tell you what.

My dog, Gabby, loved it! She never saw so much of Central Park as during that time. We spent the evenings and weekends exploring its lovely grassy knolls...traipsing North to the reservoir, east to the Met, west to Strawberry Fields and everywhere in between.

But denial hasn't been my only experience of Lent. In my home church, Fifth Avenue Presbyterian, we also observed the practice of chosing to add a commitment to your life during Lent, something that could serve as a daily reminder of the journey.

This curiously enough, I found much, much harder.

Why?

Well, when you're a natural doer, giving up something feels like a release, a vacation, a well-deserved break. Taking on something more feels like, well...a punishment. "Don't I already have enough on my plate?" "Who needs another to-do on an already overcrowded list?"

But interestingly enough, the "adding on" years were some of the most heart-changing. I made more friends, found myself being happier, and connected more with my city, during those seasons when I chose:
* to say hello to one stranger each day or
* to start every morning reflecting on something I was grateful for or
* to take at least one detour during work/play/errands so I could practice seeing things afresh.

So back to 2011.

To give up or to take on, that is the question.

Well, this year, as you know, I'm a little behind the curve but the meditation has begun.

I'm in a period of transition at the moment and I feel like there's a lot I'm missing...my family, my plucky sense of security, my dear old FAPC, my late 30s (ok, well in one month I will be). So as a result, I'm sensing gratitude needs to be back on the list.

I find that I've been feeling a little put upon lately and experience proves there's no better cure for that feeling than to adopt an attitude of thankfulness.

So though the roots of my Lenten traditions are firmly planted in Brooklyn, where I was born, this year "the tree" and the journey towards Easter begins in terra (kinda) incognita...Chiswick.

Tonight you'll find me expanding my traditions, observing them here in England, as I join the everning service at St. Peter's in Hammersmith for communion and the imposition of ashes.

Hopefully great things will bloom.

Cupid's Arrow

Oh my, looky here, it's February 14...

Again.

And what do we behold? Yet once again, there's a brazen, naked cherub flitting about, shooting candy-coated, heart-shaped arrows into lovestruck men and women the world 'round.

And once again striking fear in the hearts of singletons.

I should know. I used to be one of them.

Uh-huh. Yep. SINGLE.

But let me tell you what happened...and to do it properly, best to begin at the beginning.

....................................

Valentine's Day for me has always been the Hallmark holiday to hate.

For those in love...Great! Fab! Excellent!

But don't you love-smitten pups get 365 perfectly good days to demonstrate your affection? Why pick just one?

Ahhh, because you forget and need a reminder? Because you're lazy and need a bit of a nudge? Because you're cynical and can't be bothered to wash, rinse and repeat more than once a year? Yes, now we're getting to the bottom of it.

But what about us, your single, unpartnered friends? Why must we suffer!

Whether by choice or by circumstance, we're out there facing this great big world on our own.

And whether that means cocktails out with the girls, footie down at the local with the lads or nights home on the settee with our designer puggles, we don't need your pink, fizzy love erupting all over us every February like a build-your-own-volcano kit gone very wrong.

We need you to remember what it was like not to have Jane's tights drying over the shower rail and John's tighty whiteys strewn across the bedroom floor.

We need you to remember what it was like not to share mortgage payments on your first fixer-upper, end of terrace Victorian in up-and-coming East London.

We need you to remember what it was like when begging off a house party at your college roommates' new Williamsburg duplex was as unthinkable as spending a Saturday building flatpack furniture from Ikea.

Heck, let's cut to the chase, we need you remember what it was like to pick up the darn phone and answer our calls to come out for cocktails or footie or walking the puggle!

And I haven't even gotten to the best of the worst...all the horrors of Valentine's Days past. Too many to recall, but there's one that lives long in the annals of BFs gone to rest.

It's the one where the guy I was seeing at the time completely and utterly freaked out after we'd shared a particularly intimate moment, broke things off immediately and forced me to walk home (alone!) in the middle of a snow blizzard. Yep. On Valentine's Day. And trust me, you can't make this stuff up. Were the hedgehogs he kept as pets a tip off? As in his inability to connect with warm, fluffy, approachable creatures like cats, dogs and girlfriends?

So when did things turn around?

Ahhh, well that's a long story. Involving time, toil and quite a few sessions on the therapist's couch. Thanks Joe!

But as a result, I can happily report that this year...I'm as loved up as I can stand.

So at 5:30 this morning, after a lovely homemade breakfast of fried eggs, cumberland sausage, kiwi and bananas, my eyes grew very wide when, from the hidden depths of his workbag, my beloved produced an over-sized, overly red, and all-round over-the-top greeting card, making me promise not to open it until he left for work.

So off he went, then it was back to bed for me. And now, at a much more reasonable 10:00am, I'm sitting with a cup and his card and having read his words of love and commitment, I'm thinking, hey, maybe that Cupid guy ain't so bad after all.

These Hips Don't Lie

My back hurts. My shoulders ache. My knees go "Snap, Crackle, Pop!"

And I haven't even gotten off the couch yet!

OK, maybe I'm exaggerating just a wee bit, but suffice it to say, as the new year rolled around, I took a good long look in the mirror and saw that I was ripe for some intervention...exercise intervention, that is.

So what did I want to achieve from this new fitness buzz?

Sure, like anyone else, I wanted to tone up, slim down and look better, but it wasn't just cosmetic concerns spurring me on. More than anything I wanted to have fun. Find something I could do consistently (rain, snow, sun) and that I found inherently motivating. I wanted a date at the gym vs. an appointment. (You know the difference.)

Also, with my other active passions, like tennis and salsa, I also knew I wanted to ramp up my energy levels and improve my stamina. All that fancy footwork on the court and in the dance studio comes at a cost!

Last, I thought, if I was super lucky, I could maybe even figure out how to work a little more sazon ("spice") into my not-quite-so Cuban motion.

I think I had just the ticket.

I'd heard about a new exercise craze called Zumba (http://www.zumba.com/) and even vaguely remembered seeing an infomercial on it a while back in the States. But in the hustle and bustle of everyday life, I'd pretty much forgotten about it.

That is until a friend posted on Facebook that she'd gotten a set of DVDs from her mom for Christmas and loved them. Then another (mutual) friend responded, saying that she could top that! She'd become a certified instructor back in Minneapolis. That was all the motivation I needed.

Now luckily I belong to a gym here in London, Virgin Active (www.virginactive.co.uk), that not only offers great equipment and facilities, but that also specializes in innovative fitness classes. So I scoured their club listings until I found enough classes to fill a week's worth of options.

Feel like getting my workout in early? I could hit the 9:30am class at Hammersmith. Got a little time in the City after work? How about the 5:45pm class at Tower Hill? Indulged a bit too much at the weekend? Ahhh, then a wealth of Saturday and Sunday options abound.

So many choices. I decided to hit my nearest club first to see what kind of local talent was on offer.

Trust me, I was not disappointed!

Jasmine rocked it out!

How to describe?

Imagine taking your favorite latin rhythms (reggaeton, salsa, mambo, cumbia), adding your favorite artists and songs (Celia Cruz, La Vida es un Carnaval; Daddy Yankee, Gasolina; Shakira, Hips Don't Lie) and smushing them all together with super-sexy, booty-shaking, dancefloor-worthy moves ("gimme a shimmy!", "work it out") that keep you smiling, laughing and pumping your arms, hips and legs the whole time! That's Zumba.

Yes, you warm up...how about a little belly dancing? Then you get the blood flowing...now we salsa. Feeling adventurous?...must be time for some drumming and V-steps with a reggaeton twist. Still want more? There's isometrics and sun salutations, cumbia and mambo. And the mix goes on and on...

Needless to say, I'm hooked.

Wepa!

Mea Culpa

I know, I know. It's been too long. And exactly what have I got to show for my lengthy absence? Bupkis. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

OK, well let's not get overly dramatic.

While I may not have spent the time as "fruitfully" as I might have hoped, I do return to the blogosphere with a renewed sense of purpose. Well, at least for tonight, that is!

So today's hot topic?

Ahem...Why in my opinion prest-o/change-o is an absolute no-go, or, in other words, why you should always look like the guy/girl in the picture.

That's right kids, I'm talking Internet dating and the extreme (sometimes painful, sometimes hilarious) shenanigans that go on when men and women put up profile photos that are not just out of date, but so out of date that they seem a miracle of science (or of science fiction or better yet of just pure fiction...shout out to all the Dorian Gray lovers out there).

Now lest you think I'm just having a rant, let me set the scene.

I made plans earlier in the week to meet up this evening with N, nice late-30s lad from the Manchester area, now making it in the big city as a high street solicitor. All good so far.

We'd exchanged a few emails and both felt ready to take the plunge. He asked me to suggest the location. So, in very unBritish, but very SoCal fashion, I picked a multi-level shopping complex (all steel, glass, and white marble) about equidistant between our respective homes, with the idea that we'd have our choice of over 15 different bars/restaurants and an opportunity for a little retail therapy if the mood struck. First stop--a quick dalliance at the Apple Store; second stop--on for a drink and a little get to know you better chit-chat.

So there I am at Shepherd's Bush tube station at 8pm (or thereabouts). If you know me, you'll know why I say "thereabouts"...always need that 15 minute grace period. Never longer, I promise!

Anyway, so I text my impending arrival and get a message back saying..."It's raining" (um, like every day lately), "so find me just inside the station near the maps and ticket windows." Easy peasy, I think, and head inside confidently upon arrival. Try to keep it very cool and casual, like I'm not meeting some random stranger for the first time. As I make my way over to the ticket counters, I see that there's just one set along the far left wall, and I wonder why he's not there?

Did we miss each other? Did he take a walk to one of the other exits to look out for me? No worries. Figure I'll stake out a nice spot and await his return when I realize that there's a kindly, but "oh-so-not-the-person-I-was-expecting-to-meet" guy in a dark blue suit trying to catch my eye. And then the realization dawns...slowly...that this is the guy.

Ooops!

The rest of the evening was fine, honestly. The shock of it all wore off quickly enough but the possibility of romance was dashed before it ever got started.

No matter what the context, no one likes to be on the receiving end of the "old bait and switch." And so I say, even if you aren't super confident about your looks, isn't it better to know that the person you're about to meet is genuinely attracted to you, that is the you you are now, not the you you were 10 years, 30 lbs and several lost follicles ago?

And believe me, I've dated all types, so I can honestly say, it's not that being older, somewhat paunchy and slightly balding means you don't fit into my attraction spectrum--just ask T, the 50-something Paul Giamatti look-alike that I went gaga for this past spring. (Or for that matter, ask Paul Giamatti himself, on whom I have been crushing for years.) It's just that I don't want to feel duped into making the connect.

Moral of the story: You just can't cheat chemistry.

Sunday on the Heath

So what makes for a perfect first kiss?

Is it the anticipation? The mini Vesuvius of delight and expectation that wells up within and then bubbles deliciously over the top of your curiousity.

Is it the unknown? The terra incognita you travel when crossing from the desert of wonder to the oasis of awareness.

Is it the body language? The twinkle of eyes meeting, the crookedness of smiles upturning, the softness of lips brushing.

Well friends, whatever it is...I just had one.

But let me start at the beginning.

It was a simple enough invitation. "Meet me at the Hampstead Tube at 7:30 for a drink."

But since that doesn't give you any idea of the felicity about to unfold, I'll set the scene a little better. As Sophia used to say on The Golden Girls, "Picture this, Sicily, 1942."

It was a warm summer evening. I was facing a fairly light...alright, alright, downright empty...social calendar. The request had come from a tall, dark, handsome man I'd never met before.

Let's just say it didn't take much persusasion to dig out the heels and the go-to dress.

Oh, you know the one. Blue and white print, falls just above the knee, cut close in all the right places. Hot rollers in the hair...thank god for modern appliances...black eyeliner at the ready, a splash of Chloe to set the mood and I was off for my adventure.

An hour and 10 minutes, 2 tube lines, and a bumpy lift ride later, I was there. Not wanting to look like a wally meeting someone for a blind date, I languidly reached into my purse, fished out my new pay-as-you-go mobile and gave R a ring. So Keira Knightley. So Londonista.

Well, how did I perfect this particular move, you ask? Experience has taught and I'm a quick study...that the phone call on arrival is all basket, no net...and it's a two-for-one play to boot. You look fully engaged as you step out onto the curb, and even better, you know it's him when he reaches for his vibrating pocket.

Well I didn't have to wait long because there he was...all long legs and liquid eyes, leaning casually against the side of the station. A rake of the fingers...not at all affected or self-conscious, just practical...and I saw him brushing his thick hair back from his forehead. And smiling. At me.

"Hi."
"Hi."
"You must be R."
"Yeah, get here OK?"
"Sure. No problems. It's nice to be back in the old neighborhood. I used to live in Hampstead, you know."
"Ahhhhh. OK. Nice. So I thought we'd go to this little pub I know just down the street here and around the corner."
"Sounds good."

So that's how the evening began. And how it all ended, well you know that much already. But in between it was magic.

We talked, we laughed, we pet the 14-year old golden retriever visiting the pub while his owner had a glass or two of Sunday chardonnay. We nibbled on chips...that's fries for y'all Americans...enjoyed a couple of pints and sampled some chenin blanc.

We debated politics, we interpreted each others' strange childhood dreams. We shared growing up stories...about me in the US and he in Iran...and then grown-up stories too. How he came to London to study for his Master's degree in Mechanical Engineering and how I just moved back after a long hiatus. And all the while, we drifted closer and closer to that kiss.

So what makes for the perfect first kiss?

You know it when you feel it.

I did.

Diving In

It's Saturday night. Errands have all been run. Dinner dishes are in the sink. I'm sprawled on the couch and Wentworth Miller...yowza, what a fox!...is entertaining me on the telly. Everything's just as it should be. In fact, it's a rather unremarkable evening. Except, oh wait. Did I mention that both the couch and the bum on it are in London?


What gave it away? Was it the "telly" reference? Or my use of the word "bum?" Or the fact that when you called my cell number back home, the call went straight to voicemail. (Sorry Uncle Bob.) Whatever your clue, I'll confirm it's true. This New Yorker has flown the coop.


And she's loving every minute of it.


So what better way to celebrate than to document my adventures in cross-cultural understanding with a blog. Virgin territory all around. Hmmm, I guess I meant the blog part, not the living in London part. For those in the know, this is round two. But what a difference 10 years makes! In me, in the city, in the number of planned road works mucking up traffic. But I wouldn't have it any other way.


So stay tuned and watch this space. The fun has only just begun!