London, Day 4: Jubilation! in the a.m.

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I figured this would be the hardest post to write, and probably also to read. To write, because I may have to explain why I get so teeny-bopper excited over the British royal family, and I have no justification. To read, because most of you aren’t going to care one whit. So, I’ll give you an out — there is lots of mooning and fawning over royals to come, so I’m not offended if you need to cut out. I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. (Har, har, har.)

As Day 4 dawned, I woke early and tubed over St. Paul’s Cathedral, site of the morning Diamond Jubilee Thanksgiving service, which was to begin at 10:30 a.m. Most of the streets were blocked, so I had a heck of a time actually getting to the cathedral, and I passed groups of men and women in full church attire making their way to the service. How’d they get to be so special?


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London, Day 3: Another year older, in the p.m.

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I emerged from Hyde Park near Knightsbridge, on my way to Harrod’s. I don’t actually care much for Harrod’s itself, but some souvenir (and food) shopping was in order. I later learned that the al Fayed family sold the store to the Quatari royal family, which may explain the disproportionate amount of Arab visitors. I wandered through the food stalls, past exquisite pastries and tins of biscuits and jam. It’s very touristy, and was very crowded. On my way out, I caught the shoes that were part of a contest Kate Middleton judged earlier this year (or last?). Neat.


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London, Day 3: Another year older, in the a.m.

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Monday was my birthday, so I planned to take it a bit easier and enjoy life. The only Jubilee-related celebration that day was the evening concert at Buckingham Palace, but only U.K. residents could score tickets, and in a lottery at that. I had thought about pitching a blanket to watch the concert in Hyde Park, but the weather was just too unpredictable.

I had breakfast at a little cafe by my hotel, Carmina Cafe, that was good, hot and filling — poached eggs with roasted tomato, goat cheese and rocket (arugula), toast and coffee. I actually had really excellent coffee the entire time I was in London — definitely a highlight.

For the morning, I pre-booked tickets to Kensington Palace, which was refurbished and reopened just recently. As I walked over from the Tube, the weather looked weirdly menacing but held.


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Making God laugh.

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Pardon this interruption in the middle of the London recap, but I heard the best story today.

For the past two months I’ve been training to take over duties for a coworker while she’s out on maternity leave. We are kindred souls in that she’s a details person and a planner just like me, though she might take organization and scheduling to a whole new level. In the middle of our training sessions, we’d stop to chat about her daughter-to-be, Kayla, and all the cute gifts and clothes she’d just received at  another baby shower. As the due date approached, the nursery was painted lavender, the toys were cataloged and the pink onesies and polka dot sundresses were arranged in the closet … everything in place to await Kayla’s arrival.

I was a little worried that my coworker would go into labor while I was in London, but Kayla decided to be late. She was born on Wednesday night, which is joyous news … except that she is a boy, and her name is Michael. With all of our prenatal technology in 2012, including multiple exams and ultrasounds — even in 3-D! — it turns out that we can still be surprised in life.

My mom always says that if you want to make God laugh, go ahead and make your own plans. Well, I think he got a big belly rumbler out of this one.

London, Day 2: Thames River Pageant

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After my weird sleep patterns and full day of sightseeing the day before, I slept in a bit on Sunday morning. The mission of the day, however, was to get in position for the Queen’s Thames River Pageant, one of the first high-profile events of the Diamond Jubilee weekend celebration.

I had been watching the crowd build up at Tower Bridge on television, so I knew I didn’t want to go there. Tower Bridge was the end of the pageant, where the Queen would disembark to watch the rest of the procession. That = craziness. Instead, I got out at the Mansion House tube stop, a ways down the river. With the rest of the country. We all — gobs of children, teenagers, families and strollers — walked for ages down the barrier streets, looking for a way in to the river. But, security was tight and every building and establishment along the river had scheduled private, ticket-only events. I’d had the opportunity to buy such a ticket, for a cocktail reception at about $250 a pop. That seemed ridiculous at the time, but not so as I walked and walked to get a decent view.

Near Blackfriars, along the Victoria Embankment, I spotted a place at the top of an incline that was only, oh, 15 people deep. So I wedged myself in and prepared for the two-plus-hour wait for the boats to reach us. There were screaming children, moments of aggressive pushing/leaning and close quarters among people who had both traveled from around the country and camped out there for the morning. It was not what I would call ‘pleasant.’ I tried desperately to protect my tiny sliver of a view of the river anyway. I was also positioned across the river from the Tate Modern museum, where a large screen was projecting someone’s, probably BBC, television coverage. So we could see images of the royal family boarding their boats, and had a vague notion of what was happening elsewhere.

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London, Day 1: On Arrival

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Oh, London.

I’m freshly back from my London Jubilee/birthday excursion, and missing it already. That’s a little unusual, because as much as I am enamored with British culture, television, tea, accents, history and the royal family … I’ve just never really liked London. On this trip, though, I think the love affair began.

London’s such an easy city — to get to, to get around in, to visit alone. Though it’s nothing like New York, I felt a distinct and similar cityness — on the tube, in the hum of commuter rush hour, in just its oldness. But in that, of course, New York has nothing on London. I just felt surprisingly comfortable, and loved being back in the middle of the bustling city — you know I can throw an elbow in a crowd, hurl myself into a packed train car and speedwalk past the tourists with the best of them.

Now, it wasn’t a relaxing holiday, not like laying on a Caribbean beach with a mai tai for a week. And I killed it, every day, which means I made it through most of the sites on my to do list. It also means I hardly slept, mostly because I never acclimated to GMT. It sure made the coming home easier though — no early waking and to bed at 8 pm for me.
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Hot town, summer in the city.

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I don’t know if you are aware, but the city I live in is quite happenin’ right now. Yes, as of 2012, Charlotte is officially “on the map.”

I mean, it’s already home to Bank of America headquarters, whose front door has been on the news every night for the last four years, and who’s constantly in the running for “most hated company in America.”
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Over my dead body.

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I’m nearing the end of another one of those crazy periods in life, full of stress and errands and little sleep. Which, with the dust storm and the new job and some unexpected medical issues of Oliver’s, is probably understandable. (Oh, how quickly I forgot those fleeting days of retirement.) And last weekend was the culmination, the prime reason I had cleaned for weeks and shopped and chewed all my fingernails off.  I graduated from business school.

My family descended on my barely-cleaned home to witness my walking across a stage in a cap and gown one more time and to celebrate such an accomplishment. It was three and a half long, yet still quick, years in the making, and during the weekend I reflected often on the friends I’d made, the classes and people who made me want to pull my hair out, the lessons I’d learned, those stressful times where I’d barely known my own name, my South Africa trip, and ultimately all the fun I’d had. It’s the end of an era, which is always bittersweet.

The best news is that, while it was unnaturally hot in early May, it was my first graduation ceremony ever that wasn’t affected by rain. At my high school graduation, the downpour on the coliseum’s tin roof completely drowned out all the speakers. And the douse of big, fat rain over the outdoor stadium before college graduation just made everyone mad and uncomfortable. So, it was a miracle that we had a clear, if a bit steamy, day this time. And all the scheduling went smoothly — everyone arrived on time and was able to secure decent seating, I didn’t trip over my robe or otherwise embarrass myself and dinner was a big hit.
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The price we pay for beauty.

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When I negotiated for my house three years ago, I fought (and lost) a battle with the homeowners about the hideous, unworkable, 1970s sliding glass doors that surround my sunroom and patio. And I do mean “unworkable.” Of the four sets of doors, one completely wouldn’t open and the other three required Sampson’s supernatural strength to pull the glass partitions along their rough, rusting tracks.

Alas, some things you just come to live with.

Earlier this year, my dad in his retirement got a part-time job at Lowe’s … which lasted all of three weeks due to his dissatisfaction with things like “schedules,” “no smoking rules” and “customers.” But, that time allowed me to browse the door and window aisles with him. I realized that replacing sliding doors wasn’t nearly as expensive as I’d expected.

So, orders were placed, and like any dutiful daughter, I trusted my father when he promised, “Oh, sure. You and I can do the installation ourselves.” Now, my father — whose woodshop rivals Tim “the Tool Man” Taylor — raised a girl who is decently handy at minor home repair. Like putting furniture and equipment together. Like replacing hardware. Even like installing window air conditioners. Not like demoing and putting up drywall. However, I’ve been taught to respect my elders.

Ha.
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Buttermilk Pie: The Experiment, Part II

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It’s been busy days here around Constitution Lane, but I realized I need to tell you about the second part of my buttermilk pie baking experiment!

I’m always on the hunt for a good pie crust recipe — and nothing but homemade will do. If you’ve ever read the label on those ready-made, refrigerated crusts at the grocery, you’d probably join me in that. Handmade pie crust does require more labor and time, but not as much as you think. Plus, the finished product isn’t even comparable to crust in a box, and making it by hand lets you work out some aggression and build some arm strength. Always a positive.

I confess that pie isn’t really my go-to dessert — I’m much more of a cake (and frosting!) girl — but I bake a few at Thanksgiving and call on the same pie crust recipes when I make quiche to use up fresh vegetables. I’ve encountered a lot of different pie crust recipes in my time, with all manner of butter-shortening combinations. I find vegetable shortening to be kind of icky in its slick, opaque greasiness, and I just don’t feel right about using it in my food. But pie crust experts will tell you it’s a necessity for proper crust flakiness. Okay, okay. In my last few pie bakings, I’ve used shortening but always very sparingly. I reduce it to a tablespoon or two and make up the rest with butter. I know, I’m so rebellious.

The recipe I used last Thanksgiving was the best yet, and I was prepared to let that be the end all, be all. Until I read about the vodka pie crust.
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