A brief detour

I was going to do a blog post this morning when I still high on caffeine, but then I remembered a last minute doctor's appointment and had to hightail it across town.

Then, while I was across town, I decided to do a bit of shopping. (Not to actually 'buy' anything...after all, how frivolous would that be when I'm about to move halfway across the world? I just wanted to take a LOOK, and maybe TOUCH some thing, and it's just so NICE to stroll through beautiful shops with a coffee in hand on a rainy day...I wasn't even going to fall for these Concetta Gallo dessert bowls at 20% off....certainly not.) (Okay, maybe just a COUPLE...but then, what good is two? Maybe just FOUR...)

And now, a few hours, several cups of coffee, and one engorged tote bag later, I'm home at last...

But TOMORROW! Tomorrow we'll be back on track, blogging and doing chores and reading up on the highways of America. Without a DOUBT.

A Condiment Conundrum

So forgive me while I COMPLETELY disregard photos altogether for a minute here and get on my Go America soapbox. One that I never actually knew existed until I got to this country and discovered this. Funny how you don't realize what's really important to you until you are deprived of it. For example, (climbing up on soapbox now), hot dog relish. This country has Heinz Ketchup (and dare I say, it's used even more here than in united-states-land). It even has French's American Mustard (if you don't have the courage to use the burn-your-nostril-hairs-Colman's). But one thing it does NOT have is hot dog relish. I KNOW. I know. It amazes me, too.

So cue last night: dear, sweet Katy texts me, 'Going to Trader Joe's! You want anything?' Instantly, 'RELISH!' And then, because she's an effing genius, she replies, 'Sweet or dill??' Now here is a girl after my own heart: she even knew to ask what type. (Sweet, of course.) I was thisclose to asking for hot dogs, too, at the risk of near-death from the lack of refrigerated mailing, because GET THIS (now about to stomp on soapbox): there is not a single producer of chemical-free hot dogs in England. I learned this from Whole Foods, where I went to find some organic ones. They didn't have any, and I found out (oh, yes, I asked) that the demand here isn't high enough to warrant importing them, so they had to find a domestic producer. And that's when they found out that there is not a single domestic producer of chemical-free hot dogs in all the land. Therefore, they cannot be sold at Whole Foods under their organic standard. Hence, no hot dogs at Whole Foods. Apparently some producers are willing to SPECIALLY MAKE them, but only if the sales are guaranteed to be at xyz figures. Which of course can't be done. Voila!

(Climbing off of soapbox now) Unfortunately, my craving is such that I'm willing to take the risk with the domestic, chemical-laden variety, if I can figure out where to find THOSE. Bring on the cancer, folks! Rona's got relish coming, and she needs a vessel...

I was blind and now I see

Whoa. Okay, so you know how everybody tells you that red bell peppers are like, great sources of antioxidants? (Whatever that means.) And vitamin a and what have you? Well, get THIS: red peppers also have THREE TIMES the vitamin C content of an orange. THREE TIMES! Apparently just half of one of these guys is your daily dose! What I want to know is, why aren't they blending THESE into smoothies?? Seriously, next time I'm sick, forget the o.j. I'm making fajitas, and that is THAT.

While we're on the subject, I had a delicious baked red pepper today with melted halloumi and pesto on top, served on a bed of olive-oil drenched basil leaves. HOLY DELICIOUS, BATMAN. I feel healthier already.

Little Shop of Horrors

I have to go buy some art supplies for my mom today. This is a very dangerous thing for me, as art stores are my kryptonite. Not because I am an artist--no, no, then it wouldn't be so bad--but because as soon as I step foot into an art store, I'm convinced I'm THISCLOSE to my life's fulfillment in the creative arts. That maybe, if I just had the right tools, all of that latent talent would reveal itself, and my new paints will fly from my new brush onto my new canvas, and galleries will seek my magnificent works, and in only a few short weeks, the SFMoMA will call to interview this Fresh Young Talent, demanding to know where I've been hiding all these years. Or if I don't feel like painting on canvas, I can tackle my new textiles that I will stamp with my new rubber pads, on which I will carve designs with my new knife, after squirting my new textile paint onto my new piece of glass, rolled out with my new brayer roller. I'll be the next Lotta Jansdotter! I think as I survey the colors in the shop and imagine hand-stamped leaves adorning the corners of the new pillowcases I'd buy that afternoon.

And then I come home, arms overflowing with supplies, brimming with enthusiasm and ideas. Supplies that will never be touched more than once every six months, when I need to decorate a postcard.

This is why I can't go in art stores and have forbidden myself more than passing entry. But maybe a little bit of stationery can't hurt? Maybe some vellum, with glassine envelopes? That will inspire me to write more letters! I NEED it...But NO! No, today, I will be strong. Oh, yes. I will be strong.

Orla Kiely just puked on me.

I KNOW, right? How lucky am I? However, it is less like Orla HERSELF puked on me, and more like her SAMPLE SALE puked on me. And I'm so, so happy about it. I will take photos this week of today's drunken purchases; I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

I love you, Brick Lane. I love you, Orla Kiely. I love you, sample sale on a rainy day. You complete me.

Pub Cricket

I got into a discussion with a Welsh gal named Marie on Saturday night on the subject of road trip games--or 'car journeys,' as they call them here. Apparently where she hails from they don't seek out 50 states on license plates, or yell at cows, or poke their siblings when the parents aren't looking. No, in Wales-land, they play a game called Pub Cricket. In Pub Cricket--and stick with me here, because it's about to get convoluted--the first person to spot a pub gets the number of points that the pub has legs. 'What?' you are saying, in baffled confusion, as did I. 'LEGS? Pubs have LEGS?' 'Yes!' she replied. 'For example, say you pass a pub called The Horse and Carriage. That's an eight-pointer! You have to figure it takes at LEAST two horses to draw the carriage. And how many legs do two horses have? Eight! So you get eight points!' 'So...if you pass a place called The White Lion, you get four points?' 'Exactly! And the Crowned Prince would be two!' 'What if it's called The Queen's Head? How many points is that?' 'It depends. If *I* see it, it's two points, because the Queen's Head used to have a body. If my brother sees it, zero.'

Now I can't pass a pub without counting its legs. I am currently TOTALLY winning this game, though 'technically' I'm the only player...