Sunday last was an unusual day, and it's taken me this long to get my head around it.
My mother, a sweet if indelibly broken individual, has long collected other broken people around her. She's a caring heart, and a bit of a soft touch, so her menagerie of unusual human beings is always a bit of a circus. One of the fixtures in her life for the past twenty years has been a woman names Erica Brown. That's her real name, dear readers, not some sort of code-- and the tale unfolding is no unkind fiction. That's the hardest part for me to comprehend.
Erica was a brilliant chef, made master chef at 17 and married by 19, I believe. She made absolutely beautiful food and was utterly incapable of simply following a recipe. I remember her bringing pots of the world's most delicious potato chowder (made largely with the world's supply of heavy cream) when my youngest sister was born. Specatular gingerbread snowflakes, braised roasts, her kitchen was always whirling with bubbling pots and stacked with dirty dishes. The last time I saw her she was making delicate filigree horn cookies with a fluffy maple filling which she packed us off home with and I ate with gleeful abandon. The things she made were always delicious and her freeness with them bespoke her freeness of spirit, of generosity.
That spirit, however, was broken. Then generosity was always for others and not herself. Or perhaps too much for herself, I don't know. Six children, too close together for her health, and a continuing battle with her weight and self image proved a terrible cross. When, as a result of a botched bit of anaesthetics, she was diagnosed with tic douloureux (or trigeminal neuralgia) which left her with constant, electric facial agony for years, things really began to fall apart. There were pills to deal with the pain, pills to overcome the fog of the pills for the pain, pills for nausea, pills for more pain... they carved out the person we knew as Erica one gel-capsule-ful at a time.
Then her husband was less of a support to her than he should have been. He and their kids were her life, and he threatened to cut her out if it. I would like to say that I can't blame him, that her self-destructive cycle was understandably too much, but I just can't. But I wasn't there. He was unfaithful, she took him back. He threw her out of the house, she came crawling back. he threatened divorce, may actually have divorced her, she did his laundry and struggled to simply continue.
Their medical insurance was inconstant. A doctor would take her on, get her into a regimine and then speak to a previous doctor who would label her Erica a junkie and then the whole thing would fall apart, they'd stop dealing with her. And then there was the drink. I can't hold this against her, either-- to do so would make me a hypocrite. The comfort to be found in the bottom of a bottle, the temporary release, cost her so dearly but, in living with such unremitting pain, no, I can't fault her for seeking it.
This past year, Erica wasn't eating anymore. She lived on coffee and kool-aid. Sometimes she'd nibble something to appease her children. My mother begged her to hold on long enough to see her eldest son, a mild autistic boy with wide features, kind eyes, a shy smile and an unbelievable talent for the clarinet, graduate from high school. Her eldest daughter was denied the opportunity to go to University because her mother, her siblings all needed her at home, and now they need her more than ever.
My mother is relatively sure that it wasn't because Erica felt isolated or alone. They spoke on the phone, at least briefly, nearly every day for the past twenty years. My mother thinks it was more Erica's belief that she and her illness, her infirmity and distraction, were holding her family back. They'd be better off without her frail and trailing weight. This breaks my heart, even as I type it.
She'd tried to end her existence before. This time, she made sure it stuck. She got up from bed late last Saturday night, took 50 or 60 sleeping pills, sat down on the couch, drank a six-pack of beer and a pint of whiskey. Her eldest son found her hunched over on the couch in the morning. He tried to revive her before noticing that her face, hands and feet were blue and cold. She'd done it.
The memorial service is Saturday. My mother is supposed to speak but doesn't know what to say. She wants to blast the medical system which left her so unsupported and vulnerable, but this isn't the time. Unfortunately, I don't really know what this is the time for, in the end. The first thing I thought when my sister called to tell me the news was, "Well, shite. I never sent those chicken-flavoured crisps to her. Now I won't." It was something we'd talked about the last time I saw her, two christmas' ago. She'd mentioned being particularly partial to these chicken-flavoured crackers, Chicken in a Basket or something like that. Peculiar flavours of british crisps always being an amusing subject of conversation, I told her about walkers and whatnot and said I would send her a bag. But how the hell do you send a bag of crisps through the post?? So, I never got around to it. And now I never will. This is perhaps the most serious crisp-based guilt I've ever felt.
So, I clearly won't be at the memorial. Here's my offering to the cosmos in lieu of flowers:
Potato Chowder a la Erica
Ingredients:
Potatoes, peeled & diced
1 Onion, chopped
2 Links of kielbasa
1/2 c. Butter
1/2 c. Whole milk
1/2 c. Broth or potato water
2 Tbsp basil, dried
Cornstarch
Salt
Pepper
Boil potatoes and onions in a little water with cut up kielbasa. Cook until potatoes are tendre. Pour in whole milk (or half milk and half broth), butter, cornstarch and water to thicken. Season with salt, pepper and basil. Note: Add more milk for a bigger batch of soup.
Rest in peace, Erica. I hope you've found it. Finally.
Showing posts with label Culinary Misadventures. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Culinary Misadventures. Show all posts
Friday, March 11, 2011
Monday, October 6, 2008
One for the Ages, Part I: The Run-Up
Sorry for being so remiss in my writing. I promise, it hasn’t been for lack of thought or lack of material, but rather the presence of too much—too much to do, too many places to be, too many jobs and too few hours. All that sort of thing.
But first things first: The Wedding.
Oh yes. Articles intended.
For many reasons, CB’s wedding is THE Wedding. Mostly because she named me as a bridesmaid. Also mostly because she’s a wonderful, lovely friend. And mostly for the fact that this was, bar none, the most labor intensive bridesmaid-stint I’ve ever completed, for no other reason than The Cake. But I scamper ahead…
CB got married to her Pirate on a gloriously sunny day in Bristol. All joking aside, the weather really was lovely (about damn time, Britain!) and the whole thing was sunshine and flowers and free wine and happiness. The day before? Not so much. But it could have been a lot worse. And let me go on record as saying I’d do it all again, in a heartbeat.
And with all that as a disclaimer…
I caught the train down to Bristol on the Wednesday morning, leaving my warm, warm bed for the cold, cold train station at 5:30 am, and dropped CB a text to let her know I was finally underway just after 6. I’d picked up my dress from the seamstress just the evening before, as there had been some last-minute pinning and tucking. Assuming she had her phone turned off, LIKE ALL NORMAL PEOPLE, I settled down and pillowed my head on my arms from Aberdeen to Burgh of Edin. I there changed trains for Birmingham, settling in for the longer leg of the journey with my needlework and picnic bag accessible.
I was working on a little piece of craft-mastery of my own design, though the inspiration is well documented on the internet. What was Miss Melville sewing so painstakingly, you ask? I’ll tell you later. What matters now is that I was seated next to an older woman named Evelyn, and despite my moment’s trepidation on her arrival due to her heavy scowl and less-than-bemused air, she turned out to been overwhelmingly chatty. So much so, in fact, that she talked ALL THE WAY to Birmingham. She told me about her family, that she was turning 77 the same month her granddaughter was turning 7 (an endless source of amusement for the granddaughter), that her father had been abusive and her mother emotionally distant, her grandmother manipulative but loving, and a dizzying number of aunts, uncles, cousins, great -grand relations and obscure pets. Needless to say, she was lovely. We helped each other find our next train, as she was bound for Exeter and I for Bristol Temple Meads, and said our goodbyes on the platform as we boarded different coaches.*
The final leg of the journey was standing room only and dearly uncomfortable. Let’s just be clear when I say that I was quite happy to roll into Bristol, take out £100 for upcoming expenses and drop myself into the nearest taxi. I know it doesn’t compare to scrubbing down an apartment kitchen, but the trip was its own form of special.
All told, I arrived at my reserved Bed and Breakfast relatively unharmed and unharried. The place itself was positively LOVELY. Quaint, charming, well-staffed, warm, clean, comfortable—all in all, all for which one might ask. I called CB to let her know that I had arrived and where would she like me to be/what would she like me to do/what should I be doing? Her response was somewhere between a laugh, a grunt and a frustrated howl. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d been asking such things. As it was, I watched a few episodes of Top Gear (Oh, Dave channel, how do I love thee…) and waited to be instructed about dinner arrangements.
Showered, napped, spot-ironed and with a pint down in the pub, I began questioning the busing schedules of Bristol. Roughly one on the hour, the barmaid told me. Turns out, they’re about as predictable as the ones here in the ‘Deen. I eventually caught one, laid down a ridiculous amount of money for a day ticket and tripped the light fantastic into town, where I met the whole maiden CB family.
Well, ‘met’ is a bit of a misnomer. I’ve met them all before, being great friends with CB’s mom and referring to her as my boss for more years than I like to remember. CB’s brother, his wife, the Aunt, the parentals… a lovely family. A lovely pub. Good food, fast talk, CB making entirely inappropriate comments about my chest, and I realized in a flash that all things with this wedding were really going to be just fine, so I ordered a stoli and tonic, crushed my lime and smiled. Good times.**
The next day saw me up and moving about with good speed, trying to get to the Chaplaincy to help bake a cake. No, I’m sorry—to help bake THE CAKE. The Cake to end all Cakes. The truly important, dear god don’t ruin this for everyone cake. Yeah, that one: the Wedding Cake.
CB had decided a while back that she was going to bake her own wedding cake. Well, g’donnah as the Aussies say, and I didn’t think a whole lot more about it until that morning. Good thing CB had, as she had all the ingredients, the recipes, the pans and pots and measuring cups aplenty. After stumbling about the top of Park Road for a bit (I’m useless with directions, sorry, CB!) another charming and nigh-on disgustingly perky bridesmaid, CW, met me and guided me into the dark heart of the University of Bristol. Somewhere between the gleaming Ivory Tower which is the Wills Building and eventually stumbling on the Chaplaincy, CW and I bonded. All things good. Once in the kitchen, I unloaded the requisite bottle of red wine from my purse and met the delightful Family Wally: Mama Wally (MW), Papy Wally (PW) and Beta Wally (BW). As CB had previously told me that MW is the only person other than myself within the circle of her acquaintance who listens voluntarily to sea chanties, I figured we'd get along just fine. In that, I was right. :) BW is actually a godzilla in a blonde, curly wig. He's utterly adorable and occasionally rampages. This mostly made for good entertainment as PW attempted to reign him in while we four womenfolk busied ourselves in the kitchen. I made a ribbon bouquet, complete with stem, out of the ribbons from the bridal shower, and all was happy and hectic but controlled.
By the time we had to break camp to leave for the rehearsal, the bottom tier and top tiers were finished baking. All the carrot (ALL THE CARROT) had been grated, lemons zested, and all that really remained was to bake the rest and frost. No problem. CW and I trucked it on back to her apartment to collect CB's dress, the delightful creation of satin and organza and embroidery which had been the subject of so many evening conversations. Once we finally got in the taxi, dress across laps, I noticed I had smudges of frosting all down my front and no time to do anything about it. So much for the yellow dress I'd purchased for the occasion, time left no time for such considerations! Dropping the dress off with the vastly capable door staff of the hotel, we hot-footed it over to the church, which was conveniently located just across the street.
At this point, I thought things would calm down and the overwhelmingly brisk pace of the day would be checked. Not so much. Apparently, they'd double-booked the church, and we had something like 15 minutes to go over the practical "You stand here, you walk over here," bits of the service. So far as I could tell, our job was to walk in ("Slowly!" hissed the mother of the bride, "You've got to make sure you leave six paces/enough space/you're going too fast/smaller steps!/feet together/don't rush!"), sit in the front pew, and then walk out. Awesome, I can handle that.
Post-rehearsal, I had a brief chat with the father of the groom, who is a lovely man with an accent which I can only describe as the one I would pull should I want to mock the ultra-posh Brits of yesteryear. But it's his actual accent. And I couldn't laugh, because that would have been terribly rude. Oh yesquiteratherhmmmm. All in all, I think I pulled it off.
As a small sidenote, apparently the rehearsal dinner isn't a tradition over here. Convenient for the parents of the groom, but less than conducive for getting we happy few fed and back to the kitchens. As it was, the parents of the bride fed me yet again at a lovely restaurant right on the waterfront where I had cheese and leafy things before legging it out of there and into a taxi to meet up with CB, who had rushed out even earlier to get back to the cake.
When we eventually got there, all things were relatively as they should have been, with the small exception of a party of observant Islamic men who had also booked the kitchen to cook for Ramadan. I feel this part of the story is best captured by CB herself: "when I got back there were 3 Muslim blokes there cooking a feast for Ramadan for about 50 people. I wasn't able to get in the door. They said they would be gone in 10 minutes. An hour later they were still there so I just started working around them as best I could.They finally left but the place was a mess. I was able to work around the mess, but when they came back to clean up it really go hairy. I needed the sink to keep washing mixing bowls and utensils as i changed back and forth between carrot and lemon cake and frosting, but they were using the sink. That killed another 45 minutes of valuable time.Then at one point one of them TURNED OFF THE OVENS!. Thank GOD the Cake noticed and we turned them straight back on so there was no damage done. If she hadn't seen that happen 2 tiers of my cake would have been ruined.And then finally one of the batches of frosting didn't turn out. For some reason it was complete soup. It wasn't usable. So we weren't able to get the whole cake frosted that night."
Confession time: I was the one who made the cream cheese frosting-flavored soup. It was me. I nearly destroyed ALL. The thing of it is, I didn't do a DAMN thing differently between the two batches. The first one set up, the second one didn't. Maybe it was that the kitchen was too hot from all the other cooking. Maybe the cream cheese was softer. Maybe the refrigerator was warmer due to being opened so much. I DON'T KNOW. All I know is that the frosting did. not. work. I felt awful. CB assured me that it would be okay, that we'd get duncan heines frosting from painsbury's in the morning and all would be well, but after going to such lengths to make this cake from scratch, I felt terrible about compromising the integrity of the homemade cake.
In the end, we got the remaining cakes baked, the first layer frosted completely, the bottom layer assembled, and CW's boyfriend to our location (more difficult than it sounds). The poor chap had worked a full day up in York and then taken the train down for a few hours to Bristol. He as tired, road weary (or track-weary, rather?) and hungry. Still toting his luggage, he shows up to help us transport the cake, as we were a woman down. We'd sent MW and the rest of the Family to the bed and breakfast-- same one I was booked into, actually-- to get some much needed rest. The little tyke didn't know what time it was supposed to be, and his parents weren't much better. The merciful thing to do was to let them shower and sleep, but it left us a lap short to transport the boxes of cake via cab to the hotel where the reception would be held and where CB was staying. Enter CW's boyfriend, who from here on out will be referred to as Captain Cake. Once we'd cleaned out the kitchen and loaded all the boxes with their precious cargo, the real fun began.
We lined the boxes up on a low rock partition along the driveway to await the taxi driver. Captain kept trying to talk to CW about the day, how he was feeling, answering the questions she casually flung at him, but after asking she'd scuttle away to check for the cab or check on CB, leaving him with a mouthful of words which would trail off in a Walter Mitty-esque sense of resignation. Something about this struck me as absolutely hilarious, a fault I can only chalk up to exhaustion and overwrought nerves. The bit of road which led to the chaplaincy is a squidgy, and in the age that it took the cabbie to find us, we milled about and generally lied about how tired we were. CW went to pick up one of the boxes of cake to move it closer to the curb, and as I stood talking to CB, she screamed. Actually screamed. Oh god, I thought, please don't have dropped the cake. Then she screamed something about slugs. Oh NO. You see, my dear reader, it's been a very wet summer here in Britain, and there are slugs EVERYWHERE. And not the little slugs that nibble cabbage in a garden. These are big, slimey fuckers to leave visible trails all over the sidewalks. And all I could think was that one had managed to squirm its way into the box and onto the cake. The mental image of the little frosted tier over which we had labored so lovingly absolutely covered in giant, olive drab slugs glistening in the street light filled my mind. Ogodohgod, NO!
As it was, CW had gone to pick up the box and put her hand on a slug quite safely on the exterior of the box. She even had the good sense not to drop the box. She's a winner, that CW. However, she did cause me a small bout of cardiac arrest.
Once we FINALLY got into the taxi, we three girls in the back with boxes of cake and Captain in the front with the bowl of soup-frosting on his knees, we let out a collective breath and asked the cabbie to drive very, very carefully. As we went along, we quickly realized that we in the back were fine, but Captain was in serious danger of slopping the sugary sludge over the edge of the bowl and all over his lap. "I feel like I'm in the third leg of some sort of perverse triathlon," he said quietly, inducing a fit of near-hysterical giggles from the back seat. Once at the hotel, CB oversaw the unloading of the cab and put CW and Captain back into it and packed them off to CW's flat while I went to find a trolley to transport the various boxes to the commercial refrigerator in the kitchens where the hotel had has we could store it all overnight. With a vague prayer to nebulous powers that the sustained cold of the fridge would bring my soup-creation to frosting-firmness, I followed like a pup at CB's heels. We both realized at roughly the same time that the buses had finished running for the night and I was effectively stuck in Bristol unless I wanted to shell out for a taxi. Ugh. CB offered quite gallantly to just curl up next to her in the enormous yes-it's-a-honeymoon-suite-but-we-want-a-bed-so-big-we-don't-actually-have-to-touch-while-we-sleep bed, but after watching her print off the readings for the next day, I soberly considered my options and figured that it would be cheaper in the long run to take a nighttime taxi rather than wake up in town and have to fight my way back to the Inn to gather my bridesmaid dress and assorted necessities. CW and I had worked out a shopping list with nibbly-bits for the lunch the next day, useful things like band-aids and Tylenol, and the ever-necessary hair drier. Leaving all this for the night, I said goodnight for the last time to Miss CB and caught a cab.
And this is where, for me, the whole thing went pear shaped.
When the cab rolled up to the Inn, all was dark. No lights in windows, no busy downstairs pub-- nothing. Not only was the front door locked, but it was also chained and padlocked. So, on a scale of locked, it was very locked. I knocked and knocked, I tapped at windows, and shouted hello in the hopes of raising a reply, all to no avail. The cabbie, bless him, hadn't immediately driven off, and asked if I needed help. Did I have the number for the inn? Maybe I could call and someone would answer who could then come down and let me in. No, I didn't have the number. So he called his dispatch and had them track it down for me-- amazingly kind, eh? In the meanwhile, I went around back and shook the gate. Deadbolted. DAMN. Whyohwhyohwhy. It was 1:30 in the morning, I had soupy frosting in my hair, I smelled noticeably of carrots, and my friend was getting married in less than 14 hours. I went around the front again and in desperation POUNDED at the front door. By that time, the cabbie had been waiting well over 15 minutes, but had a number for me to call. I pulled out my mobile and dialed.
Only to be met by the robotic voice of a woman telling me I didn't have enough credit on my phone to complete the call. [*Mentally drops to her knees and wails wordlessly*]
"There's nothing for it," my patient cabbie sighed, "I'll take you back to the Hotel if you'd like?" For the moment, it looked like my only option. But I didn't want to wake up CB who had surely FINALLY gone to bed for some desperately needed sleep. I didn't want to bother her the NIGHT BEFORE HER WEDDING. I wanted to be competent and adult and get into the bed reserved for me, dammit! I sighed and said I'd try the back gate just one more time. Shoving my hands in my pockets in the cold, my knuckles already bruising from pounding on the door, I felt the ribbon I had stashed there, the one I hadn't looped into the bouquet. "Could I...?" I leaned all my weight against the gate, buying a few millimeters and enough to loop the ribbon through the gap, hook it onto the nub and pull it up, springing the gate. Success! Once inside the yard, I started trying the doors. The downstairs was definitely locked, complete with a yale lock. The upstairs door, however, adjacent to the iron rose trellis, had just a regular lock, and an older one at that. Right, time to put the skills to the test... I rattled the door with all my furious, mentally-exhausted might and then YANKED it open. The bolt sprung free and I was IN! I left the door open and went back to inform the cabbie, who wished me a good sleep, and I locked the gate back behind me. A good night indeed. I don't think my head hit the pillow before I switched off.
For what happened when my eyes opened again, stay tuned.
*There is something so strange about train conversations. I know the film-loving few among us can cite numerous cinematic examples of what I’m describing, but parts of it sadden me. Evelyn at several points marveled about how she was telling me all of these unpleasant but true things about people had loved, her parents and their parents, but never told her own children, much less her grandchildren who are mostly my age. I told her, in my honest opinion as a grandchild whose grandmother withheld all manner of information until it was far too late, that they would want to know. It’s far too important to just tell a stranger on a train. I hope she does, and I hope her grandkids have the decency and the sense to stop and listen.
**Good times made even better by the drinks tab being picked up by CB’s Aunt, who is a Sister (not in the “Help a sister out!” sense, but rather the “I’m sorry, Sister, I have no idea how that rosary wound up there” sense) which effectively means that the Catholic Church bought my booze. I repeat, GOOD TIMES.
But first things first: The Wedding.
Oh yes. Articles intended.
For many reasons, CB’s wedding is THE Wedding. Mostly because she named me as a bridesmaid. Also mostly because she’s a wonderful, lovely friend. And mostly for the fact that this was, bar none, the most labor intensive bridesmaid-stint I’ve ever completed, for no other reason than The Cake. But I scamper ahead…
CB got married to her Pirate on a gloriously sunny day in Bristol. All joking aside, the weather really was lovely (about damn time, Britain!) and the whole thing was sunshine and flowers and free wine and happiness. The day before? Not so much. But it could have been a lot worse. And let me go on record as saying I’d do it all again, in a heartbeat.
And with all that as a disclaimer…
I caught the train down to Bristol on the Wednesday morning, leaving my warm, warm bed for the cold, cold train station at 5:30 am, and dropped CB a text to let her know I was finally underway just after 6. I’d picked up my dress from the seamstress just the evening before, as there had been some last-minute pinning and tucking. Assuming she had her phone turned off, LIKE ALL NORMAL PEOPLE, I settled down and pillowed my head on my arms from Aberdeen to Burgh of Edin. I there changed trains for Birmingham, settling in for the longer leg of the journey with my needlework and picnic bag accessible.
I was working on a little piece of craft-mastery of my own design, though the inspiration is well documented on the internet. What was Miss Melville sewing so painstakingly, you ask? I’ll tell you later. What matters now is that I was seated next to an older woman named Evelyn, and despite my moment’s trepidation on her arrival due to her heavy scowl and less-than-bemused air, she turned out to been overwhelmingly chatty. So much so, in fact, that she talked ALL THE WAY to Birmingham. She told me about her family, that she was turning 77 the same month her granddaughter was turning 7 (an endless source of amusement for the granddaughter), that her father had been abusive and her mother emotionally distant, her grandmother manipulative but loving, and a dizzying number of aunts, uncles, cousins, great -grand relations and obscure pets. Needless to say, she was lovely. We helped each other find our next train, as she was bound for Exeter and I for Bristol Temple Meads, and said our goodbyes on the platform as we boarded different coaches.*
The final leg of the journey was standing room only and dearly uncomfortable. Let’s just be clear when I say that I was quite happy to roll into Bristol, take out £100 for upcoming expenses and drop myself into the nearest taxi. I know it doesn’t compare to scrubbing down an apartment kitchen, but the trip was its own form of special.
All told, I arrived at my reserved Bed and Breakfast relatively unharmed and unharried. The place itself was positively LOVELY. Quaint, charming, well-staffed, warm, clean, comfortable—all in all, all for which one might ask. I called CB to let her know that I had arrived and where would she like me to be/what would she like me to do/what should I be doing? Her response was somewhere between a laugh, a grunt and a frustrated howl. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d been asking such things. As it was, I watched a few episodes of Top Gear (Oh, Dave channel, how do I love thee…) and waited to be instructed about dinner arrangements.
Showered, napped, spot-ironed and with a pint down in the pub, I began questioning the busing schedules of Bristol. Roughly one on the hour, the barmaid told me. Turns out, they’re about as predictable as the ones here in the ‘Deen. I eventually caught one, laid down a ridiculous amount of money for a day ticket and tripped the light fantastic into town, where I met the whole maiden CB family.
Well, ‘met’ is a bit of a misnomer. I’ve met them all before, being great friends with CB’s mom and referring to her as my boss for more years than I like to remember. CB’s brother, his wife, the Aunt, the parentals… a lovely family. A lovely pub. Good food, fast talk, CB making entirely inappropriate comments about my chest, and I realized in a flash that all things with this wedding were really going to be just fine, so I ordered a stoli and tonic, crushed my lime and smiled. Good times.**
The next day saw me up and moving about with good speed, trying to get to the Chaplaincy to help bake a cake. No, I’m sorry—to help bake THE CAKE. The Cake to end all Cakes. The truly important, dear god don’t ruin this for everyone cake. Yeah, that one: the Wedding Cake.
CB had decided a while back that she was going to bake her own wedding cake. Well, g’donnah as the Aussies say, and I didn’t think a whole lot more about it until that morning. Good thing CB had, as she had all the ingredients, the recipes, the pans and pots and measuring cups aplenty. After stumbling about the top of Park Road for a bit (I’m useless with directions, sorry, CB!) another charming and nigh-on disgustingly perky bridesmaid, CW, met me and guided me into the dark heart of the University of Bristol. Somewhere between the gleaming Ivory Tower which is the Wills Building and eventually stumbling on the Chaplaincy, CW and I bonded. All things good. Once in the kitchen, I unloaded the requisite bottle of red wine from my purse and met the delightful Family Wally: Mama Wally (MW), Papy Wally (PW) and Beta Wally (BW). As CB had previously told me that MW is the only person other than myself within the circle of her acquaintance who listens voluntarily to sea chanties, I figured we'd get along just fine. In that, I was right. :) BW is actually a godzilla in a blonde, curly wig. He's utterly adorable and occasionally rampages. This mostly made for good entertainment as PW attempted to reign him in while we four womenfolk busied ourselves in the kitchen. I made a ribbon bouquet, complete with stem, out of the ribbons from the bridal shower, and all was happy and hectic but controlled.
By the time we had to break camp to leave for the rehearsal, the bottom tier and top tiers were finished baking. All the carrot (ALL THE CARROT) had been grated, lemons zested, and all that really remained was to bake the rest and frost. No problem. CW and I trucked it on back to her apartment to collect CB's dress, the delightful creation of satin and organza and embroidery which had been the subject of so many evening conversations. Once we finally got in the taxi, dress across laps, I noticed I had smudges of frosting all down my front and no time to do anything about it. So much for the yellow dress I'd purchased for the occasion, time left no time for such considerations! Dropping the dress off with the vastly capable door staff of the hotel, we hot-footed it over to the church, which was conveniently located just across the street.
At this point, I thought things would calm down and the overwhelmingly brisk pace of the day would be checked. Not so much. Apparently, they'd double-booked the church, and we had something like 15 minutes to go over the practical "You stand here, you walk over here," bits of the service. So far as I could tell, our job was to walk in ("Slowly!" hissed the mother of the bride, "You've got to make sure you leave six paces/enough space/you're going too fast/smaller steps!/feet together/don't rush!"), sit in the front pew, and then walk out. Awesome, I can handle that.
Post-rehearsal, I had a brief chat with the father of the groom, who is a lovely man with an accent which I can only describe as the one I would pull should I want to mock the ultra-posh Brits of yesteryear. But it's his actual accent. And I couldn't laugh, because that would have been terribly rude. Oh yesquiteratherhmmmm. All in all, I think I pulled it off.
As a small sidenote, apparently the rehearsal dinner isn't a tradition over here. Convenient for the parents of the groom, but less than conducive for getting we happy few fed and back to the kitchens. As it was, the parents of the bride fed me yet again at a lovely restaurant right on the waterfront where I had cheese and leafy things before legging it out of there and into a taxi to meet up with CB, who had rushed out even earlier to get back to the cake.
When we eventually got there, all things were relatively as they should have been, with the small exception of a party of observant Islamic men who had also booked the kitchen to cook for Ramadan. I feel this part of the story is best captured by CB herself: "when I got back there were 3 Muslim blokes there cooking a feast for Ramadan for about 50 people. I wasn't able to get in the door. They said they would be gone in 10 minutes. An hour later they were still there so I just started working around them as best I could.They finally left but the place was a mess. I was able to work around the mess, but when they came back to clean up it really go hairy. I needed the sink to keep washing mixing bowls and utensils as i changed back and forth between carrot and lemon cake and frosting, but they were using the sink. That killed another 45 minutes of valuable time.Then at one point one of them TURNED OFF THE OVENS!. Thank GOD the Cake noticed and we turned them straight back on so there was no damage done. If she hadn't seen that happen 2 tiers of my cake would have been ruined.And then finally one of the batches of frosting didn't turn out. For some reason it was complete soup. It wasn't usable. So we weren't able to get the whole cake frosted that night."
Confession time: I was the one who made the cream cheese frosting-flavored soup. It was me. I nearly destroyed ALL. The thing of it is, I didn't do a DAMN thing differently between the two batches. The first one set up, the second one didn't. Maybe it was that the kitchen was too hot from all the other cooking. Maybe the cream cheese was softer. Maybe the refrigerator was warmer due to being opened so much. I DON'T KNOW. All I know is that the frosting did. not. work. I felt awful. CB assured me that it would be okay, that we'd get duncan heines frosting from painsbury's in the morning and all would be well, but after going to such lengths to make this cake from scratch, I felt terrible about compromising the integrity of the homemade cake.
In the end, we got the remaining cakes baked, the first layer frosted completely, the bottom layer assembled, and CW's boyfriend to our location (more difficult than it sounds). The poor chap had worked a full day up in York and then taken the train down for a few hours to Bristol. He as tired, road weary (or track-weary, rather?) and hungry. Still toting his luggage, he shows up to help us transport the cake, as we were a woman down. We'd sent MW and the rest of the Family to the bed and breakfast-- same one I was booked into, actually-- to get some much needed rest. The little tyke didn't know what time it was supposed to be, and his parents weren't much better. The merciful thing to do was to let them shower and sleep, but it left us a lap short to transport the boxes of cake via cab to the hotel where the reception would be held and where CB was staying. Enter CW's boyfriend, who from here on out will be referred to as Captain Cake. Once we'd cleaned out the kitchen and loaded all the boxes with their precious cargo, the real fun began.
We lined the boxes up on a low rock partition along the driveway to await the taxi driver. Captain kept trying to talk to CW about the day, how he was feeling, answering the questions she casually flung at him, but after asking she'd scuttle away to check for the cab or check on CB, leaving him with a mouthful of words which would trail off in a Walter Mitty-esque sense of resignation. Something about this struck me as absolutely hilarious, a fault I can only chalk up to exhaustion and overwrought nerves. The bit of road which led to the chaplaincy is a squidgy, and in the age that it took the cabbie to find us, we milled about and generally lied about how tired we were. CW went to pick up one of the boxes of cake to move it closer to the curb, and as I stood talking to CB, she screamed. Actually screamed. Oh god, I thought, please don't have dropped the cake. Then she screamed something about slugs. Oh NO. You see, my dear reader, it's been a very wet summer here in Britain, and there are slugs EVERYWHERE. And not the little slugs that nibble cabbage in a garden. These are big, slimey fuckers to leave visible trails all over the sidewalks. And all I could think was that one had managed to squirm its way into the box and onto the cake. The mental image of the little frosted tier over which we had labored so lovingly absolutely covered in giant, olive drab slugs glistening in the street light filled my mind. Ogodohgod, NO!
As it was, CW had gone to pick up the box and put her hand on a slug quite safely on the exterior of the box. She even had the good sense not to drop the box. She's a winner, that CW. However, she did cause me a small bout of cardiac arrest.
Once we FINALLY got into the taxi, we three girls in the back with boxes of cake and Captain in the front with the bowl of soup-frosting on his knees, we let out a collective breath and asked the cabbie to drive very, very carefully. As we went along, we quickly realized that we in the back were fine, but Captain was in serious danger of slopping the sugary sludge over the edge of the bowl and all over his lap. "I feel like I'm in the third leg of some sort of perverse triathlon," he said quietly, inducing a fit of near-hysterical giggles from the back seat. Once at the hotel, CB oversaw the unloading of the cab and put CW and Captain back into it and packed them off to CW's flat while I went to find a trolley to transport the various boxes to the commercial refrigerator in the kitchens where the hotel had has we could store it all overnight. With a vague prayer to nebulous powers that the sustained cold of the fridge would bring my soup-creation to frosting-firmness, I followed like a pup at CB's heels. We both realized at roughly the same time that the buses had finished running for the night and I was effectively stuck in Bristol unless I wanted to shell out for a taxi. Ugh. CB offered quite gallantly to just curl up next to her in the enormous yes-it's-a-honeymoon-suite-but-we-want-a-bed-so-big-we-don't-actually-have-to-touch-while-we-sleep bed, but after watching her print off the readings for the next day, I soberly considered my options and figured that it would be cheaper in the long run to take a nighttime taxi rather than wake up in town and have to fight my way back to the Inn to gather my bridesmaid dress and assorted necessities. CW and I had worked out a shopping list with nibbly-bits for the lunch the next day, useful things like band-aids and Tylenol, and the ever-necessary hair drier. Leaving all this for the night, I said goodnight for the last time to Miss CB and caught a cab.
And this is where, for me, the whole thing went pear shaped.
When the cab rolled up to the Inn, all was dark. No lights in windows, no busy downstairs pub-- nothing. Not only was the front door locked, but it was also chained and padlocked. So, on a scale of locked, it was very locked. I knocked and knocked, I tapped at windows, and shouted hello in the hopes of raising a reply, all to no avail. The cabbie, bless him, hadn't immediately driven off, and asked if I needed help. Did I have the number for the inn? Maybe I could call and someone would answer who could then come down and let me in. No, I didn't have the number. So he called his dispatch and had them track it down for me-- amazingly kind, eh? In the meanwhile, I went around back and shook the gate. Deadbolted. DAMN. Whyohwhyohwhy. It was 1:30 in the morning, I had soupy frosting in my hair, I smelled noticeably of carrots, and my friend was getting married in less than 14 hours. I went around the front again and in desperation POUNDED at the front door. By that time, the cabbie had been waiting well over 15 minutes, but had a number for me to call. I pulled out my mobile and dialed.
Only to be met by the robotic voice of a woman telling me I didn't have enough credit on my phone to complete the call. [*Mentally drops to her knees and wails wordlessly*]
"There's nothing for it," my patient cabbie sighed, "I'll take you back to the Hotel if you'd like?" For the moment, it looked like my only option. But I didn't want to wake up CB who had surely FINALLY gone to bed for some desperately needed sleep. I didn't want to bother her the NIGHT BEFORE HER WEDDING. I wanted to be competent and adult and get into the bed reserved for me, dammit! I sighed and said I'd try the back gate just one more time. Shoving my hands in my pockets in the cold, my knuckles already bruising from pounding on the door, I felt the ribbon I had stashed there, the one I hadn't looped into the bouquet. "Could I...?" I leaned all my weight against the gate, buying a few millimeters and enough to loop the ribbon through the gap, hook it onto the nub and pull it up, springing the gate. Success! Once inside the yard, I started trying the doors. The downstairs was definitely locked, complete with a yale lock. The upstairs door, however, adjacent to the iron rose trellis, had just a regular lock, and an older one at that. Right, time to put the skills to the test... I rattled the door with all my furious, mentally-exhausted might and then YANKED it open. The bolt sprung free and I was IN! I left the door open and went back to inform the cabbie, who wished me a good sleep, and I locked the gate back behind me. A good night indeed. I don't think my head hit the pillow before I switched off.
For what happened when my eyes opened again, stay tuned.
*There is something so strange about train conversations. I know the film-loving few among us can cite numerous cinematic examples of what I’m describing, but parts of it sadden me. Evelyn at several points marveled about how she was telling me all of these unpleasant but true things about people had loved, her parents and their parents, but never told her own children, much less her grandchildren who are mostly my age. I told her, in my honest opinion as a grandchild whose grandmother withheld all manner of information until it was far too late, that they would want to know. It’s far too important to just tell a stranger on a train. I hope she does, and I hope her grandkids have the decency and the sense to stop and listen.
**Good times made even better by the drinks tab being picked up by CB’s Aunt, who is a Sister (not in the “Help a sister out!” sense, but rather the “I’m sorry, Sister, I have no idea how that rosary wound up there” sense) which effectively means that the Catholic Church bought my booze. I repeat, GOOD TIMES.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
What a craptastic day.
Seriously. There were several occasions when today could have gone well, but decidedly did NOT. On the short list of things not going well, there was the Great Key Escapade of 2007 and the Kiesh Incident. Let me explicate...
The day already wasn't going all that well when I set out from my apartment, dog in tow. Muki and I have been getting along alright, but I get the feeling that her owners aren't all that up on discipline. Or maybe she's just taking advantage of the fact that I'm not her usual walker, I don't know. Regardless, I had her on the retractable leash, you know the kind-- plastic handle, cord which winds out to 15 feet, standard leash material up near the clip that attaches to the collar-- all very standard. This comes in as important later, so bear with me. Now, it takes about 25 minutes to walk to my student accomodation from the house I'm currently minding. This route takes us through Seaton Park, a bit of a shortcut, and with lots of big green spaces and interesting smells for the pup. However, Muki has dominance issues. They'd said that she didn't react well to other dogs while she's on a leash, maybe something happened to her when she was a puppy, they were pretty hazy on the details. But no worries, she's a good dog, we'll all be fine. And we are fine. However, she nearly took my shoulder out of its socket lunging at red squirrels on the walk to the student abode. I was heading back to my place to take a shower (as all the soap around here has bit of kelp and hippie in it, at which the jew-fro outright scoffs) and grab some different clothes, even trade in the long grey wool coat for the shorter blue wool jacket. I take my shower, Muki growls at my one remaining roommate, I grab the newly chosen coat, cell phone and keys out of the door and head back for the house, thinking I might still have time after the walk to get to the grocery store (oh wonder of wonders). We'd made it past several other dogs on leashes without a major confrontation, mostly done because I pull her in so tightly when I see another dog on the horizon and try to point her nose in another direction until they get past. However, we were almost out the park, and I thought the coast was basically clear. Coming down the hill at the far end of the park, near Wallace Tower where the path curves to the street, Muki had out about 12 feet of her leash as a man appeared from around the corner. Now, he wasn't on a bike, he wasn't running, he didn't have a dog with him on a leash or even one off a leash, he was JUST WALKING. (They'd told me that sometimes Muki is attracted to runners or bicycles because of the rapid movement.) It was at this point where she growls, barks, and LUNGES AT HIM. I yell, try to pull up the now fully extended leash, and watch in horror as she continues barking ferociously. I grab at the cord with my right hand and pull back, but Muki is a rather strong beastie, and the cord literally burned through my hand. I'm not sure how, but within 30 seconds she was back at my side, rolled on her back at my feet after several menacing words on my part. I held her on her back until the man walked past as I appologized profusely for what had just happened. He passed without further incident, and we struck out for home. It was at this point when I noticed the blistering burns across the pads of three out of four fingers on my right hand, the palm itself, and the ripped cut on the inside knuckle of my index finger... OW. ow, ow, ow.
It's hard to see, but she totally ripped off the skin in a burn-blister sort of way. So, I kept the leash fully rolled in for the rest of the walk home. We'd made it through the gate without further incident when I put my battered hand in the pocket of my blue coat... and realized that I'd grabbed my flat keys, but forgotten to grab their house keys out of the pocket of my grey coat. There was nothing doing but to walk BACK through the park where she'd just tried to eat a walker, all the way to my flat and get the key. Damn, damn, damn. We head back, myself refusing to allow her more than 5 feet of lead, and all the while cradling my right hand and holding the leash in my left. We were alright until we approached the fountain near the north side of the park, when some stupid chow mix comes vaulting out of nowhere, straight at Muki. I quickly try to turn Muki away from the oncoming, obviously over-friendly flying ball of fur, only to have Muki growl and snap, wrenching the leash nearly out of my hands. Unfortunately, my handedness was against me here, and I transferred the leash to my dominante right hand, despite the now oozing burns. Eventually the chow decided that it wasn't going to make a new friend and took off. We eventually made it back to my apartment, grabbed the key out of my pocket, and I collapsed on the bed for a good three minutes to regroup before walking back across the park for the FOURTH time. After rummaging through every drawer in my room I remembered that I'd loaned my bandaids to a flatmate who is currently in her native land, I swore profusely and struck out once more, patting my pockets repeatedly, trying to ward off any more stupid, stupid mistakes. On the walk back, version 4.0, we were AGAIN hailed by the chow, with similar results. Le sigh. Once we finally got back to the house and through the door, Muki and I weren't really on speaking terms. That didn't last long, I can't really hold a grudge against a dog, but I did try. With all possibility of a grocery run out of the question, I decided to pop over to the local co-op and just grab something simple and probably dreadfully unhealthy. This I found in the form of a kiesh which I bought and summarily placed in the oven. Then my mother called, telling me that I had recieved calls from a financial institution, telling me that I have an account in default and to please call, and Sallie Mae who also needed me to call. After getting all of the information, I called about the account. You see, I only have the one checking account with this particular financial institution, though I did formerly also have a credit card through them. I'd closed the card back in September before leaving for the UK. Only, I guess not. Somehow there was a $2.50 charge for "credit protection" which went on after I'd closed the account but before their records has "matured." And so, through non-payment, it had snowballed to $60-some dollars. Qua? Excuse me? After a bit of talking, they decided to waive the fees and ACTUALLY close the account. Why, thank you. Then I called Sallie Mae, only to have her tell me that my loans from my undergrad had gone into collection. WHAT. "But I sent in my in-school deferrment form that I'd requested from you. You are currently paying my way through my graduate program," says I. "Hmm, I see that. Well, we never got the form back... Oh, wait, I see here that it was recieved but not entered. We're going to need you to print such-and-such form off from our website and have your university back-date it. We'll suspend all action on the account right now and await this new paperwork," says they. Oh, well, thank you so very much. Le sigh. At least I don't have to repay right now, I guess that's a mercy. So, then I call back the parents and let them know that I'm not a deliquent, that everything is alright, and then I smell my keish. Oh, no. I run to the oven, pull it out-- the whole top of it is blackened. On any other day, this wouldn't have reduced me to level of non-verbal rage that I hit, but my hand hurt, my legs hurt, and the only thing I had to eat in the entire house that wasn't organic pumpkinseed loaf made without eggs, dairy or wheat or elderflower juice had just burnt under my nose. "Why are you snapping at me?" asks my mother when I retort that I'll call the bank back and get them to send out a letter confirming the closing of the account. "Because it's been a rotten, rotten day, okay?" I half-scream into the skype headset, "please, just leave me alone!" We quickly made up, I peeled away the burnt layers of egg and cheese, and Muki sat on my feet until I forgave her everything. She can be quite convincing when she's not trying to eat people.
At the end of the day, just glad it's the end of the day.
The day already wasn't going all that well when I set out from my apartment, dog in tow. Muki and I have been getting along alright, but I get the feeling that her owners aren't all that up on discipline. Or maybe she's just taking advantage of the fact that I'm not her usual walker, I don't know. Regardless, I had her on the retractable leash, you know the kind-- plastic handle, cord which winds out to 15 feet, standard leash material up near the clip that attaches to the collar-- all very standard. This comes in as important later, so bear with me. Now, it takes about 25 minutes to walk to my student accomodation from the house I'm currently minding. This route takes us through Seaton Park, a bit of a shortcut, and with lots of big green spaces and interesting smells for the pup. However, Muki has dominance issues. They'd said that she didn't react well to other dogs while she's on a leash, maybe something happened to her when she was a puppy, they were pretty hazy on the details. But no worries, she's a good dog, we'll all be fine. And we are fine. However, she nearly took my shoulder out of its socket lunging at red squirrels on the walk to the student abode. I was heading back to my place to take a shower (as all the soap around here has bit of kelp and hippie in it, at which the jew-fro outright scoffs) and grab some different clothes, even trade in the long grey wool coat for the shorter blue wool jacket. I take my shower, Muki growls at my one remaining roommate, I grab the newly chosen coat, cell phone and keys out of the door and head back for the house, thinking I might still have time after the walk to get to the grocery store (oh wonder of wonders). We'd made it past several other dogs on leashes without a major confrontation, mostly done because I pull her in so tightly when I see another dog on the horizon and try to point her nose in another direction until they get past. However, we were almost out the park, and I thought the coast was basically clear. Coming down the hill at the far end of the park, near Wallace Tower where the path curves to the street, Muki had out about 12 feet of her leash as a man appeared from around the corner. Now, he wasn't on a bike, he wasn't running, he didn't have a dog with him on a leash or even one off a leash, he was JUST WALKING. (They'd told me that sometimes Muki is attracted to runners or bicycles because of the rapid movement.) It was at this point where she growls, barks, and LUNGES AT HIM. I yell, try to pull up the now fully extended leash, and watch in horror as she continues barking ferociously. I grab at the cord with my right hand and pull back, but Muki is a rather strong beastie, and the cord literally burned through my hand. I'm not sure how, but within 30 seconds she was back at my side, rolled on her back at my feet after several menacing words on my part. I held her on her back until the man walked past as I appologized profusely for what had just happened. He passed without further incident, and we struck out for home. It was at this point when I noticed the blistering burns across the pads of three out of four fingers on my right hand, the palm itself, and the ripped cut on the inside knuckle of my index finger... OW. ow, ow, ow.
It's hard to see, but she totally ripped off the skin in a burn-blister sort of way. So, I kept the leash fully rolled in for the rest of the walk home. We'd made it through the gate without further incident when I put my battered hand in the pocket of my blue coat... and realized that I'd grabbed my flat keys, but forgotten to grab their house keys out of the pocket of my grey coat. There was nothing doing but to walk BACK through the park where she'd just tried to eat a walker, all the way to my flat and get the key. Damn, damn, damn. We head back, myself refusing to allow her more than 5 feet of lead, and all the while cradling my right hand and holding the leash in my left. We were alright until we approached the fountain near the north side of the park, when some stupid chow mix comes vaulting out of nowhere, straight at Muki. I quickly try to turn Muki away from the oncoming, obviously over-friendly flying ball of fur, only to have Muki growl and snap, wrenching the leash nearly out of my hands. Unfortunately, my handedness was against me here, and I transferred the leash to my dominante right hand, despite the now oozing burns. Eventually the chow decided that it wasn't going to make a new friend and took off. We eventually made it back to my apartment, grabbed the key out of my pocket, and I collapsed on the bed for a good three minutes to regroup before walking back across the park for the FOURTH time. After rummaging through every drawer in my room I remembered that I'd loaned my bandaids to a flatmate who is currently in her native land, I swore profusely and struck out once more, patting my pockets repeatedly, trying to ward off any more stupid, stupid mistakes. On the walk back, version 4.0, we were AGAIN hailed by the chow, with similar results. Le sigh. Once we finally got back to the house and through the door, Muki and I weren't really on speaking terms. That didn't last long, I can't really hold a grudge against a dog, but I did try. With all possibility of a grocery run out of the question, I decided to pop over to the local co-op and just grab something simple and probably dreadfully unhealthy. This I found in the form of a kiesh which I bought and summarily placed in the oven. Then my mother called, telling me that I had recieved calls from a financial institution, telling me that I have an account in default and to please call, and Sallie Mae who also needed me to call. After getting all of the information, I called about the account. You see, I only have the one checking account with this particular financial institution, though I did formerly also have a credit card through them. I'd closed the card back in September before leaving for the UK. Only, I guess not. Somehow there was a $2.50 charge for "credit protection" which went on after I'd closed the account but before their records has "matured." And so, through non-payment, it had snowballed to $60-some dollars. Qua? Excuse me? After a bit of talking, they decided to waive the fees and ACTUALLY close the account. Why, thank you. Then I called Sallie Mae, only to have her tell me that my loans from my undergrad had gone into collection. WHAT. "But I sent in my in-school deferrment form that I'd requested from you. You are currently paying my way through my graduate program," says I. "Hmm, I see that. Well, we never got the form back... Oh, wait, I see here that it was recieved but not entered. We're going to need you to print such-and-such form off from our website and have your university back-date it. We'll suspend all action on the account right now and await this new paperwork," says they. Oh, well, thank you so very much. Le sigh. At least I don't have to repay right now, I guess that's a mercy. So, then I call back the parents and let them know that I'm not a deliquent, that everything is alright, and then I smell my keish. Oh, no. I run to the oven, pull it out-- the whole top of it is blackened. On any other day, this wouldn't have reduced me to level of non-verbal rage that I hit, but my hand hurt, my legs hurt, and the only thing I had to eat in the entire house that wasn't organic pumpkinseed loaf made without eggs, dairy or wheat or elderflower juice had just burnt under my nose. "Why are you snapping at me?" asks my mother when I retort that I'll call the bank back and get them to send out a letter confirming the closing of the account. "Because it's been a rotten, rotten day, okay?" I half-scream into the skype headset, "please, just leave me alone!" We quickly made up, I peeled away the burnt layers of egg and cheese, and Muki sat on my feet until I forgave her everything. She can be quite convincing when she's not trying to eat people.
At the end of the day, just glad it's the end of the day.
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