in lieu of a proper birthday cake...

for tally's fourth birthday, we eat molded chocolate pumps.  

for her 2nd birthday, in holland, we eat traditional dutch taart, layers of whipped cream and filling in a type of pie shell.  

for her 3rd birthday, also in holland, i make a 45-minute train journey to utrecht, where a baker promises to create a traditional north-american style birthday cake with buttercream frosting.  i learn from that experience that canadian cakes differ from american cakes.  and cost 43 euros.   

i ask tally what type of dessert she would like for her fourth birthday here in england and she replies, "i would like chocolate flamenco shoes."    ???!!!!!!   i explain to her that i fear these may be difficult to come by, and she counters, "just check the chocolatier."  lo and behold, the local chocolate shop DOES carry molded chocolate pumps.  close enough.  but..."it's english chocolate, tally, not belgian."  the first time she tried cadbury, she leveled her eyes at me and proclaimed, "this is NOT chocolate."  but..."i can wear these, though."  i explain all the reasons why wearing the chocolate shoe will be impossible, especially after i see they cost 10 pounds apiece, but tally is nothing if not a girl who knows herself.  so we grimace through white molded chocolate pumps for tally's fourth birthday and she's supremely content, even if she can't walk in them.

remembering sunshine: beach holiday, march/april 07

winter in western europe.  rain, sleet, more rain, snow (!), slush.  november til may.  i find myself frequently clicking thru fotos with sun in the backdrop...  

we take our first european beach holiday with fellow american expats in england, the terrells. we think we find a house online which seems suitable for two sets of parents; an au pair; boys ages 2, 3, 4; girl age 2:  pool, five bedrooms, short walk to the beach, yet in a private neighborhood...

for future home rentals we know now to ask...  

1.  not if swimming is possible all year, but if the pool is heated.  

2.  not if the pool is enclosed, but if it includes a safety cover.

3.  not if we need central heating, but if there is a continual alternative fuel supply (i.e. wood, gas, etc.)

so...

after two nights we pack our bags and migrate to a perfectly suitable hotel which still reeks of the 70s (wood paneling on the walls, modular furniture, orange/olive/turquoise color scheme-- real, not retro-- and fantastic) with ocean views.  and sugared almonds available in enormous glass jars in the lobby.

chris immediately purchases a portugal football jersey for joe with christiano ronaldo's number on the back and which joe wears every day, much to the delight of EVERY local.  smart evertson.  the portuguese people with which we interact are charmed and in turn, turn on their incredible charm.  

we worship the sun as never before.  

we dig in the sand.  

the boys go whale-watching and actually see a whale, but "daddy forgot the camera!!!"  

after receiving reproachful looks from the staff from my copious almond-picking, i pull joe's jersey over his head and drag him to the lobby with me a few times a day to support my new habit and the staff begins to just offer me the jar.

i love this place.

and then we eat out.  

and i love this place even more.

a shack on the beach.  the owner sizes us up and hands us a menu including BEANS ON TOAST.   (foreshadowing, i know now).  chad loves to eat good food more than anyone i know, and he pulls the lady aside and tells her we want to eat what she would feed her family, not what she feeds the british tourists.  she shows us another menu, written in portuguese, with entrees especially for the easter holiday.  we tell her to make us what she likes.  she seems dubious, but complies.  and thus we eat fabulously.  baccala, green wine, fish stew, green wine, roasted squid, green wine, pork, green wine.  a portuguese "big night."

a restaurant under the railroad tracks.  dogs on leashes, babies in laps, football on the big screen.  whole fish, green wine, fish stew, green wine, you get the picture.

portuguese food is like the best country cooking, liberal on meat grease, but with the addition of seafood.  it is divine.

lasting results?  chris and i still have our local wines shop order us bottles of green wine.  the kids watch football just to hear the announcers yell "and ronaldo scores!"  then they cheer like crazy.

mr. stefanovich's visit ...or why not to eat british street food

just when we think we might have to haul it in, head back to the states because our tolerance for rain diminshes by day, along with our patience with public transport, mr. stefanovich blows into town for a weekend to revive us all.  the kids laugh with abandon like, well, kids, when they see him.  chris and i chatter with abandon like, well, americans.  we realize we miss animation.  and energy.

that energy propels us to indulge in the full british premier league football experience.   we secure a child minder so chris, andy and i can hit the pub before and/or after the match.  andy is always a good sport; he is eager to sample all of the local "delicacies."  chris and i reluctantly humor him.  we order pints and crisps and fish and chips at the pub prior to the match, a standard order which is visible on nearly every table around us.  after we finish, our bellies full, but not pleasantly so, we traipse down putney high street to cross the bridge to the stadium.  along the way, we hit upon a street vendor.  chris and i do our best to convince andy that he doesn't want the bacon bap (bacon on a bun) with a slice of cheese, but...well, andy's stomach holds up for the game, but not for long after that.  poor guy.  but look at the sandwich.  would you eat that???

chris and i search high and low in the city proper and our borough for street food and diner fare that suits our very-american-yet-spoiled-by-the-continent taste.  we realize early on that we can't eat breakfast out:  we cringe at the sight of tinned baked beans on toast and at the taste of eggs and bacon fried in OIL.  why does bacon need fried in OIL?  we also learn to avoid the much-heralded british chippy (fish-and-chips stand).  mushy fries and fish dripping oil from the waxed paper turns our tummies.

in holland and especially belgium we still seek out the frituur (french fry stand).  i still like mine with an enormous glob of mayo on top.  in the states we stop for a hot dog, or, when in north carolina, barbeque.  we generally feel that the vendors are proud of their reasonably-priced food in those places.  here...well...  we console ourselves with the idea that our stomachs are becoming resilient or we'll have to admit that mr. stefanovich's visit actually also makes us homesick for not being sick.

chinese new year is...

a big fat bust.   london's celebration of chinese new year is touted as the largest outside of china itself.  for weeks, i research the best areas in and around chinatown to watch the lion parade and the acrobatic shows.  i learn exactly on what blocks the vendors ply their wares.  i even line up a restaurant far enough away from the main drag to eat our authentic chinese feast in relative peace.  at home we read books about chinese new year and create our own masks.  in joe's classroom, mrs. upritchard sets up a chinese restaurant and actually enlists a volunteer to prepare a chinese feast for all thirty children.  we over-prepare ourselves for the official celebration.

on the day, tally awakes with a fever.  she's too tired to even turn her head towards the telly.  joe gets to choose his chaperone for the day.  no way does mommy even come close in that tally.  so, he and daddy bundle up for the at-freezing temperatures.  after he is mostly layered, joe whines, "i can't move!"   we explain to him that he has no choice, but he only grows more vocal in his protests, "i can't put my arms down properly," he complains. "we're going.  now." says daddy with not a hint of patience.  so finally off they go.

they return just a few hours later.

"how was it?"  i ask, all chippery smiles.

"terrible," says joe.  "there were too many people."  then he ticks off a list of things cancelled due to the temps:  the parade, the acrobatics, the food vendors, etc.  "did you at least eat some dumplings?" i ask.  "no, daddy said 'the heck with this' and we went to bk.  i had a great cheeseburger."  "and," he continues, "i did get these."  lovely -- snappers.  i send him back out in the freezing temps so he can use them up all at once.

"shall i go ahead and call for delivery?" i ask chris.  he nods.  so we all celebrate the new year with our eat-in chinese as we watch the liverpool-chelsea match.  gung hey fat choy!