What Do I Know?

WDIK Location Quiz

Can you guess where (and who) this is? 

Hint Number 1: The Lancastrian in the statue was born just across the river, and not long after became the King of England and then France. 

Hint Number 2: David Cameron would have been caught in his gaze, but not Tony Blair. 

Hint Number 3: Not sure whether he condoned the beatings that went on here until the 1980s. 

Hint Number 4: He probably didn't notice the game of Fives that was being played nearby. 

Hint Number 5: Margaret Thatcher would not have been welcomed here. 

Who is this man in the bronze statue, and where is it located? 

Extra credit: How much does it cost?

Michael Pollan: Don't Get Me Started

There is no dilemma here. 

When anyone mentions Michael Pollan, author of The Omnivore's Dilemma, my response is usually: "Don't get me started!" There are many arguments to be made for why he shouldn't be allowed the last word on sustainable eating, but it's pretty much a fool's game to argue with a professor of journalism at Berkeley. After all, who better to understand how the media works, even if he doesn't exactly understand the efficiencies involved in a plant-based diet. (I think the word "vegan" pretty much terrifies people like Pollan, who can't conceive of never again eating butter-slathered toast and runny eggs.)

Fortunately, someone much smarter and persistent than me has tackled the project, with a wonderful blog called Say What, Michael Pollan?

On it, Adam Merberg has addressed a letter to Pollan, which raises some very credible arguments pertaining to Pollan's recent New York Review of Books article, "The Food Movement, Rising". 

And what was Pollan's response? Sixty-six words from his assistant, thanking Merberg for the letter. 

That's too bad, because I'd really like to know how a farm can be completely self-sufficient—in other words, producing "a free lunch"—when the chickens who fertilize its crops are fed grain from off the farm. Maybe it's because the phrase "chicken feed" has come to mean negligible, or insubstantial, that Pollan dismisses the sustainability issues of feeding livestock, including the lowly chicken, with grain that contains "forty percent more calories than the farm's output". 

You can read Merberg's review of The Omnivore's Dilemma here. It really kills, something a vegan is loathe to do. But contrary to Pollan's assertion, we vegans aren't actually all that naive and unrealistic. Arguments like Pollan's deserve what they get: a few good twists with a sharp-edged knife. Right through the jugular. 

Sort of like how Merberg expertly skewers Pollan's "transaction" between himself and a pig:

In Pollan’s case, though, any arguments about good intentions ring hollow in light of the obvious fact that the pig’s interests were extinguished two weeks ago.

Ah, the "incompleteness of our transcendence of our animal nature."

From now on, if anyone mentions Michael Pollan, I'll just point to Say What, Michael Pollan? Because you really don't want to get me started. 

Stop the Ground Zero Mall!

When I Google "Stop the Ground Zero Mall" I find a lot of people have misspelled "mall" as "mosque." I wonder what's up with that? 

There is no mosque being built at Ground Zero, the hallowed ground where almost 3000 people died on September 11, 2001. There is, however a mall being built as part of the development on the former World Trade Center site. The mall, which will be built underground, will literally be constructed among the remains of the innocent victims of that infamous day. 

So why all this confusion about a mosque? For my friends who don't live in the USA, and who perhaps haven't heard of Fox News, it is indeed a mystery how a mall turned into a mosque turned into a manufactured controversy. 

Welcome to August. A slow month for political news, August is when news outlets like Fox News have a vacuum to fill. And what better nonsense to fill it with than an emotional issue like a "9/11 mosque!"? 

No such thing exists, of course, but to hear tell, you'd think Osama bin Laden had risen from the grave or cave or wherever he's hiding and caught the afternoon flight from Heathrow just in time to jab his lanky finger into the heart of our national sorrow. 

In reality, a building (two and a half blocks away from Ground Zero, or even further according to Politifact) that once housed a Burlington Coat Factory (not a factory, but a retail store that once sold dog fur coats) is the proposed site for a development called Park51. Several months ago the devolopers received unanimous permission from the NYC planning commission to build the project, which will be similar to a JCC (Jewish Community Center) or the YMCA (Young Men's Christian Association), only from a Muslim perspective. It will offer day care, culinary classes (sign me up!) and a fitness center, as well as providing space for multi-denominational meetings and a prayer room. 

Park51 (known as Cordoba House) will be thirteen stories tall, and since Lower Manhattan is nothing like Central London, that's not a big deal. Who are the people behind the project? Primarily Imam Feisal Abdul-Rauf, who is currently in Saudi Arabia representing American Muslims to the wider Muslim community—something he was hired to do under the Bush administration, who were particularly sensitive after 9/11 that America be portrayed favorably in the Middle East. You can read what Jeff Goldberg, no Middle East dove, has to say about the Imam here. It's an amazingly thoughtful statement, one you won't hear on Fox News. 

It also turns out that there's already a mosque near the proposed site. And two strip clubs. And numerous fast food restaurants, tacky souvenir shops, and buildings where people work and play every day. These people don't object to a "mosque" or a community center being built in their neighborhood. And if they did, that's why we have the first amendment. 

Freedom of religion. Isn't that why they hate us? Because of our freedom? Our freedom to wear bikinis on the beach. Our freedom to say what we please. Our freedom to worship who or what we please, or to not worship at all. Our freedom to protest—which some people use to stir up false political outrage. And our freedom to turn off the TV when it offends us.

So what about the mall? Why isn't there outrage that one day knock-off sunglasses and skinny jeans will be sold on hallowed ground? Why didn't anyone listen to Roger Ebert, who proposed that a more appropriate memorial be built—or rather, not built—on the site? I really like his idea of a grassy space, with no buildings at all, just a place to remember, quietly, and maybe plant some corn. 

I don't know why so many people are ready to believe there's a mosque going up at Ground Zero, or why so many continue to object when told the truth—that the "mosque" is really a cultural center two blocks away. 

One of the moments I remember from those awful days in September, right after the towers fell, is that of a family who offered protection to their Muslim neighbors, in case anyone had the idea to harm them during a time when tensions were high and emotions raw. But many people from all across the country were outspoken in the belief that the terrorists were no more representative of Islam than the IRA was of Catholicism. I was relieved that at least our country had reacted with dignity during our darkest hour. 

Now it's August, and another anniversary is upon us. Where's our dignity now?

WDIK Location Quiz

It's time for another WDIK Location Quiz! Where was this photo taken? 

Hint Number 1: It's not Victorian. 

Hint Number 2: It was not built by Brunel. 

Hint Number 2, Redux: (because that second hint was sort of redundant): It was built in MDCCLXXIX. 

Hint Number 3: It's a very popular tourist attraction, despite being about 150 miles from London.

Hint Number 4: Fe Fi Fo Fum.

Not enough? Okay, here's another photo: 

Any ideas?

Friday Horse Blogging

Horses have the softest noses. 

We see horses pretty often on our hikes through the Chilterns, and most of them are very friendly. But I have a confession: I am slightly scared of horses. 

When I was a young girl, I went through a horse phase like every other young girl. Mine ended abruptly when I actually met one close up. My Sunday school teacher invited the class to her farm for an outing, and everyone took turns riding their family horse. Everyone except me. 

I was terrified. No way was I getting up on that enormous animal! Maybe it was my fear of heights, but I was sure if I got up there I'd fall off. Or else the horse would take off, and since I couldn't drive one, I'd end up lost. (Remind me sometime to tell you what happened the first time I tried to ride my brother's mini bike.) 

Many years later, when I had two daughters of my own, I met another horse, this time at a cousin's house in New Mexico. Sundance was a former race horse, beautifully behaved. My daughters took turns riding behind her owner, Albert, who took them trotting around the back pasture, even breaking into a canter, to their delight.

They seemed to think I was too old to ride behind Albert. And with everyone, including my daughters, looking at me expectantly, I figured this was as good a time as any to figure out how to ride a horse. 

I got on her back, and held the reins. She headed to the stable, which seemed like a good idea to me. Then I asked her to turn left, and she didn't do anything. I tapped the reins again, and she ignored me. 

Turned out I was asking her to go right, right into the stable wall. 

Obviously I am too uncoordinated to ride a horse. Left, right, nudge, tap, squeeze—thank you very much, but I prefer walking. 

And sometimes my walks take me to a pretty farm with a nice horse who wants nothing more than a nose rub. 

See? Not very threatening at all.  

Coming Out of It

Barley growing in the Chilterns

You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in fields of gold

—Sting

Hi. It's been a while. I know, I haven't been here much lately. A perfunctory post on Friday, a photo that's easy to slap up on the blog. I don't know if you've guessed, but I've not been myself these last few months. 

The winter passed in a cold, grey fog. I welcomed the crappy weather, a match for my mood. Spring brought its usual bounty of flowers, but I hardly noticed. I walked through fields of bluebells as if they were discarded crisp wrappers. Things that used to bring me joy, brought nothing. Nada. A drive in the Cotswolds could have been a drive round the M25 for all the pleasure I took.

I put on a good show—laughing with friends, posting cheery updates on Facebook, only an occasional bitter tweet on Twitter. I hardly went anywhere except the gym—almost literally climbing my way from the well of grief I'd sunk into. Oh, we traveled a lot—as far away as I could get, but always, there was the moment when I opened the door to a sad empty house.

I have been, to put it in clinical terms, depressed. 

It started, of course, when I lost my best friend. I'd lost friends before, lost my dear mother, but I never felt a loss as keenly as I felt the loss of Bailey. A few years ago, I sent my youngest daughter across the sea to college, came straight home and cried, my arms wrapped around my dog, who was simply overjoyed that I was home from whatever journey I'd been on. I thought then, at least she won't leave me—not for a long while. 

I was wrong. And I was devastated, like someone who'd put all their emotional eggs in one precious basket. My friends were wonderful, checking on me, sending notes and well wishes. My family, well, they were afraid to say her name. They were grieving too, and I imagine they figured they'd lost me as well. I'd disappear, hiding in the bathroom while I cried. The shower was a particularly good place for tears, I found. Grief would hit me hard and quick, in unexpected places. I drove past a footpath, and sobbed for all the times we'd trod them together. I stayed away from the Common, looking away whenever I passed. I'd sweep the floor, and cry because there were crumbs, not golden hair. (Crumbs never lasted long on the kitchen floor with Bailey around—a fair trade, I realize now, for all the shedding hair.) I found myself drawn to any dog I saw, wanting nothing so much as to stroke them the way I'd once stroked Bailey. Every day was excruciating, a set of hours to survive.

Gradually, though, the pain lost its edge. Just yesterday, I realized I felt better—normal, even. And in fact, yesterday was an anniversary, of sorts—eight months since that terrible night, and the first time the date passed without my thinking of it.

The fine weather—hot, sunny days, and the hikes my friends have included me on—at first reluctantly, I admit—have worked magic on my mood. I've been walking in the evening, too—two to three miles around the neighborhood, through parts I'd never explored before. Prozac comes in many forms, it turns out.

Last week we hiked six miles in the beautiful Chilterns, through fields of golden barley. One of the women was a friend I hadn't seen in a while, and we spent much of the time talking of our respective dogs—hers is 12, and deaf. It felt good, both the walk, and the talk. 

I'm feeling good. I don't long for a bus to hit me anymore. There are rumors that we may move soon, and I look forward to that. I look forward to tomorrow, again. 

And eventually, another dog will fill that hole in my heart. But for now, I am content. 

Just thought you should know that.

Friday Chicken Blogging

Yesterday we walked around Watlington, along the Ridgeway for 2.5 miles then over to Lewknor and then to Pyrton. It was there we saw the lovely chickens. They lived in a pretty thatched cottage, one of several we saw on our six mile walk. 

They were truly free range—no pen in sight, no fence either. They had access to the road, in case they wanted to go on a walk around the countryside, or drive into Watlington for some shopping. 

Fortunately, it was a less-traveled road, the kind you'd have a hard time believing exists just minutes from the motorway that blazes across Oxfordshire, taking commuters into London every day. 

Free range chickens, heading toward St Mary's churchyard. 

They came running toward us, as if they thought we might have some treat in hand, then ignored us while they pecked at the grass. 

Ms Chicken could have been a model—what a gorgeous strut!

They looked so funny running. What an odd bird is the chicken.

Hampstead Heath, London's Lungs

Hampstead Heath in London—a scene I wish I could paint.

On Saturday I paid my first visit to Hampstead Heath in London. Despite having been told many times of how delightful it is, especially for walkers, I'd never been. But a friend suggested we visit Kenwood House, which overlooks the Heath. It's a bit hard to get to—it's a mile from the nearest tube, then a 20 minute walk or a 20 minute bus ride. And the nearest tube happens to be a 25-minute train ride plus three tube exchanges for me. 

When I was living in London when I first moved here, people would recommend I go there with my dog, but sadly, we never figured out a way to get the dog there. By the time we had a car, we lived so near to other great walks there didn't seem to be a reason to head into town just for a good walk. 

But Hampstead Heath is more than walking. The views are magnificent, too, especially from Parliament Hill, where kites fly year round. 

And then there's the English Heritage property Kenwood House, full of priceless artwork, including a Vermeer, a Rembrandt, and so many portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds, landscapes by Constable, and charming animal portraits by Landseer, you'd think you were in the Tate Britain. Photos weren't allowed, but I snapped a shot of a ceiling before I knew that...don't tell.

Kenwood House is a typical Palladian-style pile, remodeled by the architect Robert Adam. Entry is free, due to a bequest by the Lord Iveagh, who left it in the care of English Heritage upon his death in 1927. (Donations are welcome, however.) On weekends music concerts take place on the grounds, which apparently annoyed the neighbors in leafy Hampstead. It was because of an upcoming concert that much of the grounds were roped off, so I couldn't get a photo from a proper distance. However, if you saw the film Notting Hill, you saw the house—it was the scene of Julia Roberts' period film, where poor Hugh Grant learned he'd been played for a fool.

Hampstead Heath is known as the "lungs of London", though these days the air of London isn't quite as polluted as it once was (thank the congestion charge for that!). There are several ponds, some of them suitable for swimming (including Ladies Only, Men Only, and Mixed), and plenty of paths, some of them suitable for cycling.

Sometimes I forget how wonderful it is to live so near to London. But a hot July afternoon trudging up hills in Hampstead Heath reminds me right quick.

London isn't so far away. 

Kenwood House, overlooking Hampstead Heath

The ceiling at Kenwood.