What Do I Know?

Open: Tory Leader Position, Must Be White Male Named David

The Tories have just wrapped up their conference, and in order to score a conference trifecta, I must blog about it too. I confess to paying scant attention, even though this conference was actually the most exciting of the three.

The Tories are facing the prospect of choosing a new leader, for which the main requirement seems to be being named "David" or even the doubly davidicious "David Davis". From what I can tell, the process is nothing like the American primaries, whereby lots of mud is thrown about, serving to disenchant the vast percentage of the populace, who then stay home on election day, allowing the party faithful to elect a candidate, who will in all probability be defeated in November. (Master of the run-on sentence, I am.)

Come to think of it, it's not all that different. After a handful of candidates declare they are running for leader, the MPs vote for their favorites, narrowing the field to the top two, and then the party members*  vote for one of these. (Before you express shock at the lack of democracy involved, remember they've come a long way from the days when the main requirements for leading the country were, one, who was your daddy, and two, how big an army do you have.)

My imaginary vote goes to David Cameron, who I heard mention how the Tories should pay more attention to Darfur. Bravo, that. Of course, I would never use my imaginary vote to vote Tory; I'm more of a Lib Dem girl, but it's nice to see the Tories recognize that all the cool kids these days are socially liberal.

The final decision will be made in December. After participating in a grueling American primary season, I can see some value to such a short and sweet campaign. Maybe the Brits could teach us something about this voting business after all.

May the best David win.

*(aka party faithful; hardly anyone is a member of a party, as it would make one look a little too earnest wouldn't it?)

How to Tell If You Are a Hypocrite

If you can check yes to two of the following, consider yourself a hypocrite:

___I have a Support the Troops bumper sticker/emblem on my rear bumper.

___I voted for George W. Bush.

But I voted for George because I understood Republicans support the troops, you say. I have exploded this myth before, more than once, but you may have missed it.

The Department of Defense is supposed to be non-partisan, yet it's led by Republican Donald Rumsfeld, who supports George Bush and his neo-con cabal while failing to support the troops with basic equipment like body armor. A soldier's email, from Operation Truth:

They make level IV side armor, too, that we don't have. Of all the guys that have been shot and killed here, all have been through the side of the armor where there's no plate. That's where the snipers are aiming for, and hitting. my two guys who got hit by a sniper ... one went through the side (no plate) and he survived by the grace of god. The other moved at the last second and the bullet hit the plate right no its edge.

More and more soldiers are beginning to understand where this administration's priorities lie. From A Soldier's Thoughts:

Iraq is the new frontier of poor foreign policy and poor planning.  Even the soldiers can see it.  Why do you think nobody is re-enlisting?  They don't want to keep leaving their families to go fight a loosing battle and to die for an empty promise.  The promise that somehow staying in Iraq makes America safer.

What can the average citizen do, a parent, sibling, or spouse of a soldier asked to serve without the protection they'd receive if they worked as a cop on the streets? Perhaps you've already scrounged for funds to buy them body armor yourself, wondering why there wasn't funding in the 400 billion dollar defense budget to pay for that.

First, write to your congressman, senator, and editor, and ask them to support Senator Dodd's amendment, which seeks to force the Pentagon to reimburse soldiers for the body armor they buy privately (as Public Law 108-375 requires them to). Then ask your friends and family to do the same.

Then demand Rumsfeld's resignation. And while you're at it, demand George Bush's impeachment. Because last time I heard, the buck stops in the Oval Office. (With you, too: You broke it, you fix it.)

After that you may go get one of those magnetic ribbons and slap it on your bumper, knowing you are hypocrisy-free at last.

Wednesday Food Blogging: Peanut and Chocolate Pie

Would you like some presentation with that pie?

When I first made this pie, I wasn't that impressed. The taste was good—what's not to like about chocolate and peanut butter?—but it lacked the juxtaposition of textures, and for me, texture is everything.

But I decided to take a picture of it anyway, and when I dressed it up for its photo, it suddenly took on new sensations. Some chopped peanuts, a swirl of chocolate syrup, and a bit of whipped cream (or non-dairy whipped topping, in this case) made all the difference. See? Presentation really is everything.

And, since most of these ingredients are pantry staples, this is an ideal dessert to whip up when company's on the way. Yet it hardly looks like a spur of the moment decision.

It's sort of the Photo-op Pie.

What To Eat When I'm Not Around

A quick foodie update before I head off for Oxford...

New arrivals on the blogroll: Bunnyfoot. I swear we are not the same person. We cook the same food, though. And share the same "swegan" philosophy. I'll let you read about it...

And I'm Mad and I Eat: "Who says food and politics don't taste good together?" The name alone says it all, and darn if that wouldn't be a good name for my blog! Oh well, cookiecrumb got it first. But I'm still mad.

For more vegan recipes, check out the entries at Becks and Posh Nosh for last week's Is My Blog Burning cookoff. It's like a free online cookbook, with photos! Here's part one, and here's part two of the round-up.

My husband keeps asking what I'm doing to protect us from bird flu. Other than not eating the damn things, what can you do? Eat garlic. It's a natural antibiotic. (I know, antibiotics don't kill viruses, but how many people swear they work anyway after they demand one from their doctor? Plus garlic builds the immune system. It also is reputed to keep vampires away. Or was that werewolves? Just eat some.) 

Now, I gotta run. A recipe later, I promise, sans garlic. But loaded with protein, for those of you still faithfully practicing Atkins.

Dear Austria: I Won't Be Visiting After All

Dear Austria,

I know you have backed down from your objections to letting Turkey join the EU, but unfortunately you allowed the world to remember just how fascist your history is.

I watched The Sound of Music, dozens of times. I loved the scenery, but I couldn't ignore the underlying message: That nice Von Trapp family had to leave their beloved Austria because you all went along with Hitler's evil plans.

Still, that was 60 years ago. Most of the brown shirts are probably moth eaten, the fascists are moldering, and the Von Trapps have happily relocated to Vermont.

But sadly, it looks like Rolf has grown up and joined your government. And he's still the same little bigot. (Gives a whole new meaning to "small and white," doesn't it?)

So in response I'm removing Austria from my list of European countries I must visit. Spain moves up a notch, and Liechtenstein joins the list.

Which means I won't be spending lots of euros in your country, where I'd planned, among other things, to learn to yodel, take a gondola ride, ski the glacier in the summer, greet edelweiss, climb every mountain, ford every stream...

I'll be following every rainbow to Liechtenstein instead.

Sincerely,
A Disenchanted Tourist

A Better Blog Than This One

Remember a few weeks ago, when I posted about finding out a friend blogs (prompted by PSoTD's similar experience)?

It's happened again. Another friend is blogging, a fellow ex-pat. I've been getting a real kick out of reading her blog for the last week, The Vol Abroad.

Someone needs to tell her, give up her day job and write comedy full time. 

But don't ask me to reveal her true identity. I do not want to make her mad. No, sirree, I've heard about how she popped some 'los and I don't want any of that action.

Going Native

Exactly one year ago this morning, I arrived, bleary eyed and jetlagged, at Gatwick Airport. When I got to the car park, I woke up immediately. The cars all had steering wheels on the wrong side, and when the driver pulled away, I realized he was driving on the left side of the road. Somehow, I imagined they only did that for the movies.

Speeding up the M23, tiny cars and vans flying past, I told myself I'd never, ever drive here. Though I'd never been intimidated by a gas pedal before, with all new road markings and road rules, I no longer felt so surefooted.

I still laugh when I think about that, every time I race to Gatwick to pick up guests.

Driving on the "wrong" side of the road is just one of many oddities I've gotten used to over the past year. In fact, they no longer seem odd. (Notice how these days I hardly ever post anything to Those Crazy Brits?) Maybe I've assimilated.

I no longer find it strange to hear "schedule" pronounced "shedule" nor do I cringe at the odd subject-verb agreement ("the government are"); in fact, I do it myself. My spelling has evolved into a form of "Britlish" (about three posts back, you'll see my struggle to spell "defense"). I pronounce "Birmingham" and "Cheltenham" without mentioning pork products, and I even go on about the "hurricuns".

I love to hear the multi-flavoured accents: the Northumberland Geordie, the hefty Scottish brogue, the hodge-podge mid-country cadences, the proper Londonese, the posh public school intonations. I find myself dropping my own "R's"—car becomes "cah" and perfect is "puhfect". (Notice also, the placement of the period outside the quote mark: another tiny detail of Britishness I've picked up.)

BBC Radio 4 is my constant companion, tickling my fancy in a way NPR never did. In fact, I'm thinking of naming my next pet "Cromarty" after the Shipping Forecast. In the morning, I listen to the medley of stirring British anthems on BBC radio. My heartbeat quickens to Rule Brittania, slows to Greensleeves. (I haven't started humming Oasis tunes in the shower. Yet.)

We won't discuss The Archers. Everyone is allowed one mistake.

Somewhere along the way, I've fallen in love with England (Wales, Ireland and eventually Scotland too). Just like a love affair, it's hard to say exactly what aspect is most pleasing—is it the green hills? The history encroaching on a thin modern veneer? The orgasmic flowers? The cute little Minis, the iPod of the car world?

Living here is a lesson in history. I've literally tripped over it, on steps sunken by the trodding of many feet. Serendipitous connecting-the-dots occurs often: One night I was reading a book about Charles Lamb, and it mentioned a street in London I'd just been walking down that afternoon. Even the dirt, after centuries of absorbing Man and his excrement, stinks with a history all its own.

Not all is roses, either the "Peace" kind or the War of. Commerce, for instance, is not as simple here as in the States, involving numerous trips to different shops in order to buy a newspaper, a book, and a lightbulb. And don't even get me started on lightbulbs: there are so many different types—bayonet, screw, narrow, wide, halogen, etc.—that you must carry one with you in order to replace it. (Not in your pocket, though.)

The British are remarkably patient. (The ones in a hurry all emigrated to Australia, I think, thus leaving the genetically placid.) I'm always the one standing in the queue, looking pointedly at my watch, or the ugly American harrying the waiter: "Do you realize (realise) we've been here an HOUR? I could get faster service in France!" (That gets their goat every time.)

And while we're on the subject: The dodgy décor (I don't care if you watched the last coronation on that sofa, it's rubbish!); the outdated plumbing (what's so difficult about single-handle faucets?) and have I mentioned the drafts lately?

But most of the time I'm happy to muddle through like a native, lightbulbs in my pocket. I make my way through the Rough Guide page by page, determined to see it all while I'm here. Other immigrants say they felt the same way their first year, afraid there's not enough time to see it all—in a place where the last thousand years are scattered around like litter on the A40.

So I rack up the miles, century by century, and wonder how people in America possibly manage, driving on the wrong side of the road.

World Farm Animal Day

At the Cotswolds Farm Park, animals like this Golden Guernsey Goat look forward to World Farm Animal Day.

Yesterday was World Vegetarian Day, but if you missed the celebration, don't despair: Today is World Farm Animal Day (celebrated on the birthday of Mahatma Gandhi). And the whole month of October is World Vegetarian Awareness Month.

Be sure to send someone an ecard in honor of WFAD. If you would like to help protect farm animals, check out the Humane Hints from the World Society for the Protection of Animals. Of course, the kindest thing you can do for animals is to not eat them. If you're thinking of switching to a vegetarian diet, here's a Starter Kit from the Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine. Or you can order one from GoVeg.com.

Really, who would want to eat an animal this gorgeous?

Searching for Political Perfection

Lately I've been in a political malaise and I think one reason is because I've been hanging out too much in the left side of the blogosphere, where the sound of a thousand keyboards typing in lockstep is sometimes deafening.

There's a progressive orthodoxy (sadly, that's not an oxymoron) that demands 100% compliance on the issue of the day: John Roberts' confirmation is the latest example. Any politician who dares to buck the prevailing mandate is tossed aside like a 7th grade boyfriend. Senators and representatives who once were admired are shunned forever after one vote, often with a "You and your little party too!" denunciation of the entire Democratic party. (The all-or-nothing attitude is rampant in the vegan blogosphere, too, though I doubt it reflects the views of most vegans.)

Today, via The Washington Monthly, I learned someone else understands how I feel:

When we lash out at those who share our fundamental values because they have not met the criteria of every single item on our progressive "checklist," then we are essentially preventing them from thinking in new ways about problems. We are tying them up in a straightjacket and forcing them into a conversation only with the converted.

Thank you, Senator Obama, for saying what I've been feeling. (Do read the whole thing, it's all quote worthy.) Maybe I tend to be more forgiving of politicians, both left and right, because I've known a few, but, unlike Nora Ephron, one vote does not end my infatuation. (It took me several years to fall out of love with Bill Clinton, and even now I'd take him back, seeing as how my current boyfriend president is a wife beater.)

This willingness to forgive doesn't make me a pragmatic Democrat. It's not pragmatic to feel strongly about the death penalty, universal health care, freedom of (and from) religion, the sanctity of life, both human and animal. As Senator Obama says,

I am not arguing that the Democrats should trim their sails and be more "centrist." In fact, I think the whole "centrist" versus "liberal" labels that continue to characterize the debate within the Democratic Party misses the mark. Too often, the "centrist" label seems to mean compromise for compromise sake, whereas on issues like health care, energy, education and tackling poverty, I don't think Democrats have been bold enough.

I disagree with anyone who doesn't share my views, obviously, yet I might consider voting for him or her, just as I would vote for someone who listens to jazz, or likes raw tomatoes, or wears cologne. I vote for someone who, for the most part, shares my basic values, and is beholden to as few special interests as possible—including me.

My search for a perfect politician ended about the time I realized my kids weren't perfect either, but I support them anyway. As a wise politician I once worked for said, "If you want a candidate you'll always agree with, you must run yourself." Since I'm too busy to run for office (on a platform of eliminating perfume use worldwide), I'll be voting for someone else.

CLEAR-LIGHT-OF-DAY ADDENDUM: Maybe I should add that when a politician gives heartfelt reasons for voting the way he or she does, I'm a lot more willing to forgive, even admire, that vote. Which is why Feingold and Obama (who voted against Roberts, he says) get my deepest admiration. But Biden, whose only reason for supporting the bankruptcy bill seems to be his MBNA-enhanced campaign coffers, just gets my derision. (I'm sure he's crying all the way to the bank.)

Also, hat tip to Intous for the Nora Ephron link.