What Do I Know?

I Survived This Once, I Can Again. Maybe.

The last day of a crazy month. Can't say I'll miss May.

Today is the awards ceremony at Daughter Number Two's school. I am hoping to win the coveted Parent Award for Heroism Above and Beyond the Call of Duty.*

Senioritis is still making my life a living hell. Last week she called from school, had me convert her .fcp file to a .mov file and, after opening her desktop on my computer, burn the file onto a CD—all of which is outside my comfort zone. Then I raced to school in time for her to show the video to her class, thus saving her A in English. (She'd been in Germany for a softball tournament until the day before, and hadn't had time to work on the project beforehand.) Yesterday a similar incident occurred, but fortunately all I had to do was drive her to school after she did her own file converting (these things invariably take more time than she anticipates, which is one reason why I think technology should be banned from schools).

Senior year ought to be banned too, or at least made more bearable with copious amounts of alcohol. And let's ban proms, too, while we're at it. Much more trouble than they're worth. I didn't even get a kiss when it was over.

Next week is graduation. I think I have earned a nice dinner out. Or at the very least a trip to North Wales. 

*There is no such award, but there should be.

UPDATE: Wow. The M40 was closed for three junctions, both directions, due to this. We avoided it, thank goodness, when I saw the stream of traffic heading toward High Wycombe, and went the backroads to the school—which were lovely, with rhododendrons hanging overhead. Unfortunately, many other parents didn't make it to the ceremony. Daughter Number Two picked up another scholarship, so I was glad I was there. Ironically, the scholarship was named for a family who'd lost their children in a car accident while they lived here. So forget all that whiney stuff I said earlier.

Wednesday Food Blogging: Quinoa with Chipotle and Black Beans

Chipotle: the perfect cure for jet lag

Last week my daughter's boyfriend arrived from Albuquerque, bringing chiles and salsa. So it didn't take much imagination to figure out what to do with the quinoa in my pantry.

It's been a busy week, and meals that appear on the table in a hurry are much appreciated, as are care packages from New Mexico. The boyfriend left for Stuttgart on Sunday, my husband followed him to Hanover on Monday, and today Daughter Number Two One (sorry, must not post when exhausted!) arrived from New Jersey, where she is now domiciled.

I have jet lag, and I haven't even been on a plane.

For cooking instructions, click below. I served this with sautéed zucchini (courgettes in the U.K., calabacitas in New Mexico), warm tortillas and of course, Sadie's Salsa.

The Interview, cont.: Arf!

My chatty dog, telling me she'd like to walk down that block this time.

KathyR's last question involves one of my favorite subjects, my pets:

5. You have a pretty chatty relationship with your dog. Have you had other chatty pets before this one?

For those of you who don't understand what she's talking about, you'll have to read this post, in which I first introduced my dog to my readers. And here I expanded a little more on our conversations. Yes, I talk to my dog, and I am positive she talks back. If you find that strange, you are at the wrong blog.

As long as I can remember I've had dogs. First there was Trixie, a fluffy white puppy who got ran over before she learned to talk. Then there was Buster, a mutt who lived outdoors, thus was not exposed to much human language, and Red, who it turned out wasn't our dog at all—he'd strayed away from home one day but we quickly adopted him as our own when he stood between my father and his belt and my misbehaving brother, growling menacingly. His owner came by a few weeks later, looking for her dog, so we agreed to share him.

One day the house next door burned down, a terrifying experience for a five-year-old. Even after we moved away, I was convinced if I let down my guard my house would burn down too. I couldn't sleep at night, and had terrible separation anxiety. My mom stayed in my room every night until I fell asleep, and when I woke during the night I crawled into bed with her—if I could muster the courage to walk out of my bedroom and down a hall that might surely be consumed with flames any minute.

One night, the summer after a disastrous first grade year, I dreamed that I had a kitten, and was no longer frightened. When I told my mom about my dream, she immediately looked in the paper for a kitten. All that was available was a white poodle puppy.

We got FiFi that afternoon, after I'd helped count pennies until we had $40 to pay for her. And although my fears didn't disappear overnight, I was able to attend second grade without crying every day. I loved FiFi, and nurturing her the way I had that kitten in my dream did indeed dissolve many of my fears.

FiFi lived a long time, until after I got married and moved into my own home. The day the moving van left after moving us on base, where we were allowed to have dogs, I went to pick up the puppy I'd picked out the week before, a buff-coloured cocker spaniel named Bonnie. I was three months pregnant at the time, and I learned many mothering skills practicing on my puppy.

When Daughter Number One came, one of the first words she recognized was "Bonnie". I remember asking her as a three-month-old, "Where's Bonnie?" and watching her look to the floor, which told me she understood what I was saying. Eureka!

This first lesson in language development stuck with me throughout the years as I raised two very verbal daughters. Bonnie eventually went deaf at age thirteen, and then loud claps were all she could understand.

About this time we brought another animal into our lives, a male rat named Boyd. I didn't like the idea of small caged animals, but when we moved to Dayton when Daugher Number Two was ten, she didn't handle the move very well. (Like mother, like daughter.) She told me one day if she only had a little pet she could hold, she'd feel better. So, like my own mother had, I took her to PetSmart, and after having her read the information provided by the store on hamsters, gerbils, and rats, we both decided a rat would be a great pet.

Of course I didn't keep Boyd in his cage, at least during the day when I was the only one home. He roamed the house, collecting bits and pieces of whatever caught his eye—a tin measuring cup, dog food, furniture from the doll house—and hiding it where we couldn't find it. He absolutely hated my husband, and would lie in wait and attack him when he came home, so I had to put him in his cage in the evenings.

He kept me company during the day, while I was busy writing—and if you don't think a rat is good company, again, you're at the wrong blog. My daughter and I were heartbroken when he died, a few months after Bonnie died. Fortunately, it was Poetry Month, and she wrote beautiful poetry for her sixth grade class about losing her pet.

Not long afterward, I was outside, putting bird seed out for the birds in the tree underneath which he was buried. I swear to this day when I called the birds that he heard me. A weird feeling came over me, an overwhelming "Boyd" feeling.

Not long before Bonnie died, I had another experience with post-traumatic stress disorder (to recap, I was bitten by a two-year-old male Chesapeake Bay retriever, and the next week chased by another aggressive male dog, and ended up terrified of dogs). So after Boyd died, I knew I knew I needed another puppy, right away. I deliberately chose the least aggressive breed I could find—I was determined I would not be afraid of dogs, and a golden retriever seemed like the best antidote to my latest fear.

Now I had a chance to apply everything I'd learned about language development, only this time to a canine. I talked to her often, and there is nothing like a golden for making you feel you are being heard. She'd cock her head, listening intently, and talking as well: "Can I have this shoe I found in your closet?" she'd ask silently, looking in at me from the office doorway. "No, that's not your toy," I'd tell her firmly. A few minutes we'd go through the same thing again: "Can I have this bra I found in your closet? I think it might fit me."

I taught her how to tell time—"tomorrow" and "five minutes" are both concepts she understands perfectly. (Here's a list of words she knows, for the more pedantic among you.)  I've read a few books on language development in animals, and once I wrote a letter to the New York Times on that very topic. She is much more verbal than any other animal I've lived with, except maybe my daughter. (I swear my dog talks to me more than my laconic husband.)

There's a serious side to all my doggy talk: dogs can heal, as I'm well aware. They're also darn good company (as are rodents, by the way). I've always wanted to get my dog involved in pet therapy, but she flunked the test as a very excited not-quite-two-year-old, so I decided to pursue it when she's older. But I saw her in action with my mom—she didn't care that my mom's mind was failing, or that she spilled food and wore a diaper. She loved her unconditionally, the same way all my dogs loved me, an ugly little redhaired girl who was afraid of everything, even, occasionally, dogs.

Some of you may wonder why I've never mentioned my dog by name. She does have one, as many of you know. At first I was worried about security, as were all of us new to the web. I changed my passwords, but I realized that by speaking of her anonymously, she'd become The Dog. Every Dog, a sort of stylistic symbol of dogness that fit my writers' voice perfectly.

And that fits this post, doesn't it?

Now, the interview is over. My thanks to KathyR for asking such thought-provoking questions. Who knew I had so much to say? (If you missed any of it, see questions one, two, three and four. Or not.)

If you'd like to participate in this blog thing and be interviewed by me, either on your own blog or here in comments, please let me know. You don't have to be as verbose as me, or my dog—one word answers are fine. It's good therapy, though. I had no idea all this stuff would come out—I seriously needed a psychiatrist when I was a kid, didn't I?

Yes, the dog answers, wondering if that involves going in the car.

The Interview, cont: I Thought You'd Never Ask!

KathyR, who really should consider a career in journalism, continues her questions:

4. Your bloggy bits on animals and vegetarianism have been inspiring to me. Not inspiring enough to make me a vegetarian yet, but at least more conscious. How long have you been a vegetarian? Isn't it hard to be vegetarian in Louisiana, the sportsman's paradise, the home of fried fishes and boiled crustaceans?

I am glad I'm raising your consciousness, KathyR!

I've always wanted to be a vegetarian, even before I knew the word. In fact, I wanted to be vegan, when, in first grade, they made us drink that warm yucky milk from those little cartons. The lunchroom lady would stand at the tray disposal area and shake our cartons to see if we'd drank our allotted share. I was sent back time and time again, to choke down the dreaded USDA milk. One day I learned the word "allergic" and I used that to my advantage. I was also "allergic" to those nasty hamburgers they served, and anything else I didn't like, until one day my mother came to school and was asked how she managed to feed me, since I was allergic to so many foods!

But, it was a long time before I actually used the word vegetarian, since that was grounds for ridicule in Louisiana where I grew up. As much as I loathed the idea of eating meat, I was scared of my brother and father even more. They already considered me an oddball, preferring reading to playing outdoors. My brother tormented me for just about any reason, probably, I realize now, because I was a major embarrassment to him. Lanky and redhaired, myopic and freckled, and a spinach lover besides...heck, he probably dropped out of high school to avoid being teased about his weird sister. My father was a real meat and potatoes man, and he used to scare me with tales of what happened to little girls who didn't eat their meat. Anemia, whatever that was, would afflict me for sure, and I'd be dead within the month. Plus, there was the implied threat that I'd lose the love and respect of my father—a terrifying prospect for adolescent girls.

I slipped my steak to the dog under the table, and managed to stay healthy—probably because I ate every vegetable my mom put in front of me, and begged for more. I never understood kids who hated vegetables, since I absolutely loved squash, peas, spinach, broccoli, beans...you name it, I'd eat it. Except raw tomatoes. We all have to draw the line somewhere.

When I began cooking for myself, I mostly cooked vegetables, though I didn't know much about vegetarian cooking. And after I married and started cooking for my husband, I figured he wanted meat, and again, fear of ridicule kept me from announcing my desire to become vegetarian. (We still lived in Louisiana, where, as I mentioned before, alligator is a menu item and turkeys are either fried or smoked, never adopted.) Plus I still didn't know much about vegetarian cooking, or cooking in general for that matter, other than what my mom had taught me. The perfectionist in me didn't want to venture outside my comfort zone without a guide, and back then there were few resources—especially free resources—for vegetarian wannabes.

To answer your question, sometime after we moved to Madison in 1992 I realized I was no longer cooking meat. I remember the last plate of shrimp creole I ate, from the fantastic New Orleans Take-Out in east Madison. When I realized that there were 12 lives sacrificed for my meal, I no longer wanted to eat shrimp.

I also remember the last time we served turkey for Thanksgiving. My husband wanted to have a "real" Thanksgiving feast for the international students we'd invited over. I insisted we pray for the soul of the turkey before anyone ate, and that was never an issue again.

The decision to become vegetarian, for me, was primarily about my fear of ridicule and need for approval versus my abhorrence of cruelty and my love for animals. I guess sensitive people, who are more likely to become vegetarians, also are more stung by the cruel comments directed at us. I finally conquered that fear, thankfully, and now am especially concerned that my family, who basically came along for the vegetarian ride with me, don't experience any of the stupid comments people make. (It's getting better, partly because I'm hanging around a better class of people, though my cousin still introduces me to waiters with the words "She's weird; she doesn't eat meat.")

A couple of things helped me convert to vegetarianism. One, subscribing to Vegetarian Times made me realize my choice was perfectly valid, and it gave me lots of counterpoints to those stupid comments. Two, having enough disposable income to afford a cookbook or two—cookbooks just weren't a line item in the family budget when my husband was a lieutenant (but I've since made up for the lean years). I really just needed the knowledge to back up the desire, and the ability to feed my family delicious vegetarian (and eventually vegan) meals. (Note: my husband is actually more than willing to cook, but since I'm home most days, I'm the one primarily responsible for dinner. Wouldn't want him to come off sounding like a Neanderthal.)

As for surviving in Louisiana, those visits back home were and still are some of the toughest times for a vegetarian. Some members of my family still make a fuss about having to feed me, even though I've convinced them I'm maintenance free now. ("I guess we have to go to Piccadilly, since that's the only place Kathy can get vegetables." Meanwhile, I'm looking longingly at the new Middle Eastern restaurant that just opened.) My father-in-law, who used to cook outdoors whenever we came—briskets, steaks, burgers, crawfish—was disappointed at first when we became vegetarian, but later he'd go to the farmer's market and present me with an array of veggies as if they were the equivalent of the fatted calf he normally, not so figuratively, cooked for his geographically wayward children. I love him for that.

I will confess to a secret: I'm on a mission now to convert much of the world to a vegetarian diet. As more and more people become vegetarian, it gets easier and easier for me to survive. Even in Louisiana I've noticed the grocery stores carry vegetarian foods now. One day we'll rule the aisles, and the restaurants, and we'll subsidize farmers to grow broccoli and spinach and swiss chard.

But I promise we'll never ridicule you omnivores.

Next up:

5. You have a pretty chatty relationship with your dog. Have you had other chatty pets before this one?

Things I Read on Memorial Day

Andrew Bacevich, a history and international relations professor at Boston University, has been speaking out against the war and our international policies since before the Iraq War began. As a young Army officer, he saw first hand the effects of a disastrous war in Viet Nam.

On May 13 his son, also an Army officer, was killed in Salah al-Din province by a suicide bomb explosion. He writes in the Washington Post:

Memorial Day orators will say that a G.I.'s life is priceless. Don't believe it. I know what value the U.S. government assigns to a soldier's life: I've been handed the check. It's roughly what the Yankees will pay Roger Clemens per inning once he starts pitching next month.

At the Washington Monthly blog, Kevin Drum sums up an article in the NY Times on how soldiers in Iraq feel about the war now, after finding the same Iraqi troops they're training by day have been bombing them at night:

The reports of individual soldiers provide a very limited view into how well or how badly the war is going. But eventually their voices add up, and it sounds like Delta Company has figured out the truth: that they're mostly just training Iraqi soldiers to be more efficient at killing both Americans and each other. They're inflaming a foreign civil war, not defending America, and the fact that their commander in chief continues to insist that they risk their lives anyway represents a betrayal of trust rarely equaled in modern history. These guys deserve better. They deserve a president who understands when to fight, how to fight, and how to win. George Bush plainly understands none of these things.

If you need a visual to illustrate this post, the New York Times has a moving photo in their slide show this morning, of a young woman lying on the grave of her fiancé who is buried at Arlington National Cemetery. She looks to be about the age of the Bush twins.

How sad that this Memorial Day there are so many more loved ones to remember.

The Interview, cont.: Part III

KathyR's questions continue:

3. You were a political operative here in the states. Other than writing your pointy open letters to Tony Blair, have you gotten involved in politics in any hands-on way Over There?

Interesting question, KathyR! I enjoyed my time playing politics so much in the States I hated to leave, and was briefly—very briefly—consoled by the idea that with an election coming up here, I might help an MP get elected. But I soon discovered that politics here is very, very different from that practiced in the States.

For one thing, the parliamentary system means that the party with the most representatives—Members of Parliament, or MPs—gets to form a government. The leader of the party becomes prime minister, which isn't nearly as much fun as the rough and tumble presidential elections we have in the U.S. Plus, most folks here aren't nearly as passionate about politics as we are in the States. (I guess they aren't nearly as passionate about anything, but that's another question.)

One thing I really like about elections here is that there is no television or radio advertising. Much less money is spent on elections; however, there are no limits to party contributions, which means a few wealthy people are the main contributors to the parties. Some people contribute millions of pounds, and then are rewarded with honours—a process referred to her as the "Cash for Honours" scandal.

Another thing I like about British elections is that MP candidates get out and walk the streets. With smaller constituencies than Congressional districts, candidates are more likely to knock at your door. In fact, if I were a British citizen I'd probably consider running myself, something I'd never imagine doing in the U.S.

An interesting note about the recent council elections: they were all about rubbish. That is, every incumbant who lost did so in a council that instituted fortnightly rubbish collection. People reacted by tossing the bums out. That sort of paints a wider picture of the political environment here: they seem to get hung up on minor events, trivial complaints that, compared to the major problems we're having in the U.S. at the moment—45 million without health care, a two trillion-dollar war, a politicized justice department—are almost laughable. One of the big scandals right after I arrived was when the Home Office minister expedited a visa application for his girlfriend's nanny—gasp! Recently the education minister was lambasted in the press for sending her learning disabled son to a private school. Get a life, people.

So the answer to your question is no. I listen, and watch, and am mostly amused by the half-hearted efforts of David Cameron to take on first Tony, and now Gordon. Although I'm no fan of Tony Blair myself, the mistakes his government has made pale in comparison to those of our own administration.

However, if they consider going to fortnightly rubbish collection here, I may change my mind.

Friday Bull Blogging

Birmingham Bull

Yesterday I took my daughter and her boyfriend, who arrived Tuesday, to Birmingham for a concert. (Note to Americans: Birmingham is pronounced "bir-ming'm" here. No mention at all of pork products.) I'd never been to B'ham (motorway shorthand), and I imagined a grimey Midlands industrial city. I was wrong. The city centre is quite nice, with excellent shopping and plenty of well-lit parking. This bull was outside the Bullring Shopping Centre, the origins of which I don't want to speculate about.

And while they enjoyed the concert (Funeral for a Friend) my husband came in by train and we went to see that Pirates of the Caribbean sequel.

What a weird movie. I wish all the bits without Johnnie Depp had been cut, and then it would have lasted about 45 minutes and not been nearly so disgusting. FX people shouldn't feel they need to show off so much. Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.

And while we're talking about teenage behaviour, tonight is prom, held at Pinewood Studios. The parents get to go for the first little bit, just to see the place. I'm hoping it's worth dressing up for. And then afterward, I'm having the after-prom party and sleepover here. Any ideas on where to hide the liquor?

The Interview, cont.: The Name Thing

Question number two:

Why did you become a Flake?

This is a good question for today, since it's my anniversary. (Happy anniversary, dear! See? I didn't forget!) I've often wondered if my fellow feminists think I'm a fraud, taking my husband's name instead of maintaining my own unique identity. A couple of incidents actually contributed to my decision to change my name from KathyS to KathyF, one of which I think KathyR can relate to.

When I married my husband I was just finishing my junior year of college. It never occurred to me to change my name. I'd developed, over the years, a pretty good reputation as KathyS, and as editor of my university yearbook, I couldn't imagine changing my name midstream, and having to explain when I phoned someone who I was. Plus, my professors knew me as KathyS, and all my school records were under my name.

So I kept my name, and also my checking account. When I got my dependent ID (now there's a name I'd like to get rid of!) the airman preparing the papers didn't bat an eyelash at at my decision to keep my name, even though this was in the early 80s. Not so many women did that then.

After a year I graduated and we moved to a new apartment. I took my ID and my shopping list to the base commissary, prepared to buy all the necessities a young foodie needs for her first apartment.

When I showed the checkout lady my ID, and wrote her a check from my own account, she told me she couldn't accept the check, since I didn't share my husband's name. I was shocked, humiliated (she implied I was trying to get a benefit I wasn't entitled to) and downright mad. I cried all the way home, to my empty pantry.

Something else happened around this time. My brother married a slut girl named Kathy. He soon discovered, along with the rest of us, that she was No Good. She, however, had no qualms about taking his name, and now there were two of us named KathyS. It occurred to me that one day I might read about myself being arrested for drugs, prostitution, or who knows what in the local paper, and I wondered if anyone I went to high school with would think it was me.*

They were only together a few weeks, but it took him a long time to divorce her. Meanwhile, she was skipping out on bills all over town. One day, during a weekend I was visiting my mom, a sheriff came by, looking for KathyS, who'd left my mom's address as her mailing address. Fortunately, I was off somewhere, or else he'd have arrested my ass and drug me down to the local pokey. (I like to imagine my husband would have heroically saved me, by possibly calling in the 8th Air Force.)

This, followed by the incident at the commissary, convinced me I was better off a Flake. At least there weren't any arrest warrants out for KathyF. (Although if I ever get my hands on that checkout lady, there might be.)

Now, I love my name. People remember you when you're a Flake, and that's a good thing, usually. I love my husband's family, and am proud to be one of them, but more than that, I feel like a Flake now—it has become my own unique identity, the one I chose. I wouldn't change my name for anything.

*Ironically, when I was home recently, my brother told me he had indeed read about his former wife in the paper recently. She'd been arrested for domestic violence—she beat up her husband. I was right to be worried.

Wednesday Food Blogging: Asparagus and Mushroom Crepes

I can't believe it's vegan.

The other night my daughter was in Germany for a softball tournament, leaving my husband and me alone. So of course my thoughts turned to food.

I wanted to fix something elegant, something fussy. But not too fussy. I am, after all, something of a toss-together cook, and that's not going to change with one recipe.

I had some fresh English asparagus, and mushrooms I'd picked up at the farmers market. All that was needed was a simple crepe batter of flour and soy milk and a deft hand with the spatula. My hand is not so deft: I ended up ruining a few crepes, but in the end I had 6, just enough for the bunch of asparagus.

With a lovely tossed salad alongside, it was a very nice light meal. Tres elegant, and surprisingly easy as well.

Sorry, Daughter Number Two, you missed a good one. But you did catch some flies, so I guess that's okay.

KathyF: The Interview

There's this blog thing going around, which I first saw at Imperatrix's place and then at KathyR's. A blogger answers 5 interview questions, submitted by the original blogger. (Sort of like Original Sin, only not as much fun.) After being interviewed, a blogger invites others to play along, and interviews anyone who asks.

Since those two imparted such interesting details about their lives, I figured I'd play along too, though I warn you, my life is much more mundane. I didn't steal anyone's husband or fiance, or even anyone's lunch. I did once express outrage about a fellow PTO board member who stole a school computer.

I'll answer the first question today, and hopefully one a day afterward.

KathyR asks:

1. You're living in the UK now, and have lived in New Mexico and Louisiana that I know of. Have you lived anywhere else? Do you have a favorite among the places you've lived? (Two, two, two questions in one.)

Glad you asked, KathyR! I have lived in other places, as one does when one is married to an Air Force officer.

We started out in Louisiana, at a small base that was an early victim of the base closure list. I had a baby there, which was nice since my in-laws live nearby and my mom wasn't too far either. But I wanted to see the world, especially the parts of the world where "alligator" was considered a zoo creature rather than a menu item.

From there we went to Austin, Texas. Shall I tell you how much I hated Austin? (KathyR: Why sure, KathyF!) I know, it's supposed to be the best place to live in Texas, some say the South, but it reminded me of a small town wearing its father's grown-up shoes. The first question anyone asked upon meeting me was invariably "Where did YOU go to high school?!" as if they would know. And as if it mattered. I worked at the Texas state capitol (proofreading the budget during the time Ann Richards was treasurer) and I was appalled at how many women wore furs. And how that was a huge topic of conversation among the secretaries in the office. (A woman's worth seemed directly tied to the amount her husband spent on her coyote jacket.) This, understandably, left me with a bad impression of Texans in general, and Austinites in particular.

Or maybe it was because the neighbors never invited me along on their outings (despite the fact we had toddlers the same age). Or maybe it was because we lived just outside the city limits, and therefore couldn't use the library. (I never liked that show Austin City Limits because of the painful memories.) Or maybe it was the strange looks the neighbors gave us after they saw my dark-skinned in-laws visit. (This was also the first time I'd ever seen racism directed at Hispanics rather than blacks.)

It was a relief to finally move to Dayton, Ohio. The neighbors were much friendlier, in fact, it was the first time I had black neighbors (but not the last). We lived in a middle class neighborhood in a so-so school district, but we owned our own house and finally got to choose paint colors. (Peach and green. What was I thinking?) I sent the girls to a co-op nursery school (the same one Kim and Kelly Deal went to, for you Breeder fans) which meant I helped teach. I loved that, and frankly, learned as much as the kids did. (I'll never forget the time when I was 8 months pregnant and my assigned lesson was "Stop, Drop and Roll.")

We spent 5 years in Dayton. My youngest daughter was born there, my oldest went to first grade there. I got involved in the PTO, and helped to campaign for a school tax increase. (And learned how municipalities offer corporations tax relief in order to entice them to a community.)

My husband went off to Korea, leaving the girls and me alone in Dayton for a year. That's when I learned to appreciate wine from a box.

He came back just in time for us to move to Madison, Wisconsin. This answers the second part of your question, KathyR. Madison has many times been proclaimed the best place to live by some magazine or survey group, and it's earned the honor. The libraries? Excellent, and only a bike ride from our house. (And next door to the brewery!) The schools? The finest anywhere. The shopping? I once counted five educational toy stores within a couple of miles from my house. There were also a huge number of book shops. The eating? This is where I became vegetarian, due to the abundance of veggie food options, including a bookshop with a veggie restaurant inside! I also discovered Matt's Cookies, and the best New Orleans food outside of Crescent City.

I became even more involved with my girls' schools in Madison, and that's also where I took up writing. (Those libraries!) I worked for a while (believe it or not, helping to edit an engineering encyclopedia) and our house became the hangout for all the grad students from the Solar Lab. Or at least the place they came for a home cooked meal, just like sort of like Mom made. Or maybe it was our woodstove that attracted them; despite subzero temperatures, our house was never cold. (Cue twangy music here.)

The only problem I had with Madison is some Madisonians took themselves a little too seriously. Academics was a competitive sport there, not just at the university level. Some people needed a big dose of laissez les bons temps roullez. Again, we had black neighbors (coincidentally, from Louisiana) who became my daughter's de facto grandparents. Their granddaughter spent lots of time at my house, which never would have happened when I was growing up in the Deep South. I was so glad that my daughters had opportunities I never had, to grow up in an environment free of prejudice.

After Madison, where we clung long after my husband's job had required him to move back to Dayton (it's only a 7 hour commute!), we joined him in Dayton again. This time was different. We lived on base, and the schools were horrible, in fact, I ended up homeschooling Daughter Number Two, while Daughter Number One offered advice to her young English teacher and learned that not everyone comes from a nice middle class family where the parents shop at Eddie Bauer and drive Swedish cars. I'll never forget the time the principal told me there was no need to teach these kids algebra, since most of them would end up working at GM. All the math they needed to know was how to balance their checkbooks. I heard that sort of thing a lot from school "professionals." Prejudice, I learned, doesn't only have to do with the color of one's skin.

We were only there a year and a half, and were quite glad to leave. But not for greener pastures, not literally, anyway.

There were a lot of things to love about Albuquerque—most especially the people, who were the best anywhere. Absolutely no detectable hang ups, and I've gotten pretty good at detecting pretentiousness. Albuquerque is as real as it gets.

But I never felt completely at home in the high desert. The mountains frightened me, looming so high and ominous against the morning horizon. And I always missed the green. I was born in Louisiana, remember, and rock gardens never really seemed right to me.

But I loved my life there, and hated to leave.

That brings me here, and you know the rest, right KathyR? (Finally, those green pastures!)

More than you wanted to know, I'm sure.

Tomorrow: Why did you become a Flake?

Cutty Sark: We Hardly Knew Ye

Cutty Sark: R.I.P.

One of Britain's best preserved, and best loved, maritime treasures is ablaze. I just heard the news: Cutty Sark is on fire.

When I went to Greenwich a couple of years ago, we arrived back at Cutty Sark just as it was closing. Another time, I figured. She didn't look like she was going anywhere.

But now it's "100% on fire." From the looks of the images on TV, it doesn't look like there'll be much left.

The only tea clipper still around, the Cutty Sark was undergoing restoration. She was part of the Greenwich skyline, a landmark that contributed to Greenwich's status as a World Heritage Site. You can read more about her history here.

I did take photos while I was in Greenwich. Unless the firefighters are performing a miracle right now, these will be the last photos I'll get of Cutty Sark.

What a shame.

Friday Goat Blogging

(I know it's no longer Friday. I'm thinking of my readers in Hawaii.)

These Angora goats were at the Living Crafts Fair at Hatfield House, waiting to be turned into gloves.

Artisans and craftspeople from all over England were at the fair, demonstrating their craft as well as their wares. There were knitters, potters, weavers, and artists of all stripes.

Angora goats are responsible for mohair yarn. They've been bred in England for centuries, but originally came from Ankara. They're very sweet. I think I could easily get attached.

For more photos from the fair, click below. And if you want to do something to help farm animals in the U.S., click here for more information. Because the vast majority of animals raised for human consumption are not treated nearly as well as these lucky goats.

Bush: Screw the Troops!

Ever since I can remember (about 20 years) a 3.5 percent pay increase has been the norm for service  members.

But now, despite recommendations from the House Armed Services Committee, the White House opposes the increase:

Bush budget officials said the administration “strongly opposes” both the 3.5 percent raise for 2008 and the follow-on increases, calling extra pay increases “unnecessary.”

There were other White House complaints as well, regarding other benefits Congress has seen fit to offer military members:

A death gratuity for federal civilian employees who die in support of military operations, and new benefits for disabled retirees and the survivors of military retirees also drew complaints.

The administration also wants to impose fees for Tricare beneficiaries (me and mine), which Congress refused to do.

Why does George Bush hate the troops?

Regime Change Begins with Wolfowitz

Isn't it ironic that the person who once successfully advocated for regime change in Iraq—deposing by force a despot who refused to step aside despite threats from bigger armies—is himself refusing to quit despite pressure from an allied Europe? Isn't it ironic that the head of an organization devoted to stamping out "graft and corruption in public life" is himself guilty of improper behaviour regarding a girlfriend's pay package?

Is that not enough irony for you?

How about another high ranking administration official who now heads the department whose authority he once desperately tried to skirt in order to continue to break the law—the same department charged with deciding what the law is. And I swear I didn't make this up: that same official also advocates on behalf of the administration in favour of torture, in order to extract information from possible terrorists and law breakers. Yet there is evidence he himself has perjured himself in testimony to Congress—no word on whether or not that testimony was produced under threat of torture.

Oh, but there's one more:

An administration intent on spying on its citizens (see above) is refusing to divulge email correspondence that might prove involvement in shady or criminal activity, citing "deleted email" that was sent on a non-governmental account. Wiretaps. Who knew they were so easy to avoid?

Impeach these guys already. Because they have already made clear they will not go on their own.

Wednesday Food Blogging: Kale with White Beans and Brown Rice

On Saturday my daughter's softball team had a triple header, up near Peterborough. After driving home through a rain storm, and another M25 diversion, we were hungry and too tired to cook, but the thought of three people eating out in this country makes my wallet shudder.

Fortunately I had a bag of chopped kale in the fridge (for some reason, kale comes pre-chopped here) and with the help of quick-cooking brown rice, I soon had dinner on the table. See how easy it is to cook up a vegetarian meal in a hurry? And cheap, too. Do your budget a favor; cook greens and beans instead of steak some night.

Cruciferous greens are kind to you waistline, too, and of course contain cancer-fighting antioxidants, plus calcium for us milk-haters. And with crushed red pepper and Tabasco for a kick in the taste buds, no one can complain there's no there there.

If you haven't tried kale, or you haven't been able to convince your kids to eat it, give this a try. (Maybe you could lay off the Tabasco, for tender young tongues.) Remember, kale, unlike most greens, needs to be cooked well or it is too chewy. Don't worry, though, there are plenty of vitamins to spare.

Seven

Mary Osborn (who hosts the wonderful Forest Walks blog, about her life in the New Forest) tagged me with a meme, in which you list seven things about yourself that no one knows, and then you tag seven people.

I'm not sure if I've played this one before, but I am a woman of neverending mystery, so here are seven things you may not have gleaned about me:

1. I am not afraid of spiders. Not in the least.

2. I used to be terrified of dogs. A few years ago I was bitten by a Chesapeake Bay retriever, and a week later a chained dog came after me and would have torn a chunk out of my tender flesh, but I ended up in a prickly hedge beyond the reach of his chain instead. (Both dogs were two-year-old intact males.) After this, I would hear a dog bark and freeze, looking for an escape from even the most harmless mutts. I finally got over it when I got my current dog, one reason I deliberately set out to get the least aggressive breed I could find.

3. I had a lot of fears growing up, that all seemed to start when the house next door burned down. Now they call that post-traumatic stress disorder, but back then they didn’t use words like that.

4. I am not really a health food nut. Right now, for instance, I am eating chips (crisps).

5. I am a perfectionist, and when people tell me I’m doing a good job at something I am sure they are lying, because I know darn well I could be doing better. But I’ve learned to smile and say thank you anyway.

6. I love antique furniture, especially old honey-coloured pine. I also like floral prints and white linens. My house is very chintzy. I am Ikea’s worst nightmare.

7. I majored in business in college, with a pre-law option. I hated the business part of it. I almost went to law school, but the day I got my acceptance letter (and notification of a full tuition scholarship) was the same day I found out I was pregnant with Daughter Number Two. My life has been a trial ever since. (Just kidding! I really love you, DNT!) (She’s very sensitive, you see, which is why my life really has been a trial for the last 18 years.)

Now I have to tag seven people. The way this works is, if you read this and your name is Kathy, you have to play, until we get seven Kathys who have participated in this meme. Cathys, Katherines, Kathleens, and even Katies have to play, since their parents were simply foresighted enough to see that every other girl born in the sixties would be nicknamed Kathy.

If you don't have a blog, well, that's what comment sections are for.

The Circle of Life

Knot garden at Hatfield House

Today is Mothers Day in the U.S., the first I've spent without a phone call to my mom. And this week Daughter Number One, having finished her degree in New Mexico, moved to New Jersey, where she is moving in with her boyfriend. Before she left I spoke to her on the phone. Hearing the excitement in her voice, the anticipation she felt bringing her cat to a new home, I realized that, in the same week my mom's life had ended, my daughter was entering a new phase of adulthood. One life passing, another just beginning.

The circle of life, I thought, while strains of the Lion King musical played somewhere in the background.

The knot garden above is at Hatfield House, where Elizabeth Tudor lived when she learned her sister had died and she was the new queen.

Happy Mothers Day to all the moms. The American ones, anyway—British mums were celebrated in March.

Friday Cow Blogging

Three cows, taking a nap in the sun, near Turville.

Not far away is the windmill featured in the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang:

A reminder: It is Be Kind to Animals Week, but of course every week is Be Kind to Animals Week around here. Although my dog is insisting that I don't give her nearly enough treats. We have a fundamental difference regarding the meaning of the word "kind", I have decided.

What Will We Do Without Tony Blair to Kick Around?

As you have no doubt heard (and let's face it, if you're waiting for me to tell you the news from the UK you are woefully uninformed, as I've been very remiss in my duties as an ex-pat political blogger) Tony Blair has announced his imminent departure from Number 10. He is, in other words, resigning.

Yes. He finally got the hint, perhaps even one of mine. Tony and I have a long relationship. I've written to him here, here, here, and here, back in the days when my blog was actually good. (Perhaps we could all learn a lesson from Tony's departure: Don't wear out your welcome. As Tony and I've both discovered, you can coast a long way on past glories, i.e. Google hits, but eventually voters and readers will discover you've lost that Downy fresh scent.)

Anyway, it looks very much like Gordon Brown will be the next prime minister, good news for hair stylists everywhere, as that unruly mop could surely use some £400 haircuts, but more importantly, good news for poodle lovers, as the poor maligned poodle will no longer be the go-to dog when appropriate analogies are needed to describe the Bush/Blair relationship.

I'm not sure what kind of dog Gordon Brown will be to Bush, in fact I don't think he'll be dog-like at all. Maybe he'll be more like a cat, content to let America chase after its own tail in Iraq while secretly plotting its economic downfall.

I'm not sure but what George and Dick ought to think seriously about invading Britain. I mean, how else will American tourists be able to afford this place?

Turn the Square Mile into the Green Zone; that'll put an end to the $2 pound.

Things I Saw

Sometimes you see the neatest things in sleepy English villages. Some examples:

A house in Kelmscott, Oxfordshire

Detail of stone carving—looks like his hat and cane are lying alongside this chap.

My favorite shade of lilac.

The sign on the other side of the village read "Slow Ducks Please", which made us wonder just what it was about sleepy English villages that makes ducks slow.