Today, I was reminded, marks the final 2 weeks before the US Presidential election. Today, I also voted.
Way back in June, I requested an absentee ballot from Brooklyn but I still haven't received it. Worried about the time and the Warden's message on the US embassy website that I should have voted by Oct 14, I downloaded an Emergency Federal Write-in Absentee Ballot. I put it in the mail today, and if I get my Brooklyn absentee ballot in the meantime, I'm to send that as well.
DK, my token Friend In Politics, chided me for not calling Brooklyn's Board of Elections and asking where my ballot it. I did call, but didn't get through after 3 minutes of a phone tree. At this point, I sort of gave up - New York will swing for Obama, and my vote, if it ever gets there and is actually counted, won't (really) matter. But in the end, it's the principle of the matter.
This is taking a lot more work than just standing in line at my polling place and pulling the lever to exercise my right, as an American citizen, to vote. I am annoyed by this process, and now have a sense of what it must feel like (in a very peripheral way) to be disenfranchised. If I stay here for an extended period of time, will I have to go through this for EVERY ELECTION?
So. Grumbles aside, I voted, I wrote in BARACK OBAMA/JOSEPH BIDEN on my absentee write-in ballot, put it in a security envelope, which got shoe-horned into another envelope, and mailed it off. Now you homekids back in the States who have the luxury of the polls being open from 9am-9pm on November 4th better go vote too.
Followup: Read Jezebel's post about voter disenfranchisement. I found my emergency absentee ballot here: somehow I feel this website is part of the Help America Vote Act provisions. I hope my ballot actually gets counted…
Followup II: Even Ben & Jerry want you to vote! So DO IT!
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
If one more British woman asks me if NYC is just like it looks in SATC…
I'm going to scream.
It's not that it is or isn't, it's that it was for some people and now isn't for anyone.
Sex and the City came out around 2000, 2001ish: the nascent days of the latest reincarnation of the (doomed) Gilded Age. New York was moving at the speed of light, gobbling up capital and pumping cash into a machine that spawned every imaginable service and boutique. Did you want to get some obscure kind of cat and then give it a relaxation pedicure once a week? Sure, that service existed - and if it didn't, you can bet it would shortly. For a small minority of people in New York, the Sex and the City lifestyle, though completely absurd and extremely ridiculous, was their reality for most of the early Naughts.
And, to be honest, the rest of us wanted it. And we did manage to mirror it on a much lower scale: we didn't spend $15 on a single cocktail every time we went out, or wear Manolos, or have financiers picking us up at our walk-ups in cars with their own drivers. Instead, we got dressed up in our very best H&M and treated ourselves to one extremely cher cocktail at a very chic-chic nightspot, and then went downtown to some dive bar and drank $2 PBRs until we stumbled to a subway or splurged on shared cabs to make our ways to our shared railroad apartments in Brooklyn.
It's not just that I was in my early 20s and just starting out; it wasn't that I didn't want to date suave, emotionally unavailable financiers; Sex and the City represented an idealized portrait of such a small minority of women in New York for such a finite period of time, that it can only be fantasy. I always mocked the Midwestern ladies who came to New York with their stilletos for girls weekends, trying to emulate Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte; they thought those characters were the epitome of New York women, and the New York way of life.
And therein lies the crux of the problem: no four archetypes can accurately portray all women in one city, and one television show can accurately portray life in a city as dynamic as New York for all time. It boggles my mind that women are still asking me today if New York is like New York in SATC, when the world is so vastly different from that moment of time in all ways - period. New York has always been its own creature, and its residents live a precarious existence on the brink of either succumbing to the beast or taming it no matter the cultural zeitgeist of the moment. Sex and the City depicted four mid-30s women in that struggle during a period of extreme wealth and prosperity; make that show again tomorrow and the storyline will look completely different, influenced by a completely different set of circumstances.
As annoying as it is to be asked about SATC every other day, I'm strangely okay with it. Somewhere along the way I realized that every woman who asks me is really just hoping the answer is yes - yes, there is a place where the economy is okay, women can live their own lives and do what they love and can afford a really nice apartment with a really great wardrobe and men aren't douchebags and if they are they at least take you to nice restaurants. Outside of SATC, that seems like a tall order and pretty impossible. Once in the comfort of that pink-boxed complete series boxset, however, the future can feel quite rosy, no matter what perfect storm - economic, cultural, political - is raging outside.
It's not that it is or isn't, it's that it was for some people and now isn't for anyone.
Sex and the City came out around 2000, 2001ish: the nascent days of the latest reincarnation of the (doomed) Gilded Age. New York was moving at the speed of light, gobbling up capital and pumping cash into a machine that spawned every imaginable service and boutique. Did you want to get some obscure kind of cat and then give it a relaxation pedicure once a week? Sure, that service existed - and if it didn't, you can bet it would shortly. For a small minority of people in New York, the Sex and the City lifestyle, though completely absurd and extremely ridiculous, was their reality for most of the early Naughts.
And, to be honest, the rest of us wanted it. And we did manage to mirror it on a much lower scale: we didn't spend $15 on a single cocktail every time we went out, or wear Manolos, or have financiers picking us up at our walk-ups in cars with their own drivers. Instead, we got dressed up in our very best H&M and treated ourselves to one extremely cher cocktail at a very chic-chic nightspot, and then went downtown to some dive bar and drank $2 PBRs until we stumbled to a subway or splurged on shared cabs to make our ways to our shared railroad apartments in Brooklyn.
It's not just that I was in my early 20s and just starting out; it wasn't that I didn't want to date suave, emotionally unavailable financiers; Sex and the City represented an idealized portrait of such a small minority of women in New York for such a finite period of time, that it can only be fantasy. I always mocked the Midwestern ladies who came to New York with their stilletos for girls weekends, trying to emulate Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte; they thought those characters were the epitome of New York women, and the New York way of life.
And therein lies the crux of the problem: no four archetypes can accurately portray all women in one city, and one television show can accurately portray life in a city as dynamic as New York for all time. It boggles my mind that women are still asking me today if New York is like New York in SATC, when the world is so vastly different from that moment of time in all ways - period. New York has always been its own creature, and its residents live a precarious existence on the brink of either succumbing to the beast or taming it no matter the cultural zeitgeist of the moment. Sex and the City depicted four mid-30s women in that struggle during a period of extreme wealth and prosperity; make that show again tomorrow and the storyline will look completely different, influenced by a completely different set of circumstances.
As annoying as it is to be asked about SATC every other day, I'm strangely okay with it. Somewhere along the way I realized that every woman who asks me is really just hoping the answer is yes - yes, there is a place where the economy is okay, women can live their own lives and do what they love and can afford a really nice apartment with a really great wardrobe and men aren't douchebags and if they are they at least take you to nice restaurants. Outside of SATC, that seems like a tall order and pretty impossible. Once in the comfort of that pink-boxed complete series boxset, however, the future can feel quite rosy, no matter what perfect storm - economic, cultural, political - is raging outside.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Stratford, Oxford, and Warwickshire in between
This past weekend, I had the opportunity to leave London and see a bit of the English countryside. The Irishman's work colleague got married at Coombe Abbey in Warwickshire, outside of the city of Coventry, and the Irishman asked me to accompany him as his date. I gladly accepted and we made a 3-day weekend of it, stopping in Stratford-upon-Avon on the way up, and Oxford on the way back.
The weather for this adventure was gorgeous, sunny and warm, and we set off Friday morning in fine spirits. It really is true that the minute you leave London, England is rolling hills dotted with cows and sheep – it just takes you about 2 hours to actually get out of the city. Traffic is horrendous and London is so sprawling that you can't tell if where you are is city or suburb. The only way I could tell is when I stopped seeing rows of houses one on top of another.
It took us a bit of time to get to Stratford-upon-Avon, and upon arrival we were confronted with tour buses, tourists, and construction. We decided ahead of time that we weren't going to be going to every single historic house that might have housed Shakespeare, or one of his relations, at one time or another. Instead, we went to his church, saw his grave and his birth and death records, and then wandered around the pretty town on our way to a pub on the Avon River. The town itself was gearing up for a festival, so there were rides, games, and fried food trucks lining the streets - a bit too American for this expat looking for the quintessential English village.
After a shandy in the sun at the Dirty Duck pub, we headed to the hotel to check in. The drive up the lane to the hotel more than made up for the festival in Stratford, because Coombe Abbey is AMAZING. We walked into a lobby that looked like a medieval palace, with dark wood alcoves, old books, and candles burning brightly. Our room was painted deep red, with a raised four poster canopy bed, velvet cushioned sofa, and clawfooted bathtub. I was so excited and kept saying "we don't have this s**t in America!"
Coombe Abbey, being the classy establishment that it is (and also, I suspect, inundated by rowdy footballers and WAGs), has a suggested dress code of "no trainers and jeans". So the Irishman and I decided to hunt down some dinner off the premises, in our casual clothes. We took a quick drive through Coventry, which has the reputation of being the ugliest city in England - it was the center of the country's automobile manufacturing prior to World War II ("The War"), when it was bombed to smithereens by the Germans and subsequently rebuilt in a boring, poured-concrete kind-of-way - and quickly decided that we'd do better outside of the city center. We found a nice country pub called The Bull on the outskirts of the city, just down the road from the hotel, and had a really nice dinner of the traditional English variety.
Saturday was the wedding, my first English wedding, and all I can say is that they really know how to drag it out. We went to bed around midnight, and been at that thing for 12 straight hours. It was a lovely affair, complete with an excruciatingly long Best Man's Speech and several toasts.
We woke Sunday with sore heads, and walked off our hangovers with a lovely stroll through the grounds surrounding the hotel. The hotel was a former monastery, converted into a stately home by a private family and over the years the land was acquired by Coventry to create a public-use parkland. So we walked the fields surrounding the now-hotel like one ought to on a Sunday in England, enjoying the sun and fresh air. Invigorated, we decided to make one last stop in Oxford on our way back to London.
Oxford was amazing - ancient buildings, scholarly traditions, high-street chain stores, and hipster youth all rolled into one. We only spent about 2 hours wandering through town, so I will definitely go back; Oxford is home to several of the museums that I studied in graduate school - the Ashmolean, the Pitt-Rivers - and I want to actually go into some of the school buildings. It reminds me of an older, more built up Princeton, NJ - my own pre-collegiate stomping ground.
Alas our lovely Midlands weekend had to end, so JP and I wrapped it up with a comforting curry at our favorite Indian restaurant, Zaffrani. We couldn't have had a better weekend, and I was really not pleased to have it end. At least (of course!) I took pictures, and you can see them here.
The weather for this adventure was gorgeous, sunny and warm, and we set off Friday morning in fine spirits. It really is true that the minute you leave London, England is rolling hills dotted with cows and sheep – it just takes you about 2 hours to actually get out of the city. Traffic is horrendous and London is so sprawling that you can't tell if where you are is city or suburb. The only way I could tell is when I stopped seeing rows of houses one on top of another.
It took us a bit of time to get to Stratford-upon-Avon, and upon arrival we were confronted with tour buses, tourists, and construction. We decided ahead of time that we weren't going to be going to every single historic house that might have housed Shakespeare, or one of his relations, at one time or another. Instead, we went to his church, saw his grave and his birth and death records, and then wandered around the pretty town on our way to a pub on the Avon River. The town itself was gearing up for a festival, so there were rides, games, and fried food trucks lining the streets - a bit too American for this expat looking for the quintessential English village.
After a shandy in the sun at the Dirty Duck pub, we headed to the hotel to check in. The drive up the lane to the hotel more than made up for the festival in Stratford, because Coombe Abbey is AMAZING. We walked into a lobby that looked like a medieval palace, with dark wood alcoves, old books, and candles burning brightly. Our room was painted deep red, with a raised four poster canopy bed, velvet cushioned sofa, and clawfooted bathtub. I was so excited and kept saying "we don't have this s**t in America!"
Coombe Abbey, being the classy establishment that it is (and also, I suspect, inundated by rowdy footballers and WAGs), has a suggested dress code of "no trainers and jeans". So the Irishman and I decided to hunt down some dinner off the premises, in our casual clothes. We took a quick drive through Coventry, which has the reputation of being the ugliest city in England - it was the center of the country's automobile manufacturing prior to World War II ("The War"), when it was bombed to smithereens by the Germans and subsequently rebuilt in a boring, poured-concrete kind-of-way - and quickly decided that we'd do better outside of the city center. We found a nice country pub called The Bull on the outskirts of the city, just down the road from the hotel, and had a really nice dinner of the traditional English variety.
Saturday was the wedding, my first English wedding, and all I can say is that they really know how to drag it out. We went to bed around midnight, and been at that thing for 12 straight hours. It was a lovely affair, complete with an excruciatingly long Best Man's Speech and several toasts.
We woke Sunday with sore heads, and walked off our hangovers with a lovely stroll through the grounds surrounding the hotel. The hotel was a former monastery, converted into a stately home by a private family and over the years the land was acquired by Coventry to create a public-use parkland. So we walked the fields surrounding the now-hotel like one ought to on a Sunday in England, enjoying the sun and fresh air. Invigorated, we decided to make one last stop in Oxford on our way back to London.
Oxford was amazing - ancient buildings, scholarly traditions, high-street chain stores, and hipster youth all rolled into one. We only spent about 2 hours wandering through town, so I will definitely go back; Oxford is home to several of the museums that I studied in graduate school - the Ashmolean, the Pitt-Rivers - and I want to actually go into some of the school buildings. It reminds me of an older, more built up Princeton, NJ - my own pre-collegiate stomping ground.
Alas our lovely Midlands weekend had to end, so JP and I wrapped it up with a comforting curry at our favorite Indian restaurant, Zaffrani. We couldn't have had a better weekend, and I was really not pleased to have it end. At least (of course!) I took pictures, and you can see them here.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
My Perfect Saturday
Continuing the topic of food, and travel, and the fact that I live in London, etc, my friend Kat hipped me to another food blog called Londonelicious who she thinks I should befriend over wine and tapas somewhere in N1. I have to admit the girl has a way with words and a keen eye for London restaurants, so I was excited to see that she has invited comments on her post "Your Perfect Saturday in London - or elsewhere" - bloggers are asked to detail their perfect Saturday with food and link back to her post. So, gamely, I shall try... be gentle with me, I've only been here for 5 months! The only caveat is, I'm going to do my perfect Sunday - I seem to eat more and do more foodie-type things on a Sunday. Here's my perfect Sunday in the East End.
9am: wake up and make coffee to deal with hangover
10amish: after shower, interwebbing, etc, set off for a nice big English breakfast at either S&M (Angel, Essex Road) or Workers Cafe (Angel, Upper Street)
11:30ish: after lingering over my roasted tomato and gathering the energy to move, head over to Islington's farmers market for ingredients for the soup of the week, flowers, etc. Taste cheeses from the various mongers and definitely use the hand cream tester from the honey/beeswax lady!
12ish: Pop into Aria to browse, just because you never know what you'll find!
1ish: Drop off veggies at home, and head back out to Regents Canal to walk over to Columbia Flower Market and Shoreditch/Brick Lane (or bike by road if feeling saucy)
1:30ish: get a deal on some sort of plant as the stalls close up
2ish: stop for a pint to quench your thirst at any of the fine establishments on Shoreditch High Street or around Hoxton Square (bonus points for sitting in Hoxton Square)
3ish: head over to Brick Lane for the Sunday markets and general fashion parade, pick up a snack at the Sunday market in Old Truman's Brewery, perhaps some Thai spring rolls - eat while you browse the market stalls and Rough Trade Records
4ish: head down to Spitalfields to see whats up, still open, etc; pop nose into the little British food shop A Gold's, perhaps get a little something at Market Inn
5ish: head back to Angel, stop at the Camden Head for another pint to quench the thirst sitting outside on the patio
6ish: here's the dilemma - either cook, or out for Sunday roast. I haven't found the perfect Sunday roast place yet, and I always get there too late when they've run out of food, so there is no one place here - recommendations, however, would be great!
9am: wake up and make coffee to deal with hangover
10amish: after shower, interwebbing, etc, set off for a nice big English breakfast at either S&M (Angel, Essex Road) or Workers Cafe (Angel, Upper Street)
11:30ish: after lingering over my roasted tomato and gathering the energy to move, head over to Islington's farmers market for ingredients for the soup of the week, flowers, etc. Taste cheeses from the various mongers and definitely use the hand cream tester from the honey/beeswax lady!
12ish: Pop into Aria to browse, just because you never know what you'll find!
1ish: Drop off veggies at home, and head back out to Regents Canal to walk over to Columbia Flower Market and Shoreditch/Brick Lane (or bike by road if feeling saucy)
1:30ish: get a deal on some sort of plant as the stalls close up
2ish: stop for a pint to quench your thirst at any of the fine establishments on Shoreditch High Street or around Hoxton Square (bonus points for sitting in Hoxton Square)
3ish: head over to Brick Lane for the Sunday markets and general fashion parade, pick up a snack at the Sunday market in Old Truman's Brewery, perhaps some Thai spring rolls - eat while you browse the market stalls and Rough Trade Records
4ish: head down to Spitalfields to see whats up, still open, etc; pop nose into the little British food shop A Gold's, perhaps get a little something at Market Inn
5ish: head back to Angel, stop at the Camden Head for another pint to quench the thirst sitting outside on the patio
6ish: here's the dilemma - either cook, or out for Sunday roast. I haven't found the perfect Sunday roast place yet, and I always get there too late when they've run out of food, so there is no one place here - recommendations, however, would be great!
Food, glorious food!
I've written a bit about my cooking fiascos and interest in most things culinary. I wouldn't necessarily say I'm a foodie like the Irishman, but I do enjoy preparing a good meal and conquering a new and exciting recipe. And of course, reading food blogs to find those recipes is an excellent way to waste - um, I mean, spend - time.
Another aspect of food I enjoy is eating in places I've never been. When I was in Amsterdam with Riejte, we ate some amazing pancakes in the Negen Straatjes neighborhood; in Spain, I couldn't get enough cured meat and sauteed vegetables. Culinary exploration might be the best kind of travel.
So I was thrilled to see that one of my favorite food bloggers, Clothilde at Chocolate & Zucchini, recently marked her blog's fifth anniversary, and celebrated by posting online maps of her favorite food and shopping destinations in Paris. Wheee! She has managed to get 3 of my favorite things into one: eating, shopping, and Paris. Now, I just need to scrap together a few pence for a Eurostar ticket to use those handy guides!
Another aspect of food I enjoy is eating in places I've never been. When I was in Amsterdam with Riejte, we ate some amazing pancakes in the Negen Straatjes neighborhood; in Spain, I couldn't get enough cured meat and sauteed vegetables. Culinary exploration might be the best kind of travel.
So I was thrilled to see that one of my favorite food bloggers, Clothilde at Chocolate & Zucchini, recently marked her blog's fifth anniversary, and celebrated by posting online maps of her favorite food and shopping destinations in Paris. Wheee! She has managed to get 3 of my favorite things into one: eating, shopping, and Paris. Now, I just need to scrap together a few pence for a Eurostar ticket to use those handy guides!
Sick Day
It would be my luck that I come down with a bug on the first sunny day this week. Meh. Feeling generally weak and flu-y, I'm lying here catching up on my blog-reading, blog writing, and UK daytime TV. I must say, the latter is not inspiring.
I've been a bit remiss in writing, so I'm going to make a few random posts of random items. Enjoy!
I've been a bit remiss in writing, so I'm going to make a few random posts of random items. Enjoy!
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Sunday rainy Sunday = Duvet Day
Today is a typical London day. It has been raining since I got up, with no indication it will stop anytime soon, and therefore I deem this an indoor day of pottering, cooking, reading, and relaxing. I'm highly looking forward to it... my first Duvet Day! Hooray!
PS: Duvet Day means sitting on ones' couch all day under a duvet with junk food and tv.
PS: Duvet Day means sitting on ones' couch all day under a duvet with junk food and tv.
The best kind of hangover
Yesterday I had the worst hangover: a headache that wouldn't quit, a roiling stomach, terrible ear ringing, and not much energy to do anything beyond walking from bedroom to couch and back again. I didn't mind, though, because I suffered this hangover after an awesome girls night out with new friends.
Moving to a new place is really hard. I keep doing it, and every time I forget just how lonely and terrifying it truly is. I experienced it in New York, Philadelphia, and now here in London: Friday and Saturday nights in the apartment, listening to merrymakers outside on the street while sitting alone watching Law & Order reruns, wishing I had exciting social plans. It's not easy making friends, especially lady friends, outside of community structures like college and work, and elbowing oneself into already established friend groups can be exhausting and stressful. I personally think it's worse than dating - you're not just convincing someone that you're cute, fun, smart, and witty - you're trying to convince another girl to become your confidante, partner in crime, advice-giver, style guru, and objective listener. That's a tall order, and it's not easily accomplished even with alcohol.
My friend Kat and I discussed this weird phenomenon over a couple of bottles of wine more than a few years ago when we had our first awkward meeting as friends of friends. An article was published not-soon-after about the anxiety women go through trying to build social circles. We had a good laugh then, but I'm still reminded of it every time I see a group of girls walking down the street together, cackling and joking. It's hard to recreate a bond built over years of shared experiences every time one moves to a new place.
That's why I was so thrilled when my friend Anna invited me to her girl's night. I made sure my outfit was fab and I brushed my teeth and I was really nervous on my way to meet them. But her ladies welcomed me with open arms and bottles of wine and lots of laughs, and I had an immense time dancing until my feet didn't fit in my shoes and I had to stumble to the night bus. So despite the pain I felt all day yesterday, I bore it happily knowing it was well-earned and hopefully the start of something really great.
Moving to a new place is really hard. I keep doing it, and every time I forget just how lonely and terrifying it truly is. I experienced it in New York, Philadelphia, and now here in London: Friday and Saturday nights in the apartment, listening to merrymakers outside on the street while sitting alone watching Law & Order reruns, wishing I had exciting social plans. It's not easy making friends, especially lady friends, outside of community structures like college and work, and elbowing oneself into already established friend groups can be exhausting and stressful. I personally think it's worse than dating - you're not just convincing someone that you're cute, fun, smart, and witty - you're trying to convince another girl to become your confidante, partner in crime, advice-giver, style guru, and objective listener. That's a tall order, and it's not easily accomplished even with alcohol.
My friend Kat and I discussed this weird phenomenon over a couple of bottles of wine more than a few years ago when we had our first awkward meeting as friends of friends. An article was published not-soon-after about the anxiety women go through trying to build social circles. We had a good laugh then, but I'm still reminded of it every time I see a group of girls walking down the street together, cackling and joking. It's hard to recreate a bond built over years of shared experiences every time one moves to a new place.
That's why I was so thrilled when my friend Anna invited me to her girl's night. I made sure my outfit was fab and I brushed my teeth and I was really nervous on my way to meet them. But her ladies welcomed me with open arms and bottles of wine and lots of laughs, and I had an immense time dancing until my feet didn't fit in my shoes and I had to stumble to the night bus. So despite the pain I felt all day yesterday, I bore it happily knowing it was well-earned and hopefully the start of something really great.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
The credit crunch gets crunched back!
Your friendly Londonista is feeling the wrath of distressed debt and derivatives. Everything costs more, taxes seem to be enormous, and every other day on my way to work the newspaper broadsheets proclaim more job cuts in The City, London's financial center. Despite scrimping and saving, paychecks never seem to last the month. But today I won a small victory over inflation and the uncertain economy: an absolute steal at the Ted Baker sample sale.
I rarely went to sample sales in New York; they stress me out and I never seem to have the luck that other ladies do in finding something amazing for $25 – usually I end up leaving empty-handed after getting elbowed in the ribs or having my toes crushed by someone's stiletto. But today I braved the crowds and walked away with an angora sweater, silk dress, and 2 pairs of gloves (one grey leather!) for £20! Ok, so the silk dress is a size too big, and the sweater has these sleeve puffs that would be at home in The Tudors, but I'm pleased with my purchases. Take that, Henry Paulsen and Ben Bernanke!
I rarely went to sample sales in New York; they stress me out and I never seem to have the luck that other ladies do in finding something amazing for $25 – usually I end up leaving empty-handed after getting elbowed in the ribs or having my toes crushed by someone's stiletto. But today I braved the crowds and walked away with an angora sweater, silk dress, and 2 pairs of gloves (one grey leather!) for £20! Ok, so the silk dress is a size too big, and the sweater has these sleeve puffs that would be at home in The Tudors, but I'm pleased with my purchases. Take that, Henry Paulsen and Ben Bernanke!
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Cold weather means soup time!
Since I moved to London, I've turned into an old woman in more ways than one – but the most apparent is my new love of soup. I think I've tortured my roommate with at least four pots of soup over the last four weeks. But making soup in England is – well – odd. The biggest hindrance is that you can't buy pre-made stock. No broth in cans, no stock in cardboard liter containers - the only option a budding chef has is bouillon. I tried some weird chicken goop in a packet, and I gotta tell you its kind of really gross. It is a high viscosity brown stuff that you're supposed to mix into boiling water. It tastes okay, but it is so weird that I think I'll just stay with OXO cubes, thankyouverymuch. Also, I will say right here that metric is SO much easier to use than the English system - but how weird is it that in England, they don't use the English system. Um, hello? It's really frustrating when most of my recipes are American, but I have other ingredients that come in Metric measurements. For instance: said Oxo cubes make 700 450 mL of broth. But my recipe calls for 5 cups of broth. So how many mL is in a cup? Um? Help? I feel like I did these conversions in 6th grade, but fuck if I know how to do them now. I've mentioned conversions.com before, and that website is really helpful, but it is slightly odd to be cooking and have your laptop next to you on the counter. But despite these hindrances, I'm currently enjoying a lovely bowl of White Bean and Vegetable soup, courtesy of the Simply Recipes blog. Yum.
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