The morning started with beastly wind and driving rain. Sideways pellets splashing the faces and upturned umbrellas were the rule on the way to the tube. It was the last meeting of my Social interaction class and we celebrated with a Pot Luck. These students crack me up. Reading their journals is a treat—final exams, less entertaining. Hmm.
With only three days left in London, grocery shopping is a conundrum. Likewise, I could not justify splurging on my weekly flowers to arrange in the flat since I will be gone so soon. Grading papers, doing laundry and planning the details of the exit are the order of today. Tomorrow, I have plans to take some last photos—weather permitting. And after Thursday’s morning class, I am free to move about London for the last time—for a while. I will be back.
I had a plowman’s lunch today at the Horseshoe after bringing clothes donations to Oxfam. Delicious ham—not salty or fatty like hams are in the States, a slice of farmer’s cheddar, crusty bread, green apple, celery, coleslaw and piccalilli.
Piccalilli is a British relish that most closely resembles what my Mother served as “Chow chow:” pickled cauliflower, onions, gerkins and peppers in a tangy mustard sauce with lots of turmeric. Odd. It got me thinking about what other odd things were served in my household growing up: sauerkraut was not uncommon; borsht was a regular visitor; pickled herring could always be found in the fridge for a quick snack; pickled pigs’ feet; corn tongue, sausages from Mr. Ballard, fish from Mr. Norton, etc.
Not to mention homemade ravioli (drying on the clothesline in the pantry), sauerbraten, roast duck and goose.
The only foods that were taboo in our house were casseroles, although chicken was considered almost treyf—eaten only on rare occasion in a soupy sauce with dumplings or roasted whole. If chicken was served, we saw it walking around with feathers first—then Mrs. Jones would lift the little birds—feel the breast with her palm and fingers and estimate the weight. Then a quick whack with the ax, a dunk in scalding water and we watched the whole dressing process. Chickens were not purchased from the butcher the way ducks and geese were. No, on those rare occasions we had chicken, it was hours from pecking around on the ground to the table.
I doubt those were dishes the Irish brought with them, but somehow my parents developed a taste that included those German, Italian and Jewish delicacies. And, don’t forget the Saturday treat after we moved—Dad would take me to Pedro’s place for one of those custom burritos on tortillas made in the front window. We were lucky to have been encouraged to be adventurous eaters. We were also lucky to grow up in Lincoln Heights which was so multicultural—immigrants first stop neighborhood in Los Angeles where the Japanese, Italians, Irish and Mexicans swapped recipes and handed down clothes to the next smaller sized neighbor. So many of my Study Abroad students have stuck to American junk food and avoided eating anything Indian or British. What a loss.
Lucky me: Waterstone’s finally got the release of Walter Moseley’s latest book. When I finish grading finals for one class, I plan to brew some Builder’s tea and indulge in a good read. The winds and rain have returned with a vengeance. It is grand to be safely inside.
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