Texish Tradition

Happy Halloween y’all - the festive season is upon us!  And, do I ever love the holidays – the apple crisp, smoky leaf and cinnamon bite of cooler days and cold nights.   Foggy breath mornings and fireplace nights…and all the parties: Halloween, Bonfire Night, Thanksgiving and Christmas.   And, what’s the best part about the holidays?  The tradition.  Yep, I’m a sucker for tradition.   Which y’all might think is odd, because I can’t seem to stay in one place long enough to create my own.  (Course if I did, I’d have to rename this blog Neighborhood Dropper.  Not quite the same ring, methinks)

But, I digress!  Because here I am, living the dream in the UK.  And you would think that you couldn’t get more traditional than the UK.  I mean, this was an empire, right?  It still has a monarchy,  old homes, castles and churches that date back hundred and thousands of years and has at any given time at least one period drama as one of the highest ranking television shows.   

So, when the subject of Halloween came up at work, I asked my colleagues at work what their plans were – none of them had any.  If they had a Halloween plan at all, it was to paint some fake blood and gore on their face and go.  This is not what Halloween is about.  We, Texans, know what it is really about, right?  Yep, candy.

And LOTS of it.

 

Who doesn’t remember counting the days until you got to bring home the mother-load, only to sort through it by quality: mini-fun bars of Snickers at the top, do-gooder toothbrush/floss combo at the bottom.   And, don’t even get me started on the people who give out apples.  The best thing that ever happened to Halloween was that urban myth that lunatics were putting razor blades in apples – never really happened, but it saved us from mushy, bruised, space hogging apples.  (I mean just think how many more mini-fun bar you can fit in the space one apple takes up – and don’t even get me started on how heavy those mofos were.)

And, of course, Halloween just kicks off the many months of the smorgasbord known as the holidays…just about when you finish your last few sad bit-o-honeys,  chick-o-sticks and cheap Tom’s candy style rejects, there is Thanksgiving time!

Mmm, turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, pecan pie, rolls and pumpkin pie.  Yep, it is all about the food….and then just a few days later, you guessed it - Christmas parties begin.  And the best Christmas party traditions? Cookies!  Both for Santa and also the time honored tradition of the cookie exchange party.  Fudge, divinity, iced sugar cookies in tree and reindeer shapes, peppermint candy cane cookies…the list goes on! 

And, I’m pretty sure I just gained 5 lbs thinking about that.

(BTW, I gave up drinking for a while in a bid to lose weight.  Didn’t lose a pound.  Decided I’d rather be fat than bored.  Bring on the mulled wine and egg nog.)

So, it’s starting to look like tradition is just code for food.  At least in Texas, that is. 

Because tradition and food in the UK?  Not so much.  Let’s take the quintessential tradition of all traditions – high tea.  Now, you might think that’s about food.  I mean the title does seem to indicate that there is at a minimum, some drinking going on.    But what do you get to accompany said tea?  Cucumber sandwiches?  With no crusts?  Is that even food? 

And, the highlight – scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam.  Well, let me tell you, this is just a fancy way of sayin’ dry biscuits with jelly.  (Note: the cream is just to make it a little less dry)  If you’re lucky they might throw a few raisins it. I mean, really. 

And, speaking of dry, let’s just talk about Christmas pudding – this is a completely foreign concept to me.  Somehow it starts with suet (I don’t even know what that is, but I think it is some kind of a pork fat thing.  Oh wait.  I think I am just confusing that with Sooey.  Damn those Arkansas Razorbacks.) But, I digress.

So, start with suet a month in advance and add some brandy and more raisins (what is up with the raisins?  I mean, c’mon on, they are just dried out grapes.  Chocolate chips; now that is a dessert additive.  Not raisins.  Those need to stay in the little red box and 8 year olds’ lunch sacks).  Anyway, somehow once Christmas arrives you get, wait for it…dry fruit cake.  That you add more cream to – only this time it is at least called custard and has some sugar in it.   Woo hoo. Gettin' crazy at Christmas!

And, what about the mother of all festivities -- weddings?  What is more widely known than the taste of a triple tiered buttercream white wedding cake?  So widely recognized and appreciated, I have owned candles and drunk martinis that are wedding cake flavored.  YUM.  Guess what you get at a British wedding?  Yep.  Dry fruit cake. This time with a thick sheet of, well, I won’t even call it icing, because it has the consistency of marzipan.    But, regardless, dry fruit cake all the same. 

Am I the only one seeing  a trend here?

And, it’s not just holidays and festivities. Let’s take sports for example.  What comes to mind when you think of baseball? Hot dogs, beers, peanuts.  And, cricket? 

Well, honestly, I got nothin’.    At least at Wimbledon, there’s pimms and strawberries with cream. (Again with the cream?)  For those of you who’ve never been fortunate enough to sample pimms, it is pretty much a minty cucumber and fruit salad in a cup with seven up and some mildy alcoholic fruity syrupy stuff.   Sold?  Yeah, not me either.   If I am going to take in 200 calories a cup, I better get a buzz off it.  And, I’m not talking sugar high.  

But, if you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you will know that drinking is actually pretty central to most traditions in the UK .  Now, the pimms and tea prove that it doesn’t have to be alcohol related.  Of course, let’s not forget the hub of every village is the local pub.   I need not remind y'all what you do in a pub.  I mean there is a TV show called Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps – clearly, the dinner of champions.  (I can only imagine if you tried the Texas version – two longnecks and a bag of fritos.  Not quite the same ring to it.)

And, if you had to pick a hub for a small Texas  town,  traditionally, it would have been  the church. And, before, you think “Aha! That isn’t about food!”….just think about one of the big draws of church….the post Sunday service potluck, the cake walk and bake sale fundraising efforts  and coffee cake prayer groups.  I mean, I so much as hear a hymn and my mouth starts watering for fried chicken. …

 So,  the more I think about it, the more I don’t need to stay in one place to honor my Texas traditions.  So long as I have my Texas shaped cake pan, Better Homes and Gardens red-checked cookbook and a steady supply of Crisco, pecans and marshmallows, I can whip up any tradition I need.

And, luckily for me, I get to combine that with my favorite British traditions …..the liquid kind.

Cultural Puberty

I’ve been feeling pretty homesick this summer – primarily as the weather hasn’t cracked 70 degrees and the sun has been an elusive myth, all the while Texas has been having months of over 100 degrees and a historic heat wave.  Now, I know everyone has been complaining about that, but I am used to the heat.  Summer is supposed to be hot!  It is supposed to remind us that we packed on the pounds in the winter and we don’t need them anymore.  (Nor can we hide them in baggy sweaters and coats)  We are supposed to get a healthy tan (yes, I know that is an oxymoron; but admit it, pale people look sick.  And, you DO get Vitamin D from the sun, so really you NEED to sit by the pool with a crappy book and a daiquiri (which, with the lime and strawberry adds even more vitamins.  Well, look at me – I am a total health nut, after all!)).

But, no, I've had none of that this summer.  I stayed white and fat – pretty much like a big glow worm.   And, let’s not even get into the cobwebs on my grill and the state of my backyard garden.  My health is not the only thing suffering.  So, imagine how excited I was to head to Texas for my annual pilgrimage to Austin City Limits!  Now, I have a new job and I work too much so it had to be a really short trip, but I fully intended to pack in all the steak, sunshine, margaritas, music, friends and family that I could.  Not to mention shopping!  Which, I did the minute I got off the plane.  Headed right to the mall and Banana Republic where I saw a totally cute cardigan in purple, which I wanted in black.  So, I asked the sales lady if they had it in other colors.   To which she replied, “Ohmigod, where are you from??  England?!”

Cue shock, surprise, horror and dismay.

What?? How could I be confused as English?  When my work nicknames are Texas Tornado and Texas and I am constantly told that I need to tone down my “Texas-ness” when giving bad news or disagreeing with people at work.  When my phone ring tone is Texas Fight and I wear my cowboy boots on Fridays?  When I constantly amuse people with my Texas phrases – come to Jesus, crazier than a sh*thouse rat, drunker ‘n Cooter Brown (not that these are all used in the same sentence, but, given some of the people I have to deal with at work, they SO could.) and, not the least of which, the omnipresent “y’all.” 

And, yes, people, I put that in work emails, lest anyone forget that, while I may have to tone down the “Texas-ness” at times, it is lurking there below the surface, just in case I ever need to “open up a can of whoop a$$.”  So, turns out maybe my little work reputation (which, I have been told “precedes me, but in the nicest possible way”) may not be unwarranted.  But, I digress.

So, if I am more Texas than pecan pie (see what I did there?  Clever, clever!), how could this poor fellow Texan think I was English? 

Well, as it turns out, it was the way I asked the question.  Not, “hey, does this come in other colors?” but “Have you got this in another colour?”  Tell the difference?  (other than the superfluous “u” that indicates this was spoken in a British accent.  And, don’t get me started on the inappropriate use of the letter “s” in place of the perfectly good, but oft neglected, letter “z” ( NOT zed.  What even is that?).  Come to think of it, I don’t even think they use the letter z in England.  They certainly never say zany or zilch.)   

So, yes, I realiZed that it must have been my intonation since I ended my sentence with an upturned accented question – as in, have you got this in another COLOUR?  See, Americans, say everything as if it were already a fact.  The British seem to almost apologiZe for speaking up.  (and, don't even get me started on the affected stutter or over-use of the passive voice.  Headline, Brits -- no one FALLS pregant.  Things do not GO missing.   Surely, I need not explain why.)

But, in any event,  I think all of this belies a much bigger cultural difference.

We, Americans, are always noted for being uber confident.  We are brash, outspoken, emotional and  operate in obvious-ness and  extremes.  The British are  timid, restrained, subtle and operate in skepticism and cynicism.    I wonder if this reverts back to our histories – we Americans think we won the last two world wars and are now the only super-power in the world.  The British think they ran the world into the ground through imperialism and colonialism and are embarrassed by the legacy of this domination.  It is as if Americans are the dumb teenagers who don’t yet know the effects of getting into bar fights while the British are the grown-ups who just got released from jail after being rehabilitated.   In one, the hormones are in the driving seat, while the other has the brain is in over-drive.

Never is this more obvious than on the new import into the US of a British show – The X Factor USA.   Now, I love the X Factor here in the UK, but I am annoyed to no end by the X Factor USA.   Why?  Well, not just because the complete and utter lack of personality or intelligence exhibited by Nicole Sherzinger who astounds even me with her complete vacuous-ness.  (But, then again she did get famous by wearing underwear and singing about slagging off some guy’s girlfriend.)

No, actually, what annoys me is how everyone LOVES each other.   And, yes, they had all just met.  Now, the British would say that dilutes the value of the word “love” while the Americans think, “hey that just really means I’m a fan.”  (who can forget the “I love you man” beer commercials?)   So, here I am annoyed as all get out by this gushing of emotion that seems totally fake.  But, the thing is, it is not.   I know that those people sincerely felt what they were saying.   Just like a 14 year girl really DOES love  Zac Efron or New Direction (for you Americans, this is the latest boy band craze brought to us by X Factor – see how I bring this full circle? ;)), Americans really and truly think they feel this way.

And, there is something to be said for this youthful open and guileless sharing of emotion.  Not to discredit the benefit and maturity of being a little skeptical and cynical –not always taking things at face value.  

I think my challenge is to retain both – almost like going through cultural puberty.

So, back to being Texish. 

I am going to keep my margaritas like a good Texan, but, like a good Brit, I’ll have it with a grain of salt.

Rules of Engagement

This week was an interesting one at work; we had a three day training led by some of our American colleagues over from our Texas offices.  So, woah, total collision of cultures.  Ironically, I was supposed to take my life in the UK test to qualify for my Indefinite Leave to Remain status (Or; if you’re American: green card), but had to cancel it.  (Of course, I had already had to cancel it once as I foolishly scheduled it for a Saturday morning after a work event with open bar.) 

Tsk, tsk.  

Really, I should have known that while, taking the test with a raging hangover would most definitely make me qualified to live in the UK, the official view remains that I have to know what percentage of the population of the UK is black-asian and what year women got the vote.  These are facts that one cannot just wing (or; if you’re British, “blag.”  See, why do I need that test anyway?).   But, I digress.

So, here I am in an audience of all Brits and me, watching some VERY American style corporate training.  I am not even sure I can put it into words, but, let’s just say that all those Brits now know what the phrase “drink the Kool-Aid means.”

And, no, they didn’t know what it meant or what Kool-Aid was before.  I guess it is just Americans who add artificial colors, flavors and chemicals to sugar to make a powder that we add to water to feed to children.  Actually, come to think of it, my old Aussie flatmate (wait, read that as old flatmate who was an Aussie not some Australian geriatric lady that I live with.  That would just be creepy.) But, anyway, she pointed out, while I was unpacking all the groceries I had brought back from Texas (read: smuggled past customs) it was all powdered food.  Yes, I liked my Crystal Light, Good Seasons’ zesty Italian dressing, cream gravy, ranch dip packets of goodness.  But, sadly once I realized what I was actually putting in my body, the idea of a bunch of powdered chemicals seemed a bit weird as I wasn’t actually combating gravity or facing a lack of storage space to carry actual food.  No, sadly I am not an astronaut.  Turns out, the wonders of Tang-like products are actually unnecessary.

In any event, the Brits were pretty horrified by the gung-ho, pep- rally, “how great is our job!  Our company! Our training!” training.  And, yes, I was equally jaded (note that is American jaded, not British jaded, which is, yes, shock, surprise, another word for hungover).  My own skepticism, carefully cultivated from 5 years of living in London, made me equally disillusioned. 

But, sure enough, after three full days of indoctrination, even the Brits were drinking the Kool-aid.  And, when we all got to present our final presentation, everyone embraced the humorous side, dressing in costume, singing, and being generally silly.  Pretty much the way that they would all look after 12 pints of beer.   Victory for the Americans, right?

Well, not so much. 

Because, sure enough, some dude thought he really was down at the pub after 12 pints and started telling jokes. 

About the trainers’ premature ejaculation and whore houses. 

Cue American shock and horror.  And, suddenly I am right back there waving the flag for the Americans.  Um, hello?  NOT appropriate.

So, maybe this whole British conservatism isn’t such a bad thing. Kinda reminds me of that old Eddie Murphy joke about the quiet women being the most dangerous.  You know, because all women have skeletons in the closet and the women who are quiet are only keeping their mouth shout because they are afraid a bone is going to come flying out!  I mean, think about it.  A sex scandal in the States is an extramarital affair.  A sex scandal in the UK is a member of parliament dressed in a Nazi uniform with hookers.

I think we must just have very different rules of engagement.  We Americans like to treat our jobs like they are vocations, a marriage of values and a paycheck. 

And, the Brits?  Well, let me point out that Friday is called Poet’s Day.  Which, stands for Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. 

Rumor has it, a VERY senior person at my company has started pulling security logs on Fridays to see who actually shows up at work.  (Let’s hope he doesn’t pull the times or I am screwed.  I am notoriously late on a Friday.  Well, actually, every day.  On Fridays it is just less noticeable, particularly as I am wont to sneak in at lunchtime as if I had just popped out for a sandwich!)

We Americans get two weeks’ vacation a year.  The Brits?  Well, 4 weeks is considered a “bad benefits package.”  Luckily for me, I have 5 ½.   And, as I am a slave to my travel addiction, that is perfect for me.

Unfortunately, the downside of all this is that salaries don’t rival the US.  So, while I have all this vacation time, I don’t really have the cash to use it.   But, I am American.  I have credit.

And as any one who knows me will point out, I live like Mastercard is my paycheck.  So, the fun continues – next stop, Morocco.  Suitably attired in Jimmy Choos, natch.

Some day it is going to catch up to me (read: the credit limit is exhausted), and as my dad is fond of saying, I will have to pick up my toys and go in.  But, until then, I am going to be a skeptical, pint-swilling, vacation taking, credit card living, non-offensive joke telling, Texan-Britishy person. 

I am a Texish person.  And, those are my rules of engagement.

A Bright Smile

 We all know the joke about the English and their teeth, American and Brit alike.  And, we all know that the Americans are famed for shiny hair, white straight teeth and glowing skin.  One would think that we would all have the same idea of what is beautiful.  But, that is clearly not the case.  Read any British author and he or she will describe the most beautiful character as being fair of face, clear skin, bright eyes.

Um, hello, we Americans just call that plain.  Even our word for plain, “homely” is actually a compliment in the UK.  Apparently it means comforting and homey – I think it is no accident that plainness is actually a good thing.    You know, wearing any makeup or jewelry that is anything but understated is considered “flash.” I have even been called “glamorous” on multiple occasions, and, those of y’all who know me (or have seen a certain Halloween photo of me decked out as what can only be described as a booze fairy, sagging wings, cigarette hanging out my mouth, eyes half-closed, head lolling and long neck beer in hand), can attest to the fact that glam I ain’t! And, BTW, whichever of my dear friends (and you know who you are) does still have that photo, I hope it isn’t still on your fridge as a caution to overindulgence.)  But, I digress.

So, yes, folks the rumor is true.  British teeth are appalling.  And, much as I have to justify the American lack of travel as a direct result of lack of vacation days (I mean, c’mon, where can you REALLY go in a week that requires a passport?  Well, OK, now that you need a passport for Canada, Mexico and the Carib, now everywhere, but, to be fair, that is a very new requirement)  Note to self: get a new argument), so anyway, in that same vein, British teeth are that bad  a direct result of lack of dental insurance.  It doesn’t come with the job.  And, as for the argument that there are free dentists on the national healthcare?  Well, let’s just say it would be easier to find an ACLU membership card at a Tea Party rally.  Ain’t gonna happen.

And, the thing of it is, no one cares.  I actually mentioned to a guy in response to a question as to whether a certain acquaintance of mine was attractive that he would be if it weren’t for his teeth.  And, my friend, replied, so? 

And, then I started taking a closer look at the people considered attractive  (and, let’s just clarify right now that we’re not talking Essex/Jordan wanna-be/chavvy girls—for those of you confused, imagine if the Jersey Shore chicks were considered “glam”.)

Wait.  They said I was glam. 

Shit. Maybe that coca-cola can red hair wasn’t such a good call.

(To be fair, I DID ask to be a red-head.  Who knew that was called ginger here??  OK, so maybe after 5 years, I should have, but whatever, I still use pants inappropriately all the time.)

 The WORD, people, the WORD.  I don’t actually misuse underwear.

In any event, I soon came to the conclusion that appearances just don’t matter here.  And, while I was busy looking down my nose at those who were merely “fair” and sanctimoniously loving my shiny hair and good teeth, I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t such a bad thing,  After all, I had left Dallas, a city famed for its boob jobs, fake tans, anorexic bleached blondes for a reason.  Because, while I have clear skin and bright eyes, a size two Kardashian/Britney Ms. Dallas I ain’t.  

So, I am now thinking I have done quite well, I have moved to a place where I am right up there on the attractive scale, right?

Wrong.   Because sarcasm and humor and cleverness are held in high regard here.  Note that I said cleverness, and not smartness, which is not just because smartness refers to how you are attired and not your intelligence, but because it is isn’t enough to be intelligent.  You must be able to engage in banter, silly repartee, dry humor, deadpan timing.   And, nothing is more indicative of that then the fact most people still get their news here from the radio and the newspapers  --  where it doesn’t matter what you look like so long as you are articulate or well written. 

I, myself, listen to Radio 4 in the morning – a show of outspoken, acerbic, challenging and “clever” broadcasters who discuss only the most important subjects of politics, international issues and culture.  Yes, folks, I feel quite superior when I tell people I listen to Radio 4.  Pretty much how I would feel telling people back in Dallas that I was Homecoming Queen.  (Except of course that I wasn’t.  But, you know, whatever.)

I find an even better example than Radio 4 is listening to a session of parliament, where the members verbally joust, openly challenging, cat-calling, boo-ing, the likes of which you would never hear in Congress.  I think there is more crowd interaction there than at a Jets/Giants game.  (And, trust me, I have seen those people.  It ain’t pretty.  Let’s just say, even I learned some new obscenities and I grew up on an Army base.) 

The presenters on Radio 4 do the same thing – openly, almost hostilely challenging the speakers.  I actually heard a 20 minute diatribe last week against the police for publishing crime statistics.  Yes, clearly, I can see why it is a bad idea to let people know about crime.  WHAT? 

Seriously, you could be Mother Teresa on that show and they would say, in a very posh accusatory tone, “Isn’t it true, that YOU help the poor?  That, YOU, YOU, who claims to be a woman of God, have made us all look selfish and indulgent by YOUR behavior?  What have you got to say about, that, hmm?"  And, they get away with it.  And, why is that? 

Because they seem clever.    

So, in hindsight, maybe appearances do matter.  Not so much a bright smile, as a bright smile. 

Either way, I am brushing my teeth and reading the paper from now on.