Food For Thought

There I was last week thinking that coffee mug wielding mom was the most dangerous thing I’d seen on the road for some time, only to have her well and truly superseded this week, not just by the two drivers who nipped out to overtake me when they realized I was slowing down to stop at a red light, but by the giant white poodle spotted dropping the kids off on the school run.  Yes there might well have been someone sat beneath it but there could just have easily have been a couple of Chihuahuas down in the foot well operating the brake and the accelerator pedal.  Yes it was that big, and yes it was sat in the driving seat.

It’s all very well entrusting your pets with more responsibility –  why did I never think of sending the cat out with my weekly grocery shopping list – but sometimes your child’s safety has to come first. On the other hand Americans love their pets and you’re not a pet-owner over here, you’re a pet parent. Your domestic animals are part of the family so why not let them earn some extra pocket money assisting with the daily chores.  

Doggie-day-care is readily available for working pet parents, and there is a huge market for pet related products – designer apparel, diamante accessories, and of course, gourmet diets. I’ve noticed that pet food is very much promoted on quality of product, as opposed to convenience and low cost. As a discerning pet parent you can rest assured your dog or cat is getting only the very best.

It’s a shame that food producers and manufacturers don’t appear to believe the US public share these same values when it comes to feeding themselves. Whilst your dog and cat are being promised only the very best cuts of meat, little importance appears to be placed on what's going into your kids' chicken nuggets as long as it's cheap.

 

Why am I so surprised in a land where a tin of Spam is still advertised on TV as a culinary must-have? Grocery shopping remains one of my major bug-bears.  I still haven’t got used to walking past the chemically enhanced radio-active looking fluorescent iced cup cakes on sale in most supermarkets, or the stacks of packet meals ready to be reconstituted with a half a pint of boiling water. That’s okay when you’re stuck on a NASA space station for six months but is it really necessary back down on earth where you have easy access to a veritable harvest of fresh produce?

Southern California is the land of the citrus groves, the home of permanent sunshine and acres of salad crops, yet rather disappointingly a lot of what is on offer on general supermarket shelves, whilst arranged in beautiful artistic displays, tastes and feels as if it has been sat in a warehouse for the last six weeks. Call me old fashioned but when I buy fruit and vegetables, I expect them to be fresh.  I like a sugar-snap-pea to well, snap.  Likewise I'd like to think that my beef had roamed freely on those Californian hills and my chicken had lived its short life outdoors to the full. Whilst free range and organic products are available, they are certainly not low cost and they are certainly not promoted widely on TV.

Sadly, it appears that if I want guaranteed quality and freshness I'd be better off sticking to pet food.

Taste The Coffee

I don’t lead a very eventful life so sometimes it’s quite hard to find something to write a post about, especially as I have become so immune to the idiosyncracies of American life that incidents that would have once sent me off into a apoplexic rant now cause little more than a raised eyebrow.  

I endeavour to keep my blog interesting, charming, witty – an extension of my personality – and I don’t really want to fill it with mundane facebook style comments reflecting what I’ve really be up to: having a cup of tea, doing the ironing, cleaning the loo. Who wants to know?

So, seeking inspiration I set out for one of my long morning walks.  My walks have been curtailed recently, for no other reason than that to be honest I couldn’t be bothered.  It’s very easy to fall into a pit of lethargy. But as usual the joys of middle-class suburban America came up trumps – I know if I stay out pounding the streets long enough something wonderful will happen.

It actually felt quite good to be back on my old stomping ground. The garden sprinklers are back on, watering the pavements, and one of the yappy dogs that used to bark at me quite regularly appears to have developed asthma over the winter –  this morning it wasn’t so much of a bark as a rasping wheeze.  The air is too dry, California needs rain.  On average LA usually only gets 10” of rain a year, this year figures are down 4” less than normal and come the end of March the chance of precipitation drops to zero.  One of the large colonial mansions on my route was under wraps for termite fumigation – yep if you get infested the whole house has to be tented.  It did briefly occur to me that if desperate I could write a post on the wonders of termite eradication after all that’s something we definitely don’t have in the UK, along with people doing their grocery shopping in their slippers and pyjamas, but no, the highlight of this morning’s walk was  another contender for my multi-tasking whilst driving award.

I’m not perfect and I know I’ve done things in the past in my car that I rather wish I hadn’t – we all do, but back in the UK we tend to do it whilst the car is stationary. Here, in the land of the automatic then of course you only need one hand and one foot to  drive, with the other you can do whatever you want –rest your leg on the dashboard, paint your toe nails, eat a burger,  send a text, and most common of all drink a Starbucks.

An American’s car really is an extension of their home and these people lead busy lives, especially school-moms.  Not only do they spend half their lives ferrying their kids from one after school activity to another, little league baseball, taekwondo, followed by two hours private Math tuition, they will also have a hectic schedule of their own to fit in, hot-yoga,  psycho-therapy, manicure, pedicure, face-lift and cardio-barre. So there is definitely no time to stop and brew a pot of tea or cook a meal. Convenience food is king. Cars are bought and sold here on the merits of the drinks holder – if it’ll fit a super-sized Venti Choca-Mocco-Latte it’s a winner but at least your super-sized Venti-Choca-Mocco-Latte will have a lid on it to prevent spillage whilst driving.

This morning’s super school mom I passed was holding a mug of coffee in her right hand.  Yes, a proper, china mug, holding it by the handle, nicely poised above her six year’s bare knees as she swung her car left-handed around a tight corner.  Now if that’s not an accident waiting to happen, what is. 

C’mon mom, if you’ve been industrious enough to actually make your own coffee, at least take the time out to sit down somewhere relaxing and SAFE to drink it.  I know the teenager wont believe I’ve actually written this – but perhaps there is a case for Starbucks after all!!

Home & Away

Whenever I go back to the UK I always feel like I become a different person – the old me, the real me; the American me is just a fake who has adapted her personality to fit in. When I’m in the UK and people ask me how I am, I can say I’m well, or I’m fine thank you.  Here well and fine just aren’t positive enough, I have to be “good” thank you. At what?

I have to respond with enthusiasm when an exuberant sales assistant asks me how's my day, or whether I need help, putting on this uber happy façade that everything is hunky dory and we’re all having a great time.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a miserable person – in fact people on both sides of the Atlantic regularly remark on my calm, cheerful disposition (one of my American friends once asked me what I was on to retain such an air of chirpy vitality!). It’s just the insincerity which bugs me, and the fact that I am party to it. 

American politeness is prolific and my natural reserve could easily be mistaken for rudeness. I want people to like me. When I am here I have to watch what I say. When I’m back home it doesn’t matter if I slip in the odd four letter word or don’t elucidate – my old friends aren’t easily offended and they understand.  Here I have to think before I speak, always aware that many Americans are highly religious and may take offence at a slip of the tongue or a blasphemous exclamation. I have to remember people don’t always understand my accent, I have to cut out the innits, sound my H’s, leave out the T’s and make a big show of using hand sanitiser. (Personally I’ve always thought a little bit of dirt helped increase one’s natural immunity, here I’m just one of those unhygienic Europeans.)

Back in the UK I felt clever; we joined in the quiz night at a local pub and I could answer the questions.  Here I watch TV, pick up a newspaper or flick through a magazine and have no idea who or what everyone is going on about which leaves me feeling rather stupid.  I don’t understand the rules of baseball, I’ve no interest in American politics, I don’t know who stars in what soap, the names of the Kardashians or Brad and Angelina’s children.

Whilst we were home we went watch our local football team Southampton play at St Mary’s stadium and it was such a relief to be able to follow the entire game without the constant interruptions which dog American sporting occasions.  No time-outs; no total team changes; no commercial breaks; no to-ing and thro-ing  of the crowd during the match to fetch giant hot dogs and buckets of Pepsi. Just real men on the pitch for a continuous 45 minutes in the pouring rain and fans who remained in their place and were able to endure a food free hour and a half.

In fact the only disturbance was when the rather loud but verbally challenged man behind me celebrated so vigorously as Saints scored their second goal that he fell on top of me.  This man had very limited vocabulary - throughout the entire game he had been giving a running commentary and every other word began with an F, the game had fluctuated between being effing beautiful to effing rubbish - one adjective suits all. Although I wasn't hurt when he tumbled onto me, I was shaken. Had this incident happened back in the States no doubt I could have instigated legal proceedings, as it was I just accepted his effing apology. It was good to be home!

House Hunters International

House Hunters International is one of my favourite US TV programmes.  In fact I’m addicted to it – it’s a brilliant show featuring hapless couples and families who wish to move overseas and have  decided to allow a TV company to find them a home. Mostly it features couples from Minnesota or Canada who wish to escape 8 months of winter and purchase a place in the sun in Costa Rica or Aruba, but occasionally the show does follow brave souls who wish to venture into Europe where they express horror at the mere thought of having to share bathrooms with each other let alone their offspring, as well as putting up with the close proximity of their next door neighbours.

An American friend once commented to me that the secret of her successful 20 year marriage was the fact that she had never shared a bank account or a bathroom with her husband. Well I’ve been married for the same amount of time and have always shared both, but even I have been seduced by this American dream of having his and her sinks and a separate room for the teenager’s lengthy ablutions.

In Europe the size of the rooms is always an issue with US couples – tight, tiny and is this a bedroom or a closet? are the usual comments.  So how would we as pseudo Americans fare as we travelled back to the UK to spend a week house hunting in preparation for our return this summer?

Whilst the husband is off to the desert to make sure all the pipes and tanks he has purchased for his oil refinery now fit together like a giant set of mecano, the teenager and I will be heading back in England.  

House hunting was always going to be interesting as he was looking for something rather grand to justify the blood sweat and tears of the last 3 years whilst I preferred something small and cosy for our ever decreasing family.  My comment of “a bit too big” for the first prospective house rather worryingly provoked a reply of “Too big? It wasn’t big enough”, confirming my fears that our search would be fraught with difficulties.  Where’s Kirstie Allsop when you need her?

In the US TV show the families are only shown three homes and always end up buying one, although careful editing ensures there are enough negative comments to leave you totally baffled as to which house they will actually choose.  Whether careful editing also means that it is actually house number 43 that is chosen I’m not sure as I find it hard to believe that the participants would be willing to view only three homes before making a decision to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars - unless of course they receive a huge financial incentive when they do, or face legal action if they don’t.

Anyhow, house number 6 finally came up trumps for us, spotted the day before we were due to fly home. Deceptively small – it goes up rather than outwards – this particular home had numerous bathrooms – one each and even a spare for guests so definitely no need to share and cross contaminate each other, and the walk-in closet totally clinched the deal. You can’t expect to live amongst these people for two and a half years and not have some of their mentality  rub off on you!

PS In case anyone is wondering the house in the photo is not mine, but is one of Pasadena’s historic gems  - the home of Mr Gamble of Proctor & Gamble washing powder fame.  The house was donated to the city of Pasadena by Mr Gamble’s descendents who decided not to sell this fine example of Arts & Crafts architecture after a potential purchaser's wife remarked how dark and gloomy all the wood paneling made the interior seem and it would take a good few coats of magnolia to cover it all up! When I toured the house these were my exact same thoughts. Oops!