You've been warned about their food, right?

When I told people I was going to England, the conversation always turned to their cuisine, or lack thereof. Bangers and mash, fish and chips, steak and kidney pies. These are not the names of great culinary feats. In fact, they hardly sound like food at all.

This may come as a surprise to you, but I love food. LOVE IT. The line between food and sex in my mind is about as clearly defined as my abs. As it so happens, I'm quite a good Cook myself (did you catch the pun in there?) I've been wowing my flat mates with my cooking skills, whipping up curries and teriyaki stir-fries and portobello mushrooms marinated in wine and garlic, served on a toasted bun with mozzarella and prosciutto and a red wine reduction.

You know. Simple things.

But there is this one thing that my flat mates make that seems like a strange mish-mash of foodstuffs to my American sensibilities. And yet it is strangely alluring.

Baked potato, sausage, can of beans, cheese, done. That's not a ghost guitar in the background, it's my flat mate Jim. Not all places of higher learning in England are haunted (as much as we may want them to be....)

So you fry up some sausages. These are sweet chili pepper ones from the student food store on campus. They looked amazing in real life, but I couldn't get a good picture without the flash. I wish I had Ina Garten's photographer. I wish I was Ina Garten. (Though honestly, who doesn't?)

You bake a potato in your microwave that doubles as a convection oven. My flat mate G made banana bread in here last Sunday. It was quite good (or as my flat mate Hannah might say, "well good.")

Everyone in England, without fail, eats these beans. I don't believe we have them in the States. I would have definitely noticed that turquoise can. And if we do, I've never seen anyone eat them (much like how the Spam industry survives on hipsters giving cans to each other to be "ironic.") Why is that? Is Heinz a British company? Our almost First Lady was the heiress to the Heinz throne, one would think it was an American company. Or perhaps that's why she didn't win? The British sabotaged the 2004 General Election because Theresa Heinz-Kerry was going to steal their baked beans.

Yes. I'd like to believe that.

The only cheese available anywhere in England seems to be cheddar. I went to one of the local grocery stores, Morrison's. I was looking to get some gruyere or maybe some parmesan. But no. They had cheddar. Granted, they had every type of cheddar known to man, but one would think that the British would have developed a taste for something grander in their sesquicentennial of ruling the planet.

Oh mama. Jim told me to butter and salt the potatoes before I put on the beans. This sounded a little excessive. I was of course on board with it. And besides who am I to question an Englishman on his native cuisine?

Those English. They may not know how to do unholy things to an egg like the French do, but man do they know their potatoes. My flat mate Jim said that if he hadn't just eaten, he would have gone and fixed himself some as well.

Pregnant women and those with heart conditions may want to look away from the next photo.

Mmmm. English food is delicious. It may not be as pretty as French food, or as vibrant as Italian food, or as mindshatteringly delicious as Mexican, but it has an earthy, rustic quality that you don't find elsewhere. There's a spontaneity to it. They lived on an island for centuries and didn't have access to fresh herbs or tomatoes (the poor sods) and they worked with what they had and created a style of food that is all their own. It's comfort food to the max. Because heaven knows you need comfort when you've forgotten what color the sun is and the streets run red with the blood of the King's latest bride.

And boy do they know how to use a can of beans. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go find some dessert.

Off to the Cathedral!

Last Sunday, I visited the Norwich Cathedral. I've found that the best way to get around having to pay for the rather steep admission prices to tour churches in England, is to go to a service. That's not to say that I just went to the service so I could get a peak at the church, but I do think that you get a clearer perspective of the church when you go to it for the purpose it was built.

I woke up at about nine on a sunday morning, got dressed, and took the bus downtown (I was told that "downtown" is an American turn of phrase. Here, the "down" part is assumed to be a verb and it implies that you are going down from a hill to town. The proper way to refer to the part of a city where most everything is centered is "city centre." They also don't say "you're welcome" here, it's a very strange place.)

I got off on the exit next to the castle (there's a castle AND a cathedral here. In my hometown, we get excited about the house that has a bowling alley in the basement.) I followed the signs to the cathedral which took me past the castle. There was a tablet I saw along the way. It had a medieval looking soldier and a quote from "Roadways" by John Masefield (I had to look that up, I don't know poetry off the back of my hand unless I can recite it in Sylvia Plath's voice.)

The cathedral had a kind of citadel around it. It was completed in 1145, so it's been there for nearly 900 years. I wondered what it must have looked like when it was first completed, and how truly awe inspiring it must have been.

The spire on top is the second highest in England, eclipsed only by Salisbury. I felt like I had stepped back in time when I went through the gates. There's a large empty swath of land around the church, whereas outside the walls, the city is densely packed into every corner it can manage. There was a baptism at the service I attended. The baptismal font was donated to the church by a chocolatier, and it was a former basin of sorts for melted chocolate. I wanted to take a picture, but I felt like that might be disrespectful given the setting and it would give me away as a tourist (as if my accent weren't enough. I realized how truly different I sound during the Lord's Prayer when everyone was saying "gode" while I was saying "gahd.")

The inside was beautiful. There was a huge organ, and during "We Three Kings of Orient" (last Sunday was the last day of the Advent season, so they were still singing Christmas music) the star on top began to twirl during the chorus when the chimes were playing.

Towards the end of the service, as Communion was winding down, the sun came out and went through the windows and lit the whole thing up with the most wondrous light, it was the kind of light one would associate with the Second Coming. I know that the architect designed it so that when light came through, it would have that effect, but at any rate hats off to the architect. I don't understand why modern church's can't take a similar stance.

Not to bag on the Los Angeles Cathedral (because everyone loves to and it's SO easy) but when I see that building, it doesn't inspire the same grandiose feelings in me. I don't think of God, I think of the idiot that designed the thing and the idiot who approved it. Perhaps this extends from my love of historical architecture as well as my Anglophilia. Whatever it is, you can't complain about the view.

In Which We Travel From the Capital to the Country

This last week, we traveled up from London to Norwich, where I’ll be attending the University of East Anglia (or uni, as it is delightfully called here.)

The campus kind of looks like something out of Orwell, all of the buildings are concrete and steel blocks. But there’s a kind of charm to them. I’m staying in the Norfolk Flats, which look kind of like Aztec pyramids.

When I opened the door to my room I was greeted with what looked to be a prison cell. I had this moment of anxiety and I thought, “Well crap, how am I going to get through the next six months?”

But I put my sheets and pillows and quilt on the bed, my books on the shelves, and I pinned up a few mementos, and I began to feel more at home. I slept for almost twelve hours that night.

I'm beginning to like it here. I have my own room. If I want to talk to people I can go down to the kitchen or I can call up some friends. I have a view of the lake from my window. I feel like I’m at Hogwarts. I hope to see the giant squid one of these days.

The Healing Power of Food

I had possibly the most amazing food experience of my life today. It bordered on religious ecstasy. I don’t believe this is blasphemous to say because when I got up from that park bench in Hyde Park, I felt different than when I had sat down.

When I found out that Laduree had a café at Harrod’s, I knew I had to go. I went to day and got six macarons and an éclair. I walked to Hyde Park, bought a cup of Earl Grey and found a bench. I looked in the bag.

I got Red Fruits, Orange and Ginger, Lemon, Pistachio, and Praline (which I pronounced Praw-lin-ay when I ordered, and was promptly corrected by the woman at the counter.) You may notice that there are six in the bag but I only listed five. The explanation is simple. I don't remember the flavor of that pink one.

I was worried, I had been disappointed by macarons before, and I had just spent an embarrassing amount of money on these ones. But then I tried one.

I have never tasted anything so perfect. The meringue was tender and the filling was so flavorful. It was perfect. I am not a slow eater by nature, but this was the slowest I had ever eaten. I celebrated each bite, letting the various levels of flavor wash over me.

And then they were gone. But I still had the éclair!

It was a little small by my standards, but everything looks small when you’ve grown up in America. Not thinking anything could possibly beat the macarons, I bit into the éclair and my eyes rolled into the back of my head.

It touched on all levels of chocolate, it was bitter but not mediciney, it was sweet but not cloying. And the crème was so smooth. At one point I had to stop myself because I realized I was making out with the éclair.

I finished it off (though I took my time, let me tell you.) I looked around to make sure no one was staring at the American who had been audibly moaning while eating an éclair, cleaned up my trash, and decided to try and make the afternoon service at Westminster Abbey.

I had been feeling low these first two days in London. I missed my family, I missed my friends, I missed my dogs, and I missed being in the accent majority. I had listened to Carole King’s “So Far Away” at least twenty times throughout the day.

But something about the combination of French pastries, English tea, and Hyde Park had caused an alchemical change in me. I was halfway across the world and doing things that I would not be able to do in California or even in the US, and that was exciting. I had fallen in love with London.

And while I still terribly missed my family and my friends and my dogs and being in the accent majority, I was in London, and I had an Evensong at Westminster Abbey to get to.