Three years, but who's counting?

Clearly not us. We are barely keeping track at all. It wasn't until we received 'Happy Anniversary' messages from family and friends that we realized it was, indeed, our third wedding anniversary.

Three years in doesn't quite have the import of thirty, or even, say, ten. But it is worth marking. Or at least, for crying out loud, remembering.

In our defence there's a lot going on at the moment. Having spent much of June in the air, we are now firmly in a pre-move furniture frenzy. Selling pieces that are too small, buying more, bigger pieces, researching various Sonos set ups, scheduling and confirming decorator appointments - it's a busy old time. And that's just TLOML's task list. Me? I'm surfing designer discount sites for stuff we don't need, which, trust me, is just as time consuming and arguably far less rewarding.

So, yes, we have a lot on our collective plate. Still. It was kind of a shame that we both entirely forgot our anniversary.

We saved the day though. TLOML took my rings to the jewellers to be steam cleaned. I picked him a lemon off the tree as a symbol of the lemon tree I think we should buy ourselves for the new house (a belated, joint anniversary gift). And TLMOL pulled off last minute babysitting and a reservation at Steak and Whisky, Hermosa's nicest steak and whisky restaurant.

Phew. I think this marriage will survive at least another year: who knows, we might even plan to celebrate the next anniversary.

Busy being spoilt

A happy spell of house guests and celebrations have kept me from blogging much lately. The celebrations were for my birthday, and for Mother's Day.

Mindful, perhaps, of the myriad treats I provided when he turned 40, TLOML laid on an abundance of fun excursions.

One such was a family trip to the Hermosa Community Theater to see Shrek was one - Lady P loved the singing so much she shouted 'more! more!' loudly after each scene. Yes, we did have to remove her before the intermission for reasons related to 'too much enjoyment'. But given my love of a musical, and of seeing Lady P enjoy herself, it was a treat.

The previous weekend, as a pre-birthday treat, TLOML took me to the Magic Castle. This LA institution is a members club for magicians. No, we are not magicians. But we know a man who is, sort of. He's an 'associate member' which allows him a silver owl pin: he's working towards one day getting full 'magician member' status and that prized gold owl pin. I had to stifle a snigger as we said 'open sesame' to an owl in a book case to gain entry, but these magicians are serious. There is a library full of magician's books which only magician members are allowed into, for example. Gob Bluths and Phil Dunphys everywhere and tricks being performed in every bar and parlour in this strange oversized folly. Photography is banned and so is any visible scepticism or scoffing. Rather bizzarre, very LA, and a lot of fun.

We also had a couple of fantastic dinners, including a date night in Hermosa's excellent Mediterraneo, where I ate more cheese in one night than I have since we moved here. You only turn 40 once, I thought. Then the next night we went out for dinner in Venice, with our favourite South Bay buddies, at a place called Scopa which has a beautiful bar and a dessert called a Peanut Butter Flutter. Again, 'you only turn 40 once', I thought.

Add to this a shower of cards and gifts and well wishes, an afternoon gathering with pear pie and champagne, and I felt very loved and really quite happy about turning 40. And almost - almost - partied out.

But fast on the heels of my 40th came another celebration. The US doesn't celebrate Mother's Day in line with the Christian calendar, like they do in the Old World. Here it's always the second Sunday in May and it involves everybody going out for brunch, or lunch, or dinner. After his largesse for my birthday, and with house guests to consider, TLOML can be forgiven for not booking a table for Mother's Day.

Instead, we (me and my oldest friend, who has a beautiful English rose of a baby) celebrated with a dad-cooked brunch in the Sugar Cube. A cooked breakfast, an elaborate fruit salad, and macaroons. I don't think there's a single restaurant in the South Bay that could have made me so happy.

So, forgive the lack of posts. But as you can see, I've been having too good a time indulging myself. Sorry not sorry, as the saying goes.

Home Alone

He's gone again. Gallivanting around Argentina leaving me holding the baby. Not literally - she's too squirmy these days - but metaphorically.

Such is the gilt TLOML feels about taking a trip, and so attached is he to me and to Lady P, that he has kept this one short. He left at 4am Tuesday and gets home at 12noon on Saturday. Which is a brutal 40 hours of travel for 3 days in the office.

I appreciate him keeping the trip as brief as possible. Being sole parent is tiring. There's no-one to nudge when she wakes up at 6.45am. And when the diaper genie looks almost full, there's no solace in the 'squish another one in and let the next person deal with it' option.

Plus it's boring. No-one to make me a gin and tonic at the end of the day, no-one to cook and savour a good dinner with, and no-one to chat to in the office.

Still, in the boredom is a mine of productive energy. By the time TLOML had been gone for less than 24 hours, I had cleared out our clobber by the door, and my baking drawer. Yes, it needed it...

Also I completed my seasonal wardrobe change. Actually that's a bit redundant here, I'm not sure I'll really need those fur lined boots, and I didn't dare pack all my sandals away. Still, I did a wardrobe tidy up that was long overdue. I also managed to get through a couple of episodes of that great Girls' Night In treasure, the Gilmour Girls.

He's been gone now for two full days and two evenings and I'm almost at the end of Season 2 of Nashville. I've reorganized Lady P's wardrobe, and all her toys, and created a new dressing up box for her. Oh, and mended all the broken flaps on one of her many tattered Maisy books.

I have just under two days left of going solo. And there's no doubt I'll be happy when TLOML is home. But if he were to stay away another week who's to say what other miracles I might accomplish. Or what other trash TV I might get through. Hmmm. On that note... hurry home TLOML and save me from myself!

Bumping up and down in my little red wagon

That title will make sense to Raffi fans. (He's a big hit with Lady P and most mornings the Sugar Cube House reverberates to his jaunty, singalonga songs.) But his cover of the folk classic 'red wagon' might not resonate with British listeners as much as it does on this side of the Atlantic.

Over here, the red wagon is A Thing. I'd guess that one in every five houses on our street has a Radio Flyer red wagon, tucked away in the back of the garage (yes, I stare nosily into other people's open garages), or abandoned on the driveway, or bumping its way to the beach. The beach, I think, is the reason people buy them around here. You can load your toddler, and a bag full of clobber in the wagon and haul it all to the beach.

When I put it like that, I realise it sounds a bit like a buggy. You can put your toddler and your clobber in one of those too. And so long as you've got sensibly sized wheels, your buggy will handle the sand just fine. And yet, the red wagon is the way to travel in Hermosa.

TLOML, like kids across the US for generations, got towed about in a red wagon when he was small. And when he got older, he towed toys and clobber and younger siblings around in it (ah! there's something you can't easily do with a buggy). So he's been dreaming of getting one for Lady P for a while. It was all I could do to stop him from putting it on our 'nursery essentials' wishlist before she was born. The only other wheeled vehicle I've known him hanker for more, was that beautiful 80s Porsche.

Frankly, the whole concept was lost on me. I couldn't see the benefit of a red wagon for transporting a baby around London or Saltburn. I had never seen one, and didn't know anyone who had one.

Now that Lady P is a sturdy toddler, and summer has hit Hermosa Beach, it's all starting to make sense. So it was that the purchase was made. And at the weekend, TLOML's long held dream came true: we took our child to the beach in her red wagon.

Much more fun than a Porsche and also a little less costly

Happy Valentine's Day. If you believe in that nonsense.

Happy Valentine's Day. I hope you are overwhelmed with charming and romantic tokens of affection and that you have been deluged with expressions of devotion by secret admirers.

Oh no, wait! Valentine's Day was invented by the greeting card industry and is absolute bobbins. Only a fool would celebrate such a day.

Or so TLOML has drummed into me. He tells me that true romance goes on for 365 days a year. I have to agree. He's right. And true romance is gestures like bringing an apple when he picks me up at the airport, which is a lot more meaningful than a bunch of red roses on Valentine's Day.

Actually I like chocolates, and soppy cards enough that I'm prepared to turn a blind eye to the commercialised, BS nature of V Day. I almost went out and bought TLOML a card - just because I love him so, and so why not tell him? But no-one wants to be the mug who buys their significant other a Valentine's Day card only to discover they aren't going to reciprocate.

So I restrained myself.

By sheer coincidence, however, I did find this very useful little pot in a local junk store.

What?! It has nothing to do with Valentine's Day. We move into The Sugar Cube House on Sunday and until our shipment arrives we're living off IKEA and Goodwill purchases. A little heart shaped dish will sweeten that pill a bit, that's all.

On peeling apples. No, really.

Rambling - actually I prefer 'discursive' - as this blog may be, it does have a theme of sorts. The clue is in the name: Transatlantic Tales. It started as barefaced mockery of my Los Angeles friends and neighbours, written as a Brit abroad. Then it became our move East, via NY to the UK, with an American in tow. Even on pregnancy and parenthood, or when I write about food and cooking, I do try for the most part to make sure my posts have a loose connection to things transatlantic. Or at least to where we live, and how we live (which is in itself transatlantic thanks to TLOML being an actual American).

When I think thoughts that have no transatlantic connection at all I try to keep them off my blog. You really don't want to know what I think about Russell Brand on Paxman, do you? Exactly.

Well, I'm breaking the rules for this post. Here goes.

As the apple season draws to a close we received the last of many bags of apples from our dear friend and landlady. I attacked them with our old rusty peeler. TLOML wanted to get rid of this peeler when we started weaning Lady P, because it is so rusty. I actually fished it out of the bin because I found the replacement peeler so slippery and hard to hold. TLOML agrees, it's a blighter to use. It has cut me, drawing blood, every time I have used it. So this time, as so many times before, I tipped the enormous bag of apples out on the countertop and - shunning the new peeler - started prepping them with the rusty old peeler.

Cue the arrival of TLOML. 'What can I do?' he said.
'You can help peel these apples,' I replied. 'You'll have to use that dangerous new peeler though.'
'I hate that peeler,' he said. 'In fact, I'm going to get to the bottom of it. There must be a trick to using it.'

At which point he started googling how to use the new peeler. There are a surprising number of videos about how to use a so-called 'banjo' peeler on line. Here's one of my favourites:

I did muse, as I peeled the apples and TLOML watched the videos, about why so many people make these boring potato peeler videos. Who on earth watches them? I wondered. Oh, right. Us.

The sad thing is that all those videos didn't help at all. It's still a slippery peeler. And it took TLOML the entire time it took me to peel the apples, to find this out.

Here's a picture of TLOML watching videos about how to use the peeler. The apple in shot is the last one of the dozen or so that I peeled. Notice the trusty rusty peeler, resting, blood free on the board while the evil sharp one lurks, ready to slice fingers.

As I said, there's nothing transatlantic about this. It's just a post about TLOML watching videos of how to peel, while I actually peel.

Sorry. I'll get back on theme next time I promise.

Meat Week 2013

One happy side effect of our extended stay in limbo is that TLOML can compete in the National Masters and Old Codgers Swim Championship.

Which means another week of eating meat. Last year it took me a little bit by surprise. He requested spag bol one day. We had roast beef a couple of days later. And before I knew it we'd spent the week eating beef. And it was all rather hearty. As I was growing another human being inside me at the time I was well up for all that stodge.

But this year I'm after a little more variety. Some heartiness, yes, and lots of red meat of course. But also meat from other animals other than the cow, and perhaps a little lightness and heat to balance the heft.

In my continued efforts to win 'Wife of the Year', I posted this menu for TLOML to choose from:

I think our butcher will be rather pleased to see us this weekend. Let Meat Week commence!

A family on the move

We're all on the move. I don't mean our big move back to the US. That's a couple of months off. I mean the many smaller journeys we are going on in the meantime.

TLOML makes fairly frequent trips to the US. I now have to travel for work, every week or two. And Lady P is crawling, driving her little car around the kitchen, and working pretty hard on pulling herself up to standing. She also enjoys a good bounce, a fast moving swing, and has perfected an excellent seated shimmy.

On the road

Swinging

Which is all wonderful. Except when one of us is away. I'll be cross to get back from this week's trip to Reading to find out that she's finally mastered the art of pulling herself up. And I don't want her first steps to be taken while TLOML is not there to see them.

The last time I was away TLOML claimed she had 'swum'. It later transpired she had been propelled through the water from his hands to my sisters', over a distance of a foot at the most. I relaxed, happy to know I hadn't missed an incredible milestone.

The other day I realised she is almost able to clamber up the two steps on our landing - and promptly picked her up and put her down in on a level patch again, saying 'Not while Daddy's away darling'.

Yes, I'm basically trying to retard her progress. We have some way to go before she's properly standing, of course - never mind walking. But if I have my way, she'll master these skills right in front of both of us. Even if that means holding her down till TLOML gets home.

'Blog that!'

Whenever anything happens outside what TLOML considers normal, he always says 'Why don't you blog about that?' He often says 'blog that!' when people are being a bit eccentric, or the service is slightly crap. This being Britain, it happens a lot.

Here's a short list of some of the items TLOML would like me to publicise:

• People swimming in the North Sea between May and September.
• When the man down the street creosoted his fence and put no fewer than 8 'wet creosote' signs on it. This was 'blog that' worthy because the fence is only about 10ft long so there was a sign every few inches.
• The arrival of a friend for dinner with a carton of goat's milk and a banana. She had just popped to Sainsbury's on her way over, that's all.

• The time we went to Aldi and bought 63 items for £62. A highlight. Bristol Farms has never felt so far away.
• The sunny but cold days in April when TLOML and I wore quilted coats with hats and scarves and saw people walking around in shorts and flipflops.
• The £5 fine, noted on a little sign by the path, for 'damaging the daffodils' in Farndale.
• When TLOML's order of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs on a bagel came on an English muffin, and the cafe owner said 'You don't mind, do you?' when TLOML mentioned it.

I would go on, but am saving the rest of the incidents for when I've run out of other events about which to write hilarious and insightful commentary.

One year of smug marriedness, many more to come

I'm rushing to post this so TLOML, Lady P and I can go and loll about in country hotel splendour. We're celebrating our first wedding anniversary with a night at the lovely Feversham Arms, including a tasting menu dinner in their excellent restaurant. The room is apparently close enough to the restaurant to be monitorable and rush-back-able, so we can bring Lady P with us. Which is nice seeing as she was, in a foetal way, at our wedding.

TLOML, me and Lady P on our wedding day

It's hard to believe it's only a year. And I don't mean that in a bad way, as in, it feels like forever. It's just that we've packed a heck of a lot in. According to the Holmes & Rahe stress scale, some of the most stressful life events include getting married, pregnancy and a 'change in living conditions', 'change of residence' and 'change of social activities'. We ticked all those boxes in our first year. And yet we couldn't be happier.

...and one year later

It bodes well for the next fifty years, I'd say.

My goodness this is a smug post. What can I tell ya? He really is The Love of My Life. Happy anniversary, TLOML.

On absence, fondness, etc

Daddy's back

TLOML came home yesterday. Yes, I know, I posted about him coming home just a couple of weeks ago. But then he went away again. That's the thing about running a US business from Yorkshire: it involves an awful lot of travel.

Off he went again, rather glum about saying goodbye to the new love of his life (that's Lady P, not another car, to be clear). And so began another boring endurance trial for Lady P and I. We miss him so, you see.

Don't get me wrong, it's not as if I cry myself to sleep every night when he's gone. Actually I tuck myself into bed really early, with a good book, and feel quite smug about it. I keep my self busy socialising with my family - a run out for afternoon tea with my mum, lots of playing with my nearby nephews and chatting to my sister, and a couple of Sunday lunches at my parents'. I made a foray down to Harrogate to see an old friend for the day. And thanks to the wonders of childcare, got out for yoga and for a personal training session.

So it was a reasonably busy week. It was a productive one, too. I spent my free, housebound evenings writing. I probably lost a couple of pounds thanks to consuming mainly vegetables and fruit all week. And Lady P and I worked on sleeping through the night: she's much better at it now. (Probably because I caved and now give her an enormous bottle of formula at midnight and then refuse to feed her till breakfast.)

And yet, and yet, I missed him still. No matter that I can fill my days and nights with things to do. Nor that I have my little buddy Lady P to keep me company. Nor that I caught up on sleep and all that good stuff. It's just that life is somehow kinda boring when he's not around.

Now he's back. Proposing we wander out for coffee, when I had meant to be writing. Suggesting ice-cream, or cheese, after a dinner that was supposed to be healthy. Pouring whisky when we should be going to bed. Taking up half the bed and more than half the covers. Messing up my carefully constructed clothes filing system when he puts Lady P's clothes away.

He really is a terrible influence. And life really is just much more fun when he's at home.

Time zones away

It's 7.30pm as I type this, and my 'working' day is over. Lady P is in bed, I've had a lovely early evening run, and am sitting with a G&T enjoying the aroma of roasting chicken fill the kitchen.

TLOML, by contrast, is just hitting his stride. He's been at his desk for three or four hours, has cleared his inbox and placed a few calls, and is getting into the real 'meat' of the working day. He works California hours, you see. From Yorkshire. That's an 8 hour time difference he's spanning.

Time for tea, say I. Time to log on, says TLOML.

TLOML's ability to run his US business from the UK is what makes it possible for us to live here. And there are some advantages to the strange hours he keeps. When Lady P needed frequent attention overnight, TLOML could take a late shift in caring for her, safe in the knowledge he could sleep in the next day. And I often have some company for my morning nap (now Lady P is on a schedule and has a nice sleep after breakfast). We can wander out to grab a coffee or lunch together too, which is lovely. I haven't had to join any of those unappealing 'mum and baby' groups just to get some grown up company in the day time.

On the whole, it's very nice to have a husband who not only works from home, but is totally up for distractions for much of the day.

There are, however, significant drawbacks. Despite his best intentions, TLOML often has to take a call or respond to emails when we should, by all normal standards of civilised behaviour, be enjoying G&Ts together. Or when we could be preparing dinner - which I have to do solo more often than either of us would like. He'd love to do Lady P's bath every night but sometimes it just isn't possible because it hits the middle of his 'morning'. It's frustrating for him to have his nose to the grindstone just when those around him are heading for leisure. While I'm ready to crawl into bed by about 10pm most nights, he's still scanning emails, his brain fully engaged - and would gladly be up for another couple of hours.

When we started dating we used to have Skype lunch/ dinner dates. I'd eat my dinner, usually in a boring Big Corp-funded hotel somewhere in Europe, and chat to him as he ate his lunch, in sunny California.Though we live together now, it seems we're still spanning time zones.

Bootcamp

TLOML is flying home as I post this. Hurray and hurrah for that. He's been gone for just over a fortnight, busy wining and dining clients and colleagues on the West Coast and in Argentina. In the name of building professional relationships he has probably consumed a small herd of Black Angus, a couple of cases of Malbec and several casks of Lagavulin.

Meanwhile Lady P and I have been on a sort of bootcamp, pretty much devoid of meat and alcohol. For me, that is. She was never a great meat eater anyway. Her bootcamp has included a high intensity nap training programme, and the introduction of a fairly strict schedule. The nap training involves letting her cry for a minute or two before soothing her, and repeating that cycle till she falls asleep alone. The schedule ensures she gets plenty of sleep and I'm never caught short suddenly needing to feed her, for example, on a station platform (I've done that once and don't want to have to do it again. Those benches just aren't very comfortable).

I've flirted with both this nap training thing, and the schedule, several times in the past few weeks. But there's always been a reason - we're on holiday, growth spurts, she's just had a jab, I can't bear to hear her cry for even 10 seconds etc - not to stick to it. In fact I started it in earnest by accident. It was one of those mornings when I thought she was asleep, and then heard her crying from the shower. By the time I'd rinsed the conditioner from my hair and wrapped a towel around me, she was starting to quiet down. I stood by the nursery door and listened. Miraculously, she nodded off with a sweet, sad little whimper.

I decided she was ready. No more being boobed to sleep and put down as slowly and delicately as if I were defusing a bomb. With careful use of the oven timer, set to beep after she's been crying for 1, then 2, then 3 minutes, and some steely resolve, we cracked it in a couple of days. And although it was hard to hear her cry for a minute or two, she rarely cried for three. Overall it was a heck of a lot faster than wheeling her buggy furiously round Saltburn willing her to nod off. And now I have the holy grail of early parenthood, a baby who can be put down for her nap awake and will fall asleep on her own.* What's more, she sleeps for a solid two hours at lunchtime, and is an awful lot smilier in the afternoons as a result.

The longest minutes I ever knew

So much for Lady P's bootcamp. As for me, well, as usual I've made the best of being bereft by going on a mini health kick of my own. Lots of salads, even more fruit than usual, plenty of early nights and a bit of disciplined exercise. It's not that TLOML is terribly bad for my health - he enjoys a lovely fish supper, and encourages me to go off running, and so on. But there are just a few more late night whisky and cheese sessions, and buttery scrambled egg breakfasts, and steak dinners when he is around. While he's gone I eat less, sleep more, and actually do my sit ups while Lady P's having tummy time. I guess a little bit of boredom is good for my health.

My bootcamp essentials - these and a fridge full of tomatoes

The transformative effect of bootcamp has been less dramatic on me than on Lady P, but I am definitely a little trimmer than I was when he left.

As I said, TLOML gets home today. I've stocked up on cheese and ice-cream, and am planning an elaborate dinner. Hmmmm. I'm afraid I'm going to slip into my old hedonistic ways again. Let's just hope Lady P doesn't fall off her wagon too.

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*I realise I am tempting fate by writing this, after just a few days of napping success. According to the law of parent bragging, by the time you read this she'll have reverted and we'll be cluster feeding and rocking her to sleep again. Yikes!

Genetic inheritance

Good news! Not only is she incredibly advanced in many ways. Lady P also has royal lobes.

Royal lobes are, according to The (half Korean) Love Of My Life ones where the lobe is separate from the rest of you. Like Buddha, only less exaggerated.

TLOML, whose Korean heritage is a noble one, has them. That's where she gets them from, I suppose.

I, being of sturdy Anglo Saxon stock, have fully attached, serf-like lobes:

Little Lady P is a lucky girl indeed. I hope she picks up his athleticism, spatial reasoning and olive skin too.

This country!

We've been living in London now for 8 months, almost as long as we were in New York. I think it's time for a progress report, on how TLOML is adjusting to life in dear old Blighty. So here goes.

Today we got off the bus a couple of stops early to go to the butcher. It being a Wednesday afternoon, they were closed. I'd forgotten about early closing on a Wednesday afternoon. It turns out that the tradition is alive and well at Elite Meats. We decided to walk to the butcher round the corner, and it started to rain. Really quite heavily. Which was surprising as the skies were blue moments earlier.

TLOML shook his fist at the sky and shouted 'GRRRR! This Country! The butcher! The rain! Grrrrr!'

I think it's safe to say that, with his years of convenient 24 hour supermarkets and year round Californian sunshine, TLOML still has a little adjusting to do.

(Meanwhile I celebrate the fact we have three knowledgeable, independent butchers within a ten minute walk - and I don't miss Gristedes, or Ralphs, one little bit. And that although it rained briefly, the skies had been blue most of the day, and it is still mild enough to go out with gloves, or boots - I remember last October's NY snow storm with a shudder.)

When I'm 64...

Will he still need me? Will he still feed me? I'm pretty sure he will. Or I him. We'll take care of each other. We promised to, in front of friends and family and the eyes of God / a very ornate wood carving by Grinling Gibbons.

But will he still tease me? Will I still mock him? I'm thinking specifically of our transatlantic language difficulties. TLOML made much of my 'Penis Texas' moment back in LA. Now he has to make himself understood by British voice-recognition technology, the boot is on the other foot. Much hilarity ensues, as he tries to search for 'Butcher, Hampstead' and is offered 'Cherry Ham Speed'. Etc.

In a misguided attempt to fit in, TLOML is learning Cockney Rhyming Slang. I haven't told him no-one uses it, because I think it's funny when he says things like 'rubadub' instead of pub, especially with his appalling British (/Kiwi) accent.

Yesterday he rounded on me as I suggested we add some sweetcorn to the Korean noodle soup he was doctoring up.
'You know, it's just corn,' he said. 'What do you think, I'll add some sour corn?'
Remembering a link Hemingway Holly had sent me a while ago I retorted,
'Well, it's just horse riding. Not horseback riding. What do you think, people want to ride on the horse's head?'

And so we continue to find apparently endless amusement in each others' funny accents and turns of phrase. Given how much transatlantic cultural cross-semination it's surprising that we ever found it amusing at all. Surely we've watched enough watched enough Friends, Seinfeld, Fawlty Towers that the old 'sidewalk versus pavement' thing is not a novelty. Not so.

And over the three years since we started dating, the amusement factor has not faded one little bit. Now I can't wait to start having kids, so I can raise some little Britishers and teach them to tease their dad's accent. Endless fun.