Football fever

I’m a huge NFL fan now. I even call football ‘soccer’. The NFL is back in Los Angeles with the return of the St Louis Rams and the San Diego Chargers. Confused, Brits? Remember when Wimbledon moved to Milton Keynes and became the MK Dons? It’s kinda like that. NFL teams are corporate entities, which choose their location based on the economic benefits. For about twenty years it worked out for the Rams to be in St Louis. Then it became more appealing to be back in LA – just at the same time as the Chargers decided to relocate.

Thus, in 2016 LA went from a city with zero teams to one with two. It had struck me as odd that LA, the 2^nd biggest city in the US, didn’t have its own football team. But LA is not a good city for football: everyone leaves at half time because of the traffic. The Rams may have been better off in St Louis when (respectfully) they were the biggest show in town, and they could fill a stadium with truly dedicated fans as opposed to a bunch of flakey shysters.

Anyway the LA Rams are here. And until their gleaming new stadium is built and season tickets become exorbitantly expensive, they're playing at the Coliseum, for which we have season tickets. TLOML bought them so he could watch his beloved Redskins play as much as for the Rams, which is a classic LA NFL fan move.

The Coliseum is apparently regarded as a decrepit stadium, long past its shelf life. I shudder to think what the people who say that would make of Lord’s. To me, those Olympic torches and those Greek (Roman? Post Modernist?) columns are quite splendid. And it’s big! It holds 93k, which would make for an amazing spectating experience if only the place wasn’t half empty because all the fans are stuck on the 10.

Note the proportion of Washington Redskins fans (red shirts). Because LA.

Speaking of big, so are some of the fans. You don’t see this much in health conscious Hermosa but these two fans – who sit in front of TLOML’s seats – are a good example. 

They buy an extra seat to accommodate their girth and their snacks. Lucky for whoever sits behind and can use it as a footrest.

Despite my opening claim, I actually still can’t follow the action in an American football game. I’ll probably stick with proper football, where there actually IS always some action, and you can always see where the ball is. But I’ve enjoyed my taste of the NFL, and I won’t begrudge TLOML his chance to see some big games in that lovely old crock of a stadium. Apparently when they move to the new stadium season tickets will be extortionate – so we might be back to watching the Redskins lose on our TV at home.

Von's

Ah, American supermarkets. Here I am again. Thank god, not in a Gristedes. Sadly, not in a Whole Foods either. I'm in a Von's, which is a pretty bogstandard US supermarket. So I know what to expect.

The apples are enormous.

My pen, added for scale

The eggs are stored in a fridge. And most of them are a horrid pearly white.

The steaks are pre-cut to a thickness our old Saltburn butcher would find ridiculous.

And finding sweetcorn without added salt or sugar is the stuff of a madman's dreams. I might need to start shopping at Whole Foods to keep Lady P in the low-crap diet she is used to.

But at least I'll never need to grate my own cheese again.

Phew

Small Town Christmas

We were at the Big Switch on last weekend. Perhaps ‘Big’ is relative. Certainly the tree is no Trafalgar Square NorwegianSpruce. And the lights pale rather if compared to those at New York's Rockefeller Plaza.

Still, Saltburn got properly festive. It was more than just a light switch on. There were roasting chestnuts to be had, and a brass band playing – my nephews got to join in and shake bells along to their rousing rendition of Jingle Bells. The butcher and the local restaurateur tycoon were selling hot dogs and mince pies, and all the local cafes had mulled wine on offer. A little teacup ride and face painting gave the kids something to do while their parents sipped mulled wine and waited for the big switch on itself.

In fact the build up may have been a little much. After much festive waiting around, there was a count down, MCd by an exuberant Geordie. TLOML couldn’t understand a word he was saying as he whipped the crowd up into a mild murmur - but he caught up by the time we’d got down to 7… 6… 5… After ‘1’ there was a brief pause, a technical hitch perhaps. Then the tree lit up, and while all the crowd cheered, TLOML muffled a surprised laugh. He had expected more lights, I think. ‘Modest’ was the watchword for the 2013 Saltburn Tree Committee, I think.

After the tree lights went on a small parade took place. First Mary, on a donkey rather confusingly lead by a Christmas elf (Joseph, getting in the spirit? No, wait, that doesn’t make sense.) A steady stream of beaming Brownies and Cub Scouts. Then Father Christmas on the back of the fire engine. Hard to say who my 3 year old nephews were more thrilled by, the firemen or Santa. Suffice to say there was high excitement all around.

In a former life I might have scoffed a little. But in lovely little Saltburn I brushed away a sentimental tear and took a tonne of photos.

The next day the Yarn Bombers had visited, and added two festive knitted figures to the fence around the tree. Like the tree, and like the town, they are small, good humoured, and perfectly formed.

Post turkey collapse

A lady laden with Christmas shopping

The tree by day (it's prettier by night)

     

Keep on running

I have waxed lyrical more than once on this blog about how small Saltburn is, and how lovely life in a small town can be.

But there is a down side. Having everything on hand and close by means it takes no effort at all to get anywhere. Which means the classic new mum exercise of walking to the shops is just completely rubbish. Walking to the shops takes less than five minutes. That just is not going to get me back into those pre-Lady P skinnies.

So I turned, again, to running. I'm not a natural runner. I hated it at school, when I was always at the back of the pack, being shouted at ('with those long legs, Isadora Watts, you should be at the front!'), feeling hot and tired and humiliated. But I took it up when we were in Malibu: living with TLOML and eating like Kings every night had taken its toll, and there was this beautiful running track up by TLOML's swim club with a great view over the bluffs to the sea. I'd go along and jog a very short distance, quite slowly, and enjoy the view. I figured it was better than nothing. I kept it up in New York, running off all those steaks and burgers, and actually managed to cover a bit more ground after a while. B by the time we got back to London I was pretty well hooked.

Running really is the perfect exercise. It's free - once you've invested in a decent pair of shoes. You can do it anytime and anywhere. If I only have half an hour, I can still get out for a quick jog. And it works. I am back in those skinnies. Albeit unable to sit down and eat a large meal in them. Still. And for that, I have my Saltburn running routine - not all those walks to the shops - to thank.

Saltburn is so small that actually even making a run worthwhile you have to be a little bit creative. The natural 'loop' from our house, down through the Valley Gardens and back up the cliffside steps, is only 2.8 miles. I have to put a little extra lap in round the posh houses near us to make it up 3 miles. To get up to five miles I'll probably have to head right to the edge of town. Or do two laps I suppose. Which is why I greeted the news that there is going to be a Saltburn Marathon this year with some scepticism. On checking the route it made sense - they're starting in Saltburn, doing a 22 mile + loop out onto the moors and back into Saltburn.

I think I'll pass on the marathon. But maybe I'll do a couple of laps of town next time I put my running shoes on.

Large cars and long journeys

As I have mentioned a number of times, everything is bigger in America. Including the steak we grilled last week. And the average beach house.

This is what passes for a 'cottage' in the Outer Banks, NC

And, of course, the cars. The cars have to be bigger because the road trips are so much bigger too.

We drove for about three and a half hours from the airport near Raleigh, to the Outer Banks, and back again a week later. I though that was a fairly long drive. How small the British think! At the wedding we went to in Duck we met one couple who did the same Raleigh-Duck drive, and back, in a day. Another guy we talked to had just driven up from Miami, 17 hours away.

Tomorrow I'm going to visit my sister in Cambridgeshire, probably a three and a half hour drive. I think of it as very far and consequently it's not a trip I expect to make very often from Saltburn.

An American would think nothing of popping down to Cambs for Sunday lunch. Is it because America is such a big country? Or is it because the cars are so big? Or are the cars so big because the country is so big? And is that why the roads are all so very long?

Answers on a postcards please. Or just drive up and tell me in person.

The generous portions of the American South

TLOML, Lady P and I are enjoying a week on a North Carolina beach, catching up with family and friends and introducing Lady P to the many benefits of the American lifestyle.

Like being brought iced water when you sit down in a restaurant without having to ask twice. And massive top loading washing machines, and gigantic fridges and dishwashers. And many other features I'm sure I've posted about before.

Perhaps most important of all, certainly for TLOML, is the food here. We are in the land of shrimp & grits, fried chicken, pecan pie and other heart stopping delights. And we bought some steak to cook on the grill at the beachhouse.

These are they. The hardback book next to them is for scale.

Thick, aren't they? When we get home we'll have some similar cuts waiting for us at the butcher in Saltburn. But they had to be ordered three weeks in advance so he could hang the piece of beef for us ready to cut to TLOML's specification. Over here that's just a regular old steak, on offer at the Food Lion.

Sometimes, I suppose, the best things come in rather larger packages.

Apropos of nothing, on streets and their names

Our address in Malibu was '20700 Pacific Coast Highway'. That's right, twenty thousand and seven hundred. You'd be bummed if you were coming to visit and you hit Pacific Coast Highway at, say, number 37, wouldn't you? It's not uncommon for a US street address to begin with such a long number. A scan through my address book reveals a 4010 Rodalite Drive, a 3517 Woodcliff Road and a 5463 Paradise Drive.

These big numbers are partly driven by the fact that the number leaps another 10, or 100 (depending on the city's system) with every block. But it's also because in the US a single road will run for many miles under a single name. Everything really is bigger in America, I suppose. Pacific Coast Highway is a great example, running as it does the length of California, for over 650 miles. Strange to think that we were living, technically, on the same street as someone 8 hours drive north in Mendocino County.

The streets of Saltburn are rather shorter. It's almost as if the Victorian planners had too many ideas for this little town. In addition to the jewel streets - a set of streets running down to the clifftop, called Emerald, Diamond, Ruby, and so on - there are a number of grand-but-small terraces and short 'parades' of houses.
So Victoria Terrace turns into Albion Terrace after just a couple of bends in the road. Glenside would be a decent length but for the fact that a block of it is called Balmoral Terrace, and Windsor Road is interrupted by a single block of Warrior Terrace.

As a result I can't imagine there's a house number higher than, say, 150, anywhere in this town.

This kind of name changing along a street is not uncommon in the UK. After all London's Oxford Street is only so-called for a bit more than a mile, before becoming Bayswater to the West and High Holborn to the East.

At this point I'd like to make a pithy, insightful comment about the significance of such a difference between us Brits and our American cousins. But I'm afraid I've drawn a blank.

I think we just file this one under 'Quirky Transatlantic Differences - About Which No Conclusions May Be Drawn'. Or, to coin the irritatingly popular phrase, "Just sayin'".

Size matters, and sometimes you just have to ship the big stuff in

Continuing on from my popular 'everything is bigger in America' thread from previous years, I have a new 'everything is smaller in Britain' discovery to share.

TLOML regularly asks his mother to send drugstore items to us here. She very kindly shops for him, packs it up and ships it over - which is more than a little inconvenient, I imagine. She's a good mum, of course, and doesn't complain.

But I do. 'You know, you can buy all the same stuff here. You don't need to ask your poor mother to go to all this trouble,' I say.

Then the shipment arrives, and we do the side-by-side comparison, and I eat my words.

One of these body lotion bottles is from a UK retailer, and cost about a fiver, so we thought it was a fairly standard size. The other was sent from the US and cost also about a fiver, and is probably considered a standard size there. Can you guess which is which?

As for the painkillers, no prizes for spotting the tiny Boots packet, which cost less than £1. The giant bottle of US painkillers cost ten times as much but will last thirty times as long.

Sometimes, bigger really is better. That's clearly not the case with fruit, or cars. But where drugstore essentials are concerned, our American cousins are really onto something. And thankfully for us, TLOML's mum is kind enough to keep shipping on request.

We really do have the best of both worlds: sensibly sized apples and access to enormous bottles of body lotion.

Bump Size Matters

I know it matters, because the midwife gets a tape measure out  - occasionally to declare it 'too small' - every time I see her. Presumably she's not just doing it for shits and giggles.

I know bump size matters, too, because it's the reason I can no longer wear most of my baggy, pre-pregnancy jumpers. It's pure maternity wear from here on in.

But there are a couple of unexpected consequences from wearing a bump that's measuring on the small side of 8 months:

1. Getting through the slightly annoying half-width door into the Fox Corner loo is increasingly difficult.

2. On the plus side, it makes an excellent resting place for a wine glass or perhaps a tumbler of extremely weak gin and tonic.

(Yes, I know, it looks way bigger when I sit down).

Fruit and babies: size matters

Most sources of pregnancy info use fruit sizes to explain to you how big your unborn child is. I think they do it in case pregnancy renders you incapable of understanding inches or centimetres.

As it happens my spatial reasoning is poorer than ever just lately, so I find the fruit analogy useful. This graphic list from Bump.com is a good example.

But check your source before you start picturing your fruity baby. For example, at week 9, an American fetus is the size of a grape. Now I know that American grapes can be enormous. An English baby at that stage would be better described as the size of an English apricot, I think. Or perhaps a little greengage.

What's more, US sites have the baby at a fig size in week 11, and a lime in week 12. In the US, figs are small - smaller than limes even. But by European fruit sizes that means a dramatically shrinking baby.

On the left, an 11wk fetus. On the right, a 12 week fetus.

Maybe it's safer, after all, to stick to inches and centimetres. Even for my poor pregnancy-addled mind.

When American sandwich fillings and English sandwich bread collide

TLOML made himself a chicken sandwich the other day. He found the left over chicken breast from the previous night's roast, and some parma ham that needed eating.

Then he sought out the bread. Warburtons seeded batch, to be precise. It was then that it became clear: this English bread was just too small for this American man's chicken and ham sandwich.

As you can see, my resourceful husband rolled with the punches: he just used two slices of bread for the bottom of the sandwich, and two for the top.

Five minutes under the grill, and some careful cutting later, and he had what I would describe as 'two chicken sandwiches'. TLOML pointed out that if the bread was of a decent size, it would just be the one sandwich. He is probably right. Must look for bigger bread in future.

The shrimpiest of prawns

You know that nickname 'shrimp', which usually denotes someone of smaller stature? I bet they don't use it in the States. There, the shrimp and prawns are big. Sometimes obscenely, weirdly big.

Here... not so much. Our prawns are decidedly, well, shrimpy.

Exhibit A)
A 'tiger style prawn' from Ravel's, our local, nice but not great, bistro.

You hear 'tiger style' and you think 'great big prawns', don't you? (or 'great big shrimps' if you are American). Like the kind you can take two or three bites of. Not at Ravel's.

Exhibit B)
'Large' 'King' prawns, from Co-op. I know, I know, what do I expect, buying unsustainable, discounted prawns from the supermarket? But I'd promised TLOML bouillabaisse, and was too late for the proper fishmonger. Needs must.

What I needed were some nice big juicy shellfish to toss in the bouillabaisse.What I got were some rather undernourished little prawns.

 Don't believe me? Here they are next to a teaspoon, for scale.

I mean, it's not the world's smallest prawn or anything. But does it really merit the 'large king' label?

Sigh. I am dangerously close to 'everything is bigger and therefore better in America' territory here. And I really don't feel that way. I love British seafood, our lovely mussels, our nice briney oysters, langoustines, sweet brown crab.

It's just... well, these prawns are, undeniably, small. Delicious, but small.

In America when they call something 'large', or 'king', it is enormous. Too big. I think the prawn labelling people should exercise a little restraint. It's just a bit embarrassing, 's'all.

'One pan' dinners

A recipe caught my eye in Bon Appetit magazine lately, for a sort of deconstructed caesar salad. Chicken, baked with a crust involving parmesan and garlic, and roasted romaine with anchovies on the side.

The recipe was in a feature on 'one sheet pan dinners'. That is, meals you can make with just one baking sheet in use.

I prepared my ingredients.  It was then that I started to have my doubts. Could this really fit into just one pan?

Clearly not. Where's the lettuce going to go?

The lettuce had to have its own pan.

The meal was delicious, quick and easy, and I've made it a few times since.

But I ask you, as I asked TLOML, 'What kind of person has a pan big enough to fit 4 chicken breasts and 4 half heads of romaine?'

The answer...? 'An American'.

He's right, of course. Our standard size oven and my standard size roasting tins just are not equipped for American 'one pan' dinners.

Still, as I type this, I'm watching the jubilee preparations, people setting up street parties under makeshift tents in pouring rain. I'm reflecting on British spirit, defiant in the face of slightly faulty equipment and unhelpful conditions. I will make the American recipes I like, against all odds.

Everything is smaller in England

Allow me to refresh your memory of the size of a New England clam. Here's a photo of one we enjoyed last summer:

A New England clam

And here are some razor and manilla clams we sampled in NW5 last weekend:

A Kentish Clam

Massive fruit

I'm still not bored of this 'everything is bigger in America riff'. Last night we did a run to Dallas BBQ for emergency wings - while waiting for our order we saw people drinking margaritas that must seriously have been a pint and a half. Sadly, I forgot my camera so can't prove it.

But happily, I did manage to capture a shot of this massive nectarine. Just after I took a bite and thought 'my goodness this is a huge nectarine'. Look... it's almost as tall as a mug:

Bigger than a 'handful', which is what the whole '5 a day' system was built on.

That said, you can get dinky fruit here, as a sort of seasonal novelty. Check out these wee plums:

I've taken to buying the tiny fruit for the pleasure I get when TLOML goes to the fruit bowl and exclaims 'what the ...?!' Then I tell him with pride that they are specially imported English plums. (In fact they are little sugar plums from upstate NY.) TLOML growls and mutters 'They look like cherries to me. You're not in England any more, start buying regular sized fruit godamnit'.

Ah, fun with green groceries. Size does matter.

Everything is bigger in New England

More on the 'everything is bigger in America' riff. I'm not sure it's fair to compare the size of the clams, since the closest British equivalent is probably the cockle. So I'll restrict myself to a comment on the size of these clams, compared to any other clam or cockle from anywhere.

Look at these big juicy fellas, practically bursting out of their shells! That's TLOML's hand for scale, and he has fairly big islander hands. So respect the clam that fills the gap between that forefinger and thumb. We were in Rhode Island, home of the happy clam. Apparently it's to do with the muddy, silty sea floor there. To be precise, we were in Scales and Shells, Newport, RI, a restaurant TLOML visited over a decade ago and has been dreaming of ever since.

TLOML is of the view that there is no such thing as 'too big' where clams are concerned. I think these babies support his case. And our consumption of 50+ clams across 3 meals, in 24 hours, proves it too.

While we were in Newport waiting for Scales and Shells to open (we were there at 5pm on the dot two days in a row), we checked out some of the famous Newport mansions. Breakers, the Vanderbilt summer home, had 15 bedrooms and 20 bathrooms. Further evidence that many things are rather bigger in America.

Everything in America IS bigger

This may become a recurring theme. I've created a new label just in case.

Exhibit A was the Post Office.

Exhibit B: the apple.

Apples in America are like a whole meal in themselves. They are the size of bowling balls, take an hour to eat, and you can't buy more than 4 at a time because they won't fit in your old lady trolley.

Okay, I'm exaggerating for effect. But they are pretty ginormous. Here's a picture of a fuji apple, next to a chapstick, that famous international unit of measure.

Here's a picture of the same apple next to a pair of socks I balled up to be about the size of my favourite English apple, the russet.

And finally, for the American readers who don't believe an apple can be so tiny, here's a picture of an actual English apple - a Cox's - next to an average sized pair of pears. (I think I have found one of the few exceptions to my 'everything is bigger here' rule... pears are the same. Wonder why).

Bigger, better: a correction

A correction, in response to some heckling from my Wondertwin. (See, TLOML, we don't always agree on everything.)

THIS is Kentish Town Post Office.

That other one I showed was the old Sorting Office on Leighton Road. Busted! But they are similar in size. The real thing is just less charming, and more full of people who've wet themselves or are having a massive crack-addled argument.

Either way, my point still stands. They are considerably smaller than the great big Post Office near me in NYC.

That's one big lady of a Post Office...

Over and out.

Bigger, better

It's true what they say about everything being bigger in America. Hemingway Holly, you're right. Stuff in America really is generally M A S S I V E.

Just look at the size of my local Post Office.

Puts dear old Kentish Town's to shame.