Tag Archives: England

Broadchurch: Snap Judgements and Scottish Accents

11 Wednesday Feb 2015

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In last week’s post, I mentioned that I couldn’t watch Broadchurch because, in it, David Tennant lacked his Scottish accent. I do not like to live my life in such broad and ridiculous judgments, so, my sentiments bothered me for the next few days. What sort of shallow, silly girl stops watching a show because she only finds the main character attractive if he’s rolling his r’s and blurrily calling people “little madam” in a slightly sassy way? Apparently me. Oh, add to that a script that is stunted and awkward, and one’s interest in a show goes to hell.

I eyed Broadchurch every time I looked at my Netflix queue over those days of questioning. Surely, I’m better than this. Friends, who have sensible and discriminating taste, liked the show a lot. Maybe I should give it another go. Maybe I was too hard on an American accented David Tennant.

I pressed play and was immediately thrown into a confusion. The first episode’s overall aesthetic was grainier than I remembered, while across the screen paraded cup after cup of tea and awesome English actor after awesome English actor. Many whom I recognized from London stage productions and Dr. Who.

I pushed pause. Wait. What was I watching? The Broadchurch I was writing about last week was a distinctly American show, David Tennant was talking like a cowboy and he had a sexy blond sidekick. This show had tea and people skulking about on rocky beaches and in back gardens. This Broadchurch was definitely English. Plus, the cinematography was gripping, and the acting and writing, beautifully nuanced.

I calmed my confusion with a quick google search. Apparently, I had mixed up Broadchurch with Gracepoint. Gracepoint is the American spin-off of Broadchurch. Both star David Tennant and center around the murder of an eleven-year-old boy in a sleepy beach town. It was Gracepoint, not Broadchurch, that had so bummed me out earlier this year.

Well…this show of tea and beaches and English stage actors could still bum me out. David Tennant had yet to grace the screen. I pressed play and rolled my eyes. I was holding my breath in anticipation. I am ridiculous to care about this…but, will he or won’t he?

Finally, David Tennant’s angular face, framed by floppy redish hair, appeared in a closeup shot. He glowered at the camera and opened his mouth….

I delightedly squealed.

YES!!! DAVID TENNANT HAS A SCOTTISH ACCENT!!!!

I made a huge mistake. I’m going to like Broadchurch after all.

English Fusion Cooking: Golden Raisin and Black Currant Scones

12 Wednesday Nov 2014

Posted by in Cooking, Philosophy of Cooking, Pushpins (Daily Life)

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It is finally cold outside. The heat is on, the electric blanket out, and the oven warm. This weekend, my roommate and I took turns using our oven to bake various things, both savory and sweet. She made her first apple pie of the year, and I made my first fall scones. They also happened to be the most epic scones I’ve ever made. Who knew that cinnamon, homemade rye-rum vanilla, golden raisins, and black currents was such a winning combination? And believe me, it totally is.

Making such scones allows me to revel in one of my favorite cooking styles: English Fusion Cooking. Traditionally, English cooking is pretty simple. All the food groups are there and are usually covered with copious amounts of butter or brown sauce. Though simple, I love to take these recipes and lace them with elegant surprises–like white truffle oil in the mashed potato portion of a Shepherd’s pie made from lamb, Portobello mushrooms, and leek. Or, adding a dash of cinnamon and homemade vanilla extract to a solid scone recipe. It’s unpretentious food with quiet glimmers of sophistication and creativity. Food you cannot really know until you tasted it, spent an evening with it, with your dearest friends.

Golden Raisin and Black Currant Scones:

1 cup of bread flour

1 cup of oat flour

1/4 cup of sugar (or much less to taste)

3/4 teaspoon of salt

2 1/2 teaspoons of baking powder

1/2 teaspoon of baking soda

1/2-1 teaspoon of cinnamon

1/2 cup of chilled, unsalted butter, cut into 1/4 inch pieces

1/2 cup of Golden Raisins

1/4 cup of Black Currants

1 egg, beaten

1 tablespoon of vanilla extract (I suggest you that make your own and use Angel’s Envy rye whiskey, which has been aged in rum casks, as the base for this extract)

2/3 cup of buttermilk, or plain yoghurt thinned to buttermilk consistency with filtered water

Instructions:

Preheat oven to 425 degrees F. Sift together all dry ingredients and cinnamon in a large bowel (or just dump them into said bowl if you are feeling slightly lazy / simply haven’t the time). Cut butter into mixture with two knives, or a pastry cutter, until the butter pieces are the size of small peas. Stir in golden raisins and currants. Add egg, vanilla extract, and buttermilk to mixture. Stir until just mixed.

Spray a large baking sheet with vegetable oil cooking spray and drop scone batter by the heaping tablespoonful onto the baking sheet, 2 inches apart, making 10 scones. Bake 15 to 18 minutes or until golden brown. Remove from the oven and serve with clotted cream, marmalade, butter, or your favorite jelly preserve.

Homemade Vanilla Extract:

1 cup of bourbon, rum, rye whisky aged in rum casks, or vodka

5-8 vanilla beans

Instructions:

Place alcohol in a clean glass jar with a cork. On a cutting board, split vanilla beans open lengthwise, exposing seeds, then add to the alcohol. Cork bottle and store in a cool dry place for three weeks, shaking it each week. For the most intense flavor, store the mixture for six months before using.

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Freestyle Disco and Drinking Games: Jane Austen on YouTube

02 Wednesday Jul 2014

Posted by in Literature, Pushpins (Daily Life), The Creative Life

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Oh my gosh you guys, after four months riddled with various high pressure deadlines, I have a break. An actual break. And nothing says taking a break from high pressure deadlines quite like silly YouTube Videos about Jane Austen and her books (well, at least for me). So, for your viewing pleasure, and my easy access, here are some of my favorites:

1.) The Peloton—The Jane Austen One

Ah, polite  Nineteenth-Century conversation:  where everyone beautifully says nothing.

 

2.) Jane Austen’s Fight Club

Because sometimes, you just have to knock a teacup out of some heiress’s hand.

 

3.) The Mitchell and Webb Look—Posh Dancing

Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for yelling at Miss Bingley what I’ve been longing to yell at her every time I read Pride and Prejudice. You are also very good at freestyle disco.

 

4.) The Jane Austen Drinking Game (Live)—Mostly Water Theatre

“LOSS OF COUNTENANCE. THAT’S TWO DRINKS!!!!”

 

5.) Pride and Prejudice: The Art of Argument According to Jane Austen | Ignite Phoenix #15

Oooo!!!! Rhetoric skillz. Mr. Darcy has those. (n.b. This video is more informative than silly—but, is informative in a very charming way.)

 

6.) Jane Austen Old Spice Parody

A video that proves once and for all Henry Tilney’s superiority to all other Austen heroes. Sadly, Mr. Darcy and Captain Wentworth are not him.

Breaking up with England’s National Football Team

25 Wednesday Jun 2014

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The sun is out, cheerfully glittering through the large bay window of the coffee shop. I sit next to this translucent pane, but I cannot rely on its warmth. Even though I sit in its beams, I am enveloped in a coldness. My skin chills because of the air conditioning and my heart freezes in anticipation of what I must do. I take a sip from my teacup, full of green tea—yet, the warm, antioxidant-rich liquid does nothing to melt my current mood.

My phone lights up. A new text message flashes across the screen:

WHERE R U?

AT THE COFFEE SHOP. (I reply)

DID YOU DO IT?

NO. HE’S NOT HERE YET. 😦

OH. OKAY. YOU’LL BE AWESOME.

THANKS 🙂

DOES THIS MEAN THAT I WILL FINALLY GET TO SEE YOU LATER?

OF COURSE!!!!

OH WIE IST DAS SCHÖN 🙂 🙂 🙂

And now, I’m blushing. It would seem that both on and off the football pitch, Germany never fails to be accurate, direct, and poetic. Qualities I am growing fonder of daily.

“Who are you talking to, love?”

I swiftly turn off my phone and look up into the Personification of England’s National Football Team’s face. Even after 200 years, one can still admire his square jaw and ruddy good looks—all framed by a mighty display of mutton chops: wide, hairy, and uber-Victorian. He’s the sort man who looks like he will take one for his team, his nation, with as little complaint as possible. But, there are shadows under his eyes and his square jaw, usually so set, seems to tremble.

“A friend of mine.”

I get up to give him a hug. We embrace, he goes in for a kiss, and I dutifully offer him my cheek. He studies me, his brow creased in puzzlement and slight worry.

“How are you, Darling?”

“Oh, well enough. I’ve had a good day so far. And you?”

England sits down opposite me, with a heavy sigh. Though he appears to look all Stoic and Manly in a public school sort of way, he is not above feckless self-pity these days. “Well, I’ve been much better. The World Cup has been very disappointing for me. I didn’t even make it to the Round of 16.”

“Yes, I know that. I’ve been following your matches.”

“…And what did you think? About the matches?”

“Well, I—”

“Oh, I know what you thought. We didn’t deserve to lose as we did. We played technically sound games, but just didn’t get the breaks that we needed. We invented and regulated this damn sport, so we do know a thing or two about how it should be played!”

I look down into my teacup, remembering how England had a hard time keeping up with agile Italy or containing goal-keen Uruguay.

“Well, I—”

“Anyway, I do beg your pardon. You wanted to speak with me and here I am moaning. I was rather surprised that you wanted to meet up on a non-match day. It seems odd for us to hang out in a coffee shop rather than a pub.”

I grip my teacup a little tighter. “About that…England, you and I have been together for the past twenty years. And I’m grateful for that time. But, I think it’s time for me to start supporting other football teams. I just wanted to let you know my intentions.”

England is silent, sullenly staring at the table. I wait as England considers the full implications of my words, silently hating myself for having to do this to a once great Personification of a Football Team.

England looks at me from across the tables. His eye circles seem darker now. “Why? As you said, you’ve been with me for the past twenty years. We’re practically a tradition.”

“And you do like your tradition, don’t you England?” I let go of my teacup, it teeters shrilly in its saucer.

“Why yes I do. Don’t you, Sarah?”

My head snaps down.

“Sarah?”

I must be careful with my words.

“All throughout the 1990s, yes, I did like a bit of good old English football, huffing and puffing against the odds and the rest of the world. But, I’m changing England. I need a different sort of football these days. Something more creative, more technical, more cosmopolitan.”

“Why?”

“There seems to be a beautiful sort of balance to that sort of play–simultaneously studied and creative. It brings me joy. It’s the place where sport becomes Art.”

“I’m studied and creative.”

“No my dear, you are not. You are conservative, unimaginative, and slow to read the set plays of your opponents. And instead of doing anything constructive about your incompetence, like finding better ways to play football, you whine about it.”

England is again silent. Surely my pointed comments further bruised his already tender ego. I longingly think of my darkened phone, wondering what time it is, hoping that this interview will soon be over, but knowing that is wishful thinking. Like one of England’s games, it will drag on and on with excruciating pain. But, for one last time, I shall let that happen. We two have been with each other for the past twenty years, after all. I watched as he muscled through the nineties with versatile talents like Michael Owen, Owen Hargreaves, and David Beckham. So talented and mesmerizing to watch, but prone to injury, mediocrity, and red cards on the world wide stage. I was with him through the disappointments and the further disappointments and the further, further disappointments, never thinking I was wrong, or, that I was improperly investing my football watching time.

“Sarah, is it the U.S.A.?”

“What?”

“Are you leaving me for the U.S.A.?”

“No…”

“Oh, I know. It’s Germany. I’ve long suspected that you have a secret love for beautifully bearded German men.”

“Wait. What? No. I don’t pick a team to cheer for due to the presence of facial hair. If we were using that logic, I’d be all over Spain.”

“Are you?”

“No! Did you see their first game? It was terrible.”

“I bet it’s Germany. You’re leaving me for Germany.”

Ugh. I should’ve known he’d get like this. I want to be honest, but I don’t want to deal with his emotions.

“And if I were?” I ask in what I hope is a fairly neutral tone.

“I’d feel a bit betrayed. Germany’s lame. We beat them in them during the War, you know.” England brightens,  “Wait. I know how I can fix this whole bloody awful mess. Do you want to see a picture of me in my RAF uniform? I looked so handsome in my RAF uniform, much more handsome than any beautifully bearded German man running around a football pitch. I bet if you see me in my RAF uniform again you’d remember the good times and reconsider.”

“No.”

“I could bring back Michael Owen. Or, fish out my trousers and better manscape my mutton chops…”

“That’s okay.”

“How about my tweed blazer and pipe? I know you like it when I’m scholarly.”

“Oh God, no.”

I reach out and grab England’s hand. It’s hard to look into his pleading eyes. But I must have done with this. I have an evening and another football team to think about.

“My dear, dear Personification of a National Football Team, there is nothing to negotiate here. I must leave you. I am thankful that you invented this fine sport but, like mutton chops and RAF uniforms, that was a long time ago. Football is changing, and you not wanting to be part of that change makes you look isolationist, arrogantly entitled, and silly. I can’t cheer for that. For Pete’s sake, even the U.S.A. swallowed their pride and got a little more European. This is the first World Cup where we haven’t looked like horrible, self-aggrandizing jerks!”

“So you and me, it’s really over then?”

“I’m afraid so. I want to cheer for a team whose willing to play with the rest of the world.”

I stand up and begin to walk towards the door. I hesitate, turn around, and earnestly kiss England on the top of the head. I’ll miss him and the tradition he represents, but I definitely won’t miss the guaranteed disappointment and ill-humor supporting him brings.

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Image found at: http://thedailydutch.co.uk/?p=184

Miss Mardle and Florian: Mr. Selfridge’s fiction within a fiction

07 Wednesday May 2014

Posted by in Pushpins (Daily Life), The Creative Life

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I have a weakness for PBS historical dramas. A weakness that’s real, slightly ridiculous, and just a tad bit embarrassing. Every Sunday night, I crawl into bed, ready to watch the latest installment of Masterpiece. The current series on air is Mr. Selfridge, a British drama about the birth and success of London’s famous department store, Selfridge’s. And, good grief, is it sumptuous, scandalous, and fairly accurate in its depiction of early 20th Century London.

Because a department store needs many people to run it, the series has multiple characters, living out their stories within and without the store’s marbled halls. I find that each storyline is rather thoughtful and interesting because it is based on the outcome and the implications of the characters’ daily actions, rather than on the characters’ responses to bombastic, shocking, barely believable plot twists (::cough::cough:: Downton Abbey). This keeps the drama in the quiet, the mundane, and the daily.

I’m particularly drawn to the Miss Mardle / Florian storyline. Miss Mardle is the the head of ladies’ accessories. She is middle-aged and unmarried. In Season One, she was entangled in a love affair with the married Mr. Grove, who, upon the death of his wife, promptly married a much younger women, while suggesting to Miss Mardle that they continue seeing each other. Miss Mardle was able to tell Grove to stuff it, with all the gracious firmness of a proper Edwardian lady, but the event left her deeply wounded, unsure of her own worth and lovableness.

Then comes Season Two and earnest, sweet, handsome Florian. A young Belgium violinist, exiled from his country due to the beginning of World War I, travels to England and becomes Miss Mardle’s lodger. It isn’t long before the two develop a mutual attraction and admiration for each other. And there are plenty of longing looks, blushing, and abruptly ended conversations. Basically, all the things that make a British love story so awesome and awkward.

Yet, even more compelling than romantic awkwardness, is how Miss Mardle responds to their mutual attraction. Though it is a shared experience of mutual attraction, her past experience with Mr. Grove, and the stories she’s learned to tell herself about how that experience defines her life, keep the mutual attraction from being shared. I find this beautiful and sweet scene to be an excellent example of her struggle and her self-realization:

Miss Mardle cannot see the goodness, the honesty, and the love that is right in front of her because she still chooses to live with a narrative that makes her feel unlovable. It is only when she decides to see what is front of her first and narrate the situation later, that she can finally allow Florin’s earnest sweetness to be part of her story. Her new story.

Miss Mardle is creating fiction within Mr. Selfridge’s fiction. Yet somehow, in this creating of fiction there is a cementing of a deep human truth:  Stories are powerful. We tell them to remember, to solidify, and to redefine. Every morning, when we emerge from sleep, the experiences of our past and the fantasies of our future weave together, creating our stories of the present. These are the narratives that will either close us off to the goodness, honesty, and love around us—or, open us up to it.

 

 

A Very Fan-Girly and Self-Centered Review of These! Paper! Bullets!

26 Wednesday Mar 2014

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Last Friday night, I got to once more experience my major high school obsessions—the Beatles and William Shakespeare—smashed together in one glorious rock musical. Because last Friday night, I went to see These! Paper! Bullets!, the Yale Repertory Theatre’s “modish ripoff” of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing.

Sitting in the balcony of Yale University Theater, I felt like I was on the set of A Hard Day’s Night as the Quartros (Ben, Claude, Pedro, and Barth) played their opening song amidst a maelstrom of screaming female voices. Then the music stopped and the dialogue began, sweeping the audience into a wonderful blend of iambic pentameter and Liverpudlian slang. My body shivered in blissful delight as the players delivered the original Shakespearean dialogue with a Liverpudlian lilt, adorning their sentences with words like “gear” and “grotty.”

Hearing the mixing and matching of meters and slang, old and new, reminded me why I succumbed to the siren’s call of Shakespeare and the Beatles as a teen. It was because of their speech patterns. The Beatles and Shakespeare were the first to teach me, a Northeastern Ohio girl, that language could dance. Both Liverpudlian and Elizabethan speech cadences have a light, sing-songy musicality to them. It’s hard to speak in light, sing-songy ways with a Northeastern Ohio accent. Our “r’s” are hard and our “a’s,” nasal. When we speak, we mostly chew our words then spit them out. But thanks to Will and the Fab Four, I got exposed to two new patterns of speaking, very different from what I grew up using. Two different patterns of speaking that helped to expand my imagination as a writer.

If you’re in the New Haven area, I urge you to go see These! Paper! Bullets!. The show is charming, madcap, and so much fun. I dare you to count all of the cheeky Beatle song / Shakespearean references and puns…the show overflows with them!

For a less fan-girly review of the show, I’d like to direct you to an excellent one done by Eva Geertz for the New Haven Review: http://www.newhavenreview.com/index.php/2014/03/a-review-of-these-paper-bullets-by-a-very-reluctant-theater-goer/

And, if you’d like to get a sense of the show’s overall aesthetic, here is a video celebrating the show’s world premiere, courtesy of the Yale Repertory Theatre YouTube channel:

Hard R’s and Nasal A’s

05 Wednesday Feb 2014

Posted by in Pushpins (Daily Life), Religious Exploration

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“Alright, sweetie, let’s get ya outta there.”

I bend down, and unbuckle Elliot from his stroller. He giggles in appreciation as I lift him out, then promptly repays my kindness by sprinting towards the park’s icy fountain. I run after him, and catch the toddler in my arms before his little gloved hands touch jagged ice.

“No ma dear. Ya musn’t touch that. It needs left alone.”

My consonants begin to slur, my hard r’s growl from the back of my throat, and my a’s embed themselves high in my nasal cavities. And for a moment, I am no longer in a New England park. I am back in Northeastern Ohio. I am a little girl, trying to touch a glass jar on a supermarket shelf, barely stopped by my mother’s arms.

“No ma dear.” My mother said. “Ya musn’t touch that. It needs left alone.”

My consonants begin to slur, my hard r’s growl from the back of my throat, and my a’s embed themselves high in my nasal cavities.

Five years away from Northeastern Ohio has helped to smooth out my hard, folksy, Midwestern accent. Studying in both in England and at an Ivy League institution has further gentrified it. I say “back” instead of “beACK” on a regular basis now. But, those Midwestern speech patterns and accents do come back. I hear them when I am giving practical advice, I hear them when I speak with friends I love and trust, I hear them when I talk to children. My Midwestern accent comes out when I am relaxed, when I am willing to be completely vulnerable. Hard r’s and nasal a’s are my auditory reminders of home, of parental nurture, of unconditional love.

I am not the first to think this way. Centuries ago, Dante wrote his beautiful sacred poetry in Italian instead of Latin. Though Latin was the scholarly language of the church, Italian was the language of Dante’s mother and father–the language that reminded him of deep, unspoken intimacy and love. A much more intuitive medium for him to explore God’s love for humanity through.

My Midwestern accent comes out when I am relaxed, when I am willing to be completely vulnerable.

Elliot wiggles in my arms, now. He points at his stroller.

“Oh, do you want to go beACK?”

“Yeah!”

“Okay, then. Give me your hand.”

He reaches out his small hand, I take it into my larger one, and we walk back to the stroller. Thank God love manifests in many different ways; thank God love wraps itself up in daily word and tone.

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My London Look

29 Wednesday Jan 2014

Posted by in Fashion, Pushpins (Daily Life), The Creative Life

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When I wake up in the morning, I know that I shall have a good day if I dress like London. No, not dress for London–though with my penchant for tweeds and classic tailoring, I wouldn’t mind that at all–but like London. Like its architectural aesthetic.

A.A. Gill, a British writer and critic, once compared wandering through London’s streets to opening a drawer in an old house , “where so much was put away for safekeeping and then forgotten.” Gill’s metaphor is spot on to me, capturing both the city’s structural persona and why it influences me so.

London is always changing: it is a sleek, modern place full of the international, the brilliant, and the rich. But, that sleek modernism also comes with a heavy accent of sentimentalism. Even as it changes, London keeps old bits of itself around: Roman roads, the Georgian columns of Saint Paul, the pock-marked buildings of the blitz, the British Museum’s dusty and priceless spoils of Empire. London wears its history, and the triumph and pain that accompanies it, in an elegantly eclectic mess. A mess only London can make.

London gets its soul and its cohesion from the way it wears its personal history. No other city could perfectly imitate that–it wouldn’t have the same stories to draw inspiration from.

And every morning, as I open my closet, I think of London. In a haze of sleepiness and artistic fervor, I put on a wool skirt that was once my mother’s, a leather corset belt I bought after months of waiting for it to go on sale, a silver tank top I purchased as a graduate student, an argyle sweater with tiny, punk rock holes, created by an unfortunate infestation of moths, and a pinstripe blazer with bright yellow elbow patches, sold to me by two rocker chicks as they swigged white wine and giggled about Mick Jagger’s sex life. Each piece that I put on my body is a memento of my life experiences. Reminding me of where I’ve been and accompanying me as I try to become something new.

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A Sloane(ish) Ranger

22 Wednesday Jan 2014

Posted by in Fashion, Pushpins (Daily Life)

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A week ago, from across the pond, it finally arrived: My very own copy of The Official Sloane Ranger Handbook.

First published in 1982, this was England’s answer to America’s The Official Preppy Handbook. A book that sought to pinpoint “What Really Mattered” (WRM) to the English upper classes, outlining everything from the proper contents of a girl’s jewelry cases (lots of gold and pearls, easy on the costume stuff–like Art Nouveau) to the proper animal companion for fashionable London town houses and countryside manors (the Labrador). Diana, the then hot, young Princess of Wales, or PoWess in affectionate Sloane speak, clad in her high-ruffled collars and pearls, was the Platonic ideal for the hard-core Sloane.

Flipping through the pages, I am treated to black and white snap shots of crisp, English tailoring for the men and flouncing, floral ruffles for the ladies. The Sloane style in general is a bit too soft and demure for me–I look horrid in pastels–but, I’m drawn to a look called “Baby Legs,” popular with the younger set:

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From: The Official Sloane Ranger Handbook, page 29.

The essence of “Baby Legs” is blending preppy wardrobe staples with a 1980s punk sensibility. A delightful example of how a young woman can take an old, accepted style of clothing and transform it with subtle, yet arty flair to suit herself. It’s rebellion with diamanté.

But, the real joy for me comes not from the pictures, but from the prose, which simpers and sparkles as it articulates WRM to its ignorant reader. A few of my favorite excerpts so far:

“Your clothes shouldn’t suggest what’s underneath them. Except for the generous official Sloane bosom at parties.”

“The Rangers’ favorite bit of the past is the English eighteenth century…The nineteenth century is when the Bad Things came in: industry, towns, new money and the wrong kind of legs on furniture.”

“She would not wear Art Nouveau jewels (too way out) or Art Deco Cartier, which might remind her of a Bolter in the family.”

Hysterical. Hysterical in an understatedly catty way that makes me think of Victorian diaries and Jane Austen-esque drawing rooms.

I have no doubt that The Sloane Ranger will be an excellent asset to my library. A book that I may read seriously one day and ironically, the next. I shall definitely draw fashion inspiration from “Baby Legs,” but I shall never see the harm in wearing Art Nouveau jewels.

Mashed Memories

11 Wednesday Dec 2013

Posted by in Philosophy of Cooking, Pushpins (Daily Life), The Creative Life

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Outside my closed window, snow falls to the ground—swirling out over green grass and brown, shriveled leaves, drifting into soft, fluffy piles. A similar scene is occurring in my apartment. Inside the warmth of an oven-heated kitchen, stiff white peaks swirl and form as I stir milk into a pot of mashed potatoes. A few feet away sits a dish, full of browned meat, dotted with the yellows and oranges and greens of winter squash and broccoli. It patiently waits for the peaks in the bowl to fall out and drift over its textured top.

In the solitude of my winter kitchen, I am making Shepherd’s pie.

I first encountered Shepherd’s pie on a college exchange program in London. Along with a book and a beer, it would accompany my late afternoon pub study sessions. There, its meat was adorned with carrots, peas, and corn—vegetables bought from the frozen section of the local Sainsbury’s. When my months in England finished, the recipe came back with me over the Atlantic. I made it all the time as a graduate student in New England. Once, I prepared it for Easter dinner, replacing carrots, peas, and corn with lamb, leeks, and mushrooms. As the soft, spring air seeped in through an open kitchen window, I stirred milk into a pot of mashed potatoes as two dear friends sat at the kitchen table, cutting leaks and mushrooms. After I emptied the pot’s contents, they asked if they could have it. I gave them the pot, and, with spoons in hand they began to scrape it clean, turning a pair of thirty-year-olds back into children.

Inside the warmth of an oven-heated kitchen, stiff white peaks swirl and form as I stir milk into a pot of mashed potatoes.

No soft spring air seeps in through my current kitchen window. Outside, snow still falls to the ground—swirling out over green grass and brown, shriveled leaves. In my silent kitchen, I am far from an English pub and I am far from my friends.

But, the Shepherd’s pie I now make draws their memory close.

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