The Wee Path Past the Booshes

After too many weeks, I am back at my laptop.  Our guests are gone, my cold is gone, my voice is back and as our days as a bed and breakfast are over for at least a little while, my fingers are ready to type.

As you may already know, I live in Scotland.  I have been here for almost seven months.  I love it here.  It is more like the US than France was but the countryside and the culture is different indeed.

My first week here was filled with the usual unpacking and trying to find my bearings in what was to be my new home.  We live in a very small village in the Scottish countryside.  There is one grocery store, but it's so small it's more like a 7-11 with a bit of fruit and vegetables and without the wall of soda.  After several days of lifting and heaving and box cutting, I decided to go to the Cooperative, also referred to as the Copie (pronounced ko-pee), as told by my landlord.  She mentioned a wee path.  I knew it was close, but wasn't sure how to get there.  I got the stroller ready, baby sitting happily and marched off in search of treasure.

Have I mentioned that I have a tendency to get lost?  A lot?  This is a particularly frustrating trait as my husband seems to have a GPS in his brain.  At any rate, I set off.  I walked for about eight minutes and then got nervous.  I saw another mother on the other side of the road and asked for directions.  She was clearly in a hurry and had no interest in giving directions, but said something quickly about going back.  I thought she meant the turn in the opposite direction from the way I'd come.  I turned around. 

That didn't quite feel right though and while I hardly trust my instincts in such matters, after a few minutes, I decided to ask the elderly woman I saw having a chat with a neighbor.  She was more than happy to oblige.  The only problem was that her accent was so thick I couldn't make out more than ten percent of what she was saying.  As she was old and I didn't want to be rude, I didn't ask her to repeat what I knew I wouldn't understand.  I did, however, catch the words "wee path past the booshes".  What in the world is a "boosh"?  Oooohhhh, BUSH!  Yes, I did see the bushes, thank you.  Baby gibbering to herself, I turned back in the direction which I started out in the first place.

I turned at the bushes and saw what I would consider a wee path.  I walked along and ended up in a neighborhood.  I asked the postman how to get to the Copie and he described a "wee path" too.  My problem was that my definition of a wee path was apparently wrong.  After a few more minutes of retracing my steps, I did, in fact, see another path.  I took said path and saw, almost to my amazement, the Cooperative.  I went inside and got a jug of milk, carrots for carrot soup and bread. 

With bounty in hand and a better sense of the village, I went home.  It took less than ten minutes to walk back what had taken me thirty-five minutes to find.  But hey, I did find it!  And now I know where the wee path is.  It's just past the booshes!

Part 3: The British are coming! The British are coming!

It happened late one night about two weeks ago.  It started with a wisp of frosty air.  The freezer door cracked opened and a drawling voice with a haughty English accent came lolling out, "Oh Raaaaalph..."  Nothing.  The voice called out again, louder, "Oh Raaaaalph!..."  After a few seconds with no response, another voice hollered in a thick Liverpudlian accent, "Oi!  Ralph!  We know you're in there!  Don't make me come up and get you out!

A moment later, the refrigerator door opened and a surprised Scot answered, "Yeah?  Whaddya wan'?"

The haughty one cleared his throat.  "Hello Ralph."  At the mention of Ralph's name, the companion snickered.  Who'd ever heard of a tart named Ralph?  The leader, after an amused glance at his colleague, continued, "My name is Tinsley and this is my companion Seeley."  At this, Seeley issued a self-satisfied, "'Allo!" 

Ralph shuddered.  He'd heard of these two.  Tinsley was a trifle - arrogant, ambitious and very well connected.  His buddy Seeley was a sausage - stupid, surley and always with Tinsley.  The two made a bizarre couple, one not to be "trifled" with lightly.  Ralph tittered to himself at his little joke. Tinsley went on.

"We've come to you on urgent business.  Do you have a moment?"

"Uh, I s'pose..."

"You've been called on an important mission Ralph."

Ralph started, "Wha-?"

Tinsley continued, "We haven't got much time.  Things are warming up down here.  I'll give it to you in a nutshell.  We've got to stop the Americans.  We need to immobilize them - even if it means one thigh at a time."

Ralph's mind was racing.  "What does that have to do with me?"

"You are to tempt the American woman and get her to eat as much as you can....  Do it for your country.  Do it for your queen."  That was it.  The freezer door creaked shut.

All of the contents of the fridge had been listening intently.  The spinach, Emile les Epinards, started talking first in his very thick French accent, "You know, Ralph, you do not 'ave to do zis."  He straightened in his bag.  "I 'ave been working wees 'er and I am certain zat she is too strong for zat."

"Be qviet over zehr," Gustav the German chocolate shouted.  He then asked Ralph what he was going to do.  With a scowl at Emile, he suggested that Ralph speak in a French accent, as everyone knew that the French hate the Americans.

"I don' understand.  Why would the queen want to hurt the Americans?," Ralph thought out loud.

Emile glowered at Gustav and responded, "I 'ave 'eard aboot zis.  I know zis because I 'ave worked against zem, like zee great LaFayette...," he said proudly.  He went on to explain that there was a group out there who hated the Americans for stealing the recipe for cheddar cheese.  He said this with a bit of a smirk, as everyone knows that the French make the best food in the world, including cheese, and he couldn't understand why anyone would care about disgusting ol' cheddar.

Well, that started it.  The Swiss cheese started shouting that the Swiss made the best cheese.  The German chocolate got so mad that he grabbed Emile and shoved him into a drawer.  The raspberries, that were imported from the Brazil, tried to protest, but as raspberries are rather fragile little berries, couldn't do much about it.  They'd seen what Gustav did to the spinach, so they felt it was safer to stay unsquished.  The ketchup was from the US and was understandably upset.  The soy sauce was busy telling everyone that the Chinese had been making wonderful food for a thousand years, far longer than anyone else.  Takeo the warrior tofu listened but said nothing.  He was Japanese - his label said so - but he was made in the USA and was very bitter about it.  Though no one was addressing the mission, he kept thinking about the cause.  However, he was a samurai and would help in his own way; his would find a way to change his label to read "low-fat".  Bowie the butter was a bit on the slow side and got worked up with all the shouting; so to participate in his own way, he started singing out the woman's name in a menacing voice, interjecting the occasional idiotic laugh. The conversation continued in this manner for a while, with all the food getting more and more upset with one another, some of the condiments in squirt bottles were even threatening to squirt everybody.

Suddenly the refrigerator opened.  All conversation stopped.  Ralph felt Gustav looking at him and knew he had to act.  He spoke to her in a French accent.  She responded.  They spoke for a few moments.  He faltered.  She shut the door only to open it again a few seconds later.  She took Emile out of the drawer and refused to speak to Ralph further.  Gustav tried to intervene, to no avail.  She shut the door again and all was dark.  The refrigerator was full of angry mutterings and cheers.

As for Ralph, though he had tried, in his creamy heart, he was glad the mission had failed.  He liked the Americans.  Besides, she wasn't his queen.  He thought to himself, "I am Sean Connery, the James Bond of the food world - smooth, desired and dangerous.  I am secret agent, fighting for the pant-size of all."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes:  

First and foremost, I want to make it clear that my intention was not to mock any other country in the writing of this.  Yes, I played off of some stereotypes, but after living abroad, I have learned that people are pretty much the same wherever you go.  (There was no stereotype that I referred to when describing the butter; I simply thought that if butter had a personality, it probably wouldn't be the brightest bulb.)  Communication methods may be different, cultures may vary, but people are people and all deserve respect.  I also meant no insult in relation to the Queen.  While I do believe that any country that wants to be free and has the ability to rule itself should indeed be free, I rather like her.

Emile means rival; Bowie means yellow or fair-haired; Takeo means warrior.  

The Sean Connery reference was put in because he is a Scottish nationalist who believes that Scotland should be free.  

Jesus loves me, this I know...

I adore my daughter.  I love her so much that when I think about it for very  long, I cry and my heart almost hurts from being so full.  When she screams because her mouth hurts from teeth coming in, I pick up her small form and hold her close.  She then wraps her little arms around my neck, puts her tiny fingers into my hair and her face into my neck.  I hold her and her body relaxes.  Her comfort brings me a peace such as I have never known.  I praise God with my whole being for bringing her into my life. 

I think about God.  It says in the Bible that a mother would sooner forget the baby at her breast than He would ever forget about us.  This is so profound that I cannot understand it.  I love my daughter with everything I am, so the idea that God loves me infinitely more is too great for me.

During times of grief, I felt lost.  I did not abandon God.  I would sooner believe that two plus two does not equal four than I would ever consider that God is not the great Creator, but I did not, could  not, understand how I fit into that scenario.  If we are to "cast all our cares upon Him", what do we do when there is no reply?

I think about my daughter.  Sometimes she struggles and becomes deeply frustrated if she can't accomplish her goal.  She gives me the pen to get the lid off for her.  I don't take it off.  She will make a mess and it is better that the lid stay on.  She obviously does not understand this and gets upset with me.  I usually pick her up and console her, but not always.  Other times, she falls down.  I try not to rush over to her to pick her up as she has to learn to get back up on her own.  Every time, however, I cannot help but go to her and watch over her.  I always want to pick her up and rock her and tell her it's alright, but sometimes, for her own good, I don't...  However, I am always there.

I think about God.  If it pains me as much as it does when my sweet girl cries because she's cutting teeth, and God loves me still more, how much does it hurt Him when I despair?  In my darkest moment, that is what I came to understand.  Jesus wept.  He wept because his beloved were in pain.  And through that, I knew that even if He does not save me from injury, He is watching over all the time, waiting and hoping for me to lift up my arms to Him and let Him comfort me.  He always there.  Always loving.  When I don't deserve it.  When it's just a little bump.  When it's a big bump.  Even when I don't "need" Him there...  Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty to attain.*

Thank You Lord for loving me enough to let me struggle.  Thank you for sunsets and chocolate cake.  Thank you for my husband.  Thank you for letting me be a mama.  Thank you for letting me See.  Thank you for choosing me.

God is good all the time.  All the time, God is good.

*Taken from my favorite Psalm, Psalm 139.

Part 2: Midnight Saboteur

Of late, I have been involved in some pretty serious contract negotiations with my thighs; they were quickly coming to an impasse and I had to act quickly to prevent disaster.  My unionized pants boycotted the talks and my skirts hinted at following suit.  Despite repeated attempts at a peace agreement, the atmosphere remained terse.  As such, Monsieur Epinard Salade, aka,  Thin Man, was called in to take over negotiations.

Initial advances were rejected by both parties.  Happily, Mr Salade lived up to his reputation and after a time, began to make progress.  I hoped to hope and breathed easier...but alas the situation was being threatened by a saboteur...

It was midnight.  All was quiet.  My family slept a peaceful and innocent sleep.  I awoke.  I knew not why.  Still groggy, I rolled over.  Then I heard it.  Someone or something was out there!  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, my ears perked and I lay as still as possible.  Then, horror of horrors, I heard my name, whispered with a sing-song menace.  I looked over to my husband for help.  His eyes were closed and his chest slowly rose and fell.  I was on my own.

I remained motionless as I considered my options.  By and by, I came to the conclusion that I must face this demon.  I must protect my family.  I must get out of bed.  As quietly as possible, I crept out of my safe haven.  Tip-toe-tip-toe, down the stairs I went.  At bottom, I straightened, tall and fearless.  The sickening raspy song continued.

Lights off, I walked through the living room.  On and on, I deftly avoided furniture.  I made no noise.  Turn.  Look.  It was coming from the kitchen!  I steadied myself, preparing for what was to come.  But nothing, nothing, could have prepared me for what I was about to meet.

Squinting in the darkness, I saw a tiny beam of light.  I approached, listening hard.  I heard whispering.  I reached out a trembling hand and opened the refrigerator door.  Light flooded out, momentarily blinding me.  I covered my eyes.  I heard a tiny "ahem".  Wide-eyed and terrified, I looked into the great whiteness, searching for that which knew my name.

And there it was.  The tart.  The tart I'd so lovingly made for my husband.  Somehow, the strawberries I'd carefully placed on top of the pastry cream had rearranged into a terrible, yet delicious-looking, face.  The seeds had come off the berries to form pupils and the leaves I'd left on for a pretty garnish were now awkward eyebrows.  The strawberry halves fashioned an eerie smile.  It spoke.

"Bon soir, Madame.  'ow are you zis evening?"  I stared, mouth agape, shocked, terrified.  The smile widened.  "I was sinking about you and eet made me very sad to sink zat you 'ad not 'ad dessert.  You must be quite 'ungry."  It paused, waiting for a response.  Despite myself, I began to salivate.  The smile became a smirk.  "You know, I won't tell anyone if you 'ave zhoost a tee-ny, ti-ny piece."  Pause.  "You know you zat want one."

I looked around the shelves for brave and strong Epinard.  Where was he?  To my dismay, I saw that he'd been shoved into one of the bottom drawers.  Thin Man could not help me.  I steeled my voice and told the tart that in fact, I wasn't at all hungry, still completely satisfied from my dinner of skinless baked chicken and green beans.  The tart scoffed, the forced appearance of friendliness momentarily disappeared and the French accent waned for just a second.  "Oh don't be such a bairn."  It had made a mistake.  I could see that in it's beady eyed grimace.  But what was a "bairn"?

I closed the door to give myself a moment to think.  Mind racing, I fought to remember where I'd heard that word before.  Egad!  It was Scottish slang for "child".  But why would a Scottish tart be pretending to be French?

I had an epiphany.  Nodding to myself, I remembered a conversation with my husband I'd had years ago.  We were watching a football game between France and England and I noticed that the fans on both sides were virtually rabid in their support.  I asked why.  My husband, who is French, explained that after hundreds of years of wars between the two countries, despite the current peace, strong rivalries remain.  He said, "Now, the battles take place on the football field." 

I reopened the door and caught a glimpse the tart whispering feverishly with the German chocolate, who stopped immediately.  I eyed the chocolate suspiciously, but it simply looked away and began to whistle - quite an accomplishment, I must say.  I took my friend out of the drawer.  He was nervous and seemed to want to say more, but he merely thanked me.  I ignored the treacherous tart's attempts at further conversation and his German friend, who, upon realizing that I was not cooperating, tried to catch my attention.  I closed the door and went back upstairs, baffled but proud of my self-restraint.

As I slowly walked the walk of the victorious, I knew I had to tell my husband that the battle is apparently no longer only on the pitch; allies are being made, lines drawn and someone out there has it in their mind to draw in the Americans. 

Beware, my fellow countrymen.  War is being declared on our thighs.  It is obviously some sort of devious plan, even if I'm not sure yet what that plan is.  Regardless, whatever your sentiments may be about the French or the British or the Germans, this battle is not ours.  Be strong.  Our backsides, or at the very least, our thighs, may very well depend upon it. 

*Translations: epinard = spinach, salade = salad, bon soir = good evening

Part 1: You let me by, I'll let you by.

A few years ago, a girlfriend of mine and I were talking about our thighs.  If you are a woman, I have no doubt that you understand this; if you are a man, maybe not.  At any rate, we were talking about the contract our thighs have with each other.  We discovered that the agreements were pretty much the same: "You let me by, I'll let you by."  Well, it would seem that the contract my thighs share is about up.

I've tried different tactics, including attempting to smooth things over by offering chocolate, as I know that both my thighs are quite partial to this little sweet.  Unfortunately, much to my surprise, I found that this particular goodie seemed to only add friction between the two parties.

I tried nice decorations, only to discover that my pants are part of a union and therefore refuse to cooperate.  They have even gone so far as to try to cut off the circulation to my feet.  Stupid pants.  Who needs 'em?  Instead, I am now sticking to my skirts.  Despite participating in a union of their own, they are actually quite happy to be providing a nice breezy experience.  However, my skirts aren't all fun and games, no sir-ee-bob.  They still go out of their way on occasion to show me that they could go on strike if they wanted to by cutting into my gut...but that's a story for a different day.

Now, when a contract is about to expire, all parties must reevaluate the terms.  I understand and support this as I want both of my thighs to be happy.  I can only hope that they will come to an arrangement, and soon, because the atmosphere is starting to feel a bit tense.  If not, we may very well have to send in the big guns - lettuce.  And let's face it, nobody wants to see that happen.

Note:  I must mention that the actual phrase of "you let me by, I'll let you by" is not my own.  My good friend Madalaine came up with that one over ten years ago and it was so funny that I remembered it.

The Monsters Next Door...and the Old Fart Within

I live in Scotland.  Scotland is very far north on the planet.  As such, during the summer, the hours of daylight are plentiful.  I have a next door neighbor.  Actually, I have two, but today we're only talking about one in particular.  The neighbors in question have two children - one toddler and one who must be about ten.  The ten year old is apparently the leader of the other neighborhood children.  Our neighbors also have a trampoline.  As we must all follow our leader of choice, the neighborhood children spend a lot of time in my neighbor's backyard.  On the trampoline.  Yelling.  Even at night.  When they should be sleeping.  When my baby needs to sleep.  You see where I'm going with this.

Ours' is a quiet neighborhood.  I love this.  It is a very small little village outside the bigger city.  There is little to no noise.  Except for on that trampoline.  Even at night.  When children should be sleeping.  Even when my baby needs to sleep and I am trying to get her to sleep.

And so there was my dilemma.  Do I say something?  The mother of the leader of the children once told me in passing that she didn't know why all the children came over to her house, but what could she do?  Many things she could do came to mind, but I felt the question was probably rhetorical, so I simply shrugged.  Later that night as the screeching continued until almost 10pm, my frustration grew.  I wanted, oh, how I wanted, to stomp over there and say, "For the love of pete, lady, shut those kids up!"  I didn't though.  I just rocked my sweet girl a little more firmly than I would have otherwise and muttered.  Oh, how I muttered. 

Once my sweetie was finally asleep, I went and big-fat chickened out.  I reasoned to myself that I don't want to be known as the neighborhood grouch and the daylight hours would be diminishing soon enough and with that, so would the inappropriate hours of screaming.

That was last month.  Now, in just one short month, the sun is setting much sooner and we've also had a lot of rain.  No fun to play on a wet trampoline in the dark. 

And the old fart in me smiles.

Let's see now...

This is a test of the emergency blogging system.  If this were an actual blog, you would find words written together to form ideas that were written to entertain, inspire and/or amuse but not to confuse.  Remember, this is only a test.  Beep.