I spent some time down at the Occupy London protest, and walked along South Bank and across the Millennium Bridge. Don’t worry, though – I still managed to waste that sunshine by spending plenty of time indoors, too, wandering through museums and shopping. Here are some of my favorite snapshots from the trip.

1. One-Eyed Falcon, The British Museum.
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   Wanna know how it happened, kids? I'll tell ya. It was a Red Ryder BB gun, with a compass and this thing that tells time.

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2. Bashful Aphrodite, The British Museum.
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   Oh, please, stop acting so surprised. You obviously posed for this.

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3. Occupy London poster.
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   Remember, remember ... that David Lloyd probably doesn't make any money off of this.

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4. Invisible Man, performing near the Millennium Bridge.
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   I don't know why he's giving me that dirty look.

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5. London Fruit Exchange sign, Spitalfields Market.
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   Oh, thank heavens. I've been wondering where I could exchange my fruit.

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6. The art of conversation, Occupy London encampment, St. Marks.
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   What? Just because a gentleman is dressed like a militant cow does not mean he can't engage in civilized conversation.

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7. Filmstrip playing in the Turbine Hall, Tate Modern.
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   While I do appreciate modern art, every black and white filmstrip playing in a museum is exactly the same to me.

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8. Kate Middleton Halloween mask, Spitalfields Market.
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   Why, yes, I DO regret not buying it! How did you know?

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9. Textured ceiling, British Museum.
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   How many triangles can you count? Nevermind. That's an awful game.

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10. Couple walking together, Millennium Bridge.
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    Me and Rand: the later years.

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It's true.

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I also felt it pertinent to include a post-script or two.

We are not bluffing.

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I just need to know their president’s address, so I can mail it.

From my trip to London last spring, in much quieter times.

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Like most of you, I’ve been following the news about the riots in London. I’ve seen the photos. I’ve searched through news articles. I’ve poured through the twitter accounts of my friends across the pond, all in an attempt to figure out what the hell is going on over there. And there’s so much I want to say, but I’m not sure where to start.

I’m tempted to begin by yelling at the tribes of young, embittered idiots who are running through the city and destroying everything in their path, like a pack of deranged locusts. Though instead of corn, they’re seeking out electronics. I want to slap some sense in them, and remind them that they are from the country that invented manners (and a healthy disdain at a lack of said manners), and their behavior is completely unacceptable. I hope that in a few days’ time, they’ll look at the burning wreckage of their city, and they’ll understand that they’re the ones who will have to live in it. It’s the societal equivalent of rubbing a dog’s nose in its mess.

Of course, they aren’t the only ones who will have to live with it, and therein lies the problem. Thousands of Londoners who’ve done nothing wrong will have have to deal with it. I’m tempted to call my friends who live over there and make sure they’re alright (though I’m currently on a plane, and can’t really do that. Besides, it’s the middle of the night over there). I want to tell them to stay inside, to draw the curtains of their homes, to take care of themselves. I want to tell them that in the end, it will all be okay – that they’re not alone, that the world is watching, worried about them, and that this, too, shall pass.

Because, to a very small degree, I know what they’re going through. I’ve seen my hometown taken over by idiots and misguided kids. Watched police officers, their faces obscured by riot gear, overwhelmed and exhausted as they try to do their jobs under unprecedented circumstances. I’ve seen bad decisions made by everyone involved.

My tale of a city under siege took place in November of 1999, when I was 19, and a sophomore in college. The WTO Ministerial Conference took place in Seattle, and with it, came riots and tear gas. My city was unrecognizable. I had headed downtown with my then-boyfriend in tow – a leather-jacket wearing, guitar-playing, tattooed and pierced young man who was all kinds of wrong for me. But I was 19, and doing lots of misguided things (including chopping off my hair and wearing cargo pants) so he wasn’t a particularly big mistake in the grand scheme of things. Besides, he was cute.

Many classes at the University of Washington had been canceled the day of the WTO. Peaceful protests had been planned, and the instructor for the drama class I had been taking told us that we should go “watch the theater of politics.” So I pulled an oversized torn sweater over my spikey hair, tugged on some military boots, and went.

We walked with a large group from the University of Washington campus down Eastlake Avenue (which had been closed specifically for us) to the Seattle Center (in retrospect, this seems like a ridiculously long distance to walk, but at the time, we didn’t really think anything of it).  The young rebel in my life (I have trouble figuring out what to call him. He was not, decidedly, my boyfriend) tossed a leather-clad arm over my shoulders, and in the mess, we managed to find my teacher in the crowd, who felt a kinship with this distant approximation of Jim Stark over whom I was smitten. We talked and laughed and mildly discussed the politics which were the impetus for our gathering.

When we got to the Seattle Center, we lost track of my instructor. We milled around for a bit near the Space Needle, bumped into a few friends from the dorms, grew bored, and eventually headed home. I found out the next day that my instructor had joined a group of unionists as they continued their march downtown. What he did not know – indeed, what none of us in knew in that era before smart phones and Twitter – was that the downtown core of Seattle was already a mess.

Tear gas canisters had been fired into the crowds of protesters (the problem with shooting tear gas in a windy city like Seattle – it doesn’t stay put. My friend’s mother was gassed while in her car, waiting for the ferry to Bainbridge). The windows in numerous stores downtown – including the GAP and Starbucks – had been broken. A protester, clad in black, his face covered, had climbed atop the Niketown sign and, through patience and persistence, was kicking down the letters, one by one (he was wearing, incidentally, black Nikes at the time. The irony of this would not go unnoticed.)

But my young man and I were already back in our dorms. We found them mostly empty, and when we asked what was going on, we were told that everyone was downtown. That it was a pure mess down there. Absolute chaos. Riots, tear gas, broken windows, hundreds of police officers.

And then, we did something that showed a rather significant lapse of judgement on both our parts, and yet, if you look closely, you’ll see it’s not entirely at odds with whom I am.

We went back downtown.

I know. I know. Scold me. Go ahead. I won’t disagree with you – but keep in mind, it was more than a decade ago. I was 19. I had spikey short hair. I listened to Possum Dixon. Clearly, I wasn’t making good decisions with my life. This was one of many.

The buses weren’t running all the way down to First Avenue, as they usually did. So we got off further east on Pine Street, and walked the rest of the way downtown. We saw the wreckage of the day. Debris, trash and handmade protest signs littered the streets. Recently broken windows were sealed up with plywood, the section of sidewalk in front of them marked off with caution tape. It was eerily quiet. Sidewalks were empty – stores were closed early, the facades dark, unusual for the weekend after Thanksgiving. The only light came from streetlamps and the enormous star that hangs, every holiday season, from the top of Macy’s (then still called The Bon Marche).

I squeezed my gentleman’s hand – I was fearless. It’s a funny thing how the presence of someone you care about can make you feel safe, whatever the circumstances. We were stupid kids, walking into a situation we didn’t really understand, and I was completely okay with all of it because I was holding his hand. He wasn’t even someone who I would fall in love with. He was simply a boy I liked. No wonder I now think I can conquer the world: I have Rand in my life.

Heading west towards the water, we saw the occasional person wander by. They didn’t seem panicked or nervous. They simply strolled, peering at surroundings which looked only vaguely familiar to them. As we neared First, we noticed more and more people clustered about, talking, as well an increasing number of police officers in riot gear. I noticed one looking at me, and I remember smiling and offering a slight wave. He smiled in reply. I’ve always been a sucker for a man in riot gear.

We reached the corner of First and Pine and could go no further – here was where the lines had been drawn. I’ve visited this corner hundreds of times since that day, and I rarely think of that night, because it looked so different on that evening that it ever has before or since. Protesters sat on the ground, cross-legged, facing troops that had been called in from the National Guard, who stood in formation some 40-feet away. An armored vehicle was behind the troops, and though it wasn’t too much larger than an SUV, for years afterwards, I could have sworn it was a tank. We milled about, talking to folks, bumping into someone we knew, who told us that this was the calm before the storm. And indeed, it was calm. There were no cars, no traffic, no loud shoppers running between stores. There was a bit of chatter here and there, but mostly, it was quiet as we stood in the middle of a usually-busy road.

And then, a voice came over a speaker. It was boomed down the street, echoing off the dark buildings. Seattle was about to go into a state of Martial Law, it said, at 9pm. It was currently 8:40. The voice broke through the quiet, incrementally, alerting us of the time. When it was announced that in seven minutes, Martial Law would be in effect, I took my rebel’s hand and we turned and headed up Pike, away from the water, back to where we could catch a bus back to the dorms. We walked slowly, in no rush, and I caught the eye of the same officer I had seen before, and again I smiled.

This time, he didn’t smile back. I read into this too much at the time, but looking back, I figure he was tired and exhausted. He probably was underpaid and out of his element and not looking forward to the rest of the night.

We had only gone a few blocks when we heard cracks behind us. We turned, and saw plumes of smoke – they had started firing tear gas to disperse the crowd. We began to run up the hill.

Near 6th avenue, we could hear music, and as we neared 8th, we were able to pinpoint where it was coming from. High up a cylindrical tower at 801 Pine Street, someone was playing, rather loudly and with generous application of the whammy bar, “The Star Spangled Banner.” My not-quite-paramour held up his fist and yelled in appreciation.

(Many years later, when I recounted this story to a group of friends, one of them stared blankly at me when I reached this point in the tale. He told me – and his girlfriend later confirmed- that he was the one up in the tower, playing his guitar. Though we didn’t officially meet until years later, our lives had already crossed at that point. I’ve always liked the idea of that.)

We continued up Pine. Despite our head start, the commotion quickly caught up with us. We found ourselves, at one point, ducking behind the sign of the old funeral home on Pine (it’s now a bar), when a tear gas canister landed not far from us. We made one final sprint up to Broadway, where we promptly caught the next bus to the dorms (everyone else was already back and wondering where the hell we were). We later found out that the National Guard had marched all the way up Capitol Hill, chasing the protesters down the street.

In the months that followed, Seattle’s police department faced criticism for how they handled the riots. The department was shaken up, as some officials resigned and new folks came in. Life went on. Starbucks and the GAP fixed their broken windows. I ended up getting a 4.0 in my theater class. The boy and I broke up. My hair grew out, albeit at a painfully slow pace. I started dating someone new, and that relationship, in turn, eventually led me to Rand.

And during those months, I learned things. Like that I shouldn’t go running back downtown in the middle of a riot to see what was going on. That I should avoid dating musicians, and I should never cut my hair above chin length.

Seattle, too, learned from its experiences. Terrible, awful things still happen in my town. Just last summer, a homeless man was shot by a police officer. People were angry. They were upset. But rather than act out violently, they assembled, peaceably. They spoke of the man and his memory. They dedicated a Totem pole in his honor and vowed to work with the police to make things right.

Like me, my city made bad decisions. And like me, it learned from them.

It’s why I have hope for London. I know the situation there is far graver than ours was – the vandalism and the violence more widespread. The causalities are higher. Right now the city is unrecognizable, far more than Seattle ever was. Right now, London is not London.

But I’m confident that it will be again, and soon. I’m hopeful that the city and its people will learn from these events. That the idiots and delinquents will look at the mess and they’ll understand what they did. That reason and civility will prevail. And years from now, the riots and violence will be a distant memory, a story told to friends over beers. It will be something people write about on their blogs, long after the scars have faded, long after bad haircuts have grown out.

Long after London becomes London again.

Seriously – my brain is a squishy pile of emotional goo right now. I can’t quite identify the source. But going through my photos from our London trip, I am finding myself with the overwhelming desire to pack up my bag and hop on the next flight to Heathrow. Yes, this would be ill-advised. Yes, this would be expensive. No, I do not think, in any way, shape, or form, that this would be a good idea.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

Sometimes my heart and my brain can’t agree.

Rand and I left for London directly from New York. We were gone for more than two weeks. During that time, the oft-neglected plant that I’ve had for years managed to cheat death once again. We were gone so long, I forgot what our house smelled like (inexplicably, it’s melted crayons, garlic, and cinnamon. Do not ask me what I’ve been up to in the kitchen). And right now it is very, very good to be home, for the brief span of time that we’ll actually be here.

So why do I miss London so acutely? Why do I want to go to a country that’s so gray and miserable, and full of strangers, and so damn far away from home?

For once, the answers come easily …

It’s because the gray skies there weren’t all that gray.

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Really, the color was more of a what you’d call a sky blue. Go figure.

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And it’s not that miserable, really. No. The word I’d use would be “jovial.” Or “absurdly happy.”

Just ask Will and this baby that he found whether or not they are miserable.

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It’s not really full of strangers, either.

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But I’m being impractical, aren’t I? I mean, England’s not that great. The folks there are way, way too stodgy and buttoned-up. They wouldn’t like our crazy liberal American ways …

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Okay, fine. Maybe “stodgy” is the wrong word. But still. England is a bit … well, formal, isn’t it? It’s not dripping with romance like Rome or Madrid. You don’t wander the streets of London staring amorously at your love, right?

Then again, maybe you do.

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GAH! Okay, okay, fine. Maybe England isn’t grey and miserable, and maybe it’s full of lots of friends and wonderful, good-natured folks who laugh at our jokes and are way, way more liberal than we could ever dream of being back home. But I can’t pack up everything and run there at a moment’s notice, can I? I mean, my husband has a company, for the love of the Pete. He has business to do here in the states. And folks with whom he works. It’s not like he can pack up all his colleagues and coworkers and drag them to the U.K., right?

Screw it. Where’s my passport?

More than anything in the world, really (with one glaring exception). I am obsessed with it, in a way that few people will understand. Occasionally, I will rifle through old pictures, and find photos of cakes I made long ago. I remember them fondly, like old lovers.

I long for them in the middle of the night. When I daydream, my thoughts fall to them. And I must make a conscious decision, every time I am at the grocery store, to buy groceries and not an entire sheet cake or three.

Recently, a friend of mine got married, and I started dancing around in anticipation of the cake, and other numerous goodies that were on the dessert table. And after standing an excruciating few minutes in line (DEAR GOD THE HUMANITY) I was finally able to get to the front, where I might have piled an obscene number of sweets onto my plate.

Later, I sat amongst my friends, frosting smudged across my lips, drool dripping from my mouth, and slowly slipped into a mild diabetic coma. It was glorious.

“I want more cake,” I managed to wheeze. My lungs were being crushed by buttercream.

“Then get a second slice,” someone said.

“I already did.”

“Then try one of the little cakes,” they suggested.

“You mean a petite four? I already had one.” (I know cake terminology well.)

“Then get a cookie.”

This is where it started to get embarrassing.

“Um … I did.” I said.

At this point, everyone started to giggle. I would have, too, but my abdominal muscles had turned to sponge cake. I have suppressed any shame over my sweet-tooth. I simply eat my weight in vegetables and do copious amounts of yoga in a struggle to counteract it. And still, despite my efforts … This baby? She got back.

Moments after finishing my plate of goodies, Rand appeared.

“I brought you a slice of cake,” he said. This is why he is the love of my life. However wonderful cake is, it will never be able to bring me another slice of itself.

“I couldn’t possibly,” I said, and everyone laughed. Then, slowly, their grins faded. Why? Because I ate the third piece.

Like I said: I love cake.

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A few months ago, another friend of ours – Rob – got married, and we were unable to make the wedding, as it was in England. When Rob got back to the states, he told us he had a surprise: he had brought us a slice of his wedding cake.

I nearly died. Cake. FOREIGN CAKE. So overjoyed was I by this news, that I didn’t bother to ask any of the relevant questions that may have already popped into your mind: Mainly, how the hell can cake survive a trip back from the U.K in one piece? And how old was this particular piece, anyway?

After all, Rob got hitched in early July …

But no, these things did not bother me. THROW CAUTION TO THE WIND, my heart screamed. THIS IS CAKE!  NEITHER RAIN NOR SNOW NOR SHELF LIFE NOR SPECIOUS QUALITY WILL DETER ME. Ahem. Besides, as Rob explained, English wedding cakes are generally fruitcakes, which means they’re loaded with alcohol, which preserves them. Longtime readers know how I feel about alcohol and dessert (Blah, blah, blah margarita cupcake!).

And they last forever. No, really. FOREVER:

They weren’t like our “sponge cakes” as Rob described them (which is an accurate term for what we consider cake here, and yet, we never specify that. We generally assume all cakes are sponge cakes, don’t we?). They have a limited shelf life. But what Rob had brought? It might outlive us.

Rand distrusts the cake. But wouldn't you, if you met your greatest competition for your wife's affection?

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Rand was wary. I was not. After all, it’s cake. My first love. My truest friend. So when Rob handed me a plastic container containing a dark slice, I might have done a happy dance.

But I tried to reserve my excitement. This was a different animal, I reminded myself.

But ... it's still cake, right?

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I scooped up a small bit with my fork, and brought the dark, dense confection to my lips. The verdict? It tastes of rum and spices, dried fruit and sugar. It reminded me of the holidays. There was a layer of marzipan and icing on top, which for some reason brought to mind a licorice all-sort: chewy and fragrant and very, very sweet.

Rand and I both had the same reaction: It was pretty good. Clearly, it was an excellent articulation of an English wedding cake … but it wasn’t what I had hoped it would would be. I won’t crave it in the middle of the night. I won’t think about it when my husband is out-of-town and I’m feeling lonely.

Pictures of me eating sponge cake are unavailable, as I can moving into my face at speeds my camera can’t keep up with. This is not the case with fruitcake:

Things that make you go, "It's pretty alright."

Was it cake? By definition, perhaps. But in my heart, it wasn’t. The proof? I didn’t devour the whole thing.

Well, not yet anyway.

*Note: there were cuter photos of me eating cake, but Rand decided to make them cleavage shots, so they’re not included in this post.

The point is, along with which colors indicates positive and negative charges on a pair of jumper cables, these are things that we all should probably know, but don’t (For the record, red is positive and black is negative). I figured it was best to set the record straight (for myself and others) before we actually head out Glasgow and London next week. So while our British reader (Hi, Will!) sits back and cringes, the rest of you should pay attention, because we might all learn something.

United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (U.K., for short): Consists of the countries of England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland (note: just Northern Ireland is part of the U.K.; The Republic of Ireland is not.).

Great Britain: Refers to the island off the west coast of mainland Europe, consisting of England, Scotland, and Wales. Since it JUST refers to the island, this means Great Britain DOES NOT include Northern Ireland. The problem that exists is that people say “Great Britain” when they really mean “the U.K.”

There’s some amazing graphics and explanations on this site. I’ve also stolen one of their diagrams, which I found immensely helpful (via Mandy Barrow’s ProjectBritain.com):

This actually makes a lot of sense now.

Britain: to make matters even more complicated, people occassionally just say “Britain”, which actually refers to only England and Wales (and not Scotland). Though some people might mean to include Scotland when they refer to Britian, they’d be incorrect. The names originate from Roman times - when the area that is now England and Wales made up the providence of “Britannia” (since modern Scotland was never conquered, it’s not included in what is now “Britain”). This also leads to some confusion when people say “British” – the term should only apply to things or people hailing from England and Wales. Fortunately, most people are very specific, and will actually say, “I’m English” or “I’m Welsh.”

England: a country that is part of the United Kingdom, located on the island of Great Britain. It is bordered by the coutry of Scotland to the north, and the coutry of Wales to the west.

Wales: A country that lies to the west of England, on the west coast of the island of Great Britain. It is a pricipality (and not a kingdom, like England). This means that it is reigned over by a prince – in this case, not surprisingly, the Prince of Wales (which is a courtesy title given to the heir apparent to the British throne - I assume because England occupied Wales for long). Also, I think hobbits are originally from here.

Scotland: Part of the United Kingdom, Scotland is a country bordered by England to the south, and makes up the northernmost end of the island of Great Britain (holy crap. I can’t believe I just wrote that. I feel like I learned something). This is a photo of some famous Scots:

Not pictured: The Highlander

Northern Ireland: Not part of the island of Great Britain (it’s separate from it by the Irish Sea), this country IS part of the United Kingdom. It is bordered by The Republic of Ireland to the Southwest. Predominently Protestant, though roughly 25% of the population here is Catholic and regard the British as an occupying power.

The Republic of Ireland: Also not a part of the island of Great Britain (since, duh, it’s underneath Northern Ireland) and NOT a part of the United Kingdom (this part of Ireland split from Northern Ireland, and the U.K., in 1922). Predominantly Catholic, there is a lot of conflict between The Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland, a situation which has been dubbed, simply, “The Troubles” (though according to Will – Hi, Will! – this situation has gotten better as of late). The Republic of Ireland is often just called “Ireland”, though that term can refer to the entire island (including Northern Ireland as well).

Isle of Man: I was going to skip covering the Isle of Man entirely, but I didn’t want to risk offending the 14 people who live there (okay, fine – apparently the real population is 80k. But still). I actually met a guy from the Isle of Man once, and smiled, nodding, when he told me where he was from, but he gave me a look that said, “You have no idea, do you, American girl? No effing clue.” But now I know: The Isle of Man is a tiny island between the islands of Great Britain and Ireland. It isn’t actually part of the U.K. (or the E.U., for that matter), but the U.K. is kind of oversees it – hence it is called a British Crown Dependency. (One more interesting tidbit from Will: If you hear locals here referring to “the mainland”, they mean The Isle of Man itself, and NOT Great Britain. Because, compared to some of the tinier surrounding islands around it, the Isle of Man, is, well, mainland).

Rand and I had a long discussion about whether or not the Isle of Man is actually its own country (since, for nationality purposes, it’s part of the U.K.). Rand said it was, but I was unsure, since it wasn’t independent. Apparently, it is its own country, but not an independent one.

There’s also an interesting discussion on nationalities and cultural identity here. Be warned, the American who submits the question that gets the conversation going is clearly a moron. And frankly, after reading it, I’m still not sure what “British” refers to (it’s either people from Britain or people from Great Britain. Essentially, “Are the Scots also Brits?” is the question that I can’t seem to answer, and neither can this site.)

Anywho, I really proud to say that, after writing this post, I might have learned something. Of course, that didn’t stop me from having this exchange with my hubby last night:

Me: Honey, are we going to Northern Ireland or The Republic of Ireland? Because one is primarily Catholic, and one is under British rule.

Rand: We’re not going to Ireland – we’re going to Scotland.

Me: Oh, right.

P.S. – A big thanks to Will, who offered some feedback on this post. And no thanks at all to Jon, who for some reason wasn’t checking his email at 3 a.m. GMT. For shame.)

Whenever anyone disputes this point, my husband brings up Altria. They saw a jump in investors when they stopped calling themselves Philip Morris. Altria sounds new and youthful. Philip Morris sounds like a hacking cough.

So while I was impressed with some of the copywriting I saw in the U.K., as well as the food, their cuisine needs a bit of rebrand. Let’s take a look a few examples from our lovely day in Brighton …

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Pickled Eggs

Ewwww .... and also, ewwwww.

This might be the one instance in the history of time where “devil” is a preferable word to “pickle”. Even “brined eggs” might have been preferred here. But “pickled eggs”? No no no. Combining two things you find in most people’s refrigerators, and then NOT REFRIGERATING THEM is a very bad idea. With a better name they might be … ah, hell. Who am I kidding? The name doesn’t matter at this point. Just don’t eat these unless you want Botulism.

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Jellied Eels

Only Superman can save us now.

Okay, seriously England? Don’t give the Scottish a run for their money in the “cuisine that will make you question the existence of god” department. Like pickled eggs, “jellied eel” isn’t just a bad name – it’s a bad idea in general. But hey – other countries (like Italy, France, and Germany) serve it – it just sounds better when they say it. How about we take a page from the Italians and call it “Anguilla” (and leave it to the Italians to actually make it look good, too)? That sounds better already. Or at least, less Halloween-y.

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Condiment Sachets

Admit it: sachet sounds too good for the likes of you.

Of course, the Brits  were bound to get something right. I love the idea of calling little packets of condiments “sachets“. For one thing, it’s way more economical, wordwise, than “little packets of condiments”. For another, it sounds elegant and delightful. Of course, the only sachet I own is lavender, so the first thing that comes to mind is reaching into your sock drawer and having it smell of mayonnaise. Which is horrifying. Unless you like mayonnaise.

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Clotted Cream and Cream Tea

While walking in Brighton, Rand and I saw a sign that read “Cream Tea”.

“What’s cream tea?” I asked, thinking it was a beverage.

Apparently, to someone from England, this is equivalent to asking, “What’s lunch?” As John and Lisa explained, Cream Tea is actually a mid-afternoon snack, consisting of tea and scones with clotted cream (we’ll get to that in a second) and jam. It differs from High Tea, which is more elaborate, and often includes sandwiches and cakes.

Lisa and John marched us into the tea house where we had seen the sign, and ordered us Cream Tea for five. Of course, at this point, we still didn’t really know what was going on. Also, I might have said, while sitting at a table with white linens and flowered china, that “the name ‘cream tea’ sounds like some sort of sex act.” The proprietress heard this, and fortunately thought that was hysterical.

Thank you, Obama, for making it so that obnoxious Americans can be considered clever and charming again.

The most distinguishing factor about cream tea, and the main reason it makes it to this list, is the inclusion of something called “clotted cream“. I had heard of it before, but never actually seen it. To look at, it resembles slightly melted vanilla ice cream, but the taste is much milder – like something between butter and cream. It’s made by … well, I have no idea how it’s made, since there’s roughly 500,000 recipes online, and none of them are similar in the least. But it’s cool and yummy and tastes great on scones (despite it’s artery-clogging tendencies).

Which brings me to the name. Clotted cream. Are you effing kidding me? Seriously? CLOTTED? The only thing, dear friends, that this (or I suspect, any) blogger thinks of when she sees the word “clotted” is blood. Seriously – type “clot” into any search engine. The results don’t vary. Blood, blood, blood. Why someone thought it would be a good idea to describe anything you eat as “clotted” (and then follow it up with the word “cream” – dear god, no) is entirely beyond me.

Especially since there are sooo many options here. Call it butter-cream. Or whipped butter-cream. Or buttery cream. Yummy cream. Lumpy cream. ANYTHING BUT CLOTTED.

See how innocuous it looks?

Seriously – do you know what a hit this stuff could be in the states with a different name? It’s creamy. It’s white-ish. It’s like ice cream that doesn’t melt, but more fattening. It was practically made for the American market. Sigh. I hate to see lost opportunities.

Whatever you choose to call it, remember: cream tea is a civilized affair. So sit up, attempt to raise one eyebrow(even if you can’t, actually, and doing so makes you look constipated), stick out that pinky finger, and be as proper as you can.

"Oh my god, why are you so insane?" - Rand

Strangely enough, that’s also good advice for “cream tea”, the sex act.

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So, to sum up: if you rename things, England, they might be a bit more popular. Which is why I’ve started saying I’m from “Obamaland”, and why you seem to be putting up with me.

Oh, and growing up my brother forced me to watch hours upon hours of old Doctor Who episodes with him every rainy weekend we had. I cannot even begin to articulate how boring that sort of thing is for anyone, much less a nine-year-old girl. Seriously, he owes me. Big time. 

Because of my bro, I not only know what this is, but was able to make a crack about how I could escape from it by running up a flight of stairs.

The point is, I rarely encounter an English cultural reference or practice that is completely foreign to me. Until Conkers, of course.

A few weeks back, we were wandering around Norway with our friends Lisa, who’s Norweigan but has lived in the U.K. for a good bit now, and her husband John, who’s English. We were walking through a park and came across a chesnut tree. While not entirely common in the Pacific Northwest, we do have a few of them, and I remember there was one near the playground of my preschool.

“Ooooh, chestnuts!” I said.

“CONKERS!” John exclaimed.

It looks so innocent. But wait.

At this point, I thought it was just one of those funny-sounding British exclamations, like “Blimey!” or “Bollocks!” or “Shine your shoes, Gub’nor?” But apparently not. John explained that Conkers is, in fact, a game. A very dismal-sounding, potentially injurious game.

Here is roughly my understanding of it by doing a little research on the internet. I still, for the life of me, cannot tell if this is a big joke or not.

First, you start off with some horse chestnuts (which, incidentally, are not the variety that can be eaten). You want one that is relatively symmetrical and sturdy, as it makes the best Conker.

That’s what she said.

You then apparently drill a hole through the Conker, and thread a string through it. You then let the Conker dry out, or soak it in vinegar or something, to ensure that it will be rock hard (that’s what she said). Then you and a competitor take turns flinging your hardened nuts at one another.

No, really.

You play until one of the conkers is destroyed.

No, really.

So, let’s recap: Take chestnuts, make them rock hard, and fling them at one another until one of them breaks, leaving the loser sans the sweet smell of victory and sans “toy”.

It makes wonder if this is why English children in movies are always so forlorn and heart-broken (See Billy Elliot, Empire of the Sun, Finding Neverland. Though it might also be because their mothers are dead, dying, or missing). Still, it makes you sort of grateful to live in a country where the 2nd amendment is live and well, and this sort of barbarism, if it managed to infiltrate our schools, would surely be outlawed.