A common language separates Brits and Americans.
Recently, shopping for a new stove in a superstore, I inquired where they might be found; after some curious looks ("It's too cold to camp, surely?") people directed me to an outdoor area, which offered "wee" prima stoves. Mystified by the miscommunication, I waved my arms to indicate size. "Och -- you're needing a hob!" Er, yeah ...
A faucet was next. But this word was also met with rapid, nervous blinks. "Eh, we don't do that ..." said the baffled clerk. Finally, I dragged the guy over to one, and pointed. Enlightened, he smiled. "Ah ... a tap!"
American "clapboard" houses intrigue the workmen; everyone here has brick or stone homes. One fellow bashing down our flood-wreaked kitchen cabinets joked that he knew how the name happened: "Americans just clap ther bloody boards on, and fasten 'em down, eh? They's no' as sturdy, surely? Yer hurricanes would no' bother a proper stone cottage, I'll wager ...")
Black Pudding (pig's blood, globules of fat and raisins), Spotted Dick (a sort of spongy cake with raisins) and Toad-in-a-Hole (sausages in batter) are popular restaurant selections here. Wouldn't you be riveted by such names, and desperate to inspect what the servers plunked down?
I gape at supermarket offerings of barbecued pigs' trotters, and slow-roasted, spicy pork bellies (snapped up by local shoppers), but I haven't tried those yet; there are limits. (Wait! Aren't pork bellies a stock market thing?)
When I mentioned longing for a hamburger, the same workman grinned: "There in't no ham in them things, so why mention the piggies? Yanks be city folk; they don' grasp the difference, surely?" The other men exploded into laughter. "Aye, but pigs an' cows booth have hamstrings, so tha' is where the confusion lies, surely?" Huge guffaws all around ...
And what, pray, are digestive biscuits? Are all the others IN-digestable? This bumpkin is regularly flummoxed.
Yesterday I was offered a portion of lamb's liver sandwich swathed in English mustard, with a large slab of Leicester (say "Lester") cheese and a plump pickle; hmmm. Actually, it wasn't too bad.
But "crusty" is dying. I popped down to Wormelow Tump's shop for freshly baked bread, but sadly, it's gone soft. My inquiries regarding firm exteriors earned blank stares.
I love bread that stays stiff when I whack it; a firm crust should cuddle a delicious, yeasty interior. Proper "stiff upper lip" bread can be tossed, like a football, and caught, un-dented. But no. Today a loaf loafs; its wafer-thin crust collapses when touched by shoppers. Ugh. After 5 limp loaves were rejected, as they drooped miserably when held, I've resigned myself to long, nicely stiff FRENCH loaves that my teeth are pleased to tackle. But French bread? In England? Sigh ... The workmen commented that they didn't like to "work" tough crusts. Ah, well.
I prowl grocery aisles for cans, er, TINS -- of beef and noodles, eaten cold, as our hob's been chucked out.
Fresh fruit, a cooked supermarket chicken and a scrumptious Guinness (yep, beer) cake -- baked by a sympathetic Wormelow resident who knows my plight -- keep me going nicely. Meanwhile, the workmen and I "chin-wag" as we work. "Tha's a dog's dinner" (fine kettle of fish). "Me wife's gone flat" (She's feeling down); "I'm stretching me braces" (suspenders -- I'm getting fat); "Gitaway!" (You don't say!); "I'm corked up" (constipated); "Take the dual carriageway" (highway).
At intervals we "park our trotters," and enjoy "a wee strupak" (a Scots workman's description of tea and crumpets) with HobNob cookies (motto: "One nibble and you're nobbled!").
Here's to many more outrageous British/American "exchanges" -- Clink!
Sunnybank Gardens, 325 Sixth St., Traverse City, have closed for the winter. The gardens will re-open on Memorial Day weekend, 2009. Please call 929-4351 to schedule next year's events. Visit Dee Blair's Web site, deeblair.com for recent columns, garden photos, and her music, or e-mail her at blairdee@gmail.com.
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