Day Trippin

So we finally have some time to explore this ol' county. Yesterday, I got out my England for Dummies book and we decided to go to Rye. Rye is a little town in East Sussex which used to be an island. Ya know, waaaaaaaay back. It was a major port of smuggling and defence, etc. Anyway, now it's a beautifully preserved little Tudor village.

We caught a train and a bus, and walked around the shops while Jesse tried to de-carsick. We stopped into this FABULOUS hat shop. I mean amazing. Hat sculpture pretty much. We looked around, then read their little brochure and found out that they're this famous big deal, and they only have this little store in Rye. They made the hats for lots of movies, stuff like that. Look at this stuff!

Sigh. Allison, these reminded me of you. Sorry for that loooong tangent. No, I didn't drop the 250 quid to buy one.

After a few more shops, we walked up the hill to St. Mary's church. Have you heard that song The Bells of St. Mary's? This is that St. Mary's. In the 13oos, some French guys (ghees?) ransacked the town and stole the bells, and the next year some men from Rye went to France and stole them right back. This was a beautiful place. We climbed the bell tower and saw some great views. And the bells, of course.


We also saw the Lamb House, a.k.a. Henry James' house.

It was freezing, and I don't have a hat, so Jesse bought me one. I love it!

We had lunch at the Mermaid Inn, a gorgeous old building which was rebuilt in the 1400s after the French burned down the city. On the walls were lots of autographed pictures of famous people who have stayed there. People like Johnny Depp, Pierce Brosnan, Dame Judy Dench, Michael Cane, Andy Garcia, and the Queen Mother. Just to name a few! We decided our table was probably where Johnny Depp tore a pheasant with the Queen Mother.

The only building which was not destroyed by the French in the Fire was the Ypres tower, which we visited last. Over the years, this castle has been a prison, a mortuary, and a defensive fortress. Now it's a museum. We got to see what life was like for those poor prisoners--

made a trip to the loo,

and played dress up.

I walked out and realized I was still wearing my damsel ribbons... Oops. I guess I still had hats on the brain.

After returning the ribbons, we made our way back home. A really nice date, I think.

Birthday Girl

Our awesome Annieface turned 26 and we had to celebrate! Our first step was to decorate the house. Kathleen bought animal shaped balloons... I still don't think they look like any animals I have ever seen. But they were still awesome.




Jesse wrapped the present. And what a fabulous job he did.



Then he had to be the annoying older brother and keep her present from her.



Finally she got her present.



She opened it and loved it. It is such an Annie apron.


After dinner, dessert, and general good merriment the Thorsons decided to be a little crazy. They were like a performing act from the circus. The best idea they had was to try and get a tic tac from Jesse's mouth into Kathleen's nose and out her mouth. Unfortunately they failed; but it was hilarious.





And the best way to end the birthday evening was with a rousing game of wordtwist. The Pilgrims household is obsessed with that facebook game. Annie, Kathleen, and I were trying to play, but were being distracted by Jesse. Annie and Kathleen were not too pleased by the distraction.





Birthdays are awesome!

The end!

we aren't quite dead

--just mostly. So our "adventures" lately have gotten a little less silly, and more studly. Studily. Studious. Our final essays/poetry portfolios are due next week, and school starts up then too. Our dear Sarah has fallen ill and is feverishly trying to finish her essays on European theater.

Annie has now come down with the bug as well, and the two sickos stay up in their room writing and sleeping. Jesse and I have decided they're the grandparents from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Poor old Grandpa Joe.

Jesse is healthy so far, and has the most writing to do out of all of us. When he finishes his Shakespeare and Material Culture essay, he has vowed to never teach or read Shakespeare again. Unless he wants to.

I am taking a break for a moment from the oft-deflating process of poetry writing and translation. Aside from my own work, I'm currently translating the poetry of former Elle editor Denise Jallais. It's fascinating stuff, and as far as I've been able to find, hasn't been translated into English. In fact, although she has five books of poetry published in French, I haven't been able to find almost any biographical information on her. I'm not even sure if she's still alive. If any of you poetry peeps have any information, please let me know. Anyway, we're not dead yet, just actually doing schoolwork.

Warning: this post may offend your sensibilities.

Annie and I thought we'd get a birdfeeder. Like ya do. So when I was ordering my groceries online at Tesco, I looked them up. My options were a little surprising: I could purchase either a "Peanut Pecker" or "Fat Balls." That's right. Fat Balls are made up of seeds and beef fat (cuz cows are birds' natural prey) and are available in packages of two. I know. So I thought what the hay, and ordered both.

I was still asleep when the Tesco delivery man came this morning. Do you know what it's like to wake up to someone informing your husband (in a loud Conckney voice) that they were out of Peanut Peckers and had just given him two packages of Fat Balls? I think we got shortchanged.

Winter Break: We've Got Cabin FevER! ya ta ta ta da da DA!

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You know four people have been in a house together without getting out for too long when, over breakfast, you debate whether Pauly Shore could be Dinah Shore's son. Or looking up Dinah Shore, finding that she once dated Jimmy Stewart, and wondering if Pauly Shore was their love child. Then laughing because Dinah Shore sounds like dinasaur.

Or start saying things like, "If we ever get a fish together, let's name it Mitsy."

stuff we've been up to...

Welp, no parents this Christmas due to bad weather. Below is the duck cassoulet that was supposed to be their welcome dinner. However, we ended up having a really nice holiday. On Christmas Eve, Santa brought us all some awesomely comfy sweat pants--so soft we forgave him for instructing his elves to make us men's large through men's extra extra large sizes. No really though, if you're going to wear Paul Bunyan britches, they really should be this cozy.

Christmas Morning we found wonderful treasures under the tree. A few examples: the entire X-Men cartoon series for Jesse, a mortar and pestle for Annie, a beautiful handmade apron from Belgium for me (Kathleen), and some cute flats and a Wolverine hoodie for Sarah. Sarah had fun putting on each one of her new gifts (clothing or not) all at once.

After presents, we relaxed and breakfasted on candy--like ya do. Then, armed with a plate of cookies and our turkey breast, we headed to the Plunketts (our lovely landlords) for "lunch." Emma's parents and sister, Lottie from 'Inja', were visiting, and we sat around the crackling fire with our heavy tumblers full of Shloer (sounds alcoholic doesn't it? It's sparkling apple cider). We watched the Queen's Christmas message, in which she praised sport and its ability to bring nations together. There was footage of her standing on the sidelines at athletic events in her violet queensuit with matching cake-on-your-head-with-ribbon violet hat. There she stood, ever so demurely, amidst the whistles and cheering fans. To clarify, people were not whistling at the queen, but at the game. Or heck, maybe they were. Anyway, it was a very nice message during which Emma's mother ("Mum's quite the Royalist") wept only a few tears.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Steven was working his magic, roasting the goose and red cabbage, frying potatoes in goose fat and semolina, and making bread sauce (a yummy steamed milk and bread concoction with clove). The formal dining room was lit by candles and yet another fireplace and the table was beautiful. We feasted and chatted and laughed. I was seated between Emma's mother, who favoured me with stories of India when Emma was a girl, and Emma's son Adam who is 15 and quite cheeky. Then it was time for Christmas crackers! Until a few months ago, this phrase to me referred perhaps to hors d'oeuvres, maybe with a cheese log or something. It's different here. Crackers are these cardboard tubes containing a toy, a joke, and a paper crown. The picture behind our blog title is a very fancy Christmas cracker. We looped arms and sang Old Lang Syne--who knew there are like 7 verses?--, and at the end of the song, we pulled on our ends of the crackers and out popped our goodies! We all put on our paper crowns and read our jokes. These are the equivalent of Laffy Taffy jokes. Apparently there was an attempt made a few years ago to improve the quality of the jokes, and the people revolted. Hey, in case you didn't know how Good King Wenceslas likes his pizza, we learned that he likes it deep and crisp and even.

After some carols and Christmas Pudding, we retired to the living room to play charades and watch Emma light the candles--real candles--on the tree. Everyone was very merry at this point (their tumblers were not filled with Shloer), and we had a jolly old time. After hugs and kisses on our cheeks (not so easy with a 6'7'' merry Irishman), we walked the 3 steps to our little house and enjoyed the rest of our quiet Christmas evening.

Yes, Virginia...

Jesse is a man of many faces. To illustrate my point:

Let's add one more to the stack, shall we? Guess who was Santa at the ward Christmas party last week? Yeah! I am married to SANTA (usually I feel bloggers use the exclamation point too liberally, but in this case, I feel it's appropriate)!!!

And let me tell you, he was a hit. "The best Father Christmas we've ever had." And even after watching, horrified, as Jesse ran around (not in the presence of little ones) wearing his wig and no beard, as I hugged his bowl full of jelly at the end of the evening, there was a small moment when I really felt I was hugging Santa Claus. There is still something magical about the man in the big red suit, no matter who's wearing it. Mrs. Claus is a lucky woman.

And just because I think we should all read it once in a while...

Eight-year-old Virginia O'Hanlon wrote a letter to the editor of New York'sSun, and the quick response was printed as an unsigned editorial Sept. 21, 1897. The work of veteran newsman Francis Pharcellus Church has since become history's most reprinted newspaper editorial, appearing in part or whole in dozens of languages in books, movies, and other editorials, and on posters and stamps. "DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old. "Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. "Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.' "Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus? "VIRGINIA O'HANLON. "115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET." VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge. Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished. Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world. You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.