A rose by any other name...

We've talked a lot about the tastes of home that we're missing, but something that's becoming increasingly apparent is the number of things that are actually available, under different names. So, a short post this lazy Sunday morning, of our discoveries to date -- and locals, and aficionados of all things British, please weigh in with comments to help us out:

• Eggplant = aubergine: we haven't found pickled eggplant yet, a favourite in our antipasti trays, but we're more hopeful now than we had been.
• Turnip = swede (among other names, like neeps, of course): the interesting thing here is that they call really small swedes, turnips. What we'd normally buy is a swede.
• Corn starch = cornflour: took a while to hunt that one down, as their grocery store aisles aren't always organized as you'd expect either.
• Canola oil = rapeseed oil: well, not really, according to the Canola Council of Canada, but it's pretty close.
  

  Canola is not rapeseed. It looks the same on the outside but it’s very different on the inside where it matters. In the late 1960s, plant scientists used traditional plant breeding methods to get rid of rapeseed’s undesirable qualities – erucic acid and glucosinolates. That means canola oil and meal are different from rapeseed oil and meal.

• Dish soap = wash-up liquid: not a taste we were missing, obviously, :-) but pretty darn confusing, nonetheless.

Well, that's it for now. I'll comment on others as we find them; feel free to do the same, as I said.

To quote RST, it's gonna be a great day!

Started out with some highlights from the Olympics this morning: Amy Williams' gold in women's skeleton, which is big, big news here, of course, and Jon Montgomery's gold in the men's. Then we headed to town to get photos taken for our driver's licences; we're coming up to the end of our grace period for getting them switched over.

While we were waiting for the photos to be processed, we went on to Moss Books -- a favourite of mine, as regular readers know -- for a bit of browsing. Well, we had some great success, finding so many books that we had some difficulty carrying them home! Tea found a series of Jamie Oliver cookbooks, and I found a few William Golding titles, as well as a collection of stories by Graham Swift, a new favourite of mine after delving into Waterland this week.

Tea at Ask

On the way back, we stopped for a bite at Ask, an Italian restaurant we'd passed many times to date. We started out with an amazing antipasti tray, followed by bean soup for Tea and spaghetti amatriciana for me; I was sold on the latter the moment I walked into the restaurant and spied its enormous advertisement, highlighting Davina McCall's charity. Well, the whole meal was incredible, knocking out Zizzi's for the best Italian in town; quite an accomplishment.

Now we're home watching the ladies' Super G; so many DNFs! Tomorrow's ski cross. Should be awesome!

Our amazing spread at Ask. Yum!

PS: to all those scratching their heads at the title of this post, Remington Snatch Trio is a side-project of the awesome Canadian powerhouse, Mullet Rock. Check 'em out!

The green, green grass of home

Since getting back from Bruges -- I'm still editing the many photos from that trip -- Tea 'n' I have been takin' it easy. Last weekend we went to Tewkesbury for a beer festival, and had a great time. Their abbey really is worth all the chatter we hear on BBC Radio Gloucestershire, and the town exemplifies the best of what we mean when we say 'small'. We met a woman in the tourist information centre who'd been to Ottawa a number of times with a touring company she worked for. (She loved it, of course.) The coincidences continued as we met a few Americans at the beer festival, and had a great chat over a few pints.

This weekend has been all about the Olympics, of course. One more point on the local radio: Eddie 'The Eagle' is from here, and some guest they had on the other day had Tea 'n' I in stitches as he was just cuttin' into Eddie, in the sharp, yet self-deprecating, way the British seem to excel at. "Oh, God, yes, we wheel him out every four years. Only in Britain would we make a national hero of someone who's rubbish. [scathing emphasis] God love us."

The opening ceremony was fantastic; Tea's favourite part was k.d.'s rendition of Hallelujah -- I enjoyed it too, but I'm still partial to Jeff Buckley's cover -- and mine was the fiddlers, closely followed by that amazing "Powering the city" sequence against the representation of the Rockies. The BBC seems to be the only channel that carried it over here. (And the only one that's carrying the Games in general, if only partially, unfortunately.) Still, it's neat getting a foreign perspective on Canada, as they complain about how foreigners only got the minimum amount of time on the hills -- a complaint against the host nation every year, their athlete-turned-commentator was quick to point out -- and marvel at the beauty of Vancouver and the Rockies, and the diversity of our heritage. (They had all sorts of trivia about the Governor General, the RCMP, our flag and anthem -- it was great!) I've only ever flown over the Rockies -- and once at that -- and now, more than ever, I want to see them when I get back. I've got a list, actually, that includes some stuff I really should've done before now, like the Cabot Trail (I've done every other part of that coast, oddly), Gros Morne, Banff and St. Anthony, to name a few.

On that note, a new British friend, Pete, is in Ottawa right now, taking in the ice sculptures and skating, gorging himself on Beavertails. He's even made it out to Edelweiss snowboarding. I'm seeing my home through new eyes -- thanks to mobile uploads to Facebook -- and falling in love with it all over again. There's some truth to that statement about the green grass, I tell ya.

* * *

I've been writing this over a few days. We just got back from a stroll to town for a spot of lunch at one of our favourite spots, Gusto, and a bit of shopping. I actually made Tea breakfast in bed this morning! Probably shouldn't be such a rarity, but I had to mention it, as it turned out so well. I made pancakes -- from a mix of imported Aunt Jemima (thanks, Michelle!), it's true, but that's still a challenge for me -- and they were so fluffy! Tea's now promised to call on my limited skills more often, which is of course the rub with these sorts of successes. (Just kidding!)

Bruges: Beyond Belief

De Wijngaard monastery

We recently spent a four-day weekend away in Bruges. We got the train to London after work, and stayed the night in a nice, cheap hotel near Paddington Station. Then it was off to Brussels on the Eurostar – our first time! – followed by the slowest train ever to Bruges... Just kidding, but it seemed like that after the Eurostar; twenty minutes to travel under the English Channel!

The Burg Square

The first two days we spent walking around the city; first on what they call the tourist walk, and then, on the second day, on the residential walk, which takes you past some retired windmills too. The whole city really is breathtaking. You've heard it many times now, thanks to that movie – which they have for sale in the tourist information centre next to the train station, incidentally – but it really can't be overstated. The first time I walked into the Markt and saw that belfry, my legs just sort of stopped moving forward, and I'm sure my jaw went stupidly slack. All I could think was, "I'm here. This is Europe."

And if the architecture wasn't enough, you've got the history – we enjoyed a pint of the local Brugse Zot in Café Vlissinghe, a pub that's been in operation since 1515, for example – and, best of all, the food. You know you've landed in a little slice of heaven when, stuffed full of delicious moules frites, you round a cobblestoned corner to smell the most heartwrenchingly-wonderful waffles on the evening air. We had to buy one. I'm pretty sure it's illegal to pass without buying something, actually. And have I mentioned the orange slices, half dipped in heavenly Belgian chocolate? So perfectly sweet and tart? At some point, it does get ridiculous, trust me. As long as you accept that you'll have your Homer-in-the-land-of-chocolate moment – no, I didn't bite any dogs, before you ask – you'll be fine.

In Café Vlissinghe

What else to say... The beer is very strong – even by our standards – and designing the glasses for each brew really does seem to be as important as you've probably heard. It's funny: the tour guide at De Halve Maan brewery said that Belgium has done away with champagne and wine at even their fanciest official dos; only local beer is served now, so they had to make glasses that the ladies could hold with grace. But, yeah, the 'tripel' – usually around 9% – will knock you on your arse pretty darn quick if you aren't careful. That said, the stuff is really tasty. And while, yes, I am a fan of the stronger Unibroue stuff that many won't go near, I have to acknowledge that brews like Brugge Tripel really are in a league of their own.

One final point: we'd heard that Bruges has a different sort of market on Saturday mornings – their version of a boot sale, I guess we'd say now – and decided to check it out. Well, just when we thought the city could hold no more culinary surprises: there we are, in the middle of a freak, ten-minute white-out of snow, in a square full of motorhome-size trucks dedicated to the god of cooked meat. Seriously, these trucks were on fire! Whole sides open, and more ribs, wings, and legs of tasty beasts than I'd ever seen. It was like Ottawa's chicken and ribs festival on speed. Awesome! And then they had the trucks dedicated to cheese, pastries, sweets... As I've said many times, had I grown up there, I would be a very round Belgian man; no question. And, on that note, from one of the best meals of the trip, in Den Gouden Karpel:

Lost in the Cotswolds

It was a beautiful day today: sunny and 5 °C. We got a bit of a late start, but had a good breakfast, a quick grocery shop, and then we were on the road to our chosen destination for the day: Brimpsfield. The walk we had picked out would take us from there to the village of Caudle Green and back.

We weren't long in Brimpsfield before the charm of village living became apparent: the village hall that promised free parking could've been mistaken for anyone's house, and pigs, chickens and a horse shared a field across the road from it. So peaceful. And, down at the T-junction that was the 'busy' spot in the village, the ubiquitous war memorial with a fresh poppy wreath, surrounded by little wooden crosses.

The map in our guide book was decidedly lacking on landmarks, but well-versed in the language of stiles and berms now, we started out with confidence. It wasn't long, however, before we started scratching our heads and doubling back on some of our choices. Still, we felt we were heading true, keeping the water -- the one landmark of any consequence -- on the appropriate side of us at all times. And the scenery was incredible, as usual; this was one of my favourite walks -- at that point, anyway.

As we approached what we thought was the halfway point, we had some difficulty finding Caudle Green. I'd heard it's nice, but after a bit of looking, we decided to take a shortcut and start heading back. (The walk provided for this option, so there was no case for alarm -- yet.) As we approached a village from below, feeling very smug about how good we felt, this close to the end of the walk, doubt began to creep into Tea's mind. I assured her that we'd recognize something once we'd crested the hill, and make our way to the village hall by road.

Well, striking out a bit ahead of Tea, not only did I fail to recognize anything in the picturesque village that greeted me, I also spied a bus stop. In disbelief, I was still staring at the large block letters of CAUDLE GREEN when Tea joined me. While fairly confidently following the map to what we believed was the walk's conclusion, we'd managed to land at the halfway point! Now, coming to the realization of how badly disoriented we were, combined with the setting sun, gave me more than a moment of concern, to be honest. Still, this post's title is a bit of hyperbole on my part; we knew where we were; it was just a way's from where we wanted to be -- a mile 'n' a half, to be precise.

Still, we struck out on the road for Brimpsfield with all haste -- no more tricky footpaths for me! -- GPS software running on the Blackberry, and got back to the car within a half-hour or so. The moral of the story: we need to get an earlier start, so setbacks can be dealt with in the light of day. Oh well, no harm, no foul, and lots of fun again -- I think it's clear how much we're both enjoying this when we can still laugh about things in the heightened moments, shall we say. And we can sure as heck laugh about them now.

Back to the countryside

Tea and I were happy to bid the snow goodbye for a bit the weekend past -- we had some again today, but it didn't stick around -- and enjoyed a Sunday afternoon walking in the hills surrounding Prestbury. Prior to that, our last walk was a nippy one around Broadway Tower two weeks ago. That one was a bit surreal, starting out on the snowy hilltop -- well before that record-breaking snowfall, mind -- working our way down to the clear village of Broadway, and then back up to the white. Broadway was beautiful -- it's Tea's favourite village to date -- and the carvery we had at the Horse and the Hound was delicious.

Tea laughing at my slip

This Sunday's walk started with a spot of lunch at the Plough Inn, and then, after a few streets, we were through our first stile, enjoying the grass below and the sun above. It wasn't long before I was thinking about my wellies -- sitting in the car, but still too far away at that point: there was a tricky jump from a step, over a stream to the muddy bank opposite. Tea didn't think I'd make it, but I did; didn't even spray my legs with mud. However, in searching for a branch or two for her to step on, I slipped in the mud, throwing out my hands to balance myself. I recovered, only to discover that I'd thrown our guide book in my panic; you could barely see it, it was so deep in the mud! In the end, I managed to clean it up a bit, and Tea got across dry, despite dipping her toes in the stream for a moment. (Gotta love Merrells.)

And that wasn't even the biggest water hazard we had to contend with. A great moment on the walk came as I was partway out in a stream, standing on a narrow board. As I'm trying to maintain my balance I hear this splashing behind me, and turn around to see two dogs jump in and start playing around me. I know attributing human emotions to animals is overdone, but I'd swear these two were gloating about how easily they could cross this obstacle, the water up to their bellies. Their owner was more definitive on the matter, splashing through in her knee-high boots a moment later, saying, "You'll have a hard time without wellies!"

It was good fun, though. As Tea said, I think we'll miss days like this the most when our time here is up.

'Arctic' living

Well, we've been having great fun the last few days. Comments like, "You must feel right at home," abound as a cold snap, and a nice bit of snow, hit Britain. Southern England has probably seen close to 30 cm of snow over the last two days -- the most they've seen in some 30 years! -- with temperatures hovering around minus 10 degrees Celsius today.


Our backyard Wed. mornHeadlines of "Frozen Britain" and "Arctic conditions" are rarely out of the news. Tea and I must've been in bed for an extra forty minutes this morning, shaking our heads and laughing as BBC Radio Gloucester talked about it almost non-stop. Seriously! "Is it safe for my eighteen-month-old cat to go outside?" and "How do the ducks keep warm?" squeezed out all but a thirty-second piece on the lacklustre coup attempt in the Labour Party. People were phoning in with the temperatures in their areas like they were entering the most lucrative of contests.

We've had a couple of beautiful walks to work; particularly yesterday, when the snow was still fluffy, with that pleasant scrunch; and it was so quiet, with most folks staying home. It's actually getting a bit treacherous now, as sidewalk snow that wasn't cleared has now been compressed to an icy sheen. And I guess that's the main message in all this: they just can't cope. 'Grit' (i.e., rock salt) is running low, side streets haven't been touched, villages are snowed in -- not in a Canadian sense, but a hill of any size, covered in icy snow is too much for most vehicles, especially considering the tires here -- and folks are trying to stay warm in rubber boots. Grocery stores are packed; it'd be like them forecasting another ice-storm at home, I'd imagine.

And there's more snow on the way this weekend, apparently. Still, even if it gets down to the minus 20 °C they're talking about, I find it much nicer than winter in Ottawa: they simply don't get that biting wind here -- well, in the city proper, anyway; my boss lives up on the surrounding hills and paints a slightly different picture. I also like the child-like novelty of it all: a bunch of the younger crowd organized an impromptu snowball fight over lunch yesterday, and everyone's eager to share pictures of the snowmen (and snow-dogs, in one case) they've made. Look for that to wear off as this continues, though; proper mitts, snow shovels and scrappers are all in short supply over here, and cat flaps and mail slots don't do well for keeping houses warm.