Archive for the English Living Category

Bacon.

Posted in English Living with tags on January 15, 2012 by cmerritt42

I can’t believe I haven’t written about this extremely important topic before, so here goes.

There is a DISTINCT difference in what Americans call bacon and what British people call bacon.

Behold, American bacon:

Behold, British bacon:

Now, right away you can see the difference: above you have crispy, salt-injected nom nom goodness, below you have ham.  When people at work tell me they will have the bacon cheeseburger on pub lunch Fridays, I write down ham and burger.  Because British bacon is not bacon.  It’s ham, gently fried.  They even get larger slabs of this stuff, call gammon, and stick eggs or pineapple on top of it.  They also don’t consider donuts to be breakfast food. (Case in point: Krispy Kreme doesn’t open until 10AM.  It’s so sad.)  Also, they have never explored the glory which is the funnel cake.  I could go on but it gets me emotional.

“Wait!” you scream, “isn’t this just another example of the differences of British-English and American-English?  Kind of like how Americans say sidewalk and British say pavement?  Or the fact that British people look at you funny and giggle when you say fanny?”

No, this is a grievous error with the British population that must be rectified.  We’re talking investors, capital, marketing, you name it: British people need to be educated on bacon versus fried ham.

Now, I’m not saying that this is a one-way street here.  I know, for instance, that when you are in possession of or have someone who can drive a car that you can go out and get proper American bacon from large UK super-store grocers.  This is in distinct juxtaposition to the availability of black market cans of Libby’s Pumpkin, which I’ve heard can be traded for souls of virgins.  I also know that things like the use of beans as a toast flotation device should be marketed to the American public, because, well, they’re rather novel and can be used as replacements for donuts.  (Notwithstanding they do have better health value than donuts.)

So what I’m really asking Britain to do right now is work with me here.  Bring more American bacon into your shops and restaurants and in return I’ll personally teach people about baked beans as a breakfast food.  The south will totally grab onto the idea.  They will probably figure out a way to deep fry them in order to reduce any health value to zero.  It will be international cheap cuisine cooperation that could revolutionize the world.

Plus, it would result in me not needing a vehicle to go purchase the bacon I like.  Which, really, is what the entirety of this post is all about.

Happy Boxing Day

Posted in English Living with tags , , , on December 27, 2011 by cmerritt42

Oh, England.  You and your zany traditions.

Welcome to Boxing Day, the day that, for all intents and purposes, I originally believed was the day people beat the crap out of one another.  Seriously.  Ask any American and the first thing that comes to their head is somebody getting whacked with a 2×4. (Granted, I am from the south of the US so if you are up north maybe it would be different.)

Alas, dear readers, I found out awhile back that Boxing Day holds an esteemed title as one of the few Bank Holidays that has a name, and that name was originally tied to two things: servitude or charity.  Boxing Day, version one, was the day after Christmas where servants were given gifts and time off for a job well done.  Boxing Day, version two, was the day after Christmas where you either boxed up things for the needy (since you got new clothes/toys) or gave a bit of charity at the church box.

Boxing Day current tradition is waking up early for sales, going into town (provided you can find transportation or just accept the buses start running after 9AM), and playing “Guess which store is actually open” and otherwise fleeing your family.  I’m told that in larger cities like London Boxing Day is similar to American Black Friday.  This means that tomorrow I’ll be checking the BBC to see who was trampled/mugged/maced or otherwise humiliated over something that was marked 75% off.

The things we do for material goods.

Boxing Day is apparently celebrated in England and the Commonwealth (which means Canada is involved).  There is also rogue Ireland, who do not celebrate Boxing Day but instead St. Stephens Day, which may or may not fall on the same day as Boxing Day.  Ireland is a bit funny as some parts are United Kingdom but they are still Ireland as a whole so piss off. (There are similar holidays like St. Stephen’s Day that Scotland celebrates because it’s Scotland and not England.  Wales doesn’t count as far as I’m aware.)

So what does an American think of Boxing Day?  I like it because it means we get two days off for Christmas instead of one.  Then again, I like the fact that we get holidays.  Real ones.  Not that lousy two-week period which also counts as sick leave in most cases.  I’m also not living in a big city, so the madness of post-holiday shopping is left to movies and news reports.

But I still see, no matter how many times it is mentioned, people beating each other up every time I see or hear the words.  Why my mind won’t shift to another image will remain a mystery to me.  Or I just accept it and introduce a new tradition to England.  That, of every 26th of December, carrying around large chunks of wood and whacking people with them.  We could trace it to some long forgotten pagan tradition.  I can completely justify this.

Or maybe, just maybe, I should stop while I’m ahead.

Best. Run. EVER.

Posted in English Living, Running with tags , , , , , on December 11, 2011 by cmerritt42

 

So, me and my 1,500 other friends went out in Oxford today dressed as Santa, or, as they sometimes call him here, Father Christmas.

We gorged ourselves on mince pies and then went on a two-mile walk, where we wound up with a pack of teachers singing Christmas Carols.  In the process we raised a couple thousand dollars for the Helen & Douglas House, which just so happens to provide hospice care to kids and young adults.

Why everyone isn’t doing this is beyond me.

I’m sure the logistics of locating and distributing enough Santa suits to fill a college dining hall must be a bit daunting.  And yeah, they have to close off streets in a medieval city centre for about an hour and a half, which may annoy shoppers.  Oh, and you have to get up early.

But, seriously, WHY ISN’T EVERYONE DOING THIS?

First, you have permission, all day if you want, to wear a Santa suit around town.  Total permission.  People may stop you and ask why, which is cool.  Some people may look at you a bit funny.  But the bit of joy you get in watching people do double takes, to hear kids screaming, “It’s Santas, Mummy!  Santas everywhere!” is pretty freaking cool.

Second, provided you are awesome enough, you can do this as a walk in a pack and sing Christmas carols.  In our case, we wound up with a group of teachers who knew snippets of carols, but the entire words to Slade’s Merry Christmas Everybody.

This is the point in the blog post in which I have to pause and explain to American’s the impact of this song.

There are a few songs that you learn when you come to the UK for Christmas.  Some are a bit disturbing, like Wizzard’s “I wish it could be Christmas everyday”:

Or, The Darkness, which… um… well… just watch it:

But then, there is Slade.  Which, in all truth and fairness, should’ve have made it to the US and into the Christmas charts to be played forevermore like WHAM!  But, alas, it did not.  Instead, you have this awesome hair and a bunch of twigs in 80s outfits shaking their thangs to the what is the most famous holiday song in the UK (right after Killing in the Name of, but that’s another post):

Our particular group kept looping the song when words to Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer ran out.  It was so impressive, Jack FM came up to record it to place it somewhere on the radio during this festive time.

Third, and finally, WHY ISN’T EVERYONE DOING THIS RUN?

When you can get away with wearing a Santa suit, singing Christmas carols, and raising thousands of dollars for charity there should be a lottery for this.  People lining up and begging for spots.  Sure, it’s short at 2 miles and hardly anyone ends up walking because they are laughing to hard but still.

It is the COOLEST RUN EVER.

Got a Problem? Tea will solve it.

Posted in English Living with tags on November 30, 2011 by cmerritt42

Have a life crisis?

Work getting you down?

Got “the lurgy*?”

Trying to configure the meaning of life, cure cancer, or otherwise bring about world peace?

May I suggest the British fix-it and cure-all: TEA.

Yes, tea.  Tea is the thing that is boiled, brewed, slid onto desks, gently placed into hands, and otherwise forced onto a person if any situation looks even remotely like it could be a bit rough going**.

Sure, you say, there are things like science and logic and possibly a good long counseling session that might make things turn out for the best.  But this is NOTHING in comparison to tea.

Today I experienced a minor work tragedy, though it’s one of those where the entire office finds out over just being something that could be fixed quickly and quietly.  There is nothing like the heat of the social spotlight shining brightly upon you whilst frantically pulling paperwork to prove you aren’t mad, the problem wasn’t caused by you, and you don’t need sectioning***.  In the midst of my paranoia, where I was doing everything to not dissolve into a weeping puddle of crazy, I was offered not once, not twice, but three times: tea.

This is the point in which I discuss my general tea intake in comparison to the British population.

In general I consume 1/2 to 1 cup tea per day.  When I lived in warmer climates I didn’t drink tea, for some reason I drank coffee and only the kind that would be described as milk with a shot of coffee.  But cold weather and British accents changed my tune.   In comparison I have several colleagues who inhale enough tea to possibly have it replace all oxygen intake. (I am not yet sure if they can claim carbon emission offset via PG Tips****.)  There is, at last count, at least 7.8 billion ways I’ve seen tea advertised, lauded, applauded, and otherwise noted as being something you MUST have in your life even if you don’t like it.

And that is because tea fixes everything.  It’s amazing that there isn’t yet an agenda for replacing oil and gas with tea-power.  Though I’m sure that someone, somewhere, is working frantically on it.

I’ve tried the tea fix on several occasions but find it faulty on some levels.  For instance, when my phone was stolen it did not result in the return of the phone, though it did result in something to hold onto while giving the police my report.  At other times tea is not good for things like race preparation, because my tummy is not designed to handle caffeine and then run 13.1 miles.  But the gesture of the tea giving, in which the unsolicited person carries forth a tray of tea, and even better, includes biscuits*****, means that there is a general sense of comfort.  A feeling that, should it all go down in flames and the world decides that yes, it does in fact hate you, at least you’ve had something to drink.

So the next time you find yourself in a pickle, wondering what to do next, give the tea fix a try.  It might work, it might not, but here in England it’s always an option.

English to American translation guide for the above blog post:

* “the lurgy:” Defined as a general illness.  Can be anything from a cold to the Ebola virus.  Don’t worry, rest and tea will fix it.

** “a bit rough going:” Bad.  Really, really, bad.  But in a nice way.

*** sectioning: Being placed into an asylum or mental institution.  At first I thought this meant being specially assigned, then I found it meant you were crazy.  Really crazy.

**** PG Tips: The only acceptable tea in my office.  Though they will allow a bit of fancy Twinnings tea to appease outsiders.

***** biscuits: Crunchy cookies.  While Americans consider all cookies cookies British people differentiate.  This is also why there is no VAT on cake.  They take baking seriously.

Things England needs: Large Balloons, Ridiculous Sales, and an Excuse to Eat.

Posted in English Living with tags , , , on November 29, 2011 by cmerritt42

I found out (via a total informal poll) that British people do not know what the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade is.  Nor do they really understand the concept of parades.  I put on a recording of Macy’s 2010 extravaganza and watched as my English friends flocked to the screen, mesmerized.

You may wonder why England and the words “bland” and “grey” often get mentioned in the same sentence.  It’s not just the weather, it’s their total lack of large inflatable balloons and the desire to put random celebrities on garish vehicles and force them to lip synch.  Even as they watched one of my friends said, “I need to move to America.  There is so much… color.”  (He said it with the ‘u’ inserted, but as I am writing a blog about America I shall use the American spelling.)

America is unique in that it has a holiday dedicated to just being thankful, whereas England has several holidays, all called “Bank.”  It’s common sense, as the banks are closed on holidays, but sometimes I wish they would just go a bit nuts and start naming them.  I also wish England would have Black Friday, which British people also ask me about, as they don’t have this glorious day either.  (They did have Black Friars, which were a religious order that now has several Tube stops and bus stations named after them, but it’s not the same.)

For those non-Americans, Black Friday is the day after Thanksgiving, so-called because it is the day stores open early and put on a host of insane sales in order to get their companies “in the black.”  You may note, should you read international news, that this day is more famous for the amount of violence one person can inflict on another for a waffle iron.  Apparently a woman even pepper sprayed a crowd in order to secure a video game system.

Consumerism at its finest.

When I first moved to England it was about this time, so I went out with this naive hope that England had sales.

Nope.

Sometimes they go nuts and do 20% off, but in all actuality, it’s amazing how unlikely England is to have sales.  I mean, sure, Tesco runs these amazing deals on doughnuts right before they close, but overall you don’t get the madness and the insanity that comes with eating too much food the day before and being locked inside with nothing but a pile of advertisements.

Flee to the shops at 4:00 AM after coping for 6 1/2 hours with distant relatives?  Sounds good!

This leads me to my final point, which is that England also needs a holiday dedicated to food.  There is nothing quite like overcooking for several dozen people and then sending them home, fat, happy, and laden with leftovers.  They only have Christmas, which also comes with gift pressure.  There isn’t really pressure on Thanksgiving, unless you are cooking the turkey.  There is always turkey pressure, but it’s nothing in comparison to finding that perfect gift.  If I had to rank trying to find a gift over cooking a turkey at least I had control of the turkey.

So, in sum, Happy Thanksgiving.  May you find the perfect gift this holiday season, and, if not, may you instead cook a wonderful turkey.

Hey guys, I have this idea…

Posted in English Living with tags , , , on September 4, 2011 by cmerritt42

You know how, after years of being nomads wandering around this island and living off the land we all got together and started to do this thing called agriculture?  Yeah, I know, it’s super awesome and means we started thinking up crazy stuff like not building our homes out of mud.  In fact, I was talking to my friend Bob over here, who’s been hacking away at that hard stuff called stone and you know what he told me?

He told me, “Jim,” he said, “I reckon that given enough manpower we could put really big stones in this town.  Maybe stand them upright, put them in a decorative circle.”

Now Bob’s always been one for the barley drink, but who isn’t?  Water isn’t all that healthy anyway considering all the stuff in it that makes you sick.  So at first I thought Bob was well off his rocker, but then… then I thought…

Maybe Bob has an idea going on here.

Because, you see, all these mud houses we have here melt.  And that mound Jeff thought up is going to take forever to build.  (Remember how he was going on and on about those guys he encountered on a raft down south?  All that “live forever” and “book of the dead” stuff?)  But setting up these stones in this field over here…

Now that’s something that is going to stick around for a while.

Ted was thinking we could align them to all those light bits that punch their way through when the sun goes down.  Mark thinks we could align them to all the different places where the sun comes up.  I think we should compromise because we use both. But Bob, man, Bob thinks we should just make them geometric so as to look pleasing for all these people he’s calling tourists.

Can you believe that he thinks that we’re so far advanced people would just leave their crops and cattle and come look at stuff?  Mental.

Mark only agrees with Bob if we do these things called festivals.  Festivals, Mark says, Will be this big thing when we one day call ourselves English.  People will come and it will either pour down horrible rain or be so hot that they drop on sight.  It will be amazing!  And these rocks, here, now these rocks will be great for conversation.  We can set up mud houses and sell things like food and something he calls t-shirts.

I asked him why on Earth we’d call ourselves English.  He says he likes the sound of the letters.

Whatever.

Anyways, the festivals will happen when the sun moves around, or the light bits change, or the weather does that thing where it gets cold for a bit and we can’t really do much except drink the barley drink.

That sounds pretty decent.

Ed says that sounds too much like his idea of this place he keeps calling an amusement park.  He wants something called a ‘roller coaster’ put in on the hillside.  Bob disagrees because he’s got this whole walkway planned that is either going to be for us or the shadows of our ancestors.  Jeff is up in arms because Ed wants to build the start of this thing on top of his hill of sacred energy.

I’m beginning to think Bob and Jeff have really lost it.

Anyways, it’s going to take a while to build.  Like, a couple hundred years or so, but in phases.  That way my great-great-great-grandkids have something to both be proud of and participate in.

What’s really annoying me, however, is these guys down in Stonehenge say they’ve got an idea to put stuff on top of the rocks.

Psssh, that will take at least 500 years to figure out.

Prom v. Battle Prom

Posted in English Living with tags , , , on August 18, 2011 by cmerritt42

In the United States of America, a prom can be encapsulated into a picture like this:

When you tell an American that there is going to be Battle Proms at Blenheim Palace, the image changes to this:

Welcome, my friends to Battle Proms.  No one will live, but everyone will die in fabulous clothing.

According to Wikipedia, all source that is truth, an American “Prom” short for promenade, is a formal (black tie) dance, or gathering of high school students.  In England, “Prom” is short for promenade concert, a term which originally referred to outdoor concerts in London’s pleasure gardens, where the audience was free to stroll around while the orchestra was playing.  While in America you would refer to a Prom as a “Prom” (possibly denoting them as a Junior or Senior Prom depending on school age), in England the Prom can be called “The Proms” or in the case of Blenheim marketing, “BATTLE PROMS.”

During an American Prom, women dress in elaborate gowns often spending months or weeks of time (and possibly money) putting together the perfect look.  American men, once they find out the color and style of said dress, will then purchase or rent a complimentary black tie outfit.  In an English Prom, women and men both dress as comfortably as possible and bring several further layers of clothing including rain gear.  They also bring chairs, tables, blankets, bunting, several hundred tonnes of food and alcohol, candles, and possibly a shelter should the concert have bad weather or you need to survive in a park for several weeks being somehow unable to leave it.

On the day of the American Prom women receive corsages while men receive boutonnières.  These generally compliment the outfits or possibly compliment the theme of the Prom itself.  On the day of the English Prom you are, by law, required to bring at least one flag which can stand for England, Scotland, Wales, or the United Kingdom.  (You can bring a flag from your home country if it is not included in the above, but if you do not have a flag from your home country you must purchase one of the above.)  This flag will be utilized for waving profusely, and, if a monarch shows up, you cannot stop waving it until they either disappear behind a screen or building, or leave.

Transportation to an American Prom can be in a limo or a freshly cleaned automobile.  Transportation to an English Prom, specifically an English Battle Prom, requires care logistical planning on getting all supplies – plus people – into a car which may or may not have been cleaned recently.  You then drive out into a field for many, many, miles until you are pointed to park in another field. Then you must figure out the logistics of how you intend to get all supplies plus people into a spot in yet another field which has a bandstand, horses, and several rounds of heavy artillery.

An American Prom is denoted by a meal (sometimes at the Prom itself but also can be at a nice restaurant prior) and then dancing.  A Battle Prom is denoted by spraying your food over a central blanketed (or tabled) surface and eating until you pop.  This is followed by a pre-show band, horse display, orchestral selections, air show, fireworks, more orchestral selections, guns being fired, more fireworks, more orchestral selections… a potty break… more guns, some light waltzing, fireworks and singing.

You must be waving your flag at all times.  Even when the temperature drops down to freezing and you have wrapped yourself in several layers of clothing, all the bunting, and all the picnic blankets.  Failure to do so means you are put in the line of gun fire.

Like an American Prom, dancing is acceptable.  Unlike an American Prom (where the participants are under drinking age) dancing around like a drunken fool despite being in your mid-fifties, wearing a poncho, and doing a highland kick to accompany it is also acceptable.

While at an American Prom a “Class Song” or a “School Song” may be sung, often amongst a weepy crowd who is about to graduate and head off to college or trade.  An English Prom includes the screaming at the top of ones lungs Jerusalem, God Save the Queen, and believe it or not (I seriously did not know this song had lyrics) Pomp and Circumstance.  If you have not by this point collapsed in a drunk or over-stuffed food haze upon completing the singing activity, you have not successfully attended an English Prom.

Alternatively, it should be pointed out that collapsing after an American Prom is also achieves the status of having a good time.

It should be noted that while at the end of an American Prom is highlighted by being taken home in a state of blissful euphoria (or something like that) you have to pack up all the supplies you pulled across a field and wait amongst other tired, bloated English people to exit an English Prom.  Good thing is if you were picnicking near the gunfire, you can’t hear people complaining.  There’s a lot of ringing sounds, though.

Having experienced both I would say I greatly prefer the English version of Prom.  First, no stress in dressing up.  Second, several rounds of gunfire.  Third, fireworks accompanying several rounds of gunfire.  It was well worth the comparative ticket price I hacked up back when I was 18 and our American Prom was highlighted by constant thumping club music rendering us unable to talk or dance.  (The dancing had a lot to do with the fact that the women were all in gowns.  You can shake your booty in a gown no matter what they say.)

So there you have it.  One Prom, two worlds.  Now, if you don’t mind me I need to untangle all my bunting and put my English flags back in their cases for next year.

On Rioting.

Posted in English Living on August 15, 2011 by cmerritt42

Wow, two serious posts in a row.  Sorry about that.

When I look at post-riot London (or Birmingham or Nottingham or Liverpool or…) it reminds me of what a city looks like both pre- and post- hurricane.  Windows boarded up, trash everywhere, and the street looks as if the hand of a diety swooped in and cut down everything over a certain height.  You get a lot of news pre- and post-hurricane.  Often of the same tired, terrified people gabbering away about how they survived and hollering that the government should come down and fix things.  Politicians will show up, often grossly overdressed in comparison to the people who may only have one or two sets of clothes, to promise food-shelter-money.  You get hotlines.  You get charities.  It’s all very exciting.

And then the cameras go home and the slow, painful process of cleaning up begins.

The part the news doesn’t cover (or does but every 5 years as a 15 minute retrospective) is that it takes a long time to cleanup.

A LONG TIME.

Not a few weeks or a few months, but years.

And since the hurricane this time was England’s youth, it may be ten years or more before real improvement is seen.  Unlike the category 3+ that may have hit the shores, this hurricane is still around and could fester at a moments notice over anything.

Pretty scary stuff.

In the US we have Hurricane Trackers.  Super-duper-mega-dopplers that point out in all directions and people who tell us where the eye of the storm is and which way it is – or isn’t – tracking.  People cheer when the storm misses them by a few hundred miles or try to flee when the storm points right at them.

But we don’t have trackers for this.  We can’t have trackers for this.  (It would be a little too weird if they even thought up how to track this.)

When I first moved to Texas I moved in an election year.  An item on the ballot was a $2.00 tax per year to sort out the city’s drainage problem.  People didn’t want to pay $2.00 so the project was scraped.  Less than two years later a tropical storm came along, sat on the city for a day, and flooded it.  I remember watching a car float down Fannin Street in a slow spinning motion.  It was surreal.

Because people didn’t want to pay $2.00 lots of people lost their homes, their businesses, and the hospitals nearby went through things I dare not write about.

We knew the storm was coming and we didn’t do anything about it anyway.  There is a very good chance that lots of people saw these riots coming, but they didn’t want to put in their $2.00.

And that is really all it takes.  $2.00 can be 2 minutes, 2 hours, 2 days of giving something back to the community.  Just something small, a tiny bit of change, and the storm can grow smaller – maybe even die out altogether.

We’re always warned when Hurricane Season approaches to have a backpack full of essentials and a battery-powered radio so we can get directions on what to do in a storm.  In this instance our essentials should be a backpack full of good intentions, well thought-out plans, and the ability to forgive if we make mistakes.  We can build sea walls of communities so long as people are willing to give a small bit of themselves.

Be the change you wish to see in the world.

 

The Cultural Introduction to the S’More, for England-Based Life Forms.

Posted in English Living with tags on July 3, 2011 by cmerritt42

Dear England,

Before I begin this blog I wish to make it perfectly clear that I have no hatred against the institution which is Cadbury’s.  I love Cadbury’s so much that if I could, I would marry it.  But that would be in direct violation of my first love, Hershey’s.  While I applaud your copious use of civil unions I believe that marrying more than one chocolate bar violates some law, somewhere.  Regardless, your Cadbury goodness (especially your fruit and nut bars) hold a dear place in my heart.  However, when writing about what I am about to write about right below I must use Hershey’s.  For it is the Hershey bar which makes up …

The S’More.

Ahem.

A s’more (so as spelled due to ones desire to have “some more” or s’more) is an American camp fire treat born out of a union between pyromania and chocolate.  The traditional ritual involves a group of individuals (generally under “adult” supervision if children are involved) gathering around a large flame – usually a bonfire, campfire, or bbq grill.  Taking sharp-pointed sticks they impale large white marshmallows and thrust them at the open flame, setting them alight.  Once sufficiently blackened (or in several cases, coming dangerously close to burning the sharp stick clean off) the marshmallow is cooled (as in, no longer alight) and then placed on top of a portion of a bar of chocolate which has been placed on a portion of a graham cracker.  The other portion of the graham cracker is then placed on top of all this, allowing a “clean” stick removal from the marshmallow and thereby creating a sandwich which consists of 95% sugar.

The result is as below:

Traditionally, the Jet Puffed Marshmallow, a Hershey’s chocolate bar (broken into bits), and a Honey Maid Graham Cracker is utilized in the recipe.  People have, in the past, attempted to make much more posh versions, but they are just mucking it up.

Once you have created the s’more, insert it into your mouth, as so:

Please note, this is not a food to eat with a fork or knife.  The goal of the s’more is, in all truth, two things:

  1. To make your face an entirely sticky surface.
  2. To be able to, in a socially acceptable situation, set things on fire.

As per tradition the amount of graham cracker to chocolate to marshmallow ratio is completely off.  You will have, by the end of your s’more experience, at least 50 marshmallows, one half-broken graham cracker, and no chocolate.  At this point you can take place in the tradition of setting marshmallows on fire for your own personal amusement, followed by frantically blowing them out and eating them straight off the stick.

A properly charred marshmallow:

Culturally, the practice of consuming a s’more takes place in the summer months.  However, any open flame and the ability to impale marshmallows on sticks is considered a perfect call for people to gather and participate in the s’more making ritual. (Candles in the dorm room, anyone?)

English Alternatives for the American S’More

As Hershey’s is a direct violation of standard British law and graham crackers do not, for all intents and purposes, exist, consider doing as above with a large-scale pudding marshmallow (NOT PINK), a broken piece of Cadbury’s chocolate, and two rich tea biscuits.  You already have a Bonfire Night, so why not take it to the next level?

This blog is dedicated to Jill, who sent s’more making material to the United Kingdom and spent a small fortune in doing so.  Without Jill none of this would be possibleBut, as we all know, that is how Jill rolls.

The Things You Do for an Egg Cup

Posted in English Living with tags , , , , on June 10, 2011 by cmerritt42

Look upon me, for I am glory.

Last month, for two weeks, the Oxfordshire Bike Challenge was held.  I had been told about this challenge the year before, and this year, through a bit more jabbing, I decided to sign my company up.  The goal of the challenge is to get as many people in your company, department, or organization onto a bike for 10 minutes.  That’s it.

At the time our closest competitors would have to put down 63% participation to win.  The fact that more than half of the company bikes to work meant that I could easily top them at 65-70%.

As a company we’d never actually won anything outside of the – obviously important – business that kept our paychecks coming and the building upright.  I thought that through some mild prodding this would be an excellent group activity.

This would be easy.

And so, without a blip, we were soaring high above all the others.  Deal done, case closed, we’ve locked this up.  I had visions of a moderately sized trophy and cheering.  Maybe a little shoulder carry around the bike rack.  There would be cake.

But then, we got competition.  The people who were at 63% decided to make it real.  They even posted pictures of themselves in company-logo bike jerseys.

That’s right, company-logo bike jerseys.  Those jerseys, by the way, are not generally cheap.

We responded by placing not one, not two, but three people who hadn’t ridden bikes in a million years (or ever) on bikes.  One of those is actually sticking with the program and barely runs into walls anymore.

They responded by signing more people up.  Perhaps they waved even fancier jerseys in front of their eyes.

I responded by giving a passionate 200 hour (or 15 minute) speech at our pizza meeting about the man who learned to ride a bike for this challenge.  And then, when everyone was pretty much full to bursting with pizza, I begged them to get on bikes and ride for me and for that man.

And they did.

By this point the trophy in my mind was now the size of one of the Premiere League cups.  There would be cameras that would wait patiently next to an engraver who would, at midnight when the challenge was over, be rushed to the sidelines to carve in our name.

When everyone finished we started working tactics.  How many people would be added as challenge finishers and when.  We pondered how late we could add names and how stable their website would be.

And the last day came.

A few hours before it was over, I added a name.

They added two.

I added another two names.

They added a few more.

Back and forth we went until all seemed lost.  The imaginary engraver was carving their name into the trophy of my mind.

And then, at 11:59 the last name went in.

And we won.

Two weeks of begging, pleading, statistics running and people actually on bicycles – and we won.  The imaginary trophy was getting its ribbons tied on.  People in the stands screaming, crying, tossing spider monkeys in the air.

I got permission to get cake.

We gathered around yesterday and greeted the person running the challenge, who was slightly embarrassed as she had spent the day “just dropping the prizes off at reception.”  She handed out the plaques (three – we had two first place and one third place finish) and then… then… she pulled out the trophy…

It’s the smallest trophy I’d ever seen.

But it was ours.

So I took it home and dressed it up a bit for photos, and today it will hold a place of honor on top of the water cooler as you head out the door to the stairwell.  And every time people wander into my wing of the building they will be reminded that for a two-week period we were a unified front of terror on two wheels.  No one could stop us.  We were saving CO2 for goodness sake.

And we have an egg cup to prove it.

In your face fancy jersey team.

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