That's one dead duck

Here's a lovely image of canard a l'orange from Flickr user franziskas garten. That is for sure one dead duck. Let's hope the resurgent UT can cook up a similar dish on Saturday against Oregon, with some extra zingy orange flavor on top. Chef Dooley (fingers crossed) can provide the instructions for gutting and roasting.

Turnover here is key and notice that in this recipe, you don't.

Citizenship criteria and starting off on the right foot

Although I've lived in the UK for a long time, I'm not a citizen. I've never quite taken the plunge. I've been meaning to, but just never got around to it. The previous Labour government had made it harder to become a citizen - introducing a test on life in the UK and a citizenship ceremony. In essence that can only be a good thing. Citizenship is a big deal and should be treated as such. There should be a moment of celebration where the mutual duties and obligations of state and citizen are marked publicly, rather than just a letter in the post.

And they were about to make it harder still, introducing a kind of 'good citizen' requirement - a probationary period of volunteering. I was against this. Not so much in theory - it's a good thing. And not so much because of personal impact, as I've been serving as a School Governor for almost four years (for American readers, it's kinda like a school board, but without any real power and every school has one) and I've volunteered for a political party which also counts. But I was iffy about it because of the bureaucratic nature of it. How would you prove that you'd done work? Would there be spot checks to make sure there wasn't some kind of weird black market in the volunteering certificates? But these requirements may be scrapped by the new Coalition government (Telegraph)

And apparently there's going to be a shakeup in the quiz, too. Good. Although the Life in the UK was as a big a phone book in a medium sized city and packed full of Battle of Britain and parliamentary procedure and Magna Carta and so forth, the quiz emphasis was on quirky etiquette - What does one do if one spills someone's pint on them in the pub? Offer to duke it out the car park or buy them a new drink? - and navigating the benefits system. Really. Navigating the benefits system. Now, it's good to know that sort of thing I guess, but that's a bit like setting down rules for your matrimonial partner to be on just how much cheating you'll tolerate before you call it a day. I'd like to think that at the beginning of a relationship, there's a slightly rosier view of the role of the productive citizen rather than assuming that they'll be taking more than they'll be contributing.

Privateer Lad

Alright, so we promised to take the boy to the beach - and we'd already chickened out from finding and driving down to a real beach and decided to take him down to some pollution blackened sands on the south bank of the Thames and let him play amongst the rubble.

The boy was so excited. He made me round up a bucket and spade and found a beach shirt and some shorts and some 'beach shoes' and got dressed almost on his own. He was literally skipping down the pavement and asking at every stop on the Northern line if this was where we got off for the beach.

Before we arrived at the sand, we soaked in some of the festival atmosphere of the South Bank. There were Morris dancers and we stopped to watch some acrobat cum magicians doing a bartending based routine complete with flying ice and glasses performing for free in front of the National Theatre.

But when we arrived at the beach I'd spotted from the boat the other day, the gate down to the sand was locked. Sure there was an artist down there building sand sculptures, but he'd successfully blocked access to the beach with his demand for money literally written in the sands and his clearly hungover girlfriend was lying on the top steps sleeping off last night's gin. The boy was grievously disappointed and cried and moaned and raised a racket. We promised to move on down the Southbank to see if we could find access to the shore some other way, but I inwardly assured myself that if we couldn't get down there, I'd push past that booze-soaked floozy and the access hogging sand artist and let my boy frolic in whatever the Thames had coughed up onto the shore.

Fortunately, we found an open gate at Gabriel's Wharf - and though it looked like civilians weren't allowed - for there was a collection of sand sculptors at work and not very good busker, there was no way we weren't going down there. The boy took off down the treacherous stairs to the sands below. And he had a blast!



After we'd had enough sand play, we had lunch at Gourmet Pizza which was only just up the steps to the Southbank. We hadn't been in ages - in fact, I'm not sure we'd ever been there with the boy. But it was still as good and they have very reasonably price, nice pizzas for children.

We walked on down the Southbank to the Tate Modern, housed in an old power station, where we had a bit of wander and like every child of a certain age, the boy had to roll around on the turbine hall floor like a work of performance art. The Tate was crowded and the boy was in his finest crowd dodging, 'do not enter' sign ignoring best. In fact, he wandered through one room singing. "Bad art. Bad art. This is bad art." And although Tate Modern has its share of really bad art, he was singing his disparaging verse in a room Rothkos and Calders.




So we decided to head out, but not before stopping in at the RSPB (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds) peregrine falcon observing station just outside. Some falcons have taken roost on the towers of the museum. The RSPB volunteers were very enthusiastic, but apparently the falcons were out for the day. We still thought it was worth looking through the scope which was trained on where the birds normally hang out - and sure enough no birds, but you could see the smear of falcon poo.




On the way to our departing station, London Bridge, we came across the Golden Hinde. Sir Francis Drake's privateer galleon. They boy demanded that we go on the ship, but it had been hired out for a wedding reception. And no matter how much he screamed and cried, the wedding party did not soften and let him aboard. Imagine! In order to placate him, we took him to the pirate shop nearby and bribed him into quiet with some pirate swords and a hat.



He was so excited he forgot about the ship and continued pointing his enormous pirate pistol at passers by and duelling with his father in front of Southwark Cathedral.



I'm sure the bishop would not approve..

It's football time in Tennessee

After some disastrous seasons and some meh seasons, the firing of one coach and the midnight flit of another, we're ready for some football. OK, we've got a new coach - and this one might be a keeper. He seems a better fit.

I hope he is. I'm ready to go the long haul with Dooley.

Go Vols.

An idea

The boy is not the best talker, but he's making rapid improvement. And he's surprising me with introductions of new concepts - like "maybe"

Today I was talking to him about what we'd have for dinner, and he said that he wanted to go to a local cafe. Well, really a caf, a greasy spoon. We go there pretty regularly because the food is good in that greasy spoon kinda way, but really we go because they've always been amazingly welcoming to the boy - from the breastfeeding infant days to the squalling times, to the days when he couldn't manage being at the table without spilling - and even the time (when I was reading a tabloid paper instead of paying attention) when he scrawled on their formica table top with a ball point pen. All that, and they always greet us with a smile. Not only that, but when we gave them a Christmas card with his picture on it - they displayed it - and again the following year. They're still up. They have more pictures of my son prominently on show than we do.




But they close at mid-afternoon. And when they close, their windows and doors are shuttered with metal, so you know they are really closed. So I had to tell him that we couldn't have dinner there. He was disappointed, but seemed to accept that maybe we could eat there for breakfast or lunch sometime this weekend.

We'd moved on from talking about dinner to talking about animal sounds.

And then he turned around, raised a finger as a kind of point of order and said "I have an idea." I had to ask him to repeat himself - as he'd never said "I have an idea," before and I was a little surprised.

"Ok Buddy," I said "What's your idea?"

And he went into a quite convoluted explanation, complete with hand motions of sawing and sounds and actions.

His idea was to break into the cafe. Great. His first ever proposal of a plan was a heist. Criminal activity in the pursuit of fried eggs. It looks like it's gonna be fun years ahead.

A trip to the beach

The boy, all of sudden, has decided that he wants to go to the beach. And since this is an island, a beach isn't too far away. But it could take an hour and a half or even longer if the traffic is bad. And all the nearest beaches are pebble beaches. Which suck. It all seems like a lot of work for a bit of seaside frolics.

-0-

Yesterday, I had a meeting near London Bridge and then decided I wanted to head on over to the RSA to do some work (nearest tube Embankment). There's not really a super-duper easy way to get from one to the other. But there is a boat. And since I'd overshot the cut-through from the south bank to London Bridge station and the boat was pulling up and it was a beautiful day. So, even though it was the more expensive option and I'm not clear if it was the faster option, I took the boat.

And out on the back deck of the boat (is that the stern?), it was gorgeous. Beautiful views of London, Tower Bridge, HMS Belfast and the Houses of Parliament as I reached my stop (port? landing?). Oh, and I also saw a beach. On the Thames. I guess somebody from Southwark or maybe the mayor's office has dumped a bunch of sand on the muddy banks of the Thames and opened the hitherto shut gates down to the river.



So, looks like the trip to the beach might be a little more handy and convenient. I feel the slight guilt of the slacker parent, but being a slacker parent - it doesn't last long. Not sure how I'm gonna keep the boy out of that filthy ol' river, though.

Bad Romance

Tate Britain was once known as The Tate. A magnificent old building overlooking the Thames with views across the river to the big spy building (MI6 or MI5, I can never remember). But then the The Tate expanded, and there was Tate Modern - housed in a wonderful old power plant and Tate (insert regional city name here which you probably wouldn't want to visit) and so forth.

Tate Britain specialises in British artists and rather confusingly includes modern works. But most of them are too good for the Tate Modern which specialises in spectacular rubbish mainly - with occasional pools of really good pieces in their collection. And even though I walk past Tate Britain regularly on my way to work meetings, I rarely ever go in. In fact, I haven't been since their Hogarth Exhibition, almost four years ago - except for stopping in to use their loo.

Since we currently have a visitor, I can use this as an excuse to do the tourist thing. He's never been to Tate Britain and I'd been meaning to go since they re-organised their collection of Pre-Raphaelite works. But somehow we ended up in the Romantics section which was being billed as a new exhibition- an easy to mistake to make, since I tend to view the style of pre-raphaelite art as romantic.

But no, Romantics at the Tate means Turner and associated artists. Which I had forgotten. Which put me in a very bad mood.

Confession time: I hate Turner

Turner is one of two British artists whom the Brits hold most dear. Him and Constable. Whom I also hate. To me they produce stuff like a camera with a white balance gone horribly wrong. I hate Constable's speckiness and cutesyness. I hate Turners smudgy figures and white shwooshiness.(You can see a whole bunch of that here, if you must) I can't really explain quite why I hate them so much. Or rather, I can explain why I don't like them. Maybe the hate seems to spring mostly from the fact that I just don't get them or why they're so loved. And perhaps after having lived in a country for so long and just not getting why everyone else loves them but I think they're rubbish, it makes me hate them. It's a sign that no matter how much I acculturate, I can never truly fit in.

It's not that I hate all British painters. Not at all. I can wander round Tate Britain and find much to admire and some to love. But not Turner and not Constable. Blechhh.

And I'm afraid I didn't hold back. I grumbled about Turner and demanded that we move on. People looked at me like I had spit on the Queen. Except that there are some republicans in the UK and people who hate the monarchy, but it seems that everybody loves Turner.

Wyeth

Some things go both ways. I've generally found that Brits don't like the works of Andrew Wyeth who I think is a genius.

Who's still in the neighborhood?

For folks who've been reading my personal blog through Facebook, you might be wondering what this new thing is - or maybe not - maybe you hadn't noticed at all. But anyway this was my first blog, and I blogged here for four years - about whatever took my fancy. I blogged about life and fun and sports and politics. And then I took a year off - well, in fact, I'd meant to quit blogging here altogether.

I didn't really give up blogging. I just gave up blogging at the Vol Abroad. I blog a LOT for work, about work stuff. I blogged a little about personal stuff. I blogged not.at.all about political stuff, which I missed. Especially since there was a British General Election in my blogging hiatus. It about killed me not to blog on that. But my work role is a-political in the sense that I have to work with politicians of all stripes and opinions can sometimes offend. I know I can work in a non-partisan way and that I have done. To me there's a clear difference between working with a politician that I may not agree with, supporting them in a professional capacity and having very different political views.

But the worst thing about my Vol Abroad blogging hiatus was my disconnection from the Tennessee blogosphere and even the expat blogosphere. There was no reason for that, really. But I reckon that blogging is as much about reading as it is about writing. If you're not part of a community of blogging - then you may as well keep a journal. In a diary. With a pink flowers. And an easily forceable lock. And as I wasn't writing as the Vol Abroad, I wasn't really reading either.

So I'm taking off my jacket, changing my shoes, putting on my cardigan and checking out my blog roll here to see who's still in the neighborhood.

Ariedana's link gives me a 404, but she's one of the few I've kept up with. So, I know she's over here now. As far as either of us can remember, we've never met. We only know each other through the Internet. But we both reckon we've been to the same family re-unions, so I know we must have inhabited the same real life space at the same time. She is my cousin.

Big Stupid Tommy is still going. But I knew that, 'cos I found him on Twitter recently, where he has one of the best Twitter bios going.

Busy Mom - is still keeping pretty busy.

Joe Powell - still here and talking about squirrel hunting and frog gigging and how nasty squirrels taste.

Fore Left blogging strong - ahhh, I remember when that blog started. One of the things I loved about the TN blogosphere, at least when I left it, is that there was a strong geographic pull which straddled political lines. I'm not sure if that's still the case. But this is an example of someone who's politics I don't generally agree with who I was happy to link to.

Haiku of the Id - a gal from my home town, my brother's age and someone I've known all her life has kept plugging away on the blog frontier. She blogged recently about her daughter's first haircut and reflected on her own childhood 'do.

I should note that growing up my sister and I had terrible Dorothy Hamill bowl hair cuts. We had uneven bangs in the shape of a rainbow from where Mom cut them for us. (I can remember her taking us to the hair dresser, who would look at us with a sad face while Mom explained that she just gave us a little trim...) If that wasn't bad enough, strangers always thought we were boys. Boys.

Least said the better, really. But puts paid to the notion that kids just accept the poor fashion and grooming choices that their parents inflict on them.

Newscoma is doing lots of online stuff for work these days, but her personal blog is still going well and always full of profound reflections and amusing anecdotes. And the glimpses of connections that can be made in used bookstores in small towns.

I was gonna try to go through my whole roll - but I couldn't manage to do that in a single go. So I'm publishing now - and I'll catch up with the rest of you later.

Part of the reason I quit blogging here is that I set standards I could no longer maintain what with working and parenting and all that. I'm coming back to the Vol Abroad and I'm gonna be a little easier on myself this time around.

Anonymity

Another reason I quit blogging here is that I work with people with a lot of Internet smarts now, and 'cos I'm sloppy I couldn't really be anonymous. It takes a lot of work. So, now I'm blogging pseudonymously. I'm not using my real name on this site, mainly because I have a pretty big digital footprint under my real name - and that's mostly about work stuff. It's not a secret (hence why it's being fed through Facebook), but there is a separation.

Why come back?

Well, partly because I want to use the web address that my personal blog is on currently for something else. And partly because I missed my old alter ego, the Vol Abroad. She's a little bit meaner than me, but she seems to have more fun.

Tap, tap, tap

Hey, is this thing on? I've been thinking about reviving the old Vol Abroad. But this time, I'll blog more on the pseudonym kinda thing rather than anonymous.

I've missed my old alter ego.

It's blogging time in Tennessee.

The end is not the end

Faithful readers...I'm hanging up The Vol Abroad. Over the last nine months or so, I haven't been able to maintain my blogging presence here, so I'm pulling the plug.

My online footprint is too large and I'm too sloppy to maintain an anonymous blog. I'm now working on daily basis with people with a lot more Internet smarts than me who could rumble me out in a heartbeat if they wanted to (which they probably don't, but you never know)

However, being someone with a pathological need to blog, I'm setting up a new blog.

Here's its adress:

www.myfirstname + mysurnameinitial (that's all one word) .wordpress.com

There's not much there now, it takes time.

If you don't know my name...and you blog, look out for a new expat Tennessean in the blogosphere - I'll be linking soon to a blog near you.

The worst part of my self-imposed blogging hiatus has been losing touch with the Tennessee blogosphere. I'm looking forward to jumping back in.

Azaleas along the stream

Azaleas along the stream, originally uploaded by London looks.

Truly one of the horticultural delights of the world - the azaleas in Isabella Plantation at Richmond Park in May. There are hundreds and hundreds of azaleas planted along stream beds and meandering paths - colors and varieties merging into one another, most of them 5 or 6 feet high.

It's hard to pick a peak day, as the different varieties bloom at slightly different times. But if we didn't hit it that golden moment, we came pretty close.

The nail game

The nail game, originally uploaded by London looks.

While we were off to Knoxville, my mother took Buddy out to see some family friends. He got to use the shop vac to pick up saw dust and they made a toy out of an old board and nails using the drill press.

The object of the game is to put the tiny, sharp nails in the holes. And then to take them out again.

Do not try this at home. Although he loved this toy - it was summarily donated to the City of Lawrenceburg landfill project.

G20 madness

I'm about to head into the belly of the beast that's London today. Anticipated disturbances and general G20 protest merriment. I've armed myself with water, a camera, and three forms of identification including my Royal Horticultural Society membership card which seems to have a calming effect on authoritarians everywhere.

An old friend in Seattle wished me luck and reminisced about the WTO meeting when he was accidentally teargassed.

Bankers in the City (where protests are centered today) were warned not to come in suited and booted. Apparently all of London is participating in a kind of fabulous dress down April Fool's Day (We should do that every year) My own sartorial statement tries to blur the boundaries between scruffy and respectable. No change there then.

Hopefully I won't have too many colorful stories to share later on today.
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And the PM smirked on

Love the quick flash to Gordo's smirking face.

Hen pecked

I probably should've taken the matter more firmly in hand. He was much more wary of the animals after that. He returned to the chickens later to throw bark chippings at them.

Pork shoulder roast

Pork shoulder roast, originally uploaded by London looks.

My first experiment with pulled pork. I think I cooked it six or seven hours. Seasoned with paprika, garlic and salt and pepper, slow roasted peppers and onions. I probably could have done a bit more seasoning, but the meet itself was perfectly done.

Delicious/vol_abroad

Doodle While You Listen « The Squirrel Queen Posted: 01 Mar 2009 03:25 PM PST It's all true. I knew it all along. Helps in meetings and seminars, too.

Suburban Turmoil: Mommyblogging 2.0: It's Not What It Used to Be Posted: 01 Mar 2009 03:19 PM PST Ok, here's the thing about 2.0. Honest to god, it's about authenticity and transparency. And if you're in it for greed - then that WILL come out. And if you're cool with that, then fine. Not me. I mean on my work blog I trade for stuff, but not here.

Noble Savage » Blog Archive » Overheard in the high street Posted: 01 Mar 2009 03:14 PM PST

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Buddy, a boy of few words

Buddy's still not really a talker. He's a toddler of very few words. On all the developmental benchmarks the boy is behind.

Of course, it's said that Einstein didn't talk until he was three and look what happened to him (dead-end job as a patent clerk, hounded from his own country, and a head full of messy hair).



Still, even with very few verbal skills - the boy clearly knows how to change the subject.

Presidential style

This may not have been big news in the US, but the Sri Lankan cricket team was attacked in Pakistan.

Some of the English speaking officials are complaining because they were promised "presidential style security" by the Pakistani government.

Rather churlish of them, given the health and safety record of political leaders in Pakistan. Seems like Presidential style was exactly what they got.

Delicious/vol_abroad

Newscoma » Blog Archive » Funny Valentine’s Day Cards Posted: 14 Feb 2009 02:28 PM PST Wow, a Darwin themed Valentine's Day Card. That would have been nice. Heck, any card would have been nice.

Weblog Geertwilders - The speech Geert Wilders would have given Posted: 14 Feb 2009 09:30 AM PST I'm not sure I entirely agree but he should have been allowed in to make the speech. Certainly he cites some nastier folk who've addressed the Lords

so long, freedom of speech Posted: 14 Feb 2009 07:37 AM PST the beginning of UK vs. Geert Wilders saga via Anglofille. Scandalous.

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