Merry England

 

Papa, Pinky, Grandfather at Canford

In the autumn of that year we moved to England for an unknown period of time as my husband was part of a team opening the London office of his company.  It was crazy to move away as soon as we had grown comfy in our new apt, but how can you turn down an adventure?  It was particularly exciting because my husband has platoons of English cousins, every one of them as you would hope - eccentric, intelligent, or fun loving.

   We took the QEII to get there and the best part of the crossing was the new friend I made, an ex Naval officer who spent the entire week teaching me semaphore.  This was fun, but his great delight was to pop up out of nowhere and signal me an important message which I would inevitably get wrong. 

Semaphore?

He and his family loved Pinky and kept her entertained during the formal mealtimes.  I didn't learn until the end of the voyage that there was a special children's tea that kept them from being a nuisance to the adults.  If you take a baby to a restaurant you are treated like poison by the British - people have had their tables switched to avoid being next to us.  My experience is that a child is hungry and crabby in equal parts.  If you take care of the hunger rapidly you will avoid the crabby.  Speed is of the essence!  Somehow there is an inverse, unspoken rule in all restaurants that causes them to come to you last, to serve your table last and to roll their eyes when the inevitable meltdown takes place.  Before Pinky was very good at self entertainment my only trick was to stuff her little hands into the dinner rolls to make boxing mitts.  This wasn't exactly entertainment for her, but provided amusement for the table.

Our first year was tough.  No friends, no way to make friends.  Ordinarily one could strike up a conversation over strollers (push chairs to the Brits)  in NYC, but every day we would walk to St James Park and absolutely EVERY adult was a nanny.  There is no way you can cross the line between the employed and the employer.  Everyone in the UK is in a constant struggle to be one up and make someone else one down.  This is one of the reasons it is so hard for Americans to make friends there.  They are often on an expense account with their firm and this enables them to live at a higher standard than their equivalent Englishman, which means the Americans are always one up.  The English will accept your invitations but you will never be invited back to them.

   We used Pinky's birthday to give an adult party to pay back the many dinner invitations we'd had from the cousins.  This proceeded without incident and had a stately feeling, especially when the two year old birthday girl entered the room and, while looking at the festive scene fell into a coma that lifted when it was over.  Notably, she was given a doll which she named Ravioli.  Go figure.
   As the birthday party didn't live up to my risk taking standard, I will tell the tale of the First Important Dinner Party (others had been with visiting friends so that doesn't count, they forgive you).  My father-in-law was going to be in London for a short visit, so I steadied my nerves and invited his cousins and friends.  They were all titled, all over the age of 75, and one was profoundly deaf.  He turned out to be the most fun.  I decided to cook a beef filet, both to show off and to make it a no-brainer.  This would have been great except that the oven had temperature controls that made no sense: Gasmark 1, 2, 3, etc. and it was a convection oven, the likes of which I'd never used.  There was a long, long wait for that roasted meat, but it was filled by a never-ending cocktail hour which no one minded.  In order to assure a smooth party I had asked Pinky's wonderful nanny to stay until she went to bed and was really asleep.   Debbie brought her upstairs to the party to say goodnight looking dewy from her recent bath, dressed in her pretty nightie.  I introduced Pinky to cousins Diana & Alexander, then became mute.  How do you introduce a Viscount and Viscountess to your babysitter?  Not Di & Al, not Mr & Mrs Thingy, not Lord & Lady....thank goodness Debbie saved the day and introduced herself.  In case you're wondering, it is actually The Viscount & Viscountess Thingy.  I was unable to comprehend that saying the title wasn't being pretentious, but actually correct.   

Debbie with Pinky

We kept a little slide in the bay window of the sitting room and had not thought to clear it away for the party.  As soon as Pinky shook hands with the lofty arrivals, she ran to the slide and went down it again and again.  Very excited and sans underwear.  Everyone saw as this was not a big apartment.  In true English tradition they turned away from the action saying "lovely", the best answer to the most awkward moments.
   When in another country/culture it takes a while to learn the little things.  One of those, happily pointed out to me by all seated guests, was that you can't pass the port to the right (starboard) it must always be passed around the table to the portside.  They made me pay for that one mistake with intense insider laughter. We had taken hours to get a good vintage, strain it through a linen handkerchief into the beautiful carafe, and present it proudly. 
  Strangely the greatest part of dinner with this intimidating bunch was that you were assured of wit and more wit in the most skillful of hands, even if you were the butt of it.  As I mentioned earlier, deaf Uncle Ralph (pronounced Rafe) was an exceptional table mate (excluding a little pinch he gave me); he understood that his handicap made him a difficult partner, and spent the dinner time entertaining everyone with fantastical stories of his time as Chief Justice of the Bahamas.  As long as he was the talker, no one could ask him a question that he couldn't hear.   It is impossible to compete with these conversational Olympians and the most fun thing in the world is to relax, laugh and learn as they teach you at your own expense. 
  After all the hubbub, it was sad that my really delicious (if late) dinner went unremarked.  Because, I found out after bitter tears,  it is not polite to comment on the food.
  From the stately cocktail birthday party I learned that you must always break into the cheese, pate, dip in advance so no guest will have to be the first.  That would look hogletty, a no no in the Old Country.  Therefore, when you buy a vacherin (the best cheese in the world)

This Makes Me Very Hungry

make sure you lift off the cover rind, then put a spoon in it to either eat it without sharing, or smear it on crackers.  There have been many occasions when only half of it made it to the table, and it is preferably served as a dessert course.
   From the intimidating dinner party I learned that it's not what you serve but the spirit in which it is served that matters.   And, to be a good guest requires that you sing for your supper:  you owe it to your hosts to make their dinner party a good one.  AND don't forget that when the hostess turns to talk with her partner on the left, so does the whole table.  This really confused me for a while, but I ended up enjoying the way it could rescue you from a boor, or send you into a delightful flirtation, in the turn of a head.

The First Party

  While still living in my apt with my bachelorette roommate, Mary, my husband and I purchased our first NY apartment.  I have a knack for finding the best thing in my price range (petite) and this qualified: herringbone parquet floors, two bedrooms, enclosed kitchen with large dining area, doormen, good address.  Why was this a bargain you might wonder?  It could be because it was in "as is" condition with cupboards made of cigar boxes and the sweet odor of dead, old person - he died on site.  This could not stop me, so work got under way and we watched as Smith-Miller/Hawkinson transformed the space into a contemporary and chic crib for three babies, two of them over twenty-five.
   As a first time home renovator I did not know the rule that it will take twice as long as they say and cost twice as much.  Sooo, my genius idea was to have a party that combined the house warming with the christening and the first birthday party.  Clever, right?  Three occasions rolled into one, with maximum attendance by godparents from afar, grandparents, crazy friends.
   The first problem: the apartment wasn't finished by the party date.  It was close, but there were dunes of saw dust and treacherous piles of wood in many places.  Light fixtures?  Who needs those? 
   The second problem:  Pinky's birthday falls in the middle of Lent and no church we were acquainted with would do the ceremony.
   The third problem:  the christening breakfast would have to be over in ten seconds in order to prep for the party.
   The fourth problem:  I read in Cosmopolitan magazine that you should microwave your underpants for germ free cleanliness.  I decided to do this to all my underwear while still in my p.j.s.  They didn't give a time so I randomly chose seven minutes.  Yes, I burned them all up.

  The first problem didn't seem too hard - hide everything in the space that was called "office" then pray that no one would find it.
    The second problem was fixed after about a thousand phone calls, a generous donation, and, dare I say it, the intervention of GOD himself.

10 a.m. Looks Like Midnight at Dorrian's

   Here's how I solved the third problem;  I luckily remembered  (through a St Patrick's Day haze) that Dorrian's Red Hand was a handsome, wood-paneled, steak-centric restaurant just a few blocks from the church and the new apartment.  I booked a brunch party of twelve, and we headed there as soon as the service (touching and beautiful) was completed.  My solution, predictably, led to another problem.  It had been a year since I'd celebrated St. Patrick's Day and the manly and elegant restaurant had been transformed into a black hole of a hook up bar for UES preppies (later the preppy murderer found his victim there - good call).  We made our way across the floor, sticky with the previous night's spillage, and avoided looking up at the raw ceiling ducts sprayed matte black for extra sexy atmosphere.  We were very witty, hoping the very polite older generation would not notice - glaucoma, bifocals, disorientation.... I feel pretty certain they noticed, but once the Bloody Marys came no one cared.

   We loped back to the apartment arriving at the same time as the nonenglishspeaking bartender (handy-man for our cousins).  We showed him the wine/beer/champagne we had ready for the celebration and hid the full box of hard liquor my husband's parents brought as a house warming present - a fabulous gift for a young couple.  I no longer remember the hors d'oeuvres served (I'm guessing Cheetos was one), but we did splurge on a beautiful cake from San Ambroeus, a very chic Italian trattoria on Madison Avenue.  Everything looked as good as it could and we awaited the three o'clock arrival of the invitees.  We had tricked a chronically late cousin by telling him a start date that was an hour early, he arrived on time, was horrified and left immediately to return at four o'clock.  Clearly there were intense psychological issues at work.

Vehicle

   People arrived, Pinky motored around in her birthday present, a stacked inner tube wheeled baby vehicle, cake was cut and bob's your uncle.  But then people started leaving bizarrely early, particularly our best friends who we counted on to stay late for the post party recap.  What the heck?  As we looked at the dwindling revelers the phone rang, it was Alex & Geoff, the earliest to depart.  Through peals of laughter Alex said he was outside, too drunk to take the subway and stunned that the sun was still high in the sky.  Were they crazy? no, the bartender had failed to understand our directions and had opened the secret liquor stash and served our friends ENORMOUS unmixed glasses of spirits.  He was not a drinker, so he simply filled the cup to the top.  Ever game, our friends drank enthusiastically and this lead to the mass exiting.  They all thought it was the middle of the night and time to go home.
  The fourth problem was solved but how I did it will remain a secret.

Danish Mary's :  a delicious alternative to the vodka version where you use Aquavit as its replacement.  This will be helpful if you have that especially generous barman.  This link is to Martha Stewart's version, yum.  http://www.marthastewart.com/346108/danish-mary-with-celery-ice
Hors d'Oeuvres I would serve now:  quarter sandwiches of smoked salmon, butter, pepper & brown bread, mini grilled cheese, and a resurrection of that 60's favorite - onion dip and chips. I know, you've forgotten how good that is.  AND instead of egg salad make deviled eggs, a perfect finger food - who does not love them?  Of course, keep the Cheetos.
Important:  Flowers make everything better.

The First Party

My daughter Pinky's arrival was dramatic and unexpected.  Dramatic (shocking?) because after a plan to make her birth (due date June 10, marriage date December 31) seem like a premature one, she entered the world way ahead of time and blew my plans for a cover up. Genius idea: we got married on New Year's Eve so that if you didn't pay attention you'd think a year had passed between that ceremony and her birthday a mere two and a half months later, March 18, whoops.  Unexpected because she really was three months early and weighed under two and a half pounds.   This tininess is the origin of her nickname, Pinky, the smallest finger on a hand.
After three tense months the hospital released her*.  Pinky's first appearance in society came at her Grandmother's Bal Masqué in tents in the garden with dancing and music by Lester Lanin himself. Coincidentally, the party took place on Pinky's due date, June 10 (she was by then 3 months old and weighed 4 lbs) .

Lamb to the Slaughter

She lay in state in the living room, babysitter/attendant by her side, in a yellow gingham Moses Basket and a tiny matching yellow dress; revelers filed by to pay their respects.  It was the first time I had had a drink since my pregnancy and I refused nothing, danced the whole time and almost died when I had to wake up at 6 a.m. to feed her (my husband and I had a pact; because he could go back to sleep easily he had the shift before 6 a.m., and I had the hours after, not a bad plan under normal circumstances).  Tragically for me it was a day, remembered still, that was the hottest on record.  That is particularly relevant as my in-laws didn't believe in air conditioning, which deepened the effect of the morning's hangover.  I was the anti-madonna, cradling my sweet little baby while I made many unflattering trips to the bathroom, head pounding.

The Devil's Drink, Cognac

Right there at the beginning we started our tradition of grandiose plans with unanticipated consequences.
If you want to live to see another day don't end your evening with cognac, no matter how good.  I haven't touched it since.  Instead try this recipe for a delicious and simple champagne cocktail invented in Paris by Hemmingway's favorite bartender at the Ritz, aptly titled Death in the Afternoon.  For me it was Death in the Morning.
One Champagne Flute
Half a Thimble of Pernod
Champagne or Prosecco (I prefer prosecco as it has a low alcohol content)
It's important to use a sparing hand with the pernod or the drink becomes too sweet.  A friend of mine can testify that this recipe somehow sustains one through many hours of afternoon languor with no ill effect.

*It was a stressful time waiting for her to be strong enough to leave the hospital.  No one really knew if it was wise to celebrate or plan in any way.  At the time, statistically, only 25% of early births were survived, and of those, only 25% of the survivors got through it without problems.  We were incredibly fortunate and I always include a prayer of thanks for that in my bedtime rituals.