Issue No. 13: Taste of Home
Alternatively titled "Marginally Sappy Reflections on My Former Life"
Hello out there to anyone who hasn’t been turned into a piece of dehydrated fruit!
We are surviving (I think?) but we don’t really go outside anymore because even pools aren’t cold and some of us are six months pregnant.
First I must update you. I know you were all gravely concerned for me, but my house has been rescued from one of the great ten plagues. We have defeated the fruit flies. It was a hard fought battle, but we prevailed as victors. My sanity, which was on the brink of collapsing, has been rescued as well. Many thanks to my husband who discovered the decaying potatoes in the back of the pantry and cut the flies off at their source.
Since I last wrote, I managed to get in and out of the United Kingdom before the heatwave of historic significance. It’s safe to say 104 degree heat should not be dealt with without a substantial amount of air conditioning and iced tea. Although it was warm on my trip to London and Oxford, it was also perfectly lovely. I will share more details later on in this post!
A few suggestions before we tuck in. Grab the biggest glass of ice water you can find, donate all your long sleeves to Goodwill, and cozy up next to your tower fan.
Keep reading for all things bookish and cookish including:
my favorite meal in London
my latest reading challenge
my cravings for “back-to-school” food
Happy scrolling XOXO
The Journal
August 2017
The week leading up to leaving I seemed to weep daily. I was an optimistic college graduate about to set out to do the very thing I’d dreamt of for years. It should have been all smiles and excitement, but I guess I had not really considered the emotional implications of launching myself across an ocean. My fragile state was apparent to everyone, it seemed.
“You don’t have to go,” my parents reassured me.
But we packed up all my things, Julia Child cookbooks included.
So much of what ended up in those suitcases was the scraps of my 18-22-old self. Bits and bobs of the dorm rooms and newspaper days that I couldn’t ever bring myself to part with. Still haven’t. Accordion folders full of my life are on shelves at home or under my bed at my parent’s house. Pieces of me, dragged across time and space. Knick knacks, letters, postcards I bought with no intent of ever mailing. And yes, somehow, I found a way to schlep them all on my transatlantic quest.
There we arrived at London Heathrow: me, eleven sophomore college students I’d never met, and my mother tagging along for moral support. My first task was calling “the coach from the car park” (also known as “the bus from the parking lot”) to come pick up our group, and of course, I struggled to dial the proper number with the international area code. My first stumbling block. Thankfully, the bus rolled around and we loaded up for the last leg of travel to Oxford.
I guess it’s always been a little funny to reflect on a place that became what felt like my home the moment I first set foot in it as a sophomore in college. Often, I feel silly still talking about it. It’s just a place. Just a set of coordinates on a map. Just a collection of streets and restaurants and stores and parks just like any other place.
Everyone lives in a place. Nobody is from nowhere.
Yet still to this day, I almost blush when it comes up because I can’t seem to find the words for what it means to me.
When I think about why I haven’t been able to put my year in Oxford into words for all these years, it’s either because reflecting on that year of my life is too nostalgic, and therefore overwhelming for me to bear, or I feel like the girl who never moved on. Or because I have been abiding by a somewhat conscious choice I made five years ago to just live out my days and experience them in the moment. I stored up all these things, pondering and treasuring.
Now then, if I can find the balance between these points on the spectrum of memory—thoughtful reflection and cataloguing of my days while not over-injecting every moment with meaning—I think I will have done my job. I could diligently shuffle through the files of my thoughts and try to paint some grand picture of my life there. That would probably result in compiling a small little volume that, at this moment, I don’t have the patience to sit down and write. But I can give you a glimpse from then to now.
As I arrived on that late August day with a small busload of other young people who had set out on their own adventures, I approached that familiar front door with a bit of fear and trembling. What had I done? I couldn’t hardly look at my mother for fear of bursting into tears. But something in the air stilled my spirit. Something about the streets I already knew welcomed me home in a new way this time. Oxford, a city that has belonged dearly to so many people, was mine all over again.
July 2022
My mother and I, once again piled high with suitcases, pulled into city center. It was entirely familiar, nothing out of place. Everything, just about, looked the same.
Except I am not quite the same person who arrived on the doorstep of 10 Canterbury Road five years prior. I grew up a little more. I got married to the man I love, New church. New friends. New city. I had a job I hated and one I liked more. My dad had cancer—twice. I had a baby with a rare condition. Another baby will be here soon. My parents moved from my childhood home. My siblings got married. Oh, not to mention the tumultuous global pandemic I just conveniently almost forgot. Virtually nothing has stayed the same. What would it possibly feel like to return to a place that feels so constant?
In the days since I returned home, several people have asked me what it was like to go back to Oxford or how the trip was. I’ll tell you.
Slip on your favorite pair of shoes for a walk after dinner, or sit in your favorite chair with your favorite blanket and turn the pages of a book you know by heart. Make a cup of tea in your favorite mug or wear your favorite sweater. That’s sort of what it feels like.
I walked through the familiar streets that are, for the most part, unchanged. And, of course, I ate my way through my memories, reminiscing and reliving what life tasted like for a while. It was as good as I could’ve hoped.
The almond croissant from Gatineau Bakery took me back to long afternoons of studying and attempting to look rather academic in Brew coffee shop and Society Café.
The tomato and goat cheese tart from the produce store on North Parade Avenue was my favorite breakfast each morning before I rode my bike down to the bus for class. The tart was as perfect as I remembered. Always wrapped in brown paper, the crust encased a delightfully creamy egg custard with approximately six burst tomatoes and a burnished wedge of goat cheese haphazardly adorning its top. I still dream of recreating something half as good.
Mom and I shared fish and chips from the Rose & Crown in the middle of the afternoon. As we doused our fish in malt vinegar, I thought back to meals shared in the pub’s garden with dear friends.
A late-night scoop of Daim Bar Crunch ice cream from G&D’s shot me back to Mitch’s first night in Oxford. We sat across from one another and cried as we wondered if we’d made the right choice to come here. Hopeful but afraid, homesick and somewhat out of place, young and in love enough to figure out a way forward. We ate our ice cream and prayed that we might find our way in this place. In five years since, we’ve sat across from one another and wondered how to navigate the days ahead. Consider this your reminder that ice cream always helps in these moments.
One night of the trip, I sat across from an old friend in the garden of Turf Tavern. Tucked away down what can only be called a not-so-secret passage, we shared what all had happened our lives over the last five years—the good parts and the heartbreaking parts. We ate fish and chips and bangers and mash. We drank Diet Coke and lime soda. We walked through the dusky streets around the Radcliffe Camera, the sun just barely setting at 10 p.m. The streets were emptying but still holding on to the warm glow of a hot day.
And there it was again. The familiar air, the echoing footsteps off cobble stones, the hush that settles and captures your heart with an inkling of wonder, the aching to turn back time and fill these streets again with all the people you love, the feeling that you are folded into a bigger story of a place that means much to many.
What can I say besides it was, and I suspect it always will be, like going home.
Before we move on from the UK, thought I’d share a few other things we enjoyed on our trip.
Dishoom Kensington — we had such a fun dinner here! Great atmosphere, fantastic Indian food, and a live jazz trio would you believe it.
The Lime Tree Hotel, Belgravia — we loved our hotel in London, despite the fact that we almost burned it down when we plugged in our sound machine at bedtime and smoke started shooting out of it. Situated on a cute, sweet, precious corner not far from Buckingham Palace or Chelsea high street, Lime Tree is a cozy spot and the Buttery had a great breakfast.
Borough Market — came for the mushroom risotto. Seriously, wish I had like ten stomachs so I could’ve eaten my way through the entire slate of food vendors.
Daylesford Farm, Kingham — took a quick 40-min taxi from Oxford out to Kingham to visit the flagship Daylesford Farm shop and restaurant. It was sort of like Magnolia meets Whole Foods meets organic Cotswolds. A fun few hours of walking around and eating lunch in the cafe.
Highclere Castle — high school Masterpiece Classics-obsessed me was very into the trip to the iconic Downton Abbey house.
The Bookshelf
Long story short, I am still reading Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell and nothing else. It has had a few parts that have felt draggy, namely a long stint in a Spanish war zone fighting Napoleon with magic, but overall, I am quite engrossed in the fictional world of English magicians in the 19th century. 300 pages to go.
Slimmmm chance of me meeting my goal of reading 40 books this year, seeing as I’m only at #10. But if you count the number of times I’ve read The Very Hungry Caterpillar, I’m there already.
A few other random pieces of reading material
If you’re still pondering Middlemarch like me, I loved this piece by Sarah Clarkson in Plough Quarterly.
This is a really fascinating interactive piece by the NYT Food team on why it costs more to eat at a restaurant these days. I recommend viewing on a desktop to get the full effect of the graphics.
The Menu
This week, despite the fact that the sun is still roasting us alive, I’ve been craving what I lovingly call "back to school” food. Namely:
Pot roast with mashed potatoes and green beans
Cheap spaghetti, fully complete with a McCormick seasoning packet and the green can of Kraft parmesan cheese
Old Bay Baked chicken (have told you all of this 100 times), rice pilaf + roasted cabbage, and creamed spinach
And ohhhh yeah, Swedish meatballs with rice and roasted Brussels sprouts
Not exactly your peak summer fare, but what gives. I was planning to tell you all who to not turn on your ovens til Thanksgiving, but instead, pregnant me apparently wanted large quantities of gravy this week. Considering the fact that I’ve been listening to the score of You’ve Got Mail during my days at home, you might just go ahead and write me up as the village crazy lady who thinks it’s going to cool off and feel vaguely autumnal. Buy me new shoes and load me up on a school bus already.
Well, in case you missed it, I’m having another child in just about eleven weeks which is positively insane. Hopefully, I can pull it together and be ready by then. We shall see. I’m grateful for a stretch at home and I feel antsy to organize all my earthly possessions. In the meantime, thanks for hanging around and reading my thoughts. Someday I’ll write you all a book, mark my words.
Til next time,
Allison
What do you want to see more of in the next issue? Let me know!!