Introspection . My Father . Nostalgia . Self-Esteem . The General . Uncategorized
On Guard!
On October 9, 2023 by Speranza
The temperature outside has started to sharpen a little this week, just chilly enough to remind us what is coming. But unlike many (normal) people who are excited to welcome pumpkin-spice latte season or to enjoy the dramatic colours of the changing leaves, I find myself remembering the epic thrill of being selected as not only the class “monitor” but also, a school Crossing Guard …
I know what you’re thinking and you’re right.
These were heady times, indeed.
Being A Girl . Childhood . My Father
Send in the Clowns … or, Maybe Not
On July 11, 2023 by Speranza
Every year from about the age of 10, my father presented me with tickets that would admit myself and a friend to the Shriner’s Circus, an extravaganza that promised to thrill and delight with live animal acts galore and clowns whose snowy foreheads wrinkled like accordion pleats. I sensed how proud my dad was to be able to pass these tickets along and knew I should be grateful. (There was also an element of fear involved since he would have been livid if I’d refused to go since that would be “showing him up.”) But truly, I hated every part of the experience especially the animals dressed in humiliating, ill-fitting outfits. The crowd would cheer as a “bear in a frock” balanced on a ball or an elephant wearily rose up onto its hind legs or a twitchy monkey repeatedly tipped his hat. But I pictured all of these animals after the show, miserably shivering in the darkness of their cages, far away from family and natural habitat while we narrow-minded spectators trampled striped, flattened popcorn boxes on greasy-grey floors to exit the building quickly so we could begin thoughts of our next meal.
(I may or may not have been heavily influenced by ‘Dumbo’ here … )
Being A Girl . Being A Mum . British Stuff . Cooking . My Father . My Mother
Other People’s Hams
On September 22, 2021 by Speranza
I’ve been a food enthusiast for most of my adult life and I have even been paid regularly to write about it. I enjoy reading about the history of food, what other people are eating and of course how to make it myself. It’s especially fascinating to me how many similarities, world-wide, there are. For example, every culture seems to have their own version of a “sandwich.” I’ll leave you to ponder examples for yourself.
The interesting thing is that as a child I was often branded as a “terribly picky eater” and it was widely hoped that being subjected to school dinners in the UK – a militaristic, character building ordeal – would be “the making of me” and presumably, would sort me out once and for all.
But first, let me offer my own defence and perspective.
My Father . My Mother . Nostalgia
The Importance of Being Idle
On September 20, 2018 by Speranza
I was thinking of a family story when I woke up yesterday, one of my favourites and never ceases to delight me. I’m not sure why I enjoy the story so much but I suspect it’s because it illustrates the stark differences between my parents so vividly. My father, a short-fused, A-type personality was a man who got things done, was always early for appointments and had no tolerance for anything or anyone that had a whiff of “idleness” about it. (I have put idleness in quotes because what he, and many others, considered to be “idle” in wartime Lancashire could easily include pausing to draw breath). I often think he would not do well with the current avalanche of self-care books available because he literally, would not understand the concept.
My Father . My Mother . The General
Crimson and Clover
On April 6, 2018 by Speranza
Before and after the Easter holidays, I traditionally take a few days off to complete projects I have been meaning to return to (I’m looking at you, streamlined recipe binders) no longer flinging ragged sheets everywhere as I try to squeeze your gaping three rings closed with an arthritic crocodilian snap. But in-between bursts of energy like this, The General and I have shut the doors against the snow and wind and taken to wandering around with cups of scented tea and wedges of sticky Baklava, talking for hours about topics as diverse as Sidney Bechet, British trade unionists (to be fair, we were considering The Perfect Dog Name for a dog we do not have – yet) and soon to be perused Roberto Bolaño, the poet that Patty Smith mentions so often in M Train.
In short, it’s my idea of bliss.