Saturday, November 27, 2010

An English Thanksgiving

This was my third year in a row away from home for Thanksgiving. The past two years it seemed impractical to fly all the way home for just three days, so I visited friends and celebrated Thanksgiving with them (which was delightful! They were both so hospitable and kind). This year, of course, it would have been even more impractical to fly all the way home across the Atlantic—especially since I don’t have a Thanksgiving break in England.

Mansfield held a Thanksgiving Formal Hall dinner; admittedly I was a bit skeptical as to what they would serve. The menu consisted of: New England clam chowder (which I assume they served because of the “New England” in the title), turkey, pig-in-the-blankets (again: random), green beans, carrots, mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie with whipped cream. The potatoes were dry, the stuffing unique, the cranberry sauce was weird—like dried cranberries in a bowl with some cranberry juice at the bottom—and the pumpkin pie was actually a little pumpkin tart that was heavy on the crust and cinnamon with very little pumpkin.

Perhaps that seems overly-critical, but I just wanted to give you a picture of how it compares to typical American Thanksgiving dinner. The food was very good by anyone’s standards; I’ve just been quite spoiled by my home-cooked, huge Thanksgiving dinners at home. Really, I loved that they had a Thanksgiving dinner for us. It made me feel welcomed here at Oxford by the English in a way I haven’t felt since I’ve been here. Dinner was festive and fun and joyful. Everyone else cleared their plates completely, and in typical Ellie-fashion I left half the food unfinished (but I had had multiple servings of potatoes!), so everyone laughed and told me I wasn’t really American. I think I somewhat redeemed myself with my voracious pie eating, including a mountain of whipped cream on top. Excessive? I think not.

At the chapel service preceding dinner, we were asked what we were thankful for (pretty standard I think) and what traditions we missed from home. After telling myself I’ve been getting to used to being away for Thanksgiving, that it’s no big deal, everything came rushing back to me: making pumpkin pie with my mom, mashing the potatoes to perfection, driving over to my grandma’s with various dishes precariously perched on laps, between seats, on the dash board. I remembered vividly every year, for the majority of my life, that I have anticipated dinner and then finally, all fifteen to twenty of us crowd around the huge table, awkwardly crawling over chairs, elbows knocking together, trying to wedge oneself closer to the table. Then with a deep breath, we’re a cohesive family unit, arm to arm, knee to knee, diverse but clearly related, warmly ensconced around the table.

I remembered asking at least twelve times to be passed something or other and smiling at the sight of the butter melting in golden rivers down the potatoes, my grandma carving the succulent turkey, the warm rolls, the cranberry and spinach salad, the Waldorf salad, the corn—on and on and on the dishes circled the table. My grandma always brings out her beautiful china and fine glasses for Thanksgiving. After stuffing ourselves mercilessly, I usually drink a cup of coffee—which I only really do on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Then we sweep around the table to share what we’re thankful for and dig into the pie and various desserts.

Somehow, too, I remember our cousin tradition of sprawling in food comas around the living room. A few years ago, my sister laid on my Grandma’s red velvet couch that is a centrepiece in her home and classic in our family, and I jokingly laid down on top of her. Then came one of my brothers, and five or six of my cousins for a massive dog pile on the couch—after we had just eaten copious, ridiculous amounts of food. I remember struggling to breathe, my face turning red, squealing, laughing, and we all fell down.

I don’t know what it is, exactly, that took me from being totally blasé about being away from home and then suddenly immersed me in a poignant homesickness. Dinner brought me back out of it to some extent. Following dinner, we had drinks and watched American football in the JCR (Junior Common Room—where everyone hangs out at college). Then we walked home and my friends and I made puppy chow. I know, I know—we couldn’t eat anything else or risk exploding and then make puppy chow? But it was the perfect end to the night. My mom brought me Chex and the ingredients to make puppy chow when she visited last week, and my friends and I usually make puppy chow at Georgetown. So while we crowded around the little table in my kitchen and indulged in the peanut-buttery-chocolately deliciousness, I remembered my family and home with joy; I thought of Georgetown with a smile; and I looked around the table to appreciate all the new friends I’ve been blessed with this year.

Monday, November 15, 2010

An Addiction to Evensong

I am addicted to Evensong at Magdalen College (pronounced Maudlin here in Oxford). I had been to Evening Vespers once in the U.S., which was absolutely beautiful and so peaceful I almost fell asleep. Evensong is very similar but distinctly different as well (beyond one being Catholic and the other Anglican).

At Magdalen, the chapel is a long rectangular shape, with a wall of statues of the saints and a beautiful portrait of Christ’s crucifixion at the far end and an organ towering over the entrance way. Dark wooden benches line the two long sides of the chapel, about four levels going up, with shelfs in front that hold the Book of Common Prayer, hymnal, and guide to the service. Candles light each person’s place, and there are little cushions for kneeling at one’s feet. In front of the entrance, there is an Eagle podium where the readings take place (it looks like the eagle podium that Dumbledore uses in the dining hall in Harry Potter—because the podium he uses is at the dining hall at Christ Church College in Oxford, and the eagle podiums are at most colleges in Oxford, from what I’ve seen).

So I hope you are picturing a long, dark room with a majestic atmosphere, a sense of calm and quiet hanging in the air, with the ornate architecture and fixtures creating history and richness in the room. The choir walks in at the beginning of Evensong, consisting of something like twenty Magdalen college male students and 20 young boys that attend the Magdalen prep school. On different nights of the week, just the older students sing, just the young boys sing, and when I went this weekend, Magdalen College female students joined the Magdalen College male students to sing. So overall, the Magdalen College male choir is the standard, with different additions on different nights of the week. They wear red and white robes and walk slowly into the room, bowing before climbing to their seats. The choir splits in two and faces each other on opposite sides of the chapel, with the director standing between conducting.

The service itself includes prayer, two readings, one or a few psalms sung by the choir, several hymns and prayers sung by the choir, and intercessions by the priest. I usually walk in and peace immediately washes over me. The organ creates a base for the voices that build upon it. The choir brings new joy to the same psalms I’ve read before; their nuanced singing of scripture enriches the verses to how they should sound as opposed to how I sometimes take them for granted or rush over them. Each “Amen” sung by the choir is unique, some low and still, some rising to a crescendo, some layered with rounds. I’ve thought many a time that if I could just listen to them sing Amen to me all day long, I’d be in heaven. Each time they finish singing a hymn or prayer or psalm, the air sort of vibrates with the lack of sound, in seeming appreciation for the heavenly voices that had filled it a second before.

Altogether the service takes about half an hour to forty-five minutes. It takes me away from books, libraries, essays, traffic, worries, grocery shopping, the dreaded dollar-to-pound conversion rate, stress—everything. I typically go once a week, sometimes two or three times. I know Evensong will be one of my most missed Oxford activities when I return home. But I still have a long time to enjoy it for now. Which is wonderful, because I’m addicted, remember?

Thursday, November 11, 2010

A Kitchen for Six

I complained about eating at my school cafeteria regularly for the past two years. At Oxford, however, I am without a meal plan: I can eat at the Mansfield Dining Hall, but I have to pay for each meal, so I’ve been cooking for myself most of the time to save money. As soon as I found out that I wouldn’t have a meal plan, I suddenly gained a new appreciation for the convenience of eating prepared food—so now I’ve been complaining about the lack of cafeteria. Perhaps you will conclude (fairly) that I am whiny. But I’ve gradually stopped complaining (as much), because I’ve found another unexpected blessing at Oxford due to the lack of meal plan.

My floor at my dorm has six girls, each with a single room, sharing one kitchen and one shower. I was admittedly skeptical when I thought about sharing the tiny shower and kitchen amongst the six of us. Now each day one of my favourite things about Oxford is my kitchen. It’s pretty much the only warm room in my dorm, a little bigger than the other kitchens, and we each have our own little cabinet to store our food. There’s a tea kettle that makes it feel British. A window overlooks the courtyard. The oven is tiny and the fridge just isn’t big enough for all of our groceries. Everyone on my floor cooks pretty regularly, and the fridge reflects the diversity of our food tastes and our love of cheap, but good quality, groceries at Tesco’s.

At least once a day I walk into the cozy little kitchen and see a minimum of one of my floormates, with an average of at least 4 of us cooking at once I’d say. We share the oven space, squeeze around one another to grab something from the fridge, take turns slipping in front of the sink to do dishes. We laugh and talk about our days, try one another’s food, and drink tea together. I absolutely love the hustle and bustle of our kitchen, the warmth and friendship that transforms the drab little space into a cozy, happy break from schoolwork and the coldness outside.

Food brings people together. There are countless examples of this including Jesus' ministry in the bible using food to bring people together in addition to feeding them spiritually, free pizza at any college event upping the attendance by ten-fold, and the popularity of the Food Network in our world today. One of my favorite parts of my childhood has been our Sunday family dinners at home, where all my extended family drew together one guaranteed time per week to relax and enjoy food together before the start of another busy week. At school last year, one of my friends invited me over to her house on Sunday mornings to prepare brunch with a big group of her friends; we'd cook and laugh and eat huge quantities of delicious food instead of doing schoolwork. Food brings people together. I'm glad that principle holds true here as well.

By the time this year is over (which already makes me sad to think about—especially with how fast this term has been going) I think that I will have dozens of memories in that little kitchen alone. I think one the biggest parts of growing up is realizing that one makes a family as one passes through life; when I’m thousands of miles away from home, and can’t see my family, it is so warming to think that my floormates are starting to turn into a new kind of family for me. They offer to let me use their computers, they ask if I’ve gotten over that cold, they comfort me, they give me advice, they fix me dinner, they laugh at my stupid jokes, they will travel with me, they make fun of me.

So although my meal ideas are starting to run out—I’ve completely stretched my culinary knowledge already—my lack of meal plan can only be seen as a blessing. On my list of favourite things about Oxford, that little kitchen will be at the top.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Let's Meet in Paris

I never would have pictured myself saying, “I’m going to Paris this weekend” in a completely blasé manner. It happened. Repeatedly.

Somehow it didn’t seem like a big deal, precisely because of a problem I’ve consistently had since I’ve come to Europe: I cannot seem to realize that I am in Europe. Even while I was looking out over Paris from the Eiffel Tower, I could not comprehend the fact that I was in Paris.

I took the Eurostar over from London, which was delightful. It only took 2.5 hours to cross the English Channel underground and arrive in Paris. As soon as I arrived at the Paris station, I had the rather formidable task of finding my way to the hostel, as I was to meet my friends there. I looked everywhere for an ATM and tried to make sense of the 15 metro/train lines in Paris on the map. Finally I went to the ticket booth and bought the ticket with my card, but the employee explained how to get there in French (I should tell you that I have taken a few years of French in high school, but that’s it—so my French is rather poor). So I had to puzzle over the map a bit more before tentatively setting off.

I arrived at my hostel safe and sound and waited for my friends to arrive as well. It felt so wonderful to have a reunion with both of my friends from Georgetown, one of whom I had not seen for over six months. We headed up to our room, which ended up being a seven person room they gave to the three of us, because they had run out of three person rooms. Needless to say, we had plenty of space.

On Friday, we went to the Eiffel Tower first, which was so much bigger than I had anticipated. I’m sure you can imagine how surreal that was. Since it was a beautiful, clear day (warmer than England, too), the view of Paris was stunning. Then we headed to the Champs Elysees and walked around and had lunch at a cafe. After that we climbed the 284 steps of the Arc de Triomphe. There is a billowing French flag under the Arc that waves proudly in the wind and proclaims the whole impressive city as French through and through. I enjoyed seeing the Arc from the Eiffel Tower and the Eiffel Tower from the top of the Arc; it made me feel like I was gathering a thorough view of the city.

Next we ventured over to Sacre Couer, which lies on a hilltop; so once again, we had a beautiful view of all of Paris. The theme of Friday seemed to be “Bird’s Eye View of Paris.” We stopped by Moulin Rouge to take a picture. I hadn’t realized that Moulin Rouge is basically the sexual area of Paris, with sex shop after sex shop. Good thing we went in the afternoon. I thought the train stop for Moulin Rouge was rather ironically named: “Blanche.”

We ate dinner in the Latin Quarter, which consisted of a three course meal including: Onion soup, chicken breast, and ice cream. All cafes and restaurants serve slices of baguette with the meal as well. Delicious. Then we went to the Louvre Friday night which was so breathtaking; the architecture alone made me feel a bit faint. Whoever disagrees that art is therapeutic must be soulless. The Mona Lisa was, of course, anticlimactic. But the breadth of the collection overall was astounding. We stopped into Napoleon’s apartments too, which were quite opulent. We ditched our grand plans of heading to a discotecque due to sheer exhaustion. Plus, my body decided to succumb to a terrible cold right before I headed to Paris. Of course. So I immediately fell asleep after our lovely Parisian day.

Saturday we stopped by a bakery to load up on ridiculously delicious pastries and then headed to the Musee d’Orsay which had, I thought, a better collection than the Louvre although the architecture of the Louvre itself is far superior. Room after room of Degas, Manet, Monet, Renoir dazed me; I was in heaven. We then ventured over to Notre Dame, which was simply different than I had expected. Not as dark and not as impressive in a way. But simultaneously, the architecture and spirit of the building itself was awesome. It stuns you and silences you, demands reverence. Well, technically, most people talk obnoxiously loud in a somewhat disrespectful manner, but it had that effect on me at least. I was pleasantly surprised that entering churches in Paris was free; in London, you have to pay to step into the more famous churches, like Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s.

Next we headed to a place called Angelina’s near the Tuillery Gardens that my friend had recommended, for their hot chocolate. It was DELICIOUS. I clearly have not had real hot chocolate before. I think they mix melted chocolate with milk: it tasted like a brownie and chocolate bar in a cup, smoothed and warmed to decadent perfection. Then we ate dinner at a cafe and admired the Eiffel Tower in all its nightly glory before heading to bed.

Sunday we went to the Gregorian mass at Notre Dame. Europe has spoiled me in terms of beautiful choirs and architecture with churches. Heavenly. Then I headed to the train station and came back to Oxford. I must say that spending time with my best friends from Georgetown felt wonderful, and seeing Paris was amazing, but it had two effects on me: first, I felt like we would all be headed back to Georgetown together, which we clearly did not. Secondly, I missed England while I was in France. Don’t get me wrong, I did enjoy Paris incredibly much. It just felt lovely to miss my little cozy room, Tesco’s, my Oxford friends, Oxford itself. It felt good to come “home.” My third home at this point, following Kansas and DC. I’m quite content, and ridiculously blessed as usual. A weekend in the city of romance made me super excited for all the travels that await me this year.