I don't want locomotiary substitution OR remote intransitory convolution
On going Home, the gloriousness that is the English language, and Treguna Mekoides and Tracorum Satis Dee. Plus some fried whitebait, hot honey courgette, apple cakes, and savory pies.
We’re a couple of days late but that’s what happens when you don’t have internet, apologies!
No, it wasn’t another issue with the infamous 3 months in a new apartment without WiFi. The months darting to-and-fro libraries across Paris. I’m now a member of over 100 libraries in town, isn’t that marvelous? Think of all there is to LEARN! Fine, like 90 of those are included in a singular library card, but that’s a lot, even for a Ravenclaw.
The reason is, I went home.
Some souls call anywhere home. The hotel, the Airbnb. Our childhood friend’s house, where you still can walk in the front door without bothering to knock. It’s a little awkward to the Mr. & Mrs., sure, but they have the better snacks.
London is my other home. After living through my 20’s, the most formative years and the wildest (if you consider that to be college, I look forward to seeing what you purchase on your 45th birthday), the toughest, the most confusing, it has set a seal upon my heart. The friendships that became familial because, well, you had no other kin nearby, and what you went through together far outweighs the small amount of DNA required for a family reunion invite. These relationships run deep, although we’re mostly scattered to the winds now. Some went home home, back to Connecticut and the country club and the commute to the city. Others floated around the world for a while, on work assignments or tours or top-secret missions that we’ll probably never know anything about. Speaking of not at all — the UFO thing — isn’t it wild that no one seems to care? We’ve got too much on; that is none of our business.
And some of us are lucky to live a two-and-a-half-hour train ride away. C’est moi, in this case.
When I’m feeling lonely, isolated, lost, anxious, fearful, I can hop on board the Eurostar, a bullet train that goes between Paris, London, and Amsterdam, swim under the English Channel and find myself back in a world that I know. That I understand. I’m getting there with France, please do not misunderstand me, but there’s something to be said for just getting what people are saying all of the time.
Diving back into our friendships and mutual culture is a tonic for a weary heart, for as much as Americans and British say they’re two different species speaking the same language, that is FALSE. I’m not talking about teatime vs. iced tea or football vs. football, or even King and Country vs. whatever people think happens in D.C. English is our shared language and one that is completely divorced from the truth, and we’ve made a litany of humor types from this particular way of weaving words. Nuance, sarcasm, sardonic quips, the list goes on and on. I can only imagine how difficult it is for non-native speakers to understand.
In French, words mean just what they mean. France is the most correct nation that I have come across in my limited travels, and while that is wonderful and you never need question where you stand… I like to play around with my verbiage. That’s it! English is a language that plays with language.
Looking for Richard is one of my favorite documentaries, one I float back to when trying to understand that not all mean what they say. It’s the classic situation of Americans doing all that they can to understand the Bard, but as the “Little Brother” (as the saying goes), we harbor such a tremendous amount of pressure that we eventually silo ourselves away and think that we can’t do it.
"In England you have had centuries when words are totally divorced from truth." - Vanessa Redgrave
We are as such stuff as dreams are made on. See what I did there? A language of Shakespeare, Marlowe, of Wodehouse, Blackadder and the Python boys. Eddie and Patsy. The five spices. To say what you don’t actually mean is ingrained, is a plaything. A form of artistic expression.
THE FORGOTTEN DIALECT OF THE HEART
by Jack Gilbert
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient tongue
has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.
But I’ve gone ahead of my story, you’ve always hated that. This week, your homework is to consider your words. And to make these fantastic British inspired foods, because the whole idea that “the United Kingdom has the worst food in the world” went out not long after Maggie, dahling.
My face hurts from smiling, my belly is sore from laughter. We don’t know what the future holds, but I have promised myself not to be fearful but rather, curious about it. We’re back across the pond with so many plates up in the air that I often feel as if they’ve disappeared, but they’ll make their way back down again. It’s sowing time, the reap will follow.
Be those twelve Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light. And London my love, I’ll see you again soon.
ASF xx
Menu
Starter: Fried Whitebait
L'Entree: Harissa Glazed Honey Courgette
Plat Principal: Traditional Cottage Pie
Dessert: Whiskey Apple Cake
I’m going to say something that half of you will probably not love… it’s cold here. YEP- I caught a cold from shivering in a rain storm Sunday afternoon. Sorry to those of you who will be dealing with three digit °F heat for the next couple of months but in central Europe, the winds are changing and we’re floating our way towards autumn. I’m sorry I’m not sorry, so why how about transporting yourself with some warming dishes? Crank up the air con (but don’t, because the planet), douse yourself in Bio Freeze and check on the baby pumpkins in the garden- we’re going back to Britain.
Play around, have fun. Substitute if/ when you need to, or want to. Cooking is an expression of yourself, be courageous!
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