Yorkshire Pudding, The Rectory Cat, Mysterious Wool Shops, And So On

Nothing terrifically exciting has happened to speak of. But I'm going to speak of it anyway.

This past week has been a hard one for mood swings and schoolwork. It's frustrating coming from a life of small-town atmospheres into a city, and into a big school: I'm used to knowing everyone, or knowing someone who knows someone who borrowed this book/collander/hacksaw from someone last week (and so one), and used to knowing where everything is (or, to knowing someone who knows where everything is).

Population statistics for comparison, taken from Wikipedia and other reliable sources:

Williamsburg, VA: about 14, 000*
Swannanoa, NC: about 4,000
Warren Wilson College, in Swannanoa: about 900 students

Belfast, NC: about 276, 000
Queen's University Belfast, in Belfast: about 17,000

So, according to the all-knowing internet, THIS SCHOOL is only slightly smaller than my hometown and my college town PUT TOGETHER.

I don't. I don't even. My brain, it is broke.

Anyways...

... I've expanded my biscuit collection to include custard creams and bourbon creams (chocolate custard creams). I also tried a new recipe last night. An experiment in English cooking:

Toad-in-the-hole!

When I was little, the characters in a book** I was reading ate this for breakfast once. I thought the name was brilliant, and I've been waiting since then to try and make it. My problem was 1) I kept forgetting, and 2) I keep living at Wilson and/or with health conscious/vegetarian people. Now, however, I'm taking advantage of the fact that I'm cooking for myself (both health food and junk food can happen to other people) and have access to dozens of local butchers who sell loads of lovely English sausages.

It's made by browning sausages, and then baking them in Yorkshire pudding batter. My photo was taken after Maureen and I had eaten half of it, so it's deflated quite a bit. I didn't really follow a recipe, so here's the Wikipedia page if, like me, you find the food the most interesting part of this blog: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toad_in_the_hole You should all try it.

To health conscious types: I served this with carrots. Don't have a heart attack.

Moving right along.

This is the view from my window:

Does anyone know what these trees are? They're very pretty.

They're one of those small beauties that make up for all the annoyances school, and life in the city, heaps on one's head. A website stops working, the guy at the fish-and-chip shop can't hear you and, when you open your little carton of dinner later, it turns out he just gave you chips (the sad), someone makes a recipe you wanted to try when you were gone and doesn't do it the way you'd planned (with ingredients you bought together), your partner for a class presentation happens to skip both the lecture at which you'd intended to make contact with her and the tutorial at which you're supposed to presenet... etc. etc. etc. But there are flowers outside your window, and magpies fly in pairs, and children fidget with Irish step-dancing steps.

Seriously, that last one was adorable. She was wearing glittery shoes, too. This was at the tea table after the service last Sunday. Now - that's something I need to write about, but I never seem to get around to it. I've been going to the second Sunday service at St. Bartholomew's, an Anglican church down Stranmillis, for the past few weeks. Surprisingly, I like it: I suppose being raised with no structure whatsoever means I don't instantly run when someone pulls out a prayer book. Personally, I find the set prayers and organized services calming. The organization allows one to think, instead of thinking "What's going on?" all the time.

I've gotten to sing "All Things Bright And Beautiful" for the first time, and I've enjoyed the sermons and the children's talks. I don't remember yesterday's sermon (sorry, Janice) but yesterday was Transfiguration Sunday, so the children's talk was about school uniforms - how the lady talking hadn't been recognized by a schoolteacher, as a child, because she wasn't in uniform at the time, and how the Transfiguration was like that because the disciples hadn't recognized Jesus as God until they saw him on the mountain top. I love how in-context this is... how many churches in the States would be able to use an example like that? Here, most children wear uniforms, so it works.

The ministers - by which I mean the curate and the rector, though I'm pretty much clueless at to what those words actually indicate - are very nice, and had me over for Sunday dinner a few weeks ago. Their names are Janice and Ron. I'm sure they have a last name, but I've yet to hear anybody use it. Ron spent a summer working at the Smithsonian, studying volcanic rocks - this was ages ago - so they knew where I came from and were eager to make me feel at home here.

They're also birdwatchers, so all through dinner Ron - who was facing the window - kept seeing birds he'd been wanting to take pictures of, getting up, getting the camera, and rushing back only to the find the thing had flown away. This, while Janice was enthusing about American brownies, until the other students there, a couple, brought up the subject of cats. Dinner ended as a group adoration of Herbie, the rectory cat.

Herbie was fun. I was led into a room, to sit on a couch and wait while Ron wandered around somewhere preparing tea. I tried a biscuit from a tin and looked at the books on the bookshelf. Then, the door opened a fraction, and a cat strolled in: a huge white and grey-striped cat. He saw me and stopped dead, giving me a look that said, "What. What is this." At which point he hid behind the couch, much affronted. I was informed over tea that this was Herbie, and the space behind the couch which I had sat on was His Space.

I'll write more about St. Bart's after tomorrow's pancake supper. And about Fisherwick, as well - am I a total nerd that, when I found out they had an evening service, I got really excited thinking "Wow, I can go to church twice every Sunday!" Yes.

It might be a good time to warn all and sundry that Facebook is on my Lent list. You will have to utilize primitive technology and e-mail me. It's difficult, I know.

By the way, I found the wool shop - Jean's Wool Shop on Cregagh Road. Maureen and I walked all up and down that road a couple weeks ago - no sign of the place. We went back there last Friday, after food shopping at St. George's, and walked all up and down the road again. Still no sign of the place. There's a Tesco, a charity shop, two butchers, and things of that nature, but try as we might we couldn't locate this wool shop. So we bought some milk - it's cheaper at the butcher's than at Tesco - and turned to head back to College Gardens.

And there it was.

Highly suspicious, if you ask me.

Here's what I bought: green wool to make a warm cabled vest, and some variegated green wool for socks. Two complicated projects should last me for a while. I hope.

* Technically, I live in Norge. But I didn't put up the population statistics for Norge, VA, because the internet doesn't believe that people live there.

** One of the "Indian in the Cupboard" books, if you must know. I can't remember which one. You should go and read them all to find out.