Erin Go Bragh

I think my desire to go to Ireland always began with my father. Every time I crested a hill in southwest Ireland and saw the vista of rolling emerald hills spread out before me, I thought of him and wished he could come see it for himself.

So when he started planning his trip to see us, I urged him to add a visit to Ireland to his itinerary. He was able to find a timeshare in rural Co. Clare, and soon my Aunt Cathy and Uncle Tom signed on to join Barbara, Liam and my dad.

Originally, I wasn’t going to be able to join them. With the visits home for friends’ weddings and our two week honeymoon in April, Mark and I had quickly consumed our holidays and I had resigned myself to making recommendations and picking them up at the airport on February 25^th.

When I was home in December, we unfolded the map of Ireland and plotted out a series of day trips – to Co. Kerry, the Ring of Kerry and Killarney, and the Brosna woods. To Galway, and to Dublin, and maybe even to Cork… It was a lot of fun to see how excited everyone was, and I was sad I would miss it.

Then I got a phone call in January, from home. My dad was in the midst of a battery of tests to determine the cause of some severe back and hip pain he’d had since a fall while ice-skating with my brothers. The calls continued into early February, with the final awful news that my dad was really sick, and for a while it wasn’t certain that he’d be able to come after all.

Everything rapidly went into perspective, and I found myself consumed with thoughts of home, and a feeling of utter helplessness. My dad, however, was determined to go on and make the trip happen, regardless of what awaited him upon his return. His doctor supported his decision and we hesitantly confirmed plans and changed seats on the airlines in preparation for his visit.

But I couldn’t sit by and miss the opportunity to spend time with everyone, not when they were so close. So I wrapped up a day trip for work the Monday and flew out to Ireland to join everyone on Tuesday.

I’m really glad I did.

As could only be expected, the majority of the travelling party was pretty car-ed out. There’s not a lot in Co. Clare, and there aren’t great roads for getting around, either. After a marathon trip around the Ring of Kerry before my arrival, I was happy to give everyone a break – and let some relax at the house while I drove others to Galway. The following day we caravanned to Dublin and saw the Book of Kells and made another trip to Guinness (where Liam impressed a couple of American university students by having his first Guinness at the ripe age of 12 in the best place to do it). Everyone was able to get their shopping done and though it was a whirlwind trip, I was pleased to see that everyone was able to accomplish what they’d hoped.

The last day in Ireland, we had a leisurely breakfast and packed our bags. Everyone asked me to estimate when we needed to be at the airport – for a 4:55pm flight, I figured we should be there by 3:30pm, meaning a 2:30pm departure. My dad wanted to stop by a shop in Bunratty to get a hat for Toby, so I suggested leaving another half hour earlier, at 2:00pm. But since we were all just really sitting around the house, we ended up getting in the car at noon.

For those of you who have shopped with my Aunt Cathy, you should already have recognized my error above. I’ve never seen her in and out of a store in less than 30 minutes. And my dad was just as bad this time!

On top of it all, we decided to stop in for a quick pub lunch after shopping since the airport didn’t have much. But none of us were keeping track of the time, and I was shocked to look down at the car clock as we left to realize it was already 3:35.

As we approached the airport, I had a niggling feeling that I was forgetting something else. And then it came to me – there are no fuel stations close to Shannon airport. So we pulled a U turn and rapidly headed back into a development where we were able to locate a gas station. Then we hurried back to the airport to find that we had to drop the cars off at remote parking lots and get shuttled to the airport.

And then we found out the check-in counter was closed – we missed it by ten minutes – meaning that we had to ‘gate-check’ the bags that my family had already paid €40 apiece for, but would now have to pay an additional €35 per bag at the gate. And take them to the airplane ourselves.

We made a comical sight, I’m sure, dashing down the hallways, getting deodorant and bug spray (thanks again for trying, dad) tossed in the rubbish at security, tears and sweat rolling down our cheeks as we rolled, lugged and dragged the oversized bags up and down ramps and stairs.

We finally arrived at the gate and stacked all the bags, only to find that they would only accept cash payments. That resulted in a noble gesture of self-sacrifice as Barbara dashed back out of security with an attendant and got the euros required.

The next crisis came from an unexpected source: my Aunt Cathy had misplaced her digital camera, which was loaded not only with her pictures from Ireland but also a recent trip to El Salvador with Project Smile. As she threw up her hands and told everyone that she would stay in Ireland another night, she needed the camera and wasn’t leaving without it, I ducked into a corner and called the car rental. While I was on hold, they ransacked the car and weren’t able to find it. They were informing me of this, and I was relaying it to Aunt Cathy’s stricken figure, when I could hear shouting through the phone. It was located! Now my Aunt Cathy dashed back out of the airport, through not-so ‘secure’ no entry doorways to meet the Hertz representative at security.

All this was witnessed by 200+ travellers in line to board the Ryanair flight, and a very patient Servisair attendant who did an excellent job corralling the Brosnahans and keeping us (relatively) calm. To commemorate this blog-worthy tale, I took a photo.

Note all the middle fingers and exasperated expressions. I don’t really know if it was anyone’s fault, but I quickly assumed the blame and apologized profusely. It doesn’t look like any of my apologies were accepted…

We arrived home to a fridge full of beer and 8 o’clock reservations at our favourite restaurant, Paul’s Place. Although I had warned everyone about the awful state of Irish cuisine, my family had clearly either disregarded or underestimated just how bad it would be. A couple of bottles of wine, excellent food and serveral of sticky toffee puddings went a long way toward returning the smiles to everyone’s faces.

The last few days were a bit less eventful, with a trip to Albert Dock and the Tate Modern extension, some more shopping, and an ill-advised dare between Mark and myself that resulted in a rather spectacular slip and fall into the disgusting, algae-filled water by the docks. You’ll all be surprised to know that it was Mark who fell, not me. Astounding, I know.

Even though the house was choc-a-bloc with people, and there was rarely a quiet moment either upstairs or downstairs, it was really hard to say good-bye on Sunday morning.

Giving Thanks

Almost a year ago, my mom and I started planning a trip where she and my brothers would come to visit. Originally, we had considered the spring but were worried that schedules wouldn't work out... And so our next thought was Thanksgiving, one of the most important holidays in the Brosnahan household - one could argue that it's even more important than Christmas (but I'm still partial to the latter). That's because it is a four-day gorgefest, with my mom cooking for days in the kitchen before laying out an awesome spread for Thanksgiving. Which we dip back into that evening before bed, then again at lunch the next day, and then again and again until Sunday when we all have to head back to the real world.

It was exciting to think about having the whole family over to Liverpool for the holiday, and it also meant a lot to me, personally, since this would be the first big holiday I'd be celebrating as 'Mrs. Yates.' And not in a 'I'm going to dress up like Mark's mom' kind of way.

Mark and I started looking at recipes several months in advance. I decided I wanted to make something the day that the family arrived, so that they could wake up from their post-flight naps to something smelling delicious... After a lot of web surfing, I decided to make these cardamom cinnamon rolls, from one of my favorite websites. I liked how it would all be from scratch (my first time working with yeast!) and my brothers and I have some mad love for cinnamon rolls.

We wouldn't be celebrating Thanksgiving until that Saturday, since they would arrive on Thursday (Thanksgiving) and I'd planned a day trip to Ireland for that Friday. Wednesday evening I baked two apple pies, but wasn't sure about how they'd turned out (the grocery store didn't have Macintosh apples, or the right kind of shortening, so there was a lot of last minute substitution... the pie dough was pretty different from my mom's, and then I had no idea how much sugar and flour to add to the apples...).

Thursday, the whole family arrived and somehow managed to fit in the house. I wasn't able to convince everyone to nap until after the cinnamon rolls were out of the oven, but later that afternoon we were able to go for a walk and show them the neighborhood. Mark made a batch of his version of my mom's meatballs (everyone was impressed and there wasn't much leftover). Then Mark took Mike, Sandy and Toby to a concert downtown while Mom and I made cranberry sauce (with fresh cranberries smuggled in from America) and went to bed early.

Friday, we flew to Dublin and jumped aboard a bus tour that took us all over the city. We didn't really have much of a plan beyond stopping off at the Guinness Brewery for another tour and a perfect pint, but we managed to get off the bus a few times and see a few other Dublin sights.

It was a long day but a lot of fun - and the best part was knowing all the food we had waiting for us the following day...

Mark and I were up early and drove out of Liverpool to a small family-owned farm in Warrington. We had ordered a 12lb turkey a few weeks before, and the family had managed to get one and butcher it for us for our holiday (turkeys are traditionally eaten here for Christmas, so we weren't sure we'd be able to get one big enough for our feast). It was gorgeous, but still had quite a few feathers... Meaning a bit more prep work for me.

We came home as everyone was waking up and having coffee. Our farmer's market was back, so everyone trooped out and had some pain au chocolat and walked around a bit while I de-feathered the bird and began to get prepped. My mom came back and we had a lot of fun getting the bird seasoned and prepped for the oven, and slicing a stale loaf of bread for mom's awesome stuffing. Next came the mashed potatoes, mashed sweet potatoes (a stand-in for butternut squash) with VT maple syrup and pecans, and garlic green beans.

A pretty awesome Thanksgiving, if I do say so myself.

(the pies were the weakest part, but I'm sure I can pull 'em off better once we're home for the next Turkey day)

--------------------------------------------------

A few weeks later, the night before I was supposed to return to the US for a business trip, Mark and I decided to return to Paul's Place, a tiny restaurant a few blocks away from our first Liverpool apartment. When he called to make the reservation, Paul himself answered and recognized Mark with a 'Long time no see!' Mark laughed and apologized, explaining that we'd moved but were excited to come back for another amazing meal.

We arrived in time for the early-bird special (we know, we're old) and sat down at a cozy table near the kitchen. We had just tucked into our appetizers and wine when the waitress came to Mark with a scarf in her hand. 

The last time we went to Paul's was in March, when Mark's mom and dad came for a visit. He'd left his scarf but never thought twice about it since - but Paul had held onto it and reminded the waitress when we came that it belonged to Mark.

We had an amazing meal (clean plate club, no question), had a personal good-bye from Paul, and walked out into the cold night with their Christmas lights twinkling behind us.

This first year in Liverpool has been a lot of things - in some ways, everything I expected but in others, nothing like I could have imagined. It took seeing the city and our neighborhood through my family's eyes, and a moment with one of the many amazing people we've met along our journey, for me to realize what a special gift this experience has been so far. It's easy to get bogged down in our homesickness, to notice and make light of some of the great sadness that lives in this old city, but Mark and I need to make more of an effort to appreciate what's beautiful around us as well. 

This year, I am thankful for my lovely husband, who laughs when I am cranky and walks the dog on Sunday mornings so I can sleep later. I am thankful that we have a lovely (if slightly water-damaged) home in a neighborhood where many of our neighbors know our names and say hello, and where our dog can walk off leash and meet his own friends in the park. I am thankful that my family was able to come and see us, and to share a special day that has come to mean a lot more than football and turkey. I'm grateful that we've had the chance to meet these people and make memories that Mark and I will cherish for years to come.

Old Friends and the Beatles

This past weekend we had a mini-reunion of sorts in Liverpool. In 1999-2000, I lived and taught English in Japan. It was an amazing experience to learn not only about Japan, but about the cultures of all my co-workers from Australia, England, Ireland, etc: the important things like how to ‘take the piss' out of someone, the awesome disgustingness of Vegemite/Marmite, and the healing powers of Baraka. Anyhow, two friends who I lived with in Japan trekked up to Liverpool to hang out this past weekend. Dave lives in Melbourne, Australia, but was in the UK on business and Noreen lives a few hours south of us in Northampton.

They got here on Friday and we took them to the old standby The Moon and Pea. Our last experience here was very disheartening as the waitstaff and food quality both seemed to have dropped considerably. However, we had a great meal and the downward trend seems to be swinging back. Afterwards we had a quick drink at the Albert where we were afforded a direct view of some of our more unique neighbours. Unfortunately we did not get any pictures but our seats made us privy to not only their exuberant drug use, but also their penchant for deodorizing repeatedly in public.

Kathleen and I have had many visitors come through our fair city, but not one of them have had a remote interest in the Beatles. After Dave casually mentioned it would be funny to take a Beatles bus tour, I immediately started to look into it. There are many tours of this kind in Liverpool, but due to its name I figured the most legit was the Magical Mystery Tour. Now there are also private taxi tours, that were cheaper than £15 a head, but after a quick discussion, we decided the other tourists would be half the fun. Also a private tour might prove a bit awkward considering none of us really even like the Beatles.

We made it to Albert Dock just in time to hop on the bus. Immediately, we were a bit disappointed as our bus was not the colourfully painted bus on the brochure, but a normal coach. As we settled into our seats, Beatles music blaring in our ears, Kathleen took a quick video to capture our excitement:

I must also state here that out of all of us, Kathleen was the least excited. I had to sort of beg her to come along as she not only does not like the Beatles, but she actually kind of detests them. Who knew I married a hate-monger? Anyhow, she was a champ and came along with smiles (ok, maybe not smiles).

As our tour began, we quickly realized we were in for an hour and forty five minutes of pain. Our tour guide began the tour by pointing out the Anglican Cathedral and telling us how Paul McCartney tried out for the choir when he was a kid but was rejected (a fact he would repeat at least 5 more times during the tour, occasionally varying to say that it was another Beatle being rejected from another choir). However, it was not this meaningless factoid that alarmed us, it was how he told us. There is no way to accurately describe his manner, but it was pretty much how you would read a children’s book to a group of kids. Except, it was how you would read it if you were really annunciating every word and were reading your favourite book to them and in fact you were reading it aloud more to hear yourself than for the kids.

I won’t bore you with a complete play by play, but we sawmany sites including: all of their childhood homes (Ringo’s was not the nicest), Penny Lane (which Kathleen and I pass every day), a pub where one of their mother’s worked (scary), a cemetery where there is some woman’s gravestone (apparently no relation to any of the Beatles, but they took her name and wrote a song about it) and Strawberry Fields (I have no idea what this actually is/was). Here is where Ringo grew up:

We filmed the drive up Penny Lane, but it would not upload for some reason. Anyhow, here is a video of our stop at Strawberry Field (s?). We stayed on the bus and heckled a bit. You can get a great sense of the other people on the tour here.

However, the best part of the tour was completely unexpected: the average Liverpudlian’s reaction to us. Firstly, people still live in some of the houses we were gawking at. They were not too stoked on a bus load of people taking pictures, I’m sure. Additionally it seemed like a lot of random people had a certain animosity towards us and the bus we were on. At the corner of Penny Lane, two ‘lads’ returning from soccer practice mocked hysterical behaviour over the street sign. A few others were writing all over the sign. In one neighbourhood, two kids came running up when we were stopped at a light, and stood there repeatedly giving us the finger. This was a long light and the kids just sat there flicking us off in new and imaginative ways. It was really really funny. Also, as we swung back towards the city, another kid threw a tennis ball at us and struck Dave’s window. Totally amazing!

Suffice to say, we all had a lot of laughs over this all encompassing tour of Liverpool. We also learned a few things. It seems that John Lennon was a total asshole. I mean the guy got married and had a kid, but kept it secret from pretty much everyone because it was not considered rock star enough... Surprised that didn't work out. We also found out that a lot of the new Sherlock Holmes movie was filmed in our city. The tour guide continued to educate us with his narration. He trailed off often. A favourite was when he said “Ironically…” and then never finished his thought and started to mutter under his breath about some biker in the street. However, the most enlightening comment by the tour guide was: “And on your left? ASDA: part of the Wal-mart family.” Yup, the guide was sure to point out our local Wal-mart for us. Below is a picture at the end of the tour. I think you can see who had the worst time. Despite all my sarcasm, the tour peaked my interest in the Beatles, and I'd now kind of like to go to the Beatles Museum downtown. However, Kathleen refuses to come with me, so if anyone coming over is interested...

I think my friends had an awesome time. We went out for Indian food that night and just chilled on Sunday. It was super good to see them, and again it amazed me what close friendships I developed with people on the other side of the globe. Dave and Noreen: Come back soon!

Happy Days

The past few weeks have been a flurry of activity - busy days at work for me and Mark, late dinners, and the weekends have seemed too far and few between. Nevertheless, we've managed to squeeze a lot of fun in, including the Wirral Food and Drink festival a few weeks ago.

As we've mentioned in previous posts, we're starting to pay a lot more attention to what we eat and where it comes from. The northwest of England is blessed with some great local food options, and we've sampled local ice-cream, lamb, cheese, fruit and vegetables. The food festival was a great opportunity to see more of these local vendors, ones with amazing food but a little too far to go for a weekly errand. The festival was held on the grounds of the Claremont Farm, our current source of fresh vegetables and meats, and we had a great time - sampling from the tents, horsing around and, of course, people watching.

-----------------------------------------------------------

When I see an adult on a bicycle, I do not despair for the future of the human race. - H.G. Wells

Last week, a giant box arrived in the mail for me. Mark was good and didn't take a peek (I was away for work), but on Saturday we ripped it open. I'd ordered a bike from a little shop in East London, and we set to work trying to put it together.

In an hour or so, we'd assembled what looked like a bike, but it didn't quite work like a bike. I'd like to say that we soldiered on and made it work (ah, Tim Gunn, how I miss you), but Mark recommended that we take it to a local bike shop and have them make a few adjustments. After all, when you're talking about brakes, it's probably not the best idea to just ignore the problem.

We took it for a debut ride last Sunday, into town and then over to the farm, but it wasn't until today that we really showed her off.

Mark spent the morning skateboarding in Runcorn, and when he came back we grabbed the bikes and headed downtown to Everyman Bistro for lunch. Sated and happy, we then rode down to the docks and fooled around for a while - trying out some 'Agility Training' (sort of a private joke, though there is an Agility Training course near Liverpool where dogs can learn to jump through rings of fire... Mark really wants to enroll the dog) while thoroughly unimpressed pedestrians watched.

We rode along the promenade back to our neighborhood, then took Miller to the park. He's slowly getting used to the bikes, but I think his favorite part is the constant running and weaving between and in front of us to see our reactions.

After a little rest on the grass, we both felt refreshed. A pretty perfect Saturday afternoon.

PS. This was really all I meant to write today, but I just ran out and picked up a book at the library. Normally, this wouldn't be very exciting, but as the librarian wrote out the due date on the front page, I realized she was writing our wedding date.

WHOA. We are officially getting hitched in three weeks!

I got a little giddy (the librarian wishes us both the best) and practically skipped the whole way home...

Hilbre Island, Part II

Two weekends ago, we ventured back to the Wirral peninsula for a visit to Hilbre Island. With the sun shining, we packed towels, wellingtons, and the pup in the back of the car and headed into the tunnel in downtown Liverpool.

We emerged on the other side and headed to the coast - and had an amazing afternoon hiking across the flat sand and around the cliffs of the island. (There were also seals, but I didn't get any pics)

Afterwards, we had some truly sub par 'homemade' ice-cream and headed further into the Wirral. This time, we trekked to Claremont Farm, and stocked up on goodies. We learned about the farm from one of my birthday gifts for Mark, the book Home Grown. It profiles chefs of the Northwest and the resurgence of haute British cuisine focusing on local ingredients.

We loved the farm, and have already been back. We can stock up on tons of fresh veggies, fruit, and good-quality meats (and have yet to spend more than £10). Yum!

Maydays, Maydays, Maydays

It’s been a crazy few weeks, and I’ve owed an update to the blog for some time now. Since Mark’s last post, we’ve welcomed the other Yates brother to Liverpool, explored Manchester through the lens of 80s post-punk bands Joy Division, New Order, the Happy Mondays, and others, celebrated a birthday (Mark’s thirty-third) and I’ve visited Finland, among other marathon business trips, for work. After all that, I was left holding down the fort in Liverpool with Miller while Mark headed home for some much-deserved R&R and time with friends. I kept meaning to post while he was gone, but we got some long-awaited sunshine and warm weather, and I found myself restless in the house and every time I opened the laptop, I would shut it again to grab Miller’s leash and head outside.

First things first: besides the Factory Records tour in Manchester, we also showed Bill some of the local sights here in Liverpool, including another visit to Crosby Beach. I think we can all agree that we don’t need to take anymore people here. Plus, it just seems to get sadder and bleaker with every visit (see previous references to British litter). 

But his trip was quick, and before we knew it we had dropped Bill off at the airport. That night, I took Mark out for a great meal at 60 Hope Street, our new favourite restaurant in the city, as part of a belated birthday celebration. Then, it was off for a few nights visiting customers down south and then back to Liverpool to catch a flight to Helsinki.

I had been really excited for my Finland trip, but I can’t say that it was particularly memorable. I hadn’t mentally prepared myself to spend over nine hours a day in a trade show booth, and our hotel location (abutting the airport, a €30 taxi ride from the city) didn’t lend itself much to exploring. Nevertheless, we managed to see a bit of downtown and enjoyed the crazy daylight hours (the sun didn’t set til after 11pm each night) while walking the cobblestone streets of Senate Square. I also managed to convince my colleagues to spend our final evening having dinner in this gem of a restaurant, and I highly recommend you take some time to explore the website and the dinner menu. I had the sautéed reindeer, which was… interesting. Glad I tried it, but don’t know if I will be having it again any time soon.

My arrival home was bittersweet, as I only had two nights with Mark before he departed on his own trip. I dropped him off at the airport at 445AM, bleary-eyed and with a confused Miller in the back, and couldn’t help but feel jealous.

That weekend, to stave off depressing homesickness and loneliness, I took Miller for a long early morning walk (we’ve got some friends along the route, now) and returned home to find 20 roses on our doorstep; a seven-year anniversary gift from Mark.

I cleaned up the flowers and then headed in to the farmer’s market. There was fresh rhubarb and tiny strawberries, asparagus, lettuce, and all sort of other gems. I found myself filling my bag with all sorts of vegetables, fresh bread (though, to be honest - £2 for a loaf of bread is just stupid), and some spicy North African merguez sausage, pushed into my hands by a very vocal butcher armed with a knife the size of my thigh. I couldn’t say no.

The streets were also full of photographers, armed with digital SLRs and patrolling our little street and the Lark Lane market. I did a little sleuthing online and discovered this flickr photo set and thought I would share. The shots of the street full of plantings and flowers is our street, and the guy with the crazy hair is our kayaking neighbour. I think his name is Steve, and he literally kayaks almost every day - though I’m not sure where. All the flowers are grown and taken care of by another neighbor, Brian, who is also helping me plant some flowers in our backyard.

The rest of the weekend was spent doing errands, cleaning, long walks with the dog, cooking some more and trying desperately not to eat all the strawberry rhubarb crumble immediately. I succeeded, but only kind of. (I saved a bite for Monday morning, just so I could say it lasted three days).  

And, actually, the rest of the week was sort of more of the same.

I have to confess, another reason I haven’t posted is because I’ve been fighting a sort of, not really, but kind of can’t ignore maybe-depression. Chalk it up to homesickness, belated adjustment to a new home, or a combination of other things (and those of you we’ve been speaking to know what I’m talking about), I’ve just been finding it more and more difficult to ignore.  I am trying to stay focused on the positive, though, and am looking forward to my own trip home as a way to recharge.

So, come to think of it, I’d better head to bed. My 4AM wake-up is only five hours away...

Early wake-up

So as Mark has already mentioned, Friday was amazing - it was an early, long gray ride down to Heathrow, but Miller recognizing us and seeing that face and the wagging tail - totally worth it. Especially since Mark drove the whole way back, so I could pass out in the front seat.

We got home and took Miller out to Sefton Park where he was able to fetch one of his new toys and smell all the new England smells, and then returned home to have some Jamaican Me Hungry jerk chicken and watch TV with Miller at our feet. All in all, a great but exhausting day. We briefly discussed the merits of Miller joining us upstairs to sleep, or whether we should try to crate him to get him used to being away from us (the separation anxiety is still a little cute, but we probably shouldn't encourage it)... The decision made, we bade him good night and crept quietly upstairs.

We all fell asleep in moments, which is why it was so disconcerting to be woken up with a loud car alarm in the middle of the night. I lay awake in bed, my eyes squeezed shut, counting on its owner to come out and turn the alarm off. It paused briefly, but began again and I thought to myself - shit! I have no idea what our car alarm sounds like! - so scrambled out of bed and pushed the shade, glowing a soft orange, aside. I stared in disbelief, then reached back to the nightstand to put on my glasses.

What I saw was this (but imagine that it's darker, and thus more ominous):

"Mark, Mark! Wake up! The car's on fire!" 

(admittedly, a little ambiguous, but I was sleepy)

"..."

"Mark, I'm serious! Wake up!!"

"Shut up."

"MARK, I AM STARING AT FLAMES OUTSIDE. There is a car on fire, we've got to move our car! We need to call the fire department!"

At this point, Mark started cursing and joined me at the window. When he saw the 10 foot flames climb higher, he jumped into action. I started throwing jeans on and ran downstairs. I picked up the phone and tried to remember the emergency number we'd seen posted in London (they don't have 911 here) while Mark scrambled down the stairs looking for the car keys.

I called 999 and watched as Mark ducked into the car. At this point, the fire had moved from the back of the pickup toward the cab of the truck, and we both worried about the gas tank exploding. Unfortunately, our street is very narrow and at night there are cars parked on both sides. We always turn our car around when we park (for an easy exit the next day) but that forced Mark to drive slowly (and closely!) by the burning truck in order to move the car far away. I watched as a horn began honking (I thought it was Mark freaking out, but the extreme heat and the alarm on the truck caused the honking sound).

Suddenly, I remembered I was on the phone. I heard a woman's voice repeating itself:

"Miss, ambulance or police?"

I tried to explain that there was a fire but she just kept repeating her question. I finally took a stab: "Police, please" and again tried to explain where we were located but found that I was speaking to no one - I was being transferred. I explained myself to the police woman who answered the call but she said we needed fire. I told her our address and she hung up to contact the fire department.

At this point, Mark ran back into the house and said we needed to get out. We took Miller out of the crate and I put on the first shoes I could find. As we ran out of the house, we could hear small explosions (at the time, I thought fuel, but in retrospect I think it was the windows exploding from the heat) and ran to the end of the street. I looked up and could see a fire engine struggling to pull down our street (it only made it part way) and the firemen running to the fire.

After another five minutes or so, a young man in a leather jacket ran out of the house three doors down from us and toward the fire. A woman in a bathrobe came out of her house at the end of the street and chatted with us briefly before returning to the house. I think she made fun of us for evacuating our house, but Mark could verify.

It turns out that the truck belongs to the young guy, our neighbor. He seemed OK about it (as OK as you can be at 5AM on a Sat morning upon discovering your car is ablaze) so Mark is thinking insurance scam. I think it's a cigarette butt, or possibly some of the kids down our street who are out all hours of the night, playing ball where it is clearly marked "Polite Notice, No Ball Playing." The saddest part is that the next day, we peered into the back of the truck and it was full of Easter chocolate, now charred and inedible. 

Also, guess who joined us in the bedroom at 530AM? And has been sleeping with us ever since?

T-12 hours

Last weekend we were blessed with a truly rare occurrence in Northwest England: an entire weekend of gorgeous, sunny weather.  

What else... Oh, yes! You may have already heard, but Miller Brosnahan Yates is due to arrive in the United Kingdom in twelve hours. In fact we might have already told you, ad nauseum, about how much we missed him, how we counted the days until he would join us, how teary-eyed I became while watching ten second videos sent over by his Aunt Nikki.  Allow me to nauseate you further.

Saturday was spent driving out of the city to suburbia and strip malls... Home of 'Pets at Home,' our closest pet supply store. There Mark and I wandered the aisles examining unfamiliar brand names and debating the merits of attractive packaging and pronounceable ingredient lists. Having settled on 15 kilos of food for Milhouse, we then made our way to the bed section, unloading our entire Miller-is-finally-joining-us saga to an unsuspecting couple purchasing a new bed for their dog while we pulled beds out and debated the value of houndstooth patterns vs. a supportive mattress. Our selection made, we then filled the rest of the cart with assorted toys, treats, shampoo, brushes, toys, treats, a new leash and collar... All to the tune of £130. Which really is just  a drop in the bucket, considering how much his one-way airfare cost.

And it's all worth it. Though I have to be honest, the cookies at the end are really more about Mark finishing his last ginormous training run (twenty miles!) before running the Belfast Marathon on May 4th. Because I want to be sure to replace all the healthy things he did, like burning calories, with butter. And Green & Black's chocolate.

************

The video below has been making the rounds at work. I cried the first time I watched it and then immediately grew suspicious that I was being 'had,' as they say. A quick check on Snopes.com verified the story, and I convinced a few colleagues to watch it again today. And I cried, again. I may be a giant sucker, but let's just say that Mark's Flip camera might be recording a few poignant moments tomorrow afternoon, and we'll see if I'm the only one crying this time...

Outlaws!

One of the best parts about living in Somerville was that we were in very close proximity to my parents. Most couples would worry that being so close to parents (especially retired ones) would result in surprise visits and a lot of obligations to spend time with them. I think the opposite was true for us, as we were the ones who would most often drop in on them for the weekend, take up residence, and not go home until the last possible moment. My parents must have realized quite soon on that they would miss our constant presence and hearing the senseless bickering of Kathleen and I, because they started to plan their visit relatively soon after we had left the US.

They had set their trip up so that we would have to minimize the time needed off from work and yet they would still be able to spend a lot of time with us. They would spend the weekend with us, then take a trip up to Scotland and the Lake District, and then return on for a long weekend back here. This also turned out to be a good plan, because there just isn’t a lot to do around here for long stretches at a time, and having the trip split up took some of the stress of.

For the first weekend, we decided to give them an intro to Liverpool and Manchester. It was a beautiful day on Friday, but unfortunately by Saturday it had turned grey and cold. We did the usual rounds of museums and sites, but where we really scored again was with the food. On Friday, I took them for an amazing lunch at Leaf which despite the horrid sausages Kathleen had on our last trip serves up some amazing other dishes. My parents noted that they felt like they were in Brooklyn and I realized again how much I loved the vibe of the place. That night for dinner, we went out to The Moon and Pea. I still cannot get over how amazing this food is. It is one of the least pretentious environs I have been in, yet the food is incredible. Anyone who comes to visit us should demand a visit here! On Sunday we went to the Museum of Science and explored around the city a bit more.


Since we were looking for new things to do, we decided to ride the gigantic ferris wheel in the city. Kathleen was a bit… well you can see the picture:

She is apparently afraid of heights but managed ok, and we were all proud of her.

The following week at work was super busy for myself and Kathleen had to travel. I skated at night and just generally relaxed while my parents were off having adventures of their own (including clipping a woman’s handbag while they were driving, but I am not going to go into that…).

Kathleen and I were off the following Friday and we took my parents up north to the beach at Formby. I remember one of my parent’s favourite parts of our trip to the Netherlands was just seeing the beach, so I showed them what our beaches look like. Again, they were a total mess from trash but the Irish Sea was quite dramatic. The wind was blowing hard on shore and generated quite a bit of wind swell out in the sea. The waves were not really clean at all but there was some size to them and a few shoulders could be seen… I can’t wait to surf again!

We dined at Paul’s on Friday night which was again excellent, and explored the cathedrals in Liverpool on Saturday. Again, everyone preferred the old traditional Anglican, rather than the new modern Catholic. Kathleen commented about how intimidating it was and I thought a lot about how some religions really profit on putting fear into their congregation. As much as I love the look and feel of the place, it did make me look at in a different manner.

One of the reasons my parents decided to come when they did was that I had signed my mother and I up for the Liverpool Half Marathon. Although the numbers did not fit in exactly with my training, I played around with the schedule a bit and made it work. The race was set for Sunday morning and with all the wind and grey skies the few days prior, we were a bit nervous. There was no need to worry however because we woke up on race day to absolute blue bird skies! It was so bright and sunny, it seemed like the perfect day to get out and run 13.1. Kathleen and my Dad once again got prepared to deliver us to the start, planned out where they would catch us half way, and made arrangements to get to the finish line in time. I’d have to say they both make running these things much easier in terms of transportation, ‘sherpa’ing, and supporting us both. The race itself was wonderful. We ran from downtown Liverpool, through Albert dock and up into some of the better parks in the area. It then wound down to the river and the final 4 miles or so were a long the banks of the river Mersey. It got a bit tight at times so I found myself weaving between people a lot but everyone was in great form and the sights were amazing. However one of the most memorable parts was at the start when my father disappeared amidst the thousands of people gathered. No sooner than we noticed he was gone, we heard a familiar American voice booming over the PA system. He managed to get on the mic and wish my mother and I luck for everyone to hear. I think he enjoyed himself. All in all a great race day and I would highly recommend it for any runners looking for a new race.

Kathleen had to head down to London for some science thingie, so Sunday afternoon and Monday were just my parents and I. Both my mother and I were wiped from the race so we really just relaxed around the house and watched some movies. We decided on the Moon and Pea for dinner again (it does not get old) and then went to a local open mic night that an acquaintance of mine put on. He had wanted my Dad to get up and play his new banjo, but we were all exhausted and called it an early night. All in all, it was a great trip and I was glad to have my parents travel abroad again to visit me. Some people would not really enjoy being abroad with their parents, but I would have to say mine are pretty laid back and it was great (the two bottles of Irish they brought with them were nice too!). I think I give them a good excuse to get out of the neighbourhood from time to time and it was great to have a piece of home around for a few days.

Now it Saturday morning and I am sitting in our dismal Laundromat. I ran 20 miles after work yesterday and it was pretty tough, but the sun is shining and it promises to be a great weekend. We are headed out for a long walk in a bit and then off to the pet store… I think the next post will have some recent pictures of Milldog if we can take the time away from him to update this!

Lark Lane Market

I arrived home on Thursday afternoon from Ireland tired and anxious for company. Mark and I had no special plans for the weekend, but it ended up being just what I needed.

Saturday morning Mark had a big run as part of his training for the Belfast marathon, and I dragged myself out of bed to do two miles. We ground some fresh Dancing Goats coffee (thanks, Kerry!) and spent an hour or two enjoying the slow-paced morning and reading before gathering up our dirty laundry and heading to the laundromat.

Our normal path was obstructed by a giant farmers market, set up at the end of Lark Lane and due to return the last Saturday of every month. We hurriedly put the laundry in and then began to explore the market... And made a few impulse purchases.

Mark went off to switch the laundry and I scurried home to put the food away. By the time I met him back at the library, he was carrying a bouquet of spring daisies - perfect for the vase he brought home last month with tulips. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent wrapped in blankets on the couch watching recorded TV and just relaxing. I had made a big batch of baked shells with ricotta and mozzarella, and it was the just the way to celebrate the end of February.

The next morning was spent attacking the overgrown clump of weeds we called the backyard. We had stocked up on gardening supplies (including his and hers wellies, pictures of us looking ridiculous to come) at the local shopping center and we wasted no time getting them dirty. We now have six large garbage bags filled with assorted rubbish, the remains of a very overgrown ivy, and lots of snail shells, weeds and twigs. The daffodils and crocuses can now bask in the sunlight, and a whole fleet of other unknown plants are on their way up - and we're looking forward to seeing what, exactly, they become.

And finally, I attempted a giant Sunday roast yesterday afternoon. Mark and I both recently finished reading Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma, and we've been making an effort to be more conscious of where and how we get our food. It was great to be able to support some local farmers at the market, and the meal yesterday afternoon was absolutely delicious (and would have been guilt-free, if not for the massive amounts of butter used for each dish). 

Spring is springing

So I've been informed by not one, but several people in my family that I'm slacking on the blog. I apologize, and submit the following post as part of my apology:

Mark and I had a great time with Jeremy - Mark's older brother came for a few days this past week on his way to Switzerland - but I'm going to let Mark blog about that. More pressing is the fact that spring has sprung in Liverpool! Crocuses have popped out along Lark Lane and throughout Sefton Park, and we have daffodils straining to bloom out of their buds in our backyard/patio.

Awesome. But let me back up:

We spent Saturday doing laundry at the laundromat (ugh - I thought I'd left that behind in college, but nay), cleaning, getting cable installed, and getting library cards at our local library. It's tiny, so I wasn't expecting much - but it was breathtaking inside. I see myself spending many summer mornings coming in, picking out a book, then taking Miller down to the park to read and watch him run around and make friends. 

The library looks like a small Tudor cottage from Aigburth Road, the closest main road to our little neighborhood. It has a small lawn and an unassuming plot - but inside are original windows facing toward Sefton Park, high ceilings and a narrow balcony circling the main room. The interior itself was completely refurbished a few years ago, but it's endured a lot in the past several decades. There's a photo display as you enter - black and white photos of patrons standing knee-deep in rubble as they wait to check out their books, and a gaping hole in the roof of the main room of the library, devastated by German bombs in WWII. 

Now it's populated by gregarious older ladies proud to show off their state-of-the-art computer systems (I get to scan the books myself! And it doesn't even need to see the bar code!) and their collection - impressive, considering the library's small size. Absolutely adorable. I will post pictures next time we visit.

We also drove up to Bootle, on the north side of Liverpool, to finalize my plans to purchase a new (used) car. I've been driving a hired Ford Focus, but the hire was coming to an end and I needed to suck it up and go to a few dealerships. For those of you on the opposite end of teary phone calls and exasperated shouts (and possibly whines) during my last car purchasing adventure, then you know what Mark's been putting up with. I hate buying cars. 

Let me make that clear: I loathe buying cars. 

I like to know what I am talking about, I like to be an educated consumer, I like to look at a price tag and know immediately whether I'll take it or not.

I do not like walking into a dealership to be accosted by salesmen. Particularly salesmen who act and speak exactly as you expect salesmen to speak. I do not like trying to read up on cars and then looking at cars and realizing I am still at a complete loss. I do not like being pressured to make decisions. I do not like negotiating (my recent course notwithstanding) and I do not like it when I tell a salesman frankly what I am looking for and what I am willing to spend to have it promptly ignored.

Whew. Now that all that's out of my system: I have bought a used 2006 Ford Focus. Paperwork still to be finalized - but it looks like I will pick it up on March 2nd. This will be my first car to have six (six!) gears, reverse not included, and it is pretty snazzy looking, if I do say so myself. (Pics to come...)

Mark was an excellent fiance and accompanied my to this and many other car dealerships. I knew he'd rather be somewhere - anywhere - else (and who wouldn't?) but he sucked it up and came. Especially after I begged.

But secretly, let me admit something: even though I told him that I wanted him there for moral support, it was really that I just appreciate having him there. And this weekend, after everything had been finalized to the point that me going to the dealership was really just a formality and filling in paperwork, and it meant that he didn't go skateboarding in order to sip terrible coffee and pretend to make conversation with Peter across the desk, I didn't really need him there. But I still made him come.

I am not really adjusting to the whole sales/travel thing particularly well. I don't know if it's just that I've grown to depend on Mark like a crutch, or that we're really that disgustingly in love, but I hate leaving him. I hate leaving our home and our routines to spend nights away in an empty hotel room. I do little things to make it better: watch movies, take baths in extravagant bathrooms, read books late into the night... but the truth is, I'd rather be growing exasperated with his sighs and moans as I turn another page and keep the light on for a few more minutes than to roll over in bed and realize he isn't there.

(Well, in truth, some giant extravagant bathtubs do make me feel a little bit better...)

I'm sorry if that just made you throw up a little inside your mouth, but it's the truth. And all this weekend I was dreading going to the airport. Dreading packing, dreading all the time to myself. Because even though I'm lucky enough to meet lots of nice, interesting people when I travel, sales is pretty lonely.

The airport was everything I dreaded, but I arrived in Cork to sunshine and a beautiful spring day. Crocuses and even some daffodils bobbed along the side of the road as I made my way out of the airport and toward Carrigaline. I passed rolling hills patched like eathen quilts - shades of green and gold edged by hedge rows, and ancient stone walls, and the remains of castles and churches, overgrown by ivy in some cases, lovingly tended in others.

And I perked right up. I still missed Mark, but I started to enjoy the adventure a bit.