Losing My Voice

I can't really trace it back to a specific time or place.  It's been happening for a while, now, but it's been in the past six months that it has accelerated beyond my control.

I remember mocking TOH for once, while on the train out to New Jersey - to Elizabeth for a pilgrimage to cheap chests of drawers and bookshelves at IKEA, I think, but I could be wrong - for exclaiming at all the "soccer fields."  It was hilarious and ridiculous; it was a story to tell our families and friends of the Americanisation (-zation?) he was undergoing, while I remained pristine, the intact Londoner.  I think I really believed that would continue; that I would live here without being touched by it - at least in this respect.

Of course, words crept in, here and there.  That was inevitable.  It's impossible to make oneself understood otherwise.  Phone calls can be particularly painful, with my clipped, cold accent, long vowels, and Old World vocabulary.  Then there would come the joshing - it's you who haven't moved on, US of A, with your language that's closer to ye olde English of the Pilgrims - we've evolved.  We use a preterite, where I come from - that's what I learnt. 

It's like a steady form of memory loss, this erasure of my identity, my tongue.  Is that British?  What is the word for that at home?  Is it the same?  Explaining the nuances of "quite"; substituting it with "pretty."  Where would I emphasi(s)e that word?  Where does that stress come in?  Ad-DRESS.  AD-dress. 

Shop.  Store.  Boots.  Cleats.  Football.  Football.  I mean football.  The one where more than two players actually use their feet.  I mean NFL.  College Football. 

August, 2013.  I am in a cab, heading home from the supermarket.  That's home-home, not Brooklyn-home.  I have two homes.  My mum got back from a hospital stay a few hours ago; I have picked up provisions.  The cab driver asks me where I live.  I'm taken aback, but then I realise - it's because I clearly don't live here anymore.  US?  Yes, nine years.  He speaks with a thick Indian accent; he moved to Britain in his late 30s and, despite being in his 50s now, he struggles with the language still, a little - he started learning it too late.  He struggles with certain words ("Well, 'mumble' means...") and with my accent.  I get to my destination, and he takes my shopping across the street for me.  I leave him a tip; he doesn't realise that I have left, lost, a little of my soul, my heart, a sense of myself, in his car.

Some things stick.  Pronunciations.  Quarter.  Water. 

Tomato is the real kicker, the one that I avoid saying if I can, at all. 

I used to slip into my accent - myself, the person I still think I am - like a comfy slipper.  With British strangers; with family on the phone; with friends in the pub at home.  Now, I struggle.  I can't remember what I sounded like.  I can't drink full British pints; I order halves.  The voice is unnatural, forced.  Even when surrounded by people from home, I don't sound like them.  It used to irritate me, my inability to keep my accent - I would become Bristolian-light if with people from the West Country; Brummie in Birmingham; and flatten my vowels with anyone north of Leicester.  My accent ever was a bastardized thing, with East and West Midlands parents, Sarf-East London roots, and for much of my childhood, a desperate need to not sound Sarf-East, my telephone voice for work (terribly home counties and nice), my reclaiming of London for university, my Yorkshire partner.  Sometimes people from home couldn't tell which part of the country I was from.  But it was me; British me; original me. And for some reason, it's much harder to accept that there is, indeed, NYC me mingled in how I speak.  Tipping; clothing; demanding good customer service; good summers, with free parties and concerts and outdoor activities; expecting 24-hour cheap public transport and cabs.  These things are all easily part of me.  But not the voice.  Please not the voice.

I still say London when people ask where I'm from.  But it is increasingly hard to sound like it.

When Life Doesn't Ripen Your Tomatoes?

Make Chutney.

Early in the summer, as in every year we've lived here, we planted tomatoes.  A lot of tomatoes.

Precisely five ripened.

Yes, you read that right.  Five.

Therefore, come Saturday, I realised I had nearly 2 kilos of unripened, green tomatoes to dispose of.  I was loathe to fry them all, and googling brought up the concept of a chutney instead.  I ummed and ah-ed and to-ed and fro-ed between two recipes, and eventually settled on this one, mainly because it used the weight of tomatoes that I actually had.  So I checked the status of our spice stores and empty jars - I knew I kept them all for a reason! - and, with the aid of two apples from the farmers market, I ploughed ahead.  I cannot recommend this enough, not least because it makes your house smell absolutely divine during and after the process for days.

 Did you know that tomatoes ripen from the inside?  Me neither.  But I suppose I'd never thought about it until I saw these beauties on Saturday.

You salt the apples and tomatoes, with some lemon zest and lemon flesh.  Handily, I'd just managed to peel a teeny bit of skin off my little finger, so that lemon was very welcome.  Then you mix up oil, TWO whole heads of garlic, numerous chilli peppers (one from our garden), and ginger.  I was extremely proud of myself from abstaining from rubbing my chillied fingers on my eyes pre-contact lens insertion.  Miraculous.

 You fry up fenugreek seeds, peppercorns, cardamom seeds, mustard seeds, ground cumin and turmeric, and then when the mustard seeds pop, add in the garlic/chilli/ginger paste and cook up for 5 minutes or so.

 You add the tomatoes, some sugar (we only had Demerara), apple cider vinegar (probably 150ml or so), boil to dissolve all the sugar, and then simmer for ages and ages to thicken.  It said 2-3 hours, but we did it for at least four hours, then allowed to stand overnight and deposited it into the aforementioned jars the next morning.

And... it is absolutely bloody awesome.  Brilliant.  We took a jar to give to a friend yesterday (yes, we're those gift-givers - homemade preserves), and tonight I had grilled chicken, vegetables, and a large dollop of chutney.  I'm basically going to have it with everything I make for the next two months.

Deconstruction

The range of emotions and responses I have felt during the last month - vacillating between incandescent fury, nihilism, and ostriching (a new verb I have coined for burying ones head in the sand and ignoring things - in response to the Zimmerman acquittal, the punting of affirmative action, and the dismantling of the Voting Rights Act are things that I struggle with.  I thought about posting before, but what am I going to say? Why is what I have to say important?

It's not, really.  Because other people who deal with this can say it much better than me.  Like this.  And this.  And this.  And this.  And this.

So, time to not shut up about it, time not to ostrich.  That's not right.  Not sure how I'm going to do this, but keep listening, working, and yelling about injustice.  And, just as importantly, stepping out the way for other voices who are the ones who face this themselves rather than second hand me.

Summer Hours

Summer. It's great. 

Well, mostly. The garden is thriving, thanks to a sweaty, damp June and, so far, July is rather similar. In May, TOH wrangled the hose out from the basement but, other than testing it that first day, it has remained unused, thanks to the frequent outbursts of rain. 

Still, there is enough good weather to warrant time outdoors. My new job (even after a year, it's "my new job") moves to summer hours come June. Then it's 10-6, and July and August see me doing 9-5. I am an owl rather than a lark, it's true, and thus I'm not always overjoyed by this change. Nonetheless, this year I'm determined to take advantage of it. We've been weeding, eating, grilling, and just reading outside, a lot.

Last Thursday saw us take advantage by having me plonk down my bags to save space in Brooklyn bridge park for a few of us to watch Ferris Bueller's Day Off. The best part was undoubtedly the viewing of Twist and Shout where almost the entire audience got up and danced. It was glorious. 

There's something almost alive about the atmosphere - the air hums with it - when watching a much loved movie with people who love it as much as you. Last year we saw Coming to America at a Brooklyn institution, and both She's Your Queen solo and the Soul-Glo commercial were lustily belted out by the crowd. Usually I am the grinch of movie watching - I glare, tut, and hiss at crunching, chatting, texting, and all other distractions. But among a throng, it could not be better.  

While the Cat's Away...

...the mouse drinks a lot of rosé, listens to Round the Horne and other Radio 4 Extra gems, catches up on discobelle, dancing astronaut, and other fab sources of electronica to download, watches a lot of Psych and Fringe, and eats aubergine.

On the menu this week, as well: bowling, barbecuing, and enjoying my last week of 11am work starts until September. Bring it!