Would You Rather
Every night around the dinner table, the boys engage me in some sort of intellectual question along the lines of “Would you rather…?” Apparently this never-ending stream of brain teasers originates in Jacob’s noggin. I’ve always thought there was no “right answer,” but lately it’s clear there is some sort of pass/fail system, and more often than not, I’m failing.
For example, the other night I was challenged to choose whether I’d push a button that shrinks me to 4′ 5″ tall, aaaaand, I’ll never have to worry about money again. When I couldn’t negotiate my height beyond the average second grader, I decided I couldn’t push the button. The boys seemed to delight in the idea of mini me.
The question we debated the most was whether I’d rather be able to run 30MPH but only in short stints (for reference, I requested data on Usain Bolt’s top speed. It’s 27.78MPH), OR have infinite stamina. We’ll come back to this.
So I was going to wrap-up the skunk saga and then we had A WEEK.
Sunday: Nate and I drive 2 hours to Ventura for our second to last game of the season. Part way through the first half, Nate has a breakaway and is one on one with the goalie. He takes the shot and falls down in a heap with the opposing goalie. And this isn’t your average goalie. He’s a big boy. Like maybe more than 200 pounds. Nate doesn’t get up. Nate never doesn’t get up. You may recall, he has a Purnell-pain-tolerance genetic mutation.
Coach carries him off the field. Nate’s shaking. After we get his sock off and complete an assessment by our resident parent/ER doctor, I take him straight to urgent care. Coach’s wife, Karen, flags down a landscaping vehicle and carries our little fallen striker across two fields to deliver him safely into my emergency Volvo. An x-ray shows both his fibula and tibia are broken. They doctor him up in a temporary cast while Coach distracts him with stories of his many trips to whatever they call Australian urgent care.
Monday: Nate “slept” on the couch but tells me he didn’t sleep the whole night. He was googling how to make his temporary cast hurt less. I start dialing for doctors. I finally get through to the only pediatric orthopedists within a hundred miles. They can get him in today… in Santa Barbara. We pile back into the car and make our way 2 hours south for the second time in less than 12 hours. We arrive with a few minutes to spare. Nate eats it on his crutches in the parking garage. Fortunately he doesn’t break something else. He gets a new red cast and a new blue knee scooter. The physician’s assistant leads us to believe surgery is likely in our future. We eat McConnell’s ice cream for lunch and drive home.
The moment I collapse on the couch, Jacob texts me and says the hill behind his school is on fire. Then my wildfire app starts blowing up as the fire goes from 5 acres to “potential for 200” in a matter of minutes. Jacob leaves his math class before they’ve started evacuating the school. Later that night, this leads to a productive parenting conversation reinforcing his decision to leave a situation where he didn’t feel safe.
As I’m feeding the chickens, waiting for our neighbor to bring Jake home from school, Dr. Maguire calls with his interpretation of the x-ray. He’s optimistic Nate won’t need surgery, as long as he doesn’t bust his leg in the coming days. Jacob arrives home safely and the day finally starts looking up.
Tuesday: It’s Halloween. That evening, Nate has pizza with his teammates before they run off on inflatable dinosaurs to trick-or-treat amongst steep hills and precarious curbs. I take Nate Dogg home, after first dropping Ja-cob the giant corn cob at his first well-chaperoned high school party. Juber the Jaimie Uber goes back out for Ja-cob and retrieves the biggest bag of candy Nate Dogg’s ever gotten. Our buddy Cruz really outdid himself.
Wednesday and Thursday: Hours of Zoom interviews span Tuesday through Friday– a dramatic improvement from the resume black hole. I have a vague inkling of an impending planned PG&E outage. Finally the reminder text comes through. No power tomorrow. Oh, and no school tomorrow.
Friday: I complete my last interviews of the week using my hot spot, battery power, and daylight, hoping my shadowy background communicates “energy conscious” not “witness protection.” The boys sleep in and spend the day lamenting their lack of WiFi. Nate and I go out for a second x-ray and lunch. I coast into the evening on fumes and find myself back at the dinner table…
… and our latest “Would you rather…” question. Originally I thought being the fastest person in the world would be better. Think of all the competitions I can win! And the brand deals! I’ve always wanted to be an Olympian. But the boys debate me until I finally acquiesce. And after this week, I have to agree… I’d rather have infinite stamina.
Legend
The first weekend in October, Grandma and Granddad came to visit. They had just read my latest Elon post and Granddad was itching to bring his trap– literally a cage to my figurative cage match.
Now it must be noted, Granddad has a long and illustrious career battling skunks. Over the years we’ve lost a few details of his most epic skunk story, but we’ll improvise…
Years ago, his boss of many years had a skunk problem under his home in the hills of Los Gatos. There was some story about his sons eating in their rooms and leaving food around, but this point is fuzzy. Personally, skunks just love a good crawl space.
So Granddad, or maybe just Dad at that point, offers to take care of this skunk issue. What a loyal and resourceful employee. At some stage during this situation it escalates, until he finds himself in the crawl space, wearing his Australian duster coat– yes, think Crocodile Dundee. So he’s in this cramped space and the skunks are scurrying to escape and he shoots one, but the second one is about to get away. He aims back behind him, through his own legs, and shoots a hole through the tails of his favorite coat, killing the skunk dead. Yes, for the record, Granddad is the only known witness to this story.
He then needs to bag up the skunks and dispose of them. Believe me, I’m sure his nose hairs are singed and the stench is unbearable. He must have trash bags, but he is also given a fancy shopping bag with handles by the grateful homeowners. For the sake of the story, we’re going with Neiman Marcus. So he bags these skunks up, places them in the Neiman Marcus bag, and then securely hangs the bag from his side mirror so he doesn’t have to put it in the car.
He then makes his way to downtown Los Gatos. We’ll assume he’s searching for a suitable dumpster when he gets the idea to leave the shopping bag on a bench by a bus stop. He sets his trap and then heads back to his car to watch. A few minutes later, a white-haired resident drives along in her convertible, spots the bag, jumps out, looks around, tosses it in the backseat of her car and takes off.
And a legend is born.
Round 2
Here I was, victorious in Round 1 of the cage match that was Jaimie versus the skunk. From what I’ve heard about the social media publicity stunt that is Elon versus Zuckerberg, I was definitely Zuck. Clearly favored and ready to display my victory in my trophy room… also known as egg cartons in the fridge.
And then after many victorious weeks, I find another cracked egg.
I search the perimeter and what I thought was a chicken-dug dirt hot tub hole turns out to be much more sinister. I find myself inspecting the dark corner of a cell in Alcatraz… and realizing a prisoner has escaped by digging a hole with his spork. Only in reverse. And there are two sporks known as little skunk claws. Stay with me…
I fill in the tunnel and hoist some big flagstones over the top. Take that Musk.
The next day I return from my workout and inspect the situation. My barriers remain intact. You’re no match for me Mr. I-don’t-work-out-except-for-my-thumbs-as-I-tweet-I-mean-X-conspiracy-theories-to-the-masses.
But then I find another egg shell. I move the flagstone and there it is, a new secret tunnel, derivatively disguised under my defense. Very meta.
Just when you think the cage match is over, it’s back on.
Many Hats
When I’m not taxiing around teenagers and hurling my resume into the job black hole they call LinkedIn, I’m still building a house. We’re making progress and as you might imagine, I learn something new most days. For example, when it seems like you’re a million months from needing a painter, I found out you have to have the fascia boards painted before they install the roof. Or at least before they install a standing-seam metal roof. For those readers wondering what I just said, the fascia boards are basically the trim along the roof line. Nice of the roofer to point this out the day he was supposed to start installing… instead of during the countless months we’d been texting and quoting and installing the underlayment.
Coincidentally, my best high school girlfriends are currently in the thick of a text thread discussing paint, prompted by my friend Sarah. Sarah is famous for giving herself numerous choices. I am famous for asking her why on earth she’d bring five hats to a weekend getaway. We make a great team that laughs a lot. And so in an effort to save Sarah’s sanity, I thought I’d share some considerations on choosing exterior paint colors.
DARK vs LIGHT
Your first consideration is whether you’re planning to paint the body of your house a dark color or a light color. I’m sure both have objective pros and cons but I’ll share this– dark houses are like dark cars. They show more dirt. And white bird poop. The color also fades faster. Side note– spring for high quality, name brand paint like Benjamin Moore, Sherwin Williams, Kelly-Moore, etc. The contractors who painted our barn a charcoal gray cheaped-out and color matched to an off brand. We had to paint the whole thing again way sooner than we should have.
DIRT
Now here’s a tip you won’t see on all those fancy shmancy design blogs– look at your dirt. Or soil for you ag teachers. The dirt surrounding our home is chalky and white thanks to the Carmel stone that makes up this mountain. It leaves a fine white dust all over the dark, moody barn. Our new house paint color will be a close match to our dirt. But obviously way prettier.
TRIM
James taught me that old houses almost always have a three-color paint scheme. The body is one color, the window trim is a second color, and the window frames are a third color. Drive through some old neighborhoods and you’ll see what he’s talking about. Of course it all depends on the age and architecture of your home. Look around your neighborhood to get a feel for how your house fits in.
COLOR
Consider the colors of your neighbors’ houses. Consider the color of your roof. And consider your landscaping. This should hopefully get you into the color family you’re leaning toward. Now here’s where we get down to a simple process for choosing a paint color from thousands so you can get back to that weekend getaway featuring multiple hat wardrobe changes.
Step 1: Search “best <insert color> exterior paint colors” on Pinterest.
It helps if you kind of know which way you’re headed– white, green, gray, etc. This will help you narrow your choices down to a handful of paint brands and names. I generally use this method to find two to three designers’ pins and their go-to colors. They all have posts like “our most used exterior paint colors” or “the 10 best exterior paint colors.” This dramatically narrows your choices and you can usually find pictures of homes painted in that color in their portfolios.
Step 2: Spend a little bit of time on a paint comparison blog or YouTube.
Yes, there are people in this world waxing poetic on the LRV (Light Reflective Value) and undertones of various paint colors in relation to each other. I kid you not. For example, I was trying to choose a white for those pesky fascia boards. I had a handful of paint names from Step 1, and then my friend recommended the color of her house. That’s when I found Kylie M. Interiors. This lady literally compares all the whites I’d been looking at, explains their undertones, includes the history of their popularity, and then lands on which one is better. Second side note– I’m generally looking for neutral or minimal undertones. I can usually live with it having some gray or beige undertones, but if it’s leaning purple, pink, yellow, or green, it’s going to make me feel weird. These detailed sites are a bit much for one-hat me, but boy am I glad someone likes doing this. Get in, get out, move on to step three.
Step 3: Buy peel-and-stick samples on Samplize.
These are computer paper-sized swatches painted with the actual paint. They’re less messy and infinitely more portable than little sample pots of paint. Plus they fit in your mailbox. Put them up and then stroll by them at different times of day as the light changes. You can peel them off and move them around. I also like to write on them when I realize what’s wrong with the color such as, too brown, or looks green, or just yuck. I’d recommend buying no more than seven choices of one shade. So like 5-7 whites, or 5-7 grays. They’re about $6 each so that keeps you under a $50 budget for this decision.
Step 4: Choose a color and then stop looking.
This part is especially important for those of you in the pack-five-hats club. Debate. Decide. Commit. Your house is going to be beautiful!
Rogue Territory
Folly. Food. Football. Fathers.
The final installment of our England trip rehash wouldn’t be finished without a story or two about fathers. Or as he’d most certainly say, “Dear ol’ Dad.” This was, of course, our first big trip with dad in spirit.
Just a few hours in, I realize I’m experiencing quite a bit of travel anxiety in the form of: It’s all on me to get us safely and economically to this particular spot by this particular time with all the stuff and when I reverse engineer the timing back to when we need to leave, we should wake-up at 1PM California time.
Then the travel director in me is like: These kids speak English. At least one is bigger than me. They love kiosks and escalators and map apps. And are certainly better at military time. Less on me. More on them.
Jacob was especially confident on the London Underground. Nate bought tube tickets like a pro. They learned train time tables and platforms. They double checked Uber license plates. They wielded key cards and navigated queues and guarded luggage like bouncers. Of course there were mistakes. Jake took us off course while following some walking directions. We talked about how I feel when we’re going off course and how to become aware of our inner compass. Nate formulated a tailgating workaround when his tube ticket demagnetized. My anxiety decreased. Their confidence increased.
The first morning Jacob and I went exploring in Manchester, we ventured to the artsy part of town called the North Quarter. It was filled with murals and graffiti. All my pictures were just more artistic that day. As we’re wandering, I see James’ jacket in a window. Like I’d know that jacket anywhere. If tested, I think I can even name the LA brand, Rogue Territory. Jacob and I go through the front door and walk right into Office Hours Manchester. All the same brands James carried. Stacks of Japanese denim. Gold lettering on the window advertising their chain-stitch hemming. I can just picture him striking up a conversation with these two British blokes and leaving him here for hours. Hey Jame, Jake and I are going to go find a place for lunch. We’ll swing back and get you this afternoon.
Later that day, Jacob and I visit the National Football Museum (thumbs down) and the Manchester Cathedral (thumbs up). During lunch, I realize I cannot go to the bathroom without bringing my phone camera. The British pubs, eateries, and cafes have the most stylish loos. Beautiful tile. Brass taps. Molton Brown hand soap. I begin capturing inspiration for my future high gloss coffee table book: The Loos of London. It will be far superior to the one currently on Amazon written by I.P. Freely.
We stop for an afternoon snack and there on the menu it says “Baby Chino.” I’ve never seen this on a menu. It’s what James calls the little espresso cups of steamed milk he makes the boys when he’s making us cappuccinos. We see various versions of Baby Ccinos in cafes all around Manchester. It makes me smile.
During the final days of our stay, I say something to Jacob about how many things remind me of dad when we’re out and about. In his precocious way he replies, “Of course Mom… his name is on every faucet!”
This is true. Every tap we touch says St. James. Also perfect for my coffee table book.
Football
Folly. Food. Football.
As I was wading through the never-ending internet versions of “24 Hours in Manchester” and “11 Instagram-worthy Spots” (for the record, you will not find me clicking on the latter), I came across a blog by a local Mancunian I can no longer find. In any event, she said something to the effect of, when you’re little your dad picks your football club for you. The end. I read it and snickered out loud.
Back in 2018, James came across the sports documentary series All or Nothing on Amazon Prime. We loved it. We watched Juventus, Tottenham Hotspur, Arsenal, and the Brazilian National Team. But our favorite season was Man City. Dad chose our football club, and we’ve been loyal Premier league fans ever since.
Around January 2021 is when I wondered aloud if Man City has a soccer camp. My friend Emily trained me to begin planning summer in January and she’s always been right… except for that one time when I planned the whole summer and then a pandemic destroyed me in a penalty shootout.
So I’m wondering about overseas soccer camps… I do a little research. How did we live without Google? My children will never know. “Hey James, what if one day we take Nate to England, drop him off at soccer camp, and then we all go do stuff?”
“Yeah, let’s do it.” James was always down for just about anything I proposed.
Pure decision-making chemistry. I’m still working on this with his children.
Then it’s January 2023. Our entire game plan has changed. What are we waiting for? England in July probably isn’t sweltering hot. I’ve been saving airline miles for my entire adult life. Yeah, let’s do it.
First, I ask Nate if he wants to go.
He hesitates, “I wouldn’t know anyone would I? I don’t know.”
Then I show him a couple of pictures from the online brochure.
“Yeah, I’ll go.”
Brilliant. Fast break to our first night in Manchester, after leaving Nate at the University of Salford. I facetime him on his iPad. Normally he wouldn’t have a screen at camp, but during the check-in process, they were gobsmacked that my 12-year-old son didn’t have a cell phone. #Winning. They expected all kids to have a phone so they could download the CityPlay app to analyze their cleat tracking data.
He didn’t have a cell phone, but he did get his own room. Every dorm room was a single with its own bathroom. Having always shared a room with his brother, Nate might rate this the #1 reason to attend this camp.
Then he makes at least six friends from all over the world in one day. There was a player from Saudi Arabia. An American who was currently living in India. A kid from Texas. Some Brit-ish lads. These boys loved football as much as Nate.
Every morning they’d get onto a British double decker bus and ride it over to the Etihad training facilities. They’d train, eat lunch there, train again, and then get bussed back to the dorms. Nate was up at 6am and in bed at 10pm and when I’d facetime him at night, I’ve never seen him so happy. He was walking on air. I’m sure the cleat tracking data would back me up.
It took courage for him to go to camp alone in a foreign country. To put himself out there. To walk onto the field not knowing where he’d stack up (according to him there were two kids his age that were better than him… but the number mysteriously dropped to one by the time the week ended. Hmmm). They got a backstage tour of the Etihad stadium. They sat in Pep’s chair on the sideline. They took pictures with Kevin De Bruyne’s locker. And they enjoyed a closing ceremony at the stadium with their academy coaches.
During that ceremony, I especially enjoyed learning more about the language camp, drawing players from all over the world to improve their English and their football. No boring “Dónde está la biblioteca” language lessons here. These kids learned English via “player interviews, commentary and punditry, telling their personal biography, and press conferences.”
Toward the end of camp, Nate’s group scrimmaged some boys from the language program. There were four or five players that had all come together from the same club in Argentina. It was a tough game. Nate’s team lost.
When I asked him about it he shook his head and said matter-of-factly, “They had chemistry Mom. Chemistry.“
Fourteen
Yes, I started writing this on June 7th, the day you graduated from eighth grade. And yes, today’s August 17th, your first day of high school. *Uh, what??* You showed up with parent homework for ME. Good thing I love high school. So here I am, finishing my self-assigned homework two months late. But when I turn it in tonight, your teacher’s gonna give me an A for sure.
My dearest Jacob,
Today’s the day you’re graduating from eighth grade. It feels like perfect timing for your annual birthday letter. I like to let you sink into your new age a bit before trying to capture the essence of you in my digital blog bottle.
Of course I know your fourteenth birthday was in March. It was your golden birthday– 14 on the 14th. Pi day. But you like cake. School was canceled due to torrential downpours and flooding. This year has given you and Nate a warped sense of rain and school closures. You love it when it’s cold and foggy. School being canceled on your birthday was your all-time fave… till the power went out.
Today is graduation. I mean “promotion.” And it’s the first time Laguna Middle School has ever celebrated its eighth graders. You dressed-up this morning in your jeans from Dad’s shop, a Laguna hoodie under your Office Hours flannel, and Dad’s Air Jordans. For graduation you asked for a pair of Air Pod Pros… and a side of a million dollars. Ha ha. You gave me graduation cheering instructions specifically for “the Boomers”: 1. No yelling your name. 2. Don’t cheer too loud.
I’ll do my best, but I’m not making any promises. No one controls the Boomers.
You are permanently hungry. And tired. I’ve successfully transitioned you from Bundabergs to Waterloo, but Tate chocolate chip cookies are on the endangered snacks list. Nate thinks cold turkey is the only way. He wants me to eliminate all treats given there is no way to protect them without a locked cupboard. He may have a point. But I’m sure he’d concede if you reminded him you made Texas Sheet Cake for his birthday.
Your favorite dinners are composed dishes– mostly bowls. Unlike your brother, you don’t enjoy meals where there is a protein, a starch, and a vegetable all separately plated. You love just about everything I make and tell me it’s bussin’. Or fire. You especially appreciate my Thai bowls with Grama’s Sweet Chilli Sauce. You’re into all the Asian Grandma sauces. Bachan’s Japanese Barbecue Sauce is your favorite. You miss Dad’s spaghetti. And ribs. All this eating and sleeping has resulted in your continued upward rise. You passed me in December. You’re now a reliable reacher of high places and lifter of heavy things.
You’ve been crushing eighth grade. I get your grades via text every Monday morning and they’re excellent. You manage your work. You take responsibility for yourself. You’ve picked-up the basics of studying and time management and my Nike rule of extra credit (just do it). And you’ve internalized my casual advice to make yourself real, known, and memorable to your teachers. Professors and bosses are more empathetic when they know you. Just ask your Advanced English teacher, Mrs. Friend. You like watching my YouTube house building videos with your school counselor, Miss Allwein. You loved spending the year in Yearbook with Miss Mooney. You’re especially proud of your pet page layouts. You were quick to volunteer to take pictures of the 3-mile run fundraising event last week. Not so much for your love of photography, but perhaps for your love of not running.
Unfortunately, the Laguna soccer program was a real bust. Terribly organized. Understaffed. Rained out. I’m proud of you for powering through. We watched the whole Ted Lasso series together. You wanted me to read the Scythe series so bad that we’re back to a chapter or two a night. It’s one of my most favorite times of the day.
Your entrepreneurial brain is always on. You talk a lot about your “toast” restaurant concept. This year, a couple of teachers got you thinking beyond a future in computer science. You started asking about studying architecture, and business. You’re creative, artistic, and curiously wise. We’ve had some of the hardest conversations this year. And I walk away confident in who you are, and better because of you.
Like all the teenagers, you love playing video games on your PC. You’re back on Minecraft. You play with Nate’s friends and are really good at managing your language– unlike your buddies. There’s a lot of laughing, and whooping, and hollering. Though sometimes I have to forcefully remind you to be nicer to Lightning McQueen and SilverWolf.
Since Dad passed away in December, one of the questions I get the most is “How are the boys?” And I can sincerely say, really good. You and Nate are always singing and dancing. You miss your dad. You religiously water his bonsai. We talk about him every night at the dinner table. You tell me stories I didn’t even know. But as you’d say, you’re not Depresso Espresso. You’re more caring and kind and strong than you know.
I love you Jacob James. Dad loves you. Your brother loves you. I am so unbelievably lucky to be spending this day with you. I can’t wait to eat Bee Stang pizza with hot honey, and to pick you up from the dance tonight, and to explore England with you this summer. Keep being yourself. There is only one you and I love you so much my heart bursts.
Love,
M.
Young Man City
Our trip to England began with folly and fell face first into food. Jacob’s fourteen and his interests are eating and sleeping. And eating. So, I embarked on the spontaneous planning of a Man City Mother Son Food Tour.
Now it’s important to note the following Eighthgradeish ranking scale:
- Fire: This is the best. Can be used for all things, not just food.
- Bussin’: A term only used for food… also means really good.
- Mid: Despite your intuition, this means bad where we’re from. It may mean average in other regions according to one data point out of Redwood City.
Before we left for England, all the boys could talk about was beans on toast. Beans on toast is gross. How can they eat beans on toast?? I heard they have beans on toast for breakfast. YouTube must have a glitch in their algorithm, reducing British cuisine to this one dish and serving it up to American teens for breakfast, lunch, and tea.
I’m happy to report England has upped her food game. Like, Napa better-watch-its-back good. We had delicious, fresh, creative food we’ll be talking about for years. And let’s just say my restaurant research involved speed and decisiveness. I like spontaneity and surprise in my European wander holidays. A recap of our calories:
Harrods Food Hall | London: Imagine a department store filled with just the glass cases at Whole Paycheck. A place where everything has gold leaf on top to delight tourists and twelve-year-olds. We had a 20-layer smoked salmon gateau, a beautifully composed salad Nicoise, a beet salad I don’t remember because Jacob inhaled it, and an array of desserts including the aforementioned Eton Mess. Jake can’t stand how many times I’ve repeated the words Eton Mess which, of course, just makes me say it more.
Dishoom | London: This place is all the rage in America. Or at least with recommenders out of Santa Cruz. Both Angela and I got multiple endorsements to visit this trendy joint. They have nine locations. While I loved my India Gimlet cocktail, Geoff, Nate and I enjoyed dessert the most. If mid meant mid, that’s what I’d rate it.
The Wolseley | London: If you can get through the nightclubesque crowds outside, this architectural gem is an oasis. We enjoyed a high tea spread higher than our faces. And while we’ve had better high teas across the colonies, it’s still one of the boys’ favorite pastimes. This was the only preplanned stop on the food tour, and was the opposite of the Barbie pink granny chic options splashed all over the Gram. A stylishly smart choice for a table of boys.
TNQ | Manchester: Jacob and I sat down for our first solo lunch and had the entire place to ourselves on a Monday in The North Quarter (TNQ). He had a beautiful plate of seafood spaghetti. The sherry-marinated figs with whipped goats cheese was bussin’.
The Refuge | Manchester: Said quick-and-dirty researcher noticed this restaurant made all of the Pinterest lists. And wouldn’t you know… as we exited our Uber, there it was, connected to our hotel lobby. This might be when I converted the entire tour to shared plates. Jacob declared the gochujang-glazed pork belly fire. Ask about the prix fixe. Get the Pollen Bakery sourdough with black garlic butter, and the sticky toffee pudding. Skip the corn ribs and the lamb flatbread. Mid. The space was spectacular. Open Table reservation recommended.
Mackie Mayor | Manchester: The most photogenic food court you’ll ever find. Pick a spot to sit, memorize the number, and leave your traveling companion or a possession you can live without to guard your spot. The pizza was delicious. I regret not getting one of the donuts at the coffee counter. Manchester’s Mackie Mayor’s closed Mondays. Say that three times fast…
Cafe 1881 | Manchester: I once had the best hot chocolate of my life in Oxford. At a Starbucks. Sad but true. Jacob had the best hot chocolate of his life outside the Manchester Cathedral at this place. Full cup of miniature marshmallows included.
Skosh | York: We took a day trip to York and walked much of the medieval wall surrounding the town. Netflix has covered centuries of terror as the Vikings frequented this English enclave. Skosh is special. Open Table reservation recommended. The food is the opposite of Vikings Valhalla… delicate and fresh.
Tahi | Manchester: We ate our final Mancunian brunch here, though it claims to be a New Zealand Eatery. Everything was impressive, but their pastries were fussin’. (Fire plus bussin’, yeah? My boys love when I use their lingo and then make it my own….) Jacob ate something called a Vanilla Suisse and then placed a second order to go. Nate was so happy. Apparently they weren’t serving exquisite pastries at football camp.
El Gato Negro | Manchester: Man City had an unbelievable wealth of Spanish restaurants. And after convincing Jacob we should only tapear, I realized he’d never had Spanish food in his entire life. Which is 10% my fault and 90% San Luis Obispo’s fault. Tapearing is the Spanglish verb for eating tapas… little small plates of food invented by Spaniards to keep the bar patrons soberish. My love for all things small is well-documented. I’d only eat apps if that was an option, so it was inevitable the Foodcillo Family Food Tour would morph into tapearing around England. We had croquetas, tortilla española, and octopus. But the star was the wild mushrooms on toast.
For a kid constantly working on his toast restaurant concept, this was it. Pure fire. It’s too bad there weren’t any beans…
Sorted
We covered a lot of ground our first few days in London. And a lot of underground. I’ve been to London several times and have always struggled to get my bearings and a true sense of the city. This time I realized it’s because of all the tunneling around and then popping up like gophers– messes with my internal compass.
Our first morning we headed underground and popped up in Notting Hill. It was a drizzly Friday morning which meant the Portobello Market unfortunately had less shops, and fortunately less shoppers. We met up with Geoff, Angela, Devon and Bryan. Everyone seemed to enjoy poking around as we discovered silver toast racks, vintage leather punching bags, and the beautiful Scottish goods of the Highland Store. Geoff and Angela treated me to the sharpest coat I can’t wait to wear while polishing my brass opera hooks… but we’ll get to that.
We encountered the Gail’s Bakery of England, which doesn’t hold a candle to the Gayle’s Bakery of Capitola. Jacob counted at least twelve bakeries just along Portobello Road. Our favorite places always seem to support more bakeries than logic would suggest. We admired a beautiful pub called The Castle on our way down the road, and found it was perfectly situated for lunchtime on our way back. The boys had big plates of deliciously crispy fish and chips. And our server adeptly steered them away from the typical fountain drinks available the world over and toward some interesting new choices.
And while we certainly enjoyed exploring the Tower of London, the views from the top of the London Eye, and our walk out to Kew’s garden and back, my favorite highlight of London was the Notting Hill doorknob shop.
It was one of the first places we stumbled upon and allowed me to proclaim my first trip rule: See it, Say it, Sorted. OK, well I may have borrowed that from the railway security posters but it perfectly captures my intent. You see something, speak up, and let’s do it– we all get a say in what sparks our interest.
So the doorknob store… It’s called Chloe Alberry and they call those huge doorknobs in the center of all English entry doors “Front Door Furniture.” They had knobs and latches, knockers and catches. While of course I was tempted to buy an entire house of doorknobs and worry about retrofitting American doors to English standards later, I opted for two brass “opera hooks.” They also had this finish called copper brass, which is an interesting observation meant only for design enthusiasts and my future self.
The first round of voting has commenced and the results are in. The boys say their favorite London highlights were the London Eye and afternoon high tea at the Wolseley. And my vote is for Harrods’ Eton Mess and British doorknobs.
See it. Say it. Sorted.
Eton Mess
We’re back! And we had the best time on our trip to England. I’ve always found it hard to recap a ten-day trip so I’m going to take it in bite-sized pieces… which is quite fitting. But we’ll cover that later.
After a stop in Phoenix where Nate noticed our busser’s name was Jaimie, we made it to London bleary-eyed and broken-necked. My cell phone didn’t seem to work, despite my pre-planning, so instead of Uber we opted for the Piccadilly line. Where we waited for a trespasser to be chased off the tracks. And then for permission to go. And then for the train to start. And then finally when we were on our way, we were kicked off the train and it was taken out of service. Fortunately this extended journey allowed me to find the setting that was preventing my phone from working– as Jacob recently coined, via “the Guess and Press,” perfectly capturing my philosophy for all electronics, kiosks, and automobiles. I can still feel James swatting my hand away from the buttons and knobs in his Audi.
So we board a second train and then finally collapse with our belongings in our hotel room. Where I proceed to open my suitcase and find my pants and shorts soaked in face wash. It has exploded and then breached the Ziploc bag that’s been stabbed by the pointy corner of a tube. I desoapify my entire bag of toiletries and then rinse my pants in the bathtub. Fortunately there’s a heated towel bar.
This is when I decide a nice cuppa would be good to wake me up. The electric kettle doesn’t work. The Nespresso seems dead. Our lights are on, but the boys tell me the plugs have stopped charging. I call down and we’re rescued a few minutes later. The front desk receptionist expertly employs the Press and Guess, problem-solving the situation and determining that the kettle is blowing the fuse. She uses a key to remove the front of the electrical panel, resets the fuse, and carts the kettle away.
We gather our wits and our appetites and head to the lobby for dinner with the Purnells. Great dinner, greater company. We get home that night and I go to open the safe to get my iPad that is securely locked-up with our passports. It’s a variation of the standard hotel safe with an unnecessary wheeley thing. I try to open it, mmmm, like maybe 5 times. Regretfully, I have to call the front desk to be rescued again. This is embarrassing.
Fortunately it’s a new hotel receptionist and she breaks into the safe and then trains me. I’m sitting on the floor as she stands over me, making me practice a few times. As Jake would say… cringe. Fortunately it’s bedtime and I don’t care.
The next morning I wake-up first and beeline it to the Nespresso machine. Whereby the pod jams in the machine, like, bad. I fight it. I shimmy it. I question what I’m doing with my life. Finally I take it into the bathroom, shut the door, place it on the floor, and wrestle that bloody thing into submission. I absolutely cannot call the front reception again. I emerge, quietly victorious, only having stained the bathmat with watered-down coffee.
Later that night, we’ve walked 20,000 steps and lay out our dinner picnic from Harrods on my side of the bed. I admonish Nate not to spill anything on my covers as he eats. As I open the salad Nicoise box, the jammy hard boiled egg comes tumbling out, directly onto my side of the covers, leaving a round yellow stain.
Nate and I replay the rescue calls and this entire sequence of events– losing ourselves in a delirious fit of giggles. I top off my bed picnic dinner with the most delicious dessert I couldn’t stop talking about– a British confection called Eton Mess.
Yes, yes it was.