wild*life

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.“

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.

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:

1. Fire: This is the best. Can be used for all things, not just food.
2. Bussin’: A term only used for food… also means really good.
3. 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…

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.

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.

A couple of years back, we had an unfortunate encounter with Rat Bacon. And it’s now the pinnacle of Fucillo Family Folklore… eliciting enthusiastic reenactments and giddy giggles as I fight to control my gag reflex.

Meanwhile, last Saturday evening, the sun begins to set. We’re enjoying our post-dinner interests when we’re alerted to panicked poultry cries of alarm. Spaz is hooping and hollering so loudly you can hear her through noise-canceling headphones. But her name is Spaz for a reason.

She’s going on and on, “Help! Intruder! Oh my God, we’re all gonna die! Intruder! Run for your lives!”

Nate and I creep out. No weapons. No protective gear. Is the fox watching them? Is the bobcat back? I don’t see anything except two hens losing their shit, and the other two cowering on the highest roost in their coop.

Then I smell something.

I peer into the little coop window and a black and white tail peers back at me. It’s. In. The. Coop.

The sun is setting and I’m remembering how I’ve found cracked eggshells in the nesting box. The straw has been pushed all around in a weird way. Based on my emergency training, I point to the nearest bystander and assertively assign him the task of getting my phone. We need light. And Google.

Unfortunately, the internet convinces me I must confront the intruder. Apparently skunks can maim and/or kill your chickens. Nate gets me a big leaf rake. I get the hose and put it on the most powerful setting. Then I stealthily fling open the side door. But it’s gone. I hear it thumping and pawing on the opposite side. I shine my phone light in but I can’t see anything. For a few minutes I wonder if it’s fallen through the weakened floor of the nesting box and is trapped in the food storage area. But no, it’s just easily evading me in this expansive eight square foot house.

I fling open the second door and hide around the corner. Then I’ve got three of four doors ajar and it’s go time. I send Nate up the steps to safety so he can coach me but not get sprayed. I open the last door and blast water like the confidently untrained sister-in-law of a professional fire fighter that I am.

It runs down the ramp and into the pen instead of jumping out the nesting box doors as I’d planned. It’s circling the enclosure but can’t seem to escape. Just as I contemplate my next move, it turns itself into a ribbon of rat bacon and slips between the wood foundation and the bottom rung of metal fencing, disappearing into the night.

The coop should be condemned and I have dodged the worst of it, but we all agree my hose hand smells like skunk. I read tomato juice is a myth. After I prove them right. That night we leave our clothes outside, turn on the AC and the air purifier, and I drift off in my unfortunately located skunk bunk.

We spent this past weekend in Santa Cruz so when we got home today, Nate and I were on Skunk Patrol. I wasn’t home to put the ramp up at night, and little Pepe has definitely been back.

We do some detective work. The foundation is swept clean of rocks and straw exactly where I saw it leave– probably by a little baby skunk belly. We set up our Cabela’s Outfitter Gen 3 Trail Camera Combo to see if we can capture some nocturnal footage. We sprinkle the perimeter with red pepper and build a rake barricade at the suspected point of entry. Nate asks if we’re going to try the “rags soaked in pneumonia” method, but I haven’t had time to pick any up.

Grandma and Granddad think I should trap this baby skunk and then… well, the next part of that plan is unclear. Geoff’s skunk killing tale is not what I’d call a success story.

Nate comes in after reestablishing our wildlife trail camera and says, “Mom, I set it up and hit the griddy a few times to make sure it’s working.”

The Skunk Patrol is looking forward to tomorrow’s footage.