Chip butty... Just looked it up and found it on the Wikipedia, with a photo... aha! It is a French fry sandwich! You know, I grew up smashing potato chips into my regular white bread, lunch meat and processed cheese sandwiches. And I instantly loved Germany's "pommes mit mayo", which is French fries with mayonnaise. Holland makes awesome pommes mit mayo, too - better than Germany, even.
We deep-fry Twinkies, right along with cucumber pickles, and Coke and Pepsi. Seems we Americans are still culinarily related to the Brits, after all this time.
So if a French fry is a chip in BritSpeak, what is a potato chip called??
I have a mantra that I have spouted for years... "If I eat right, I feel right. If I feel right, I exercise right. If I exercise right, I think right. If I think right, I eat right..." Phil-SC
I tearfully promised to write, back in the days when this meant paper and pen, and visit. They left a box of themselves behind - alarm clock, duvet, tinware dishes (I still have these, they're the dog's food dishes now), a few books and the bleached skull of a ram.
I went back to the Iggles (Iggle de Wiggle is my name for the Isle). Summers from age 13 to 21 were all the same: black skirt, white blouse; servicing the grockles in cafes, hotels, guest houses. I do not miss the chambermaiding (people do terrible things in their rooms and much worse in the en suite), but I do miss waitressing - casual flirting, camaraderie, balancing plates up my arm and all of us helping ourselves to the optics after closing on a Friday night. All of us from high school worked on the same strip that summer and we'd congregate after work in the Jolly and then downstairs in the fleapit nitespot Bogeys, known as the living room as we were there every night of the week except Sunday (when it was closed and we had to make do with just the Jolly). If you watch the vid, and my god the soundtrack makes the bathos hit you in the eye, please note that the no trainer policy was vigorously enforced. (Once upon a time, journos from lads' mag extrordinaire Loaded came to visit and were turned away for wearing unacceptable shoes. They ended up in a beachfront bar - you can't see it but Boges is on the front, oh the nights we ran out and skinny dipped - they got trashed, pulled, shagged in the sand, lost their trainers and concluded: THE ISLE OF WIGHT IS THE NEW IBIZA. I wasn't involved in the making of that story, in case you were wondering.)
Yes. It was wall-to-wall glamour. There was also snog man. He kept asking me out, but really why would I? He wasn't there to talk to (standard issue local boy) he was there to snog. Eventually he got fed up with this objectification and hid from me...but it took several summers. My goodness, he was was pretty.
Anyway. let's get back to the original strand of this yarn.
At the end of the summer I had saved enough for flights to the US. Yes, many people had told best friends that they would write and visit, but I meant it. In my innocence, I thought nothing of imposing myself on best friends for three weeks. They were already back at school and I attended one class with best friend (reading Frankie and Zooey for it). Portentiously enough, given recent events, I paid my way by buying the groceries while I was there.
There was much talking, thinking, writing and yearning, at least on my part.
Now. Here's the thing: when you (I) love someone it becomes easy to love the person that loves that someone too. Mr best friend loved best friend. Aside from the obvious genital differences, Mr best friend offered things that I never could. And, anyway, as I explained to Pops, being with best friend was like trying to live at the top of Everest - the air is thin when you're on top of the world. My emotions were complicated. I was in love with her, with him and with them as a unit.
We went to Maine to spend a few days at Mr best friend's family's 'camp' - a cabin next to a lake in the woods. We took micro-beers, wine, spirits, food, books, our journals.
One night we were all more than a little trashed, we'd been talking about the continuum model of human sexuality: inanimate to animate was on one axis, gender was on another. At some point we went out on to the jetty to look at the stars. Mr best friend kissed me. I freaked, ran off, cried. Best friend found me in a sobbing, quivering heap - 'but I love both of you,' I wailed.
Didn't I just.
Certainly for the next two weeks.
Last edited by badgergirl; 03-15-2013 at 03:12 AM.
And we'll return to the whole concept of 'natural' mothering at a later date. Let's just say, I have thoughts.
Since we're giving each dramatis personae a song, here's one for Pops:
Full of Northern soul. Full.
I'll interrupt myself to shout: FINISHED! This is a gift for Greek K (who isn't Greek and has yet to be given a song, but I'm thinking on it). Greek K won't come into the story for another two years. Why am I unravelling yarn anyway? Well, it was something Pops said that set me off: put up photos from the glory days to remind yourself who you are and show new friends that there's more to you than what they see. I'm not a big one for photos (and how can I show photos that would explain best friend? although somewhere I do have a photo of the double bed in the camp in Maine...) Since I've quit therapy and husband is always on at me to write I thought I'd kill three birds with one lengthy stone tablet monologue.
Last edited by badgergirl; 03-15-2013 at 04:59 PM. Reason: typo