You can go home again, but be prepared

Things that have changed in my hometown since I was a kid:

1) Northfield Comprehensive School
When I went there in the mid-80s, the school was kinda crumbly. Despite being only ten years old, it was already prone to leaks and subsidence. The language lab had 30-some desks with built-in cassette players and headphone jacks, all of which were broken; the library was little-used and underpromoted; the nets on the cracked, pothole-ridden tennis courts had long been torn down.

I can't say for sure whether the first two issues have been resolved, but hey, who cares? Because now Northfield has a sports college! With competitive table tennis! And a shiny metal statue!



2) Mad Ken
Every town has a nutter; Billingham had Mad Ken. He'd stand at the rotary at the entrance to the town center, yelling at cars and mailboxes, his hair dyed jet black and slicked back. Sometimes he had an invisible dog with him, which he also yelled at.

I hadn't seen him for years, though I looked for him whenever I was home and walking past his favorite spot. I assumed he'd moved on to a better, more serene place. And then last week, I was round the shops with my mum because the weekly market was on, and she pointed to an elderly man at the fruit stall.

"Look," she said. "Mad Ken. Except he's not mad now."

What? How could Mad Ken not be mad? What did that make him? What did that make me?

So now he's Sane Ken. Or, I guess, just Ken. Regular Ken, buying peaches and strawberries on a Friday afternoon.

3) La Ronde
A fabulous piece of futurist-brutalist architecture, the La Ronde (as it was known) was a nightclub and lounge. Built in the sixties, it was like a concrete UFO. It was apparently quite the glamor spot in its heyday--a place where men wore suits and women wore long gowns--but many years and name changes (Bardot's, Eleanor Rigby's, K2) later, it had become something of a drug den, at least according to local lore.

So, as part of a revitalization plan, down it came.

Oh, and now it looks so much better.



Thankfully, not everything has changed in Billingham. The town center still has a Woolworth's, and disturbingly cheap department store Boyes (locally referred to as "Boyzees"), and that somewhat Soviet Glory of the Motherland statue ...

Get yer wellies on!

One of my favorite things to do when I visit my parents is walk their dog, Cassie.



(Please, whatever you do, don't tell my cat.)

Cassie is 15 and stone deaf. It takes her a while to sit down, and you can almost hear her joints creak as she does. But when we go for walks, she bounces along like a puppy.

Her usual circuit is along Billingham Beck, one of my childhood haunts. The beck is a narrow stream that curves around fields and through woody glades. Back around 900 AD, apparently, Vikings sailed up the beck and settled the area. I've always had trouble imagining those enormous longships maneuvering up what is now a six-foot-wide, three-foot-deep channel.



As a kid, I used to climb through overgrown undergrowth in spring, looking for seasonal pools of tadpoles and baby frogs, pondskaters and sticklebacks. The area is now a funded nature park with planned pathways and neatly maintained bridges. It still feels wild and rural, but there's no longer a need to thrash through nettles and blackberry thorns to get from one side to the other.

The best time to go is early in the morning, when the air is fresh and the rabbits are lively.

First you have to put your shoes on. (Before she went deaf, Cassie could be thrown into walkies mode by the phrase "Get your wellies on!" Now you have to mime the act of pulling on rubber boots. She'll still wait patiently for you to finish.)



This is where you start.



Follow the path down the hill and across the bridge.



Walk alongside the beck and play one of Cassie's favorite games: Wood-chipper. It's a lot like Fetch, in that you throw a stick and she chases it;



but with the extra wrinkle that she then attempts to shred the stick into tiny pieces before you can catch up with her.





Keep going; you might catch the scent of a fox or see a pair of magpies. After a couple of left turns, there's another bridge:



and then you're on a shaded path lined with ancient ferns and oversized wild rhubarb and trees shooting swordlike branches toward the light.



And then over another bridge--this one high above the water.



Follow the path on the right-hand side. Say hi to the horses if they're around (they'll come say hi to you anyway).



And then back up the hill.



If you want, you can play Cassie's other favorite game: Lazy Fetch. Throw a ball up the hill and she'll chase it, grab it, and then drop it on the path so it rolls back down to you. She's smart: why should she bother bringing you the ball when you're just going to throw it back uphill again?

And then back home to rest.



And have breakfast (you, not the dog).

Lunch at the Three Horseshoes

Saturday lunch at The Three Horseshoes in Cowpen Bewley (pronounced "coop'n byoo-lee"), just outside Billingham.

Pan-roasted duck breast with bacon-sauerkraut mashed potatoes in a gin and juniper sauce.



If you eat this and still have bad things to say about British food, sir, I shall challenge your tastebuds to a duel.

Mohujos: Mexi-maybe

There's a moment in Once Upon a Time in Mexico in which Johnny Depp goads Danny Trejo into action by asking him, "Are you a Mexican ... or a Mexi-can't?" The Boy and I have come to use this qualification to separate the good from the bad (and the ugly) when it comes to Mex restaurants.

Tu y Yo, of course, is Mexican. Chains such as Chilis are Mexi-can't. Not because they're more Tex-Mex than Oaxacan, but because they present a simplified, Disneyfied version of even that cuisine (smother everything in melted chee and throw on some jalapeños and presto! South of the border!).

So when I heard that the reasonably good Spanish tapas resto a two-minute walk from my parents' house was now a Mexican place called Mohujos, I was ready to cast it into column B.

Why so cavalier?

1) It's in Billingham. A lovely place with lovely people, but not a gastronomic destination. Apart from the many pizza/parmo places and the chip shops, the only "ethnic" cuisine is a handful of Indian takeouts and the redoubtable Li Wah Chinese restaurant (best known for throwing out a female patron because she laughed too loudly).

2) Mexico is a long, long way from Teesside; most people, if they've been to the country at all, will likely have stayed at a nice all-inclusive resort in Cancun, and so will be unfamiliar with authentic cuisine. And would rather have chips anyway.

3) The population density for Mexicans in the area is kinda light. (Actually, a quick check of the Census suggests no resident Mexicans anywhere in the country.) So who is running Mohujos?

4) Answer: a couple of lovely Teesside girls and an Angolan chef with 18 years of Portuguese cooking under his belt.

5) When I called up to check that they had a table, the person who answered the phone pronounced it "Mo-hoo-joes." I know linguistic fluency is not a prerequisite for opening a restaurant, but you'd think a familiarity with the language would help in understanding and formulating the menu.

6) The menu featured such Mexi-confused items as tequila fettucine and Mexican-style parmo. With chips.

Does any of this explain my wariness?

But the owners are so, so friendly and welcoming. And the menu had been expanded to include grilled lamb kebabs and lamb's liver in red wine and carne guisado.

Maybe things were looking up ...

Someone brought fresh salsa with chips, beer, a brightly citrusy margarita.

And when I asked if I could have a taste of the chef's homemade piri-piri sauce, one of the owners smiled broadly and disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a small dish of sauce and a spoon.

The sauce was hot, yes, of course. Hot, but also complex and layered, finishing with a smoky smoothness. Unexpectedly good.

We shared a plate of nachos (straightforward Tex-Mex, with guac and sour cream and melted chee), and then the mains (I'll add images when I have Photoshop access).

Kebabs for my dad--the lamb fatty-sweet, mouth-melty, the red onion still with a little crunch.

My mum had the chicken and steak enchiladas, smothered with cheese and apparently made with corn tortillas.

And I went for the carne guisado, a stew of tender beef with tomatoes and onions.

So not entirely authentic--the lamb kebabs, with their cucumber-yogurt dipping sauce, suggested Middle Eastern rather than Mexican, and the rice seemed devoid of starch, as though washed clean--but still tasty and, by Billingham standards, creative, inventive and unusual.

And then there was the dulce de leche cheesecake--light, fluffy and well-balanced by a buttery oat-cookie-crust base. They wouldn't reveal what made it so good, but said the recipe may appear on their website in the future.

I hope Mohujos does well--I hope, at least, that it lasts longer than the tapas place that preceded it--but if not, I really really hope they try making the most of the chef's background and go Portuguese. Either way, maybe Billingham could become a dining destination after all.

Stockton is a meat market

(Warning: this post is not for the meat-squeamish.)

Today I wandered around Stockton, the next town over from Billingham. Historically, it's pretty important: the friction match was invented there, the first passenger steam train ran between Stockton and Darlington, and the high street is the widest in England. Oh, but also Tony Scott was born there.

When I was a kid, Stockton had two main reasons to exist for me: the Odeon movie theater, where I saw dozens of Disney classics, and the WH Smith, where I exchanged annual Christmas gift certificates for books (always books).

As a teen, it was place to hang out at the first- and second-hand record stores. In my late teens, it was the destination for Saturday nights out (when the Odeon had devolved into a nightclub).

Now the high street has been narrowed, to control traffic congestion; there's a drive-through KFC--something I'd never have imagined 20 years ago--and the Odeon has been through many incarnations, each a club more sleazy and drug-infested than the last.



Mainly, though, there are dozens and dozens and dozens of takeout stores. Bakeries, chip shops, cafes, pizzerias, kebab places, pie houses, on and on and on. One would think the people of Stockton never saw a home-cooked meal.





But this isn't to say the place is devoid of culinary treats. Tucked in a corner of the high street is the Castlegate Center, which is lined with butcher shops. Oxtails, lamb's ribs, garlic sausage, tripe. And rabbit.



And pigeon and haggis.



And bacon, bacon, bacon.

You shall have a fishy ...

Not all of Asda is dedicated to junk; they have a small but well-stocked fish counter with everything from fresh sea bass to Manx kippers:



We bought some Atlantic cod, because I wanted to make my new favorite dish of roast cod with baby potatoes, olives and cherry tomatoes (courtesy, I admit to my shame, of Martha Stewart).

And instead of wrapping the fish in paper, as they do in WholeFoods, the fishcounterman enveloped it in a sheet of foil-coated paper and heat-sealed it into a package.



It's leak-proof, odor-proof, and keeps the fish cooler longer. You can also throw it straight into the freezer.

Do these exist in the US? Or is it just a European thing?

Anyway, just wanted to make it clear that England has some healthy food.



(Ignore that.)



(Ignore that, too.)

English foods I miss

A stroll round Asda in Stockton reminds me of the healthy and nutritious snacks I occasionally crave. Such as:

1. Cake!

Ah, the cake aisle. Strawberry sponge, lemon slice, Jamaican ginger, Bakewell tarts, Battenburg and Soreen.



Whether it's fresh cream:



or the entire oeuvre of Mr. Kipling:



I linger over the shelves ...

2. Pastries!

Specifically, the savory, meat-filled, high-fat, super-tasty pasties,



pork pies:



and ... ohhh ... scotch eggs (that would be a hard-boiled egg enrobed in pork-sausage meat, breaded and deep-fried) ...



3. Bacon bacon bacon!

'Specially when grilled, along with yellow tomatoes, and served in a brown bun with ketchup.



4. Crisps!

(Aka potato chips.) Yeah, I know you can get them in the US, but not in flavors like prawn cocktail, roast chicken, smokey bacon. Or:



5. Ambrosia rice pudding!

Total nostalgia. Sweet, creamy and fabulous when hot with a spoonful of strawberry jam. Or cold straight out of the can.



Of course, this isn't to say that everything in English supermarkets is delicious. Take, for example, this limited-edition taste sensation:



Could be worse, though. Could be Budweiser and Clamato ...

Put down the pumpkin; pick up the sunscreen

Spotted yesterday in the Burlington Mall:



That's right: we're seeing Hallowe'en merch in August. And not even so-close-to-the-end-of-the-month-we-might-as-well-call-it-September, but August 16.

Now, I understand that promo opportunities for candle companies are few and far between. But is this really the best they can do? No back-to-school? No end-of-summer celebration? Not even "the days are getting shorter, so fill your home with light"??

Even better: there's a 50% off sale, as though they need to clear the spooky products from the shelves now to make room for the Thanksgiving candles that will doubtless arrive next week.

I guess I should look on the bright (har har) side: if the retail cycle stretches much further, everything will eventually be a whole year ahead. Watch for pumpkins for two years from now appearing late next September.

Packing a punch

As I start my new job in a couple of weeks, I thought it wise to take a quick trip to England to visit my parents while I still had free time. I mentioned as much to Tim, Travel Agent to the Stars (or at least the wealthy).

"You're not going through Heathrow, are you?" he asked. I nodded. "Then pack light. Don't check anything in. They've become notorious for losing luggage."

He told me about a client who'd had his suitcase go astray on two separate occasions (once with his New Year's Eve party tux inside). And when Tim had called Heathrow for help, the jovial officer at the other end of the line had said, "Oh, you wouldn't believe whose luggage we've lost. Madonna, Regis Philbin ..."

The next night, I mentioned my travel plans to another friend. "Be careful with your luggage," she warned. "Friend of mine went to visit family in England at the beginning of June. Still hasn't seen her suitcase."

So I have options. I can pack my usual overstuffed rolling case with everything I might possibly need (just in case there's a sudden gala event on Teesside) and hope it doesn't disappear; I can follow my friend Julie's suggestion: carry no more than a toothbrush and pick up everything I need from the cheap high-street clothing stores (great fashions at slave-labor prices!); or I can pack the bare minimum and spend the week in cargo pants and t-shirts.

Ah, heck--the latter is my summer uniform anyway.

As long as there's room for my fabulous new dress, a "happy new job" gift to myself:



What's that? You don't understand why it's so fabulous? Take a closer look, my friend:

Hey, look! Breakfast!

I swear, I don't take photos of every meal ...



Baby potatoes roasted with cherry tomatoes, olives and green beans; prosciutto; omelette. Peach-banana-strawberry smoothie. Coffee.

Free noodles cure what ails you

Last night we went to the preview of the new Wagamama in Harvard Square. It wasn't quite a red-carpet event, though we did have to stand behind a velvet rope and have our names checked off on the guest list.

The resto doesn't actually open until Monday, but this early event was a smart idea: not only did it give the staff a chance to learn the menu, figure out the unorthodox service process (diners sit at long benches, family style; orders are punched into handheld devices that relay info to the open kitchen) and settle into a rhythm, but it also generated early buzz, both from those who ate there and from passersby who wondered what the fuss was about (and why they weren't allowed in).

For The Boy and I, it was also an opportunity for something restorative. We were both a little under the weather--he because he felt a cold a-comin', I because I was recovering from a tad too much celebrating my new job (new job, everybody!!) the previous night (an evening that went Middlesex>Central Kitchen>Enormous Room). So the prospect of healthy, spicy, fresh food was very welcome.

Wagamama was satisfyingly busy; if they can fill the room several times over before the place is officially open, it's a good sign, free food or not.

Of course, the downside is that the way the space is designed--tiled floor, few interior walls, glass and metal--means sound bounces off every surface. The conversations of the mostly young crowd and the musical cacophony from the kitchen do not make it a good place for quiet discussion. Or hangovers.

But everything improved once the food arrived. The duck gyoza were plump and juicy; the asparagus spears were fat and fresh and sprinkled with sesame seeds. I was craving a big ol' bowl of soup, so had the salmon ramen--a generous piece of tender fish in a bowl of peppery, nutritious, head-clearing broth. The Boy went for the chicken kare lomen, which involved grilled chicken and lime over noodles in a sweet-spicy coconut-ginger soup.

And lo and behold, we were cured. It's amazing what a little free food can do.

Let's make the Rapture delicious!

Oh, the things one finds online. While searching for gazpacho variations, I encountered a site that lists the foods one should hoard in preparation for the End Times.

Now, I know I don't really need to worry about these things--come the Rapture, I'm hardly likely to be counted among the saved--but just in case, I figured I should take a look at the suggested shopping list.

Corned beef. Herring. Cream of broccoli soup. Something called "Kraft Pasteurized Processed Cheeze-Spreat." And a twenty-ounce jar of horseradish.

This is what the faithful have to look forward to? Top Ramen, Vienna sausage and dried prunes? And these are the people who have been good?

Yeah, that's not gonna work for me. I understand the pantry needs to be stocked with long-lasting foods, but is there any reason they can't be interesting? Tasty? Decadent?

Like black truffle paste?

Duck confit?

Piquillo peppers stuffed with tuna? Marinated miniature figs? Pozole?

Of course, not everything has to be exotic and gourmet. The Boy, when questioned, said he'd like a couple of cases of good red wine and a dozen boxes of Kraft Mac 'n' Cheese ...

So what would be your choice?

A reason to stir

Breaking news: Barbara Lynch (see No. 9 Park, B&G Oysters, etc etc) has opened a cooking school. Called Stir, it offers tasting classes (pairing beer and cheese! Wine and oysters!) and cooking demonstrations (tomatoes! Corn! More oysters!) and--and--has a cookbook library.

Stir's website is still a work in progress. It promises fabulous things.

Alien in the garden

The other day, the male of the cardinal pair that hangs in our garden was making his distinctive high-pitched, single-note call, so I checked to see what was going on. He's usually a ground-foraging type, so I was surprised--and, frankly, a little disappointed--to find him perched in my tomato plants, pecking like crazy.

And then I realized he wasn't aiming for the fruit, but for a big green leaf.

And the leaf was fighting back.

Turns out it wasn't a leaf after all, but rather a long, fat and rather obscene caterpillar, which was in the middle of chewing its way through the plant and was apparently rather upset at having lunch interrupted.

I grabbed two important tools--trowel, camera--and went to give the cardinal a hand.

Man, but that was an ugly bug. About as long as my index finger and as fat as my thumb, with a disturbingly long stingery-spiky thing on one end, it kept on resolutely devouring leaves even as I tried to dislodge it from the plant. I could almost see tiny biceps wrapped around the branch. I could most definitely hear the crisp, repetitive crunching noise of leaves--my leaves, dammit!--being chewed.

Finally I managed to knock it onto the garden path, and grabbed my camera. A Kodak moment.



And then I flicked it toward the cardinal (who had been waiting patiently on the fence throughout, observing and occasionally chirping what I imagine to be "Yeah, go on! Kick its butt!") and went back inside. From the window I watched as the bird danced around the worm, ducking in for a peck and then dodging back to avoid the stingery end, until his opponent was too far gone to fight back. (At one point, the cardinal stopped to wipe worm gunk off his beak on the side of a stone. It was a pretty gross bug, after all.)

When I checked back later, both bird and bug were gone.

But what the heck was it? And if it was a caterpillar, what would it morph into? A pterodactyl?

Google searches for "caterpillar" pulled up pictures of cute furry characters destined to become monarchs and swallowtails, plus the fabulously cartoony spicebush caterpillar, but nothing resembling the monster in my garden.

And then I searched on "green worm eat tomato leaves" (because search engines like it when you talk like a caveman). And there he was.

My nemesis. The tomato hornworm.

So far, he appears to have been the sole invader, but I keep checking for signs of further attack. And if the cardinal can't handle them, maybe there's another way ...