It’s a spotted dick kind of day

See dick run. See dick stop. See dick stop and look at his spotted dick.

If you don’t already know, I’m a little off-colour – so much so that the man often covers his eyes and groans and my family likes to walk on the opposite side of the road when we’re out together. I don’t take offence; I step up my game.

We were out in Niagara-on-the-Lake for Father’s Day this past June. We’d gone for lunch on a really nice patio – the weather was good, the birds were chirping and Scribe was in a good mood. It’s not like this is a rare occurrence. I’m usually quite happy most of the time. Visits with my parents can be quite taxing but I was taking it all in stride. That is, until the Spotted Dick.

I spotted a Spotted Dick in the window of a quaint British bakery. I knew what Spotted Dick was, my parents knew, but the Man had a look of dismay on his face, especially when I announced that I was hankering for a spot of Spotted Dick. Out loud, and with enough volume that several ladies from an out-of-town bus tour of the Falls turned and looked. In disgust.

In all honesty, I’ve never had a Spotted Dick before, of the canned variety or any other (I put it out there, run with it). It’s just the notion that someone would name a seemingly good dessert by that name - what could possibly have possessed them, save my delight in shocking old ladies fresh off the bus tour.

An explanation from The Straight Dope:
We just tackled the origin of "Dick" as a nickname and a few other usages--a riding whip, an apron, abbreviation for "dictionary," a policeman, a declaration, and (of course), the penis.
With all these varied usages, you got a problem with "dick" being also derived from "pudding"? My sources all pretty much agree with the derivation, without being specific how. However, I can see "pudding" become "puddink" becoming "puddick" and then just "dick."

The word "dick" has appeared in any number of strange places. Around the 1840s, "dick" was used to mean a type of hard cheese; when treacle sauce was added, it became "treacle dick", and finally when currants or raisins were added (looking like little spots), the "spotted dick" was born.

The earliest recipes for spotted dick are from 1847. For non-British readers, "spotted dick" is a boiled suet pudding, with bits of dried fruit (usually raisins or currants) that (as already noted) look like little spots.

The Oxford Companion to Food comments that, strictly speaking, "spotted dick" is made by taking a flat sheet, spreading sugar and raisins on it, then rolling it up. A similar dessert is "spotted dog," a plain cylinder of suet paste with the raisins and currants and sugar stuck into it, so that the spots are visible on the outside. Both spotted dick and spotted dog were traditionally boiled (or even steamed) in a cloth, but nowadays they are usually baked.

The dessert is slightly different in Ireland. In Ireland in the late 1800s, the tradition of yeast-bread manufacture was not strong, so most breads were raised with bicarbonate of soda and an acid, rather than with yeast, and thus called soda breads. Thus, the spotted dick in Ireland is sweet soda bread, with sugar, currants, and raisins, and it's also called the spotted dog or railway cake.

Puddink? Dink. Dick. It makes sense. Sort of.

I’m not sure what gave me the hankering for Spotted Dick today (or remembering the Father's Day incident): the name, the fit of giggles I get into every time I utter those words, or perhaps it’s the weather. It’s blustery and blowy with a hint of dampness. It reminds me of Scotland. In August. It reminds me of cobblestone streets, family, friends, tea.

It reminds me of home.

Fags, boots, bonnets and other mispronunciations

I've been a little lax in posting since I returned from my 2.5-week vacation across the pond. I could blame the jetlag (over 24 hours of travel in one day) but if I'm being honest (and I usually am), it's because my vocabulary has undergone a transformation and I'm finding it hard to find the right words.

I was in Scotland first, mesmerized by the hills, the sheep and the accents (not in that order). I got used to driving on the other side of the road - looking both ways just in case - and I got used to the jargon. A truck is a lorry, there is no such thing as going to the bathroom, a hood is a bonnet, gas is petrol... you get the picture. I drank a lot of wine, held a lot of babies (my cousins' two and my best friend's 3-year-old daughter and relaxed in general. Maybe it's the rolling hills, but I felt the stress slip away as we drove from Peniciuk to Peebles, from Edinburgh to Gorebridge, from Dunfermline onwards. The roundabouts scared me, the close roads thrilled me and I felt that familiar tug at my heartstrings. I was home.

Fast forward to one week later and I was on a bus with my full suitcase, off to visit a friend along the coast of England. A bus ride and a tricky manuever down the stairs at the train station (thanks go out to a kind, very cute Edinburghian who took pity on me and my accident-prone self who carried my suitcase down the rest of the staircase) and I was on my way to the train, my train, that would take me into another world.

And it was another world. Gone were the lilting accents, the white-dotted hills and the lochs. In its place was a transition to coastal England and countryside out of Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Darcy, are you there? Seriously, I thought I saw him meandering on a horse through one pasture that passed outside of my window seat. I tried to make the train stop, slow down, so I could do a cat-whistle but the engineer was not having any of it. "Wipe the drool of yer face lady, and sit the feck down!" And that was my seat-mate. No, she was whistling too, but she was a local so she could go back and conduct an indepth search. And besides, she's used to Darcy sightings so it was merely a passing fancy.

Nerves took over as I pulled into Bristol where I would rest my head for the next four days. Will the train doors close on me as I'm trying to pull my heavy suitcase off of the train and onto the platform? Will I be able to manuever the said suitcase up the many stairs? Will there be pay toilets and me with no pound coins? Or worse, will there be no one to meet me at the station and welcome me to the thriving metropolis of Bristol? I need not worry. Everything went without a hitch, save a small stumble on the stairs under the weight of my entire wardrobe.

What I didn't expect was a language barrier. I speak English. They speak English. But the words are different. The first thing my friend said to me as we left the confines of the station was "I need a fag." I took a double take and breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled out a cigarette and proceeded to light it. We continued on to the parking lot where a van.... um, sorry, a lorry awaited us. A family friend had offered to drive me back to my friends' humble abode. It had a passenger seat up front (for the guest of honour) and space in the back for... wellies (rain boots) and the tools of his trade, farming. There was even a sack of potatoes.

My language lesson continued from there. We passed a few gas stations and I commented on the price. Gas station? Oh no. Gas is flatulence. Farts. These stations offered petrol. A few pints of Cheddar Valley cider (evil, beautiful nectar of the gods) and I was explaining the origin of fag and it wasn't something you could smoke. I hate the word fag and it annoyed me to hear it used for the burning embers held between two fingers and inhaled. Then came another shock: the horrible, descriptive word of C U Next Thursday, used not to describe a woman but a man (oh, the horror) and it's used ubiquitiously. Constantly. In pubs. On the street. In everyday conversation.

On that note, I will sign off. Not for good, but I need to get my vocabulary back. In the meantime, I have some hoovering to do. My holiday (read vacation) is truly over.

Oh, it's the most wonderful time of the year...

It's started already. Last night, as I was sitting down to watch Horatio Cane kick butt CSI-Miami-style, I saw it. A commercial for Staples with parents dancing down the aisles with half-comatose kids in tow, on a couch no less. School is a month away and we're already celebrating. Okay, not me, but gazillion parents are doing the mambo or the rhumba - anything but the funeral march that the kids will be doing.

I still try to stretch August out. I guess I hadn't got it out of my system when I was in school and it still represents summer, running through sprinklers, riding bikes until well past streetlight time, camping and going to visit Grandma up north (yes, where the Chapman's Ice Cream lives). It does not represent back-to-school shopping, binders, erasers and whatever other school supplies are needed. And, it does not represent a change in season. That's what fall is for, and I'm sorry but August, you ain't fall. No matter what those Staples people are trying to sell.

It also means that in two days (that's right TWO), I will be on my way across the ocean to visit my second home. The rolling, white-dotted hills (the dots are sheep btw), narrow roads flanked by stone walls and crazy-ass roundabouts. Tea by the gallon, bran scones, a pogue of chips with brown vinegar, walking uphill both ways and family. August to me is family, a reconnection and a recollection of our history, of what makes us who we are.

My main intent for this visit is a) accompany my cousin and her new bundle of joy on their first transatlantic flight together, offering a shoulder, an extra pair of hands and even a diaper changer if needed. The other reason is to visit with my aunt, who will be 89 this year and is angry that she can't do everything she used to do.

My family says that I am to expect a big change in her from my last visit two years ago. Her eyesight has deteriorated, along with her hearing and her balance, which wasn't good to begin with, is almost non-existent. This remarkable lady had persevered through a lot - through a war, being separated from the love of her life, an officer in the army, raising three sons and witnessing the birth of eight grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. Her childhood could be described as challenging. I won't go into detail, but let's just say it was a hard go - harder than anything I had to experience. She had worked tirelessly to give what she did not have and she continues to touch many, many lives with her kindness.

And she's angry - angry that her body, at 89, is failing her. Always one to do for others, she revolts when a fuss is made over her. If you're going to vacuum with her, then she'll help out by dusting. You plan to take her out to dinner? She'll make dinner before you arrive and insist on staying in for a full meal catered by her, cuppa tea and all. She worries like the best of them (have you met my mother yet? Her sister? The resemblance is uncanny). And god, do I love her.
It's said you can never choose your family and it's true. I was born to my mother, who was born to hers. We take a little bit of the previous generation in our DNA. It could be our upturned nose, our shade or texture of hair, the lilt in our voice, and it can also be how we hold ourselves, our proud walk - proud to be a part of the long line of strong women who came before.

Confession: I'm not proud to be a little nervous. Part of it is because I'm a procrastinator and, as usual, I've left a lot to the last minute. It wouldn't be my trip without it! I'm also nervous because I'm doing something I've never done before - traveled by train into areas unknown. Will I get the right train? Miss my stop? Not get along with the people I'm supposed to be visiting with? It's a fear of the unknown and once I've had the experience of a new adventure the fear will be gone.

I may blog once more before I depart, but if I don't, I'll have lots to report when I get back. Stay tuned. August is not over yet.

Oh my god, what did I do!?!?!?

I had been debating for weeks on whether I should book them... the tickets across the pond to visit family and friends. Yes people, I'm going back to Scotland. Again. Perhaps that's the reason for my insomnia. I'm a bit nervous. It's a lot of money, people. It means two months of freelancing and a bit of scrimping and saving where I can. But, it's worth it in the end. I think.

The main reason is to visit family. My aunt is 89 this year. Yes, 89. Eighty-nine. Almost 90. Given that my grandmother, Bella, after whom I've named my cat, lived to 99, it's not far-fetched that dear Auntie Tibby will enjoy the same ripe age. Or, maybe not. And that is why I hit the purchase button tonight because you just never know what life will have in store - for me, for her, for Scotland.

It's also a chance to visit my sister-friend of 27 years. We often go months at a time with no communication but when we get together it's like the time has never passed. Jokes are shared, bottles of wine are opened and we catch up with two years' worth of news. Her daughter is now four, no longer doing the bum shuffle along the floor. She now grabs the phone from her mum to speak to Auntie Scribe from Canada. The conversation is mostly one-sided, but it doesn't matter.

My love affair with Scotland started when I was 18 months old during our first family vacation. My mum's aunts living in Canada kept up the love affair by playing Pipes on Parade (my favourite) and offering to pack me away in their suitcases whenever they went home for a visit. It never happened and I was mad every time they left for the airport without me tucked away. They came home with gifts from the "motherland" but it just wasn't the same. Scotland, I felt, was in my blood. It was my birthright to go and experience it for myself. Even if I was only five.

Fast forward to my 11th year, March Break, when my mum decided it was time. It was a 10-day visit but it was magical. We spent a week in Wales visiting my gran and grandad before traveling by train to Edinburgh to visit my aunts and uncles, cousins and my best friend who I didn't know was to be my best friend before we were introduced over my aunt's back garden fence. I can't count the number of times I've been back, with my parents and by myself, often doing side trips to the Highlands (where, funny enough, I was chased by a Highland cow - true story), a jaunt to Amsterdam and to the Anne Frank House, and now to visit friends in England. The last visit saw me spend 10 hours walking the Edinburgh streets, visiting St. Mary's Close and Roslin Castle. I visited the auldest pub in the U.K. and wore the heels off of my good walking shoes. I can't wait to go back, to feel the cobblestones under my feet and rest my head where my heart lives.

So why the apprehension? I really do not know. I'm always welcomed with open arms. Even the rain feels good - and even the golf ball-sized hail stones I experienced in 1999 while walking past the old Scarlet Fever Hospital-cum-0ld age home where my gran once lived. Perhaps it's because I am afraid of the love affair's end. Is this the time when I'll notice the grime, the increased crime and the bad economy? I sure hope not. Perhaps the sound of the pipes marching down the Royal Mile will drowned it all out and I'll be free to continue to love my home-away-from home.

Until then, I'll just put my credit card away, start saving my cockles and sleep knowing that in three months' time I'll be back in the land of the thistle. God help me, how I love it, but did I have to book in the prime holiday season?