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On artificial bakery flavor

So, I’m staying in a motorway hotel (motel, no doubt) in the northern Chicago suburbs where I’m visiting my grandparents. Motel perks include a swimming pool that is not open, proximity to a TGI Friday’s, and a free breakfast. The highlight of the free breakfast is the waffles. There are two waffle makers and a contraption like a cafeteria juice dispenser that dispenses raw waffle batter instead of juice. And there is a spray can of non-stick cooking spray. And do you know what one of the main ingredients of the cooking spray is? Yes, it is artificial bakery flavor.

I am astonished. And I have some questions.

1. What does a bakery taste like?

2. Who had the brilliant idea to invent artificial bakery flavor?

3. What other products are flavored with artificial bakery flavor?

4. Is it time for me to go back to the United Kingdom, a civilised country where you either have to taste your bakeries in their straight-up natural state, or go without?

On animal behaviour

Maisie the dog was a jumper and a bolter, so it was always necessary to pause before entering the house, to ensure that she wasn’t about to leap out the door and either paw me in the face or run down the road. So when I got home last night, I did the pause. And then realised that I could walk straight in without assessing her location, or having to pause to pat her, first thing, before greeting anyone else. That was sad.

But fortunately there is a profusion of photos here in my parents’ house of my hilarious childhood teeth, and they never fail to cheer me right up.

On why I don't live in New York

New York is great. It is marvelous and funny and astonishing, and every time I come here I walk up and down the well-organised city blocks (goodness knows, London could learn something from New York about organising city blocks) and think that I should move to New York. I sit at slightly dirty tables in famous delis (London could also do with some famous delis) and munch bagels and talk to strangers (I love talking to strangers, and it is practically outlawed in London) and I am charmed. I inadvertently jump in front of someone to get in an empty yellow cab and am congratulated by the driver for my pugnacity and I am delighted. And yesterday I walked the High Line and I was moved and astounded.

And yet, I don’t live in New York. And as I trotted through Soho yesterday it occured to me that maybe it’s because it makes too much sense: New York to me feels familiar and local and comfortable. It feels easily comprehensible. And although London is far from the most exotic place for a half-British person to be living, and although I’ve been there for six years which is long enough for it to be navigable and very familiar, the remaining minor irritants of my slight foreign-ness serve as catalysts to a constant state of mild agitation and curiosity and from being complacent, too much at ease. They’re catalysts that I wouldn’t have in New York. And which, for whatever reason, I am reluctant to surrender.

On the flight to New York

I managed to get my needles past security, so I was knitting at a rapid clip.

What are you making? said the man sitting next to me. We were in the back of the plane. It was loud.

A blanket for a baby, I said. I am going to visit my friend who just had one, but it is going slowly so I will probably give it to him for his sixteenth birthday, I explained.

Is it your first? the man said.

Yes, I said, thinking that it was odd for him to care how many blankets I have knitted.

The man beamed. He looked extremely happy.

I COULD TELL, he said, with the most warm smile, and then I realised that he did not care that it was my first blanket knitting project, but rather that he had misheard me and thought that I was in fact knitting the blanket for my own baby. And, OK, my Long Haul Flight Hoodie is neither form-fitting nor flattering, but that was a bit upsetting.

And worse yet? My habits are now so English that I thought, well, this is awkward and a bit unfortunate, but this man seems so absolutely and profoundly delighted by his ability to detect pregnancy that I am not going to correct him.

And indeed, I did not.

On becoming a vegetarian

I decided to become a vegetarian last month, after watching The Cove. The film’s message about the degredation of the environment as a result of fish consumption was so convincing that I walked out of there, turned to Lauren (whose environmentalism has led to her being a vegetarian for years), and said, I think I am going to be a vegetarian.

Good idea, she said.

But being a vegetarian is not easy. Being disdainful about meat-eating is easy; explaining why I am a vegetarian in a slightly high-handed way is simple; feeling good about myself because now I am a vegetarian and thus doing my part to do a difference in the world is not a challenge.

But I have not yet mastered the part of vegetarianism that involves eating no meat. Every morning I wake up and think, ah, here I am, waking up, a vegetarian! But depending on the mishaps and stresses of the day and the degree to which I am convinced that they are due to me having low iron levels (moot because I have thalassemia minor, and thus my iron levels are always low), more than once I have fallen off the wagon and found myself chewing through a beef sandwich at lunchtime. And then I feel bad, but not too bad, and then I have the somewhat pleasant opportunity to start over again, to say, OK, now I am a vegetarian, as I fold the greasy paper from my meaty sandwich and place it in the bin.

And then I think about how it seems that my favourite part of vegetarianism is the becoming, rather than the being.

On being a dog person

Not kidding: today there was an Airedale terrier in the place I went for lunch (Mrs. Marengo’s) and as it (and its owner) were leaving when I did, I followed them down the street in what would have been a totally creepy way if the Airedale was a person, but which seemed totally reasonable - no, in fact necessary - because I just really wanted to pat the adorable dog. And then I did and I have to say, I was very happy, and judging from the tail wagging, the Airedale was also very pleased.

And after I bade the Airedale farewell and headed back to the office (for the dog-following had taken me slightly off course), I realised that I feel kind of sorry for people who are not dog people and who will never know the joy of stalking a dog through Soho in order to give it a brief, life-affirming cuddle.

And then I also realised that I will miss my childhood dog, Maisie, forever.

On a thing that I find a little weird about the UK (#3,439)

The convention of putting your A-level and GCSE grades - ALL of them - on your CV.

In the US, this would be the equivalent (in terms of the amount of learning you’ve done) of not only listing your SAT scores and what you got on your AP exams, but noting what your GPA was when you were in the tenth grade.

When I was in tenth grade, I failed the first quarter of math. Flat-out failed it: I hated the teacher so much (he was apt to sexually harass the girls and throw things at the boys) that I had some kind of strong anxiety reaction and simply drew a blank every time we had any kind of assessment.

Thus, I feel for people who feel they must diligently report that they got a terrible mark in, say, GCSE Religious Studies, because they were so busy trying to buy cigarettes and kiss boys and write plays and doing all the other things that you do when you were fifteen that make GCSE Religious Studies not a priority. I think it is a very good thing that potential employers cannot learn about my tenth-grade math failure on my CV, because even though it would now - thirteen years later - be totally irrelevant, it nonetheless would surely not look pretty. 

(Although I suppose that they can now read about it on my blog. There you go, future employers. Jean Hannah Edelstein: a failure at math, aged 15.)