“Gromit, that’s it! Cheese! We’ll go somewhere where there’s cheese!”

(All quotes from Wallace and Gromit, A Grand Day Out)

Being vegetarian is easy here. Fresh fruit and veg is well-presented, often prewashed, always overpriced. Prepared foods display a green “V,” and the grocer’s cooler is packed with sumptuous meals sans meat.

But organic and vegan... The first, in its purest sense, I’m unable to afford; the latter, too lazy to embrace.

In regard to veganism, I’ve adopted a less-than-ideal compromise. Much like “vegetarians” who eat fish and chicken, I presently drink soymilk and eat Feta. I’m a strict semi-vegan.

Dairy is simply better here. Exhibit A: Wallace and Gromit. In addition to gleaning awards for extraordinary claymation, they unexpectedly revived the nearly-bankrupt Wenselydale Cheese Factory into a thriving dairy. Exhibit B: There’s no exhibit B. Take my word, or that of the adventure-seeking clay creatures who traveled far to find fine cheese.




Produced in
North Yorkshire,
Wensleydale cheese
tastes like Fontinella


“Everybody knows the moon is made of cheese”

It isn’t just the cheese. If Google can’t yield a proper vegan creamer for my decaf, I remain in the camp of the cowards. Us vegan wannabes insist on full-flavor low-fat substitutes before we convert. Oh, don’t go there... Tofu doesn’t work no matter how much vanilla you pour in. Puréed almonds (plus vanilla) was someone else’s “delicious” idea. Any recipe with vanilla is suspect in this regard. I’m not making a smoothie, I want a creamy coffee.

Organic, on the other hand, has become surprisingly feasible, with little effort and no extra cost.

In the British Isles, “Display Until” and “Sell By” dates are observed more strictly than the Laws of Nature. Whether animal, fruit or vegetable, dates stamped on every consumable product wait to be expired and marked to half price or less. Remarkably many of these items are perkier than their “fresh” counterparts. And organic foods at half price are cheaper than regular foods at full price. A routine survey of yellow mark-down stickers yields a bagful of organic stuff for less.

The sport has produced some interesting new flavors and unusual meals. Fennel in stir-fry was one such surprise. Celeriac soup, however, remains resident in the back of the freezer, a lifer beyond freezer-burn.

“A Grand Day Out”

In this milieu, join us on a recent journey to Hadrian’s Wall, as we muse the very topic of health and wellness while Ben obeys the speed limit (for a change) behind an ozone-wrecking truck in a no-passing zone.

“At this leisurely speed,” I observe, “we can enjoy the view and read the signs that point to interesting places.” Cough. “Will you please pull over and let this guy get ahead?”

Just then Providence smiles and we spot a hand-written card, not unlike “Will Work for Food.” With a crooked arrow pointing right, “Organic Café” it says.

We are driving through a region of two-farm villages named Once Brewed and Twice Brewed. We’d be lucky to find any food establishment where second-century Roman ruins rule, let alone one
of the organic nature.

We agree to investigate and gladly trade our emissions trail for pristine farmland, cool crisp air, and the occasional whiff of honeysuckle and cowpasture.

We turn into a small courtyard. There’s a farmhouse to the right, a shed-turned-toilet in the center, and a cozy Café to the left. An elderly dog wakes, moves wearily to my car door and sniffs. Don’t jump, I say through my teeth. He walks away, too tired to waste time on a transient. A middle-aged woman is fetching coal. Quaint. Chickens free-range everywhere. Large metal milk jugs are stacked outside the shed-toilet. Organic cows graze in fields behind.

















Inside the Café we review the chalkboard menu. We are the last lunch customers. She returns from coal duty. (Will she wash before she touches our food?)

There’s one piece of home-made organic quiche, she says. I relinquish that to Ben. I’ll forgo the cheese today.

They make their own cheese. Organic, she stresses. Never mind, I’ll have the soup. Red Soup or Green Soup. Named as they are, the options don’t tease my palate. I ask, “What’s in the Red Soup?” She utters rather smugly, “Red vegetables.” And in the green? I don’t ask. She thinks she’s clever. Against my better judgment, from the sparse selection on the board I choose Green Soup, which only interests me because it is served with Roman spelt muffins — a first-century bread recipe found at nearby Vindolanda, she says. She’s the owner, obviously proud of her organic fare. Can’t remember when she last stepped into a supermarket. Buys all her produce from local organic growers.

I’m instantly anxious she knows I shop at my neighborhood grocer. She’s given me the look. I flush, how very inappropriate of me. I feel disdain toward our irresponsible lifestyle, convinced I must convert — seek organic farmers, grow my own. My mind skips to our patio. I replace the pansies with parsley, add a goat to graze the grass...

Upstairs, there’s a loft with four small tables and a large window. We head for the view.

I’m not happy with what I ordered. I want to change it but she’s disappeared into the kitchen. We are committed. My eye moves from the distant panorama to the scene just below the picture window.
















Transfixed on the manure pile with visions of “Green Soup,” I recall our College cafeteria where yesterday’s vegetables were routinely disguised into new and creative forms. Cauliflower-breadcrumbs-and-eggs, peas-and-carrots, all mashed into shapes, sometimes flat, sometimes round or conical, with gravy, always fried, never tasty even if named Petit Pâté d’Oeuf et Poissons.

My soup arrives piping hot. My muffins, too. Ben’s quiche is served with a generous salad of wild greens and sprouts. I rarely butter bread but no amount of spread improves these muffins. They would start a food fight in College. While Ben enjoys his quiche, I offer a taste of my soup in hopes of a reciprocal gesture. I’m awarded a morsel. It is absolutely delicious. He declines my soup. A second bite of quiche is unlikely. I pour in salt and pepper. I’ve no idea what’s in the soup. It’s ugly. I’m starving so I eat without looking. I can’t look at the view, either.

I contemplate offering her my mother’s lentil soup recipe aptly renamed “Birthright Soup.” Like Wallace and Gromit for Wensleydale, it would launch her little business into a new level. I don’t. Ben is quite happy with the meal I thoughtfully yielded. He is smiling. He throws a few salad sprigs my way. I do love the salad but I want quiche.

“No cheese, Gromit. Not a bit in the house.”

__________________________
Carnivore, vegetarian or vegan, click here for a memorable minute-and-a-half. You’ll never make spaghetti quite the same way again. Pes gets a million hits on his website per month.

20 July, 2008
Ben Holdsworth wishes to comment with an image he captured on today’s walk:

This is what free-range organic looks like.
BH

Nothing happened

Tate Modern, London

We bump into her group at the Ave Maria installation by Maurizio Cattelan: Three male right-armed salutes protrude from a white wall. The first, she says, “represents Hail Mary, when Angel Gabriel announced she is to become the mother of God. The next arm...” She draws a blank, walks to the wall, reading glasses to nose inspects the plaque. “Yesss.”

“The second,” she continues with authority, “is Hail Caesar, and thirdly, Heil Hitler, representing the ideologies that killed the Son of God and tried to wipe out His children.”

A petite figure garnished with pure white hair and sweet smiling eyes, the tour guide lectures in melodious speech with hints of Frenchness.

Before this chance encounter we had explored the museum for several hours. We read the fine print beside each piece, studied brush strokes by hands of Masters. In the dimly-lit Rothko room that swiftly siphons joy, some gazed in awe, some in disbelief. After an informative film, I conclude no one’s interpretation of Modern Art is reliable, not even the artist’s. Each voice expressed in color, texture, shape, speaks to another in an unknown tongue. Awakening the desire to know, to understand, may be an artist’s highest purpose.

As we eavesdrop on the tour in progress, the idea of a guide suddenly seems agreeable. We linger two steps behind. As promised, she says, she’ll conclude in front of Picasso.

“I shall tell you now a story from many years ago, when I was a young girl in Paris.”

Her flock’s attention doubles.

“I walked to Picasso’s studio every day for many weeks. There, I stood in front of his door for hours for my chance to go inside, and to meet him.”

A handful of fresh-faced fans, hopeful models, tireless pilgrims congregated daily — not unlike those who spend nights on cold sidewalks for a glimpse of their favorite rock star. When the mood struck, Picasso would summon his butler to select a few and bring them in.

After countless failed attempts, she learns Picasso likes Polish chocolates. With renewed optimism, candy in hand, she logs more time in line.

One afternoon the door opens and she finds herself among the favored few. Crossing the coveted threshold, she presents the chocolates to the steward, wrapping now worn in a terrible state.

The group is escorted to the studio. Eager to see paintings, they discover the canvasses turned, facing the wall. Picasso looks up from his easel, surveys the lot, and points directly at her. “You. Follow me.”

He leads her alone up a long staircase, to a painting on the wall — a vulgar canvas he has recently rendered. She stares without reaction, stunned, dazed in his presence and by this exhibition of intense indecency.

“And I am wondering, what next?”

Our tour group moves in. She pauses. Months of anticipation — fondness, admiration, and now in the company of devotion — are intensely summed on her face. She clears her throat.

“Nothing happened,” she says in French inflection softened by London. “Which, I suppose, is a good thing, since many of Picasso’s women committed suicide, and I could have ended like one of them.”

“This is the end of the tour. Thank you.”

Without delay, part embarrassed, part proud, part enraptured — not unlike the day she met Pablo Picasso — she turns and walks away.

I catch her in the next room and ask if she would pose beside one of my favorites. She agrees. There are no signs but I suspect photography is prohibited in venues of priceless art. As security cameras move in, I expect someone to shout. I raise the flash (yes flash) and snap.

Nothing happens.





Picasso, Femme nue assise, oil on canvas, 1909, Tate Modern, London

Candlemas

The backdrop, a dark, enormous space. 2,400 flickering tea lights swirl translucent shapes on colossal pillars. Objects magnified, shadows long, sweet smoke of incense in the air. Outside, the wind dances with Cathedral bells. Forty days after Christmas, on February 2, the Feast of Candlemas celebrates the presentation of Christ in the Temple.


“We’ll go to the grocery store, then the Cathedral,” we conclude, as if the 11th century structure is an ordinary detour on our way home.

“Let’s get there an hour early for good seats.” The traditional mantra for every Durham Cathedral event we attend sets our schedule in motion. To arrive in time for optimal pew is a matter of [self-indulgent] principle. Arguments can spark over 5 minutes’ delay that threatens to jeopardize the supreme seat. If you were of small stature you’d understand. And the acoustics in the back two-thirds of the Cathedral are, well, unsatisfactory. The organ is not always played at optimal volume. If you don’t sit at the foot of the pipes, you can’t feel music in your bones. Up front. In the quire, if possible. Next to the verger, even.

The seriousness by which we indulge in this endeavor, one might think we have no life. We arrive 55 minutes early. Once again, reminiscent of last year’s Easter sunrise service, we’re the first peasants to turn up. Lucky the door’s open, it’s freezing out.



Inside, stewards are silently lighting thousands of tea lights. I volunteer to help. I am declined. Then, instead of walking directly to the coveted front row, I, in the spirit of graciousness, ask permission of a kindly steward. His reply is rudely interrupted by “the one in charge,” who points a long finger to the wooden bench at the back and says loudly, “Wait there till the candles are lit.” “But other people are in their seats...” she’s already turned her large stature to her next task, whirling her full-length faux grey-fox fir coat. Creating unnecessary draft.

I repeat my plight to Ben. His countenance has morphed into “the serious face.” It is a look I know well. “I’m not with you if you cause trouble” are words unspoken.

As soon as grey faux turns her busy back, I disappear into the shadows down the nave. The very front row is available but not always desirable. At the last minute this space may be reserved for participants. Or dignitaries. For peasants, four rows back seems safe. I save a place for Ben. The Cathedral seats a thousand, there are 5 people in the pews, best save a seat.

The choir is rehearsing. I stare into the flames; eyes lose focus, mind wonders everywhere. Stop-motion stills over 900 years. I count the prayers that have been said here. The prisoners that have been held here. The carpenters, the masons, the monks.

Ben joins me in row four. He says the man in the grey suit told him we can sit in the quire if we like...

Of course we like! I interrupt my trance with this new concern. Baby steps. Deep breath, relax shoulders. As soon as the choir concludes practice, stand, very calmly, and move, no, glide forward — with a smile (friendly and vulnerable), slightly bowed (appropriate humility), head forward (bad posture), eyes fixed (assertive interest) — toward the quire.

. . .

The quire affords a panorama of the darkened nave and a thousand flickering lights. We are each holding a program and a long taper candle which we light, one to another, before the ministers enter. Our service tonight will follow the mass from the Sarum Missal, in Latin. There will be no congregational hymn.

We rise for the choir and priestly procession.

A prayer. The choir sings the antiphon, and the priests, who just came in, begin to file out. The congregation is invited to follow them into the nave. We walk the full perimeter of the Cathedral candle-lit as the choir chants medieval plainsong. I’m directly behind a golden priestly robe and the incense-swinging clergy. I move into the path of fragrant smoke. I choke a little.

Back in our seats, the men’s choir is accompanied by the Wetheringsett organ, a modern reconstruction* of the instrument common in churches around 1525. This tiny structure sits in the shadow of the resident Victorian pipe organ (98 speaking stops in 7 divisions). The Wetheringsett consists of only 46 notes, about 3.5 octaves. No pedals. Period music was written consisting of these notes only. While the organist plays, another works two enormous manual bellows. The sound is clear, lyrical, flute-like.

Sadly, a blustery night and blizzard warnings have frightened the locals who found their home hearth or the neighborhood pub warmer than this service. In years past, Candlemas filled the Cathedral. Tonight there are fewer in the congregation than the choir and priests combined. Had more come, they would not have left disappointed. And there was plenty of room in the front row.

We linger to watch the candles extinguish, and leave quietly with the smell of incense in our clothes.



______________________
*The Early English Organ Project was born out of a chance survival of an intriguing door in a farmhouse at Wetheringsett, Suffolk, found during conversion in 1977. The pattern of holes on one side and grooves on the other suggested a purpose, which was not revealed until shown to an organ specialist who recognized it as an organ soundboard of considerable antiquity. A replica of this pre-Reformation organ was completed in 2002 and has been touring various venues. There are no original (functional) surviving Tudor organs, and until now, very little information to go on. Music historians have had to rely on fragments, but with the 1977 find, it became possible to construct an authentic replica.

Many cathedrals, even churches, had more than one organ. Durham Cathedral once had five, three of them in the Quire for use at particular altars.

Bonkers on conkers

His face is flushed, sweaty. He heaves a massive plank into an enormous tree. Repeatedly. In the rain. The ground is littered with leaves, branches. He’s insistent, consistent, determined. “Have you lost your ball?” we ask young Jack whom we greet often on our daily walks. “No,” he shouts high-pitched and out of breath, “I’m knocking down conkers.”

What? Totally uninformed, we ignore his childish endeavor and trundle on.

One year later, in September, the crazed quest repeats itself. Grandmothers wielding sticks scale barbed wire fences while children collect in plastic bags. Young boys hang from trees, parents drive from village to village, all in pursuit of the same prized object. Bags of it.

A conker, we learn, is the fruit of the horse chestnut tree — a hard, shiny brown nut inside a prickly case. If left to ripen, the outer shell cracks and falls from the tree. But England waits not for nature to take its course. The game of conkers heralds the new school year, and collecting the crop occupies children and grown-ups alike. Finding a pristine tree is paramount. Trespassing is forgiven.

With many schools banning conkers for fear of unruly behavior, this quaint seasonal game may soon face extinction by sophisticated predators — Nintendo, PlayStation and Xbox. Still, for this year, let the games begin. To prepare, each nut is carefully drilled, a 10-inch cord strung through the hole and knotted at the base. Played in teams of two, the goal is to smash the opponent’s conker to smithereens and send it flying off its string. (All done in an orderly English fashion, of course.)

For the best chance of winning, a conker must be as hard as possible. Conkers dried a full year guarantee conquest against new nuts. However most collectors seek instant gratification, so various methods of hasty hardening are undertaken. Soak or boil them in vinegar, bake them briefly in the oven. If a microwave is used, watch them explode before your eyes. (Do not try this at home.) It should be noted that artificial hardening is considered cheating.

Over 6 years of observing search-and-collect missions, we had never seen a game. On Sunday October 7, to expand our horizons and broaden our English experience, we set off to the 2007 Conker Championships at the nearby Shildon Elm Road Workingmen’s Club. We arrived late, expected queues, but managed a spot in the car park. Inside we found hundreds of conkers strung ready for carnage. Colin, the coordinator, scurried about preparing to team opponents for battle. Children’s teams; men’s teams; women’s teams. The press was there — a reporter and a photographer. There were ribbons for first, second, third place; for biggest conker in the show, for most nuts cracked in the game. As for contestants, Kieren and his uncle Chris. That’s all.

















The first recorded game of Conkers using horse chestnuts took place in 1848. Before then, snail shells or hazelnuts were used to play the game. World conker championships take place the second Sunday of October in Northamptonshire, England.

Inside the allotment fence: An outsider’s peek

For intro to the allotments, click here to see May 28 entry


Tommy “Tucker”* Ramshaw, Tudhoe Village Allotments

His mother died when he was 5. His father was the night soil man.** “We were poor,” he says, “We were so poor. You’ve no idea.” At 13, he got a job milking cows before dawn, before school. A year later he picked up night shift grooming horses and polishing harness of the horse-drawn hearse. Finally he ended up where most men in the Northeast did, the coal mines. He was 15. Today, at 83, Tommy Ramshaw has worked the fields and pastured horses more than a lifetime.

To get to Tommy’s place we enter the allotments by the gate near Harry’s chickens, pigeons and screaming geese. Harry assures me the geese are harmless. They raise their necks and shriek a terrible racket, chasing, waddling furiously, then suddenly abandon their target.

Beyond this excessive reception, the dirt path weaves along peaceful vegetable patches, chicken coops, and Tom Spence’s show-class flower garden. He’ll show his award-winning chrysanthemums tonight. “They must be perfectly round,” he says. The flawless have been wrapped in waxed bags, preserved pristine to vie for top prize.










To keep cauliflower immaculate, Tom hides each in its own leaves tied with string. Soon he’ll harvest and enter them into contests with the leeks. “How big are the leeks where you come from?” he asks. Though I appreciate a milky-white cauliflower, I’ve never given the leek critical analysis. He exposes a leek the size of a barracuda the likes of which has never seen a supermarket shelf.

Progressing on, a peculiar theme emerges — the old-fashioned bathtub. Modern showers have expelled it from small locked room to wide open air. Here it finds new purpose — a cradle for growing herbs, a giant bucket for tools, the preferred vessel for watering horses.

Each fenced patch contains curious clutter. A reflection of the owner’s personality coexists with the produce of the season. From run-down broken sheds to perfectly-tended greenhouses. These are the props of the allotments. Plants live and die here. There are no secrets.



I stay on the wandering path all the way to the back. Tommy’s place is three minutes from our house. It’s taken longer to get there. I’m an outsider here, it is not my land. But the spell captivates, transforms. Like a snake, charmed, drawn from an ordinary basket case, one with nature.

Of the 40 allotment plots, Tommy tends four, where he plants vegetables and raises an undisclosed number of chickens. “Can’t tell you how many,” he says. “Sometimes, before the Chinese come to take the old hens, I may have more [than the allotted number].” He sells the elderly to the Oriental restaurant in town.

In the adjoining fields he breeds and pastures horses and a goat named Nancy. Harry is a darling horse. Due to illness he is temporarily quarantined in a stable. Laminitis can be fatal but he’s pulling through. Good for Harry. Good boy.





Harry


Quickstep is a Dales Mountain and Moorland stallion. He’s stuck in the stall next to Harry. You don’t have to have disease to be locked up. Stallions bear the same fate on Tommy’s farm. They are isolated until a suitable mare becomes available. (Some humans may benefit from this providence.) Quickstep’s nostrils luge out of the small opening. I’m sure I’ve seen fire. At least smoke. Tommy can ask up to £300 ($600) for Quickstep’s stud fee. He charges £80.

Tommy’s collection of brown chickens and the lovely black-and-white Light Sussex are territorial. Except for the one brown hen hatched with the black-and-whites, they are segregated by color. The brown ones lay brown eggs and the white ones, white. Phil’s blue Araucana chickens a few plots down lay blue eggs. Black hens, to my surprise, lay white eggs. Tommy counts 270 eggs a week. He sells some and shares the rest with the widows in the village. They get a dozen eggs every fortnight and Tommy receives cakes and pies in return. A mutually-favorable arrangement. He has diabetes but hasn’t turned down a cake, yet.

“You need a good freeze before you pull the turnips,” he says as I stand in a corner of turned earth where he’s planting brussel sprouts, “that’ll make ’em sweet and juicy. The beets aren’t any good now, they’re coming up cracked. Too much rain. Everything drowned this year.”

“Here.” Rising from the earth, he hands me 6 eggs. “I found them in the cabbages. Those bloody hens.” He digs up three red potatoes. The balance of power shifts in my hands. He points to a healthy batch of giant green squash in a rusty wheelbarrow. “Do you use these?” he asks. My eyes sparkle at the fresh, organic produce. “I found them growing on a pile of manure.”

. . .

*Tommy’s nickname “Tucker” comes from the 1829 nursery rhyme, Little Tommy Tucker, which became a colloquial term to describe orphans.

**A night soil man’s duty was to collect the contents of chamber pots and earth closets (outhouses) in a horse-drawn midden cart. When the cart was full, the load was taken to an abandoned coal mine and dumped. There were four full-time night soil men in town and Tommy’s father was one of them. Jack Ramshaw’s midden cart can be seen at the Beamish Museum, County Durham.

The French Connection

Merci, Google! C’est génial! Vous méritez ma gratitude la plus profonde.

What are the chances of finding a long-lost relative in Paris after my father journeyed there, followed a number of leads, and returned home disappointed?

For as long as I can remember, Father spoke fondly of his first cousin, Madeleine. He had met her only once, in Paris, 1962. She was a teenager then. Her parents later reported she had a career in the movie business. Father longed to see her again, but on every Paris visit, Madeleine was unavailable.

In Cyprus, my parents named their third child after Madeleine. And twenty years later in France, cousin Madeleine passed away under mysterious circumstances. She was 39. By the time we learned this, Madeleine’s parents had also died. All hope of reconnection was now lost.




Madeleine
Elmadjian
Guillot, at 22
1943 - 1982

In 1997, my father journeyed to Paris on a fact-finding mission. He wanted to know what happened to Madeleine. His first stop was the Armenian Church headquarters where he located the official record of Madeleine’s death. And there he discovered for the first time, that Madeleine had a daughter. No further details.

So Father sought other Elmadjians (our shared surname) in Paris. Someone should know the family... Every phone call yielded the same reply. Unknown. He returned to Cyprus profoundly disappointed.

Time passed. Life happened. In Cyprus. In England. In France, we knew there lived a young girl without her mother.

Enter the worldwide web, the fountain of fact and fiction. Knowing my father had given up hope of ever finding Madeleine’s child, I determined to test the source of all things known. I Googled “Elmadjian” and found links to a Stéphane Elmadjian, a film producer.

It was unlikely that Stéphane was related, as Madeleine had only one child, a girl. Plus, the surname of any child would not bear the mother’s maiden name, but the father’s.

After hours of chasing after French links, Google produced an email. I wrote. He replied. And over the past week, the mysteries unfold...













Stéphane Elmadjian is Madeleine’s only son, not daughter!
At 41, he is an award-winning film producer and editor. He uses his mother’s surname for all his work artistique, in honor of her memory. The lost has been Googled. And found. For real.

These are a few of my favorite things

I was 9 when The Sound of Music was released worldwide. On our small island of Cyprus, in my Armenian Elementary microcosm, it became the talk of the playground. Every spare moment was filled with its tunes.

“The first three notes just happen to be...”

Though I’d learned dó-ré-mí on the piano, my understanding of the English language was rudimentary. I didn’t know a female deer was called a doe. The fact that there are no deer in Cyprus furthered my befuddlement. The only deer I knew existed in the first line of a letter: Dear so-and-so. So, I concluded, this was “a female dear,” or, a “girlfriend.” Ré was pronounced ré, not ray, everyone knew that. “Mí, a name I call myself,” my friends said was an abbreviation for María. To our young literalist minds, the associations in the song made little sense, so we reinterpreted their mysteries and explained them to each other.

The forbidden theatre

My friends saw the movie over and over. And every recess, munching bologna sandwiches on sesame buns (cheoregs), they acted out the parts and sang in broken English. Several of the songs also held high positions at the top of the charts on radio. I, too, fell in love with the music and longed to see the film. Yet, in this pre-video, limited-TV era, I had never been to a movie theatre. And though my parents were reasonable people, it was unlikely we would go. We didn’t do movies. It was wrong to enter a theatre.*

One day, to our surprise, teacher announced the school had organized a field trip to a matinee of The Sound of Music. A roar of excitement surged through the class.

At home I asked my parents, expecting a "No" the answer. Father explained, “As you know, we don’t go to the movies. But we have heard it is a good film. Since it is school-sponsored... We’ll leave the decision up to you, and we won’t be angry if you choose to go.”

This was unexpected. The unprecedented freedom to exercise freewill weighed heavily on my 9-year-old shoulders. To go or not to go resulted in incredible anguish.

I went. And as soon as I took a seat, my upbringing began to haunt me. I broke into sweat. Maybe I shouldn’t have come; maybe this was wrong...

The lights dimmed. The movie rolled. In agony, I plunged into a self-imposed “battle between good and evil” that had been spoken of often in church. So I watched the entire film with squinted eyes. In my juvenile mind, this was a form of non-committal... I wasn’t fully there if I watched dimly through quivering eyelids.

FF >>> 40 years (or so) later

Parents Moses and Alice with sister Sylvia in London

Last week, Sylvia and I treated our parents to the London stage production of The Sound of Music. “We’ve planned a surprise for you,” I announced, hoping to provoke moderate levels of cheerful anticipation. Mum immediately declared she would not cooperate, remembering a surprise-gone-wrong birthday party where she appeared in house clothes and endured inconceivable embarrassment. Thus she pronounced, “Don’t surprise me, I don’t like it.” Bub (Father), ever-anxious to extract a clue, imagined a tangible gift. “What color iz-eeet?”

Mum interrupted Father's 20 questions in an uncharacteristically dismal tone. Head bowed, eyes focused on frenzied knitting of yellow baby cardigan, she uttered monotonously, “I don’t like green, brown or tan.”

The duelling banter continued, half-excited, half-unsettled. I went to the toilet where great ideas are born and returned with a plan — let’s develop the clue without giving it away.

“It is exactly those colors,” I exclaimed reentering the conversation, “It’s green brown and tan!” Mum’s anxiety escalated. My toilet-bourne brainstorm was thrown out the window. We abandoned the surprise element and presented Plan B: our prepared duet. “The--- hills are alive, with the sound of muuusic (a-a-a-ah)...”

No tickets available

Securing last-minute tickets to a sold-out show was no small feat. Our only chance was the possible release of a few seats ON the day from those slated for the Producer. Miraculously, on the morning of the show, we had 8th-row center tickets. People sitting near us had bought theirs in January.


The London Palladium

Within walking distance of Oxford Circus underground, the London Palladium is an exquisite venue. In the 1800s the site was a bazaar, then became a circus, and later an ice skating rink. At the turn of the century it was redesigned by the renowned Theatre architect Frank Matcham and opened in 1910 with the then massive capacity of 3,435. By the mid-1900s the Palladium was presenting high-priced big-name acts such as Judy Garland, Bing Crosby, Sammy Davis, Jr, Johnnie Ray, Frank Sinatra and the Beatles. After extensive remodeling, the Palladium now seats 2,300, maintaining a surprisingly intimate ambience. The Sound of Music opened here in November 2006.

We were apprehensive about a stage interpretation of an award-winning movie, but within moments it was clear the production would not disappoint. The set was fantastic and the choreography, acting and singing brilliant. A curious detail we had never seen before were individual, tiny, nearly-invisible mics taped to the actors’ foreheads. The only letdown, we all agreed, was Baron von Trapp (Georg, pronounced “Géyor”); in short, he was no Christopher Plummer. Still, the hills were alive, literally. The show opened with a “real” suspended hill, and ended with enormous Nazi flags that parachuted from the ceiling and turned our entire theatre into the audience for the von Trapp Family Singers.

To put behind us Mum’s unforgettable birthday catastrophe schemed by well-intentioned friends, and, for all our remaining life disasters sure to bulldoze any time and without warning: “I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feeel soo baaad.”

(Pathetic ending, I know. Couldn’t resist.)


Interesting trivia from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sound_of_Music
During the Cold War, in the event of a nuclear strike on the United Kingdom, the BBC planned to broadcast The Sound of Music on radio as part of an emergency timetable of programmes designed to “reassure” the public in the aftermath of the attack. A television broadcast would not be possible as televisions would be rendered inoperable by the electromagnetic pulse effect.

*I grew up in a conservative Christian home where movie theatres were considered “worldly” and inappropriate. When “The Greatest Story Every Told” came to Cyprus in 1966, we managed to convince my ultra-conservative grandmother to take us to a matinee showing. She was extremely nervous about entering the theatre but left there speechless.