Alexandra Wolfe

I can’t help myself, when I hear an English accent while I’m out shopping, I automatically orientate towards the person speaking. And, usually, because I make eye contact and smile, get a response. And thus I start either a brief chat with another English speaker, sharing a few moments. On occasion I’ve even spent an hour or two talking to someone, usually a visitor to our fair City.

Like the last couple of days, and again, this morning. I just happened to arrive at my bus stop as a fraught woman came rushing up to me and in French, while waving her phone in my face, telling me the bus would not stop here and that I needed to walk to the next stop and, before I’d even formed a response, she was off walking down the sidewalk. But right behind her, bemused at her antics, were a couple who came up and asked me what she’d said.

I began to explain and, one sentence in, the woman interrupted me and said, “Oh, you’re English?” Well, yes, it’s true when I start speaking French I some how end up speaking with, of all things, a Lancashire accent. I know, I’m weird. The conversation then proceeded in English, and no, before you ask, not with an accent.

Anyway, an hour later after I ended up riding the bus with them all the way to the mall, I left them there to go off shopping, while I then took another bus home. And now, I’m sitting here smiling at yet another happy encounter with a complete stranger that resulted in a swap of names and addresses and a promise to write an email.

If nothing more comes of it, and most never write, it was another day blessed with a moment of connection. And I’m okay with that.

I learnt to read at a very early age sat on the knee of my dad as he read his newspaper of an evening. He would read different sections out loud to me and I would mimic him, till, at one point, it was me who was reading the words back to him. I skipped the Janet & John books of my era, and went straight into books for older kids thanks to my father’s patience.

It was my dad who took me on my first outing to the library. A Saturday morning ritual not only to give my mother a moment’s peace and quiet to go shopping by herself. But to keep us kids all out of trouble reading books. We would spend at least two or more hours in the library, which was fine by me, as I got to either sit in a corner and read a whole stack of picture books, or was read to by my dad.

Being the youngest at this point was an advantage. And so, by the time I got to school, I was reading well above my weight, as they say. And more. Thanks to my mother’s diligent prep, also well versed in my letters. I remember fondly sitting at the kitchen table slowly writing out her shopping list for her in pencil, as she dictated what we were going out to buy that day. I felt triumphant at not only being asked to do this responsibility, but at learning to write legibly and clearly. And even today, in a world were we hardly write anything anymore, I’m still proud of my handwriting.

I can’t look at a newspaper without thinking of my dad, or smile when I write out a shopping list, remembering those times sitting with my mother. It’s warming to have those memories and know I have a lot to be thankful for.

NaBloPoMo: 14/30  /  Photo by Tsuyoshi Kozu on Unsplash

I’m a foodie. I’m a huge foodie. And I love to cook. Which is good because my OH doesn’t know how to boil an egg properly, let alone do toast without burning it. Luckily for both of us I paid attention and watched my mother diligently (though I didn’t know this is what I was doing) and learnt all her tricks. My dad less so, as he mostly did the roasts and specialty breads.

As a result of watching them I knew I had the basics. And, like them both, I’ve never been scared at changing up a recipe, which I see as a basic template from which to create something else, something that will suit my palate more. And yes, I know, some recipes you just don’t mess with. Others, though, just beg to be personalised to taste. That’s how they were first created to begin with.

And so, where a recipe might include chilli peppers, something I cannot eat, I will experiment with other heat giving spices coming up with my own combo to recreate a dish to my liking.

Sometimes this works, sometimes the dish is inedible to the point it ends up in the bin. Although it’s true to say, the OH who has a cast iron stomach, will probably do their best to eat it regardless. I have no idea how they’re able to eat what they eat half the time. But that’s a whole other post for another day.

The upshot from all this experimentation is that I have a fairly good idea at what works together and what doesn’t and, just recently, dazzled my sister in law and husband at a dinner I cooked by seemingly haphazardly just throwing stuff into pan and having it taste edible. So much so, my sister in law wants cooking lessons to up their own game. Thing is, what I’ve learnt has taken me not just years but possibly decades of trial and error and practise to do. It doesn’t easily translate into a couple of lessons on a weekend.

That isn’t to say, I can’t write up what I do in a recipe. I’ve done that for her and hope she gets it when I say a dash, or a dribble, or a pinch and that she needs to work out what works for her, and her taste buds. The important thing is to taste at every step of the process and make sure that what you’re doing tastes right for you.

And you, are you competent in the kitchen, or do you just get by?

NaBloPoMo: 13/30

I have a mammogram every other year
Post menopause, and past having kids, I hope, I still go regularly for my pap smears and mammogram, but now, I do them every couple of years (as recommended). Believe me, Ladies, this is not something you should skip, ever.

I go to bed early
As in, I mean, by 10:30 pm every night. Nothing to do with a pandemic and everything being closed, and more to do with a change in life-style choices and, as I’m not as young as I once was, I no longer want to go out late at night. Doesn’t matter if I’m reading a good book, I’m in bed by 10:30.

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I try to keep my life simple and, for the most part, it works. I have my routines that, if not followed, end up leaving me out of sorts and yes, even grumpy sometimes. And no, that’s nothing to do with my no longer drinking coffee—something I had to do cold turkey on orders of my doctor. You wouldn’t have liked me during those first few days/weeks … oh boy, no.

But where was I? Oh, yes, routines. I get up at roughly the same time every morning, 7:45, when my iWatch quietly chimes. And yes, it’s enough to wake me. Most morning, to wake up, I step in the shower even before I brush my teeth. It’s the one thing guaranteed to wake me up. I have something of a leisurely breakfast compared to most, including the OH, who never allows enough time to get themselves organised before heading out the door for work.

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