This is a rare day: I’m sitting at home with Pirate Booty Snacks to my left, a cup of warm apple cider to my right and a laptop in front of me. We always intended to get another laptop, but things have been moving at SUCH a fast clip.Anders has been fantastically busy at the Museum (where the PC resides from 9 to 5) and I have been crazy busy taking care of the kids, the house, and traveling from NYC so I can see family & friends. Hopefully, this gives some explanation as why my updates, blog or otherwise, have been relatively spotty.
When I tried to “revive” my blog (see the previous entry from a lifetime ago), I figured I’d have the time, the laptop, and the energy to write my commentary on what I thought would be reverse culture shock. There have been bits of that, for example, my frustration with American car culture or the unbelievably crappy cell phone service. What really threw me for a loop was realizing that I’m dealing with culture shock. After all, I’m living in New York City, with kids, in a neighborhood where the taxes paid per head are most likely more than my paid salary. This resembles nothing of the life I was living when I left the States nine years ago.
In a way, culture shock is much better than reverse culture shock. There are challenges to overcome (finding an apartment & a day care was a fright), new places to explore (Central Park, playgrounds, museums), and cuisines (surprising boring in this neighborhood). While these things can be frustrating, they are often exciting, too. I’m learning a lot about being a stay-at-home mom, American style. Theo goes to day care three days a week, which is extravagant, considering I’m at home with Livy. I was shocked to find out most day care facilities cost more per academic year than I paid for my college degree per academic year. What’s worse is so many of the day cares or pre-schools are only open 3 hours a day! (What’s the &%!* point?) Norway really outshines the US when it comes to gender equality, child support & education.
A pleasant surprise has been the overwhelming positive reaction people have to the kids, especially Livy. She rides on her tummy in her baby carriage, prompting all kinds of exclamations, smiles, and sometimes, debates. There’s a secret army of women who help me get Theo around on public transit and an amazing support staff of men who offer me their seats on a crowded subway. I am incredibly grateful for these small courtesies, since public transit is such a beast in this city (and that's when it's working).
And if you haven’t guessed by now, I’m seeing NYC through the lens of a child. I chuckle at the vision of myself, some twelve years ago and my trips to NYC. Twelve years ago, I basically partied my way through the city, its galleries and its venues, always ending the trip with a fantastic brunch. With the kids, eating out is not relaxing and seeing concerts is not a reality. (There’s just no way I can stay awake through the opening bands to see the headlining act.) Now I skip from park to playground, scour the city for cheap & tasty eats and find fun venues for Theo. I am far from bored, and I know we’re spoiled, living the good life thanks to the generous travel stipend Anders received from the University.
To be honest, I look forward to getting back to work, but there in lies the rub: work is in Norway. Fantastic Norway, organized Norway, ahead-of-the-curve Norway, sterile Norway, cold Norway. Never in my life did I imagine that I might suffer reverse culture shock in a place other than the US and I certainly didn’t anticipate how much I want to stay in this dirty, convoluted, backwards, colorful, vibrant place just a little bit longer.
FB (nearly) Killed the Blog Star
I haven’t blogged in a while, and while I could blame FB, the truth is I was struggling to find a topic. My heart wasn’t into the regular topics of kids, work, Oslo vs. Philly vs. Cairo, etc. Recently, a rather innocent suggestion prompted me to blog again.
We’re moving to NYC for 6 months and the people who are subletting our apartment have very little. Gratefully, all we have to pack down is our personal belongings (and yet I wonder where does all of this sh*t come from?). Anders had innocently suggested that I could leave my binder full of recipes for the subleters to peruse. I recoiled at the thought, then tried to shake it off, thinking that there’s nothing particularly special about this binder, so why not leave it out, and changed my mind one more time: that binder is mine.
There is no “Water for Chocolate” going on here, however, the binder almost feels like a diary. These recipes represent memories, places, and people. Here are a few selected entries:
From Oslo: Anders added his own favorite recipes to the binder that include rice pudding (risengrynsgrøt) and the rice cream & rice pancakes that are made from the pudding leftovers. I also have a rather unexceptional recipe for mango cheesecake. I value it because I had to learn how to make a graham cracker crust which turns out to be a lovely complement to the killer mango topping.
From Cairo: I have a slew of Egyptian recipes that include molokhiyya, potato salad, koshery and one amazing recipe for Banana Bread a roommate had downloaded from the Internet. To my great disappointment, I’ve never been able to replicate Hala’s amazing spinach, dill & rice dish. It’s not surprising since the recipe was given to me to me like this: “W’allahi ye Heather, it’s so simple: just add tomatoes, dill, spinach and rice.”
From Philly: I find these recipes to be a riot since they reflect the zeitgeist of what was new in food culture in the 90s. At the time, there was this burgeoning focus on meat and dairy replacement products, health food and organic food. For example, I have a recipe for a chocolate mousse pie filling made from tofu. I’ll never make it again, but I can’t bear to throw away the recipe. A lot of the recipes from this era came from the Internet at a time when the Internet was new. Most were downloaded & printed from fledging websites and they show how far web design and network technology has come.
From Athens: Athens was the first place I lived where I had to cook for myself (I lived in the dorms up until then) and what a place to learn how to cook. Rather unconsciously, I explored what I like and how to prepare it. This was pure trial & error, so I made a lot of mistakes in the process. Most of the recipes I have for Greek food were copied out of books after I came back. I certainly have memories tied to moussaka and tzatziki, and I irrationally keep six different recipes for béchamel sauce, even though I only use one.
Some of these recipes travel with me like family heirlooms. I can’t tell you how many times I copied or asked my mom for a copy of the Cinderella Cake recipe or the one for Famous Amos’ Chocolate Chip Cookies before they found a permanent home in the binder. The Cinderella Cake is my favorite birthday cake recipe and the Famous Amos Cookies are the *best* chocolate chip cookies in the world, provided you like raisins. These recipes followed me from Penn State to every place I’ve lived since then. While these recipes represent tradition, for me, they are more about quality of life. A birthday just isn’t a proper birthday without Cinderella Cake.
This binder represents just part of my issues with food. (My main issue is that there is far, far too much tasty food in the world.) All of these little issues and memories trapped in the binder will remain there until I deem it appropriate to throw them on the table. Like most food issues, it feels good to be in control of them.
Bon appetite, yo.
We’re moving to NYC for 6 months and the people who are subletting our apartment have very little. Gratefully, all we have to pack down is our personal belongings (and yet I wonder where does all of this sh*t come from?). Anders had innocently suggested that I could leave my binder full of recipes for the subleters to peruse. I recoiled at the thought, then tried to shake it off, thinking that there’s nothing particularly special about this binder, so why not leave it out, and changed my mind one more time: that binder is mine.
There is no “Water for Chocolate” going on here, however, the binder almost feels like a diary. These recipes represent memories, places, and people. Here are a few selected entries:
From Oslo: Anders added his own favorite recipes to the binder that include rice pudding (risengrynsgrøt) and the rice cream & rice pancakes that are made from the pudding leftovers. I also have a rather unexceptional recipe for mango cheesecake. I value it because I had to learn how to make a graham cracker crust which turns out to be a lovely complement to the killer mango topping.
From Cairo: I have a slew of Egyptian recipes that include molokhiyya, potato salad, koshery and one amazing recipe for Banana Bread a roommate had downloaded from the Internet. To my great disappointment, I’ve never been able to replicate Hala’s amazing spinach, dill & rice dish. It’s not surprising since the recipe was given to me to me like this: “W’allahi ye Heather, it’s so simple: just add tomatoes, dill, spinach and rice.”
From Philly: I find these recipes to be a riot since they reflect the zeitgeist of what was new in food culture in the 90s. At the time, there was this burgeoning focus on meat and dairy replacement products, health food and organic food. For example, I have a recipe for a chocolate mousse pie filling made from tofu. I’ll never make it again, but I can’t bear to throw away the recipe. A lot of the recipes from this era came from the Internet at a time when the Internet was new. Most were downloaded & printed from fledging websites and they show how far web design and network technology has come.
From Athens: Athens was the first place I lived where I had to cook for myself (I lived in the dorms up until then) and what a place to learn how to cook. Rather unconsciously, I explored what I like and how to prepare it. This was pure trial & error, so I made a lot of mistakes in the process. Most of the recipes I have for Greek food were copied out of books after I came back. I certainly have memories tied to moussaka and tzatziki, and I irrationally keep six different recipes for béchamel sauce, even though I only use one.
Some of these recipes travel with me like family heirlooms. I can’t tell you how many times I copied or asked my mom for a copy of the Cinderella Cake recipe or the one for Famous Amos’ Chocolate Chip Cookies before they found a permanent home in the binder. The Cinderella Cake is my favorite birthday cake recipe and the Famous Amos Cookies are the *best* chocolate chip cookies in the world, provided you like raisins. These recipes followed me from Penn State to every place I’ve lived since then. While these recipes represent tradition, for me, they are more about quality of life. A birthday just isn’t a proper birthday without Cinderella Cake.
This binder represents just part of my issues with food. (My main issue is that there is far, far too much tasty food in the world.) All of these little issues and memories trapped in the binder will remain there until I deem it appropriate to throw them on the table. Like most food issues, it feels good to be in control of them.
Bon appetite, yo.
Olivia Campbell Bettum
This announcement comes a little late, but with no less love: Olivia Campbell Bettum was born on April 04, 2010, weighing 2.9kg and 48cm long. Since then, she’s been sleeping, eating and exhibiting great patience as the rest of us get used to having two kids in the house.
Welcome, Olivia. I hope you remain patient with us and develop a sense of humor, too. We love you, Baby Girl.
Welcome, Olivia. I hope you remain patient with us and develop a sense of humor, too. We love you, Baby Girl.
Debate? Naw, posturing.
I’ve been surprised lately at the ferocity in which people are “debating” Obama’s Healthcare reform. NPR’s Michel Martin wrote a blog entry about how emotional the town hall meetings are and how little of the actual bill is discussed. Lee Hill followed it up with this blog entry on civil discourse.
WELL. If everyone’s posturing and no one’s debating, DO allow me to get in on the brawl. I have no idea what the bill states and have some pretty strong views for an ex-pat. Living in Norway has its pluses and minuses, but I find that the national healthcare system (among other nice socialistic perks, such as the one year paid maternity/ paternity leave) to be increasingly like golden handcuffs. Anders and I have often talked about moving to the US, though we’ve never really discussed the nitty-gritty. My head starts aching when I think about navigating American healthcare and bureaucratic systems again.
I remember distinctly when I read my friend’s blog after he wathced Michael Moore’s Sicko:
Then and now, I wholeheartedly agree with Ian. My European compadres like to tell of horror stories they hear on the news about Americans being turned away from a hospital because they either didn’t belong to the same HMO that runs that particular hospital or being turned away for not having any insurance at all --or worse yet-- being dropped by your HMO in middle of, say, chemotherapy. This is utterly and completely unimaginable to Europeans. Then again, Europeans see health care as right and not a luxury. After experiencing both, I have to say I agree with the Europeans.
That’s not to say the various national healthcare systems aren’t without their flaws. For one, they’re tailored to the culture/ nation they serve. I’ve heard some crazy stories about friends who’ve received healthcare in places like Japan, Romania, Germany and the UK. We shake our heads, laugh in disbelief at the “they did what?!” aspect of the story and continue the conversation. What never, ever enters the conversation is how we didn’t have access to healthcare in our time of need. And this is where I lose the plot in the US debate: Isn’t and shouldn’t the Healthcare Reform be about accessibility?
What also astonishes me is how Americans who actually have healthcare do not view their monthly deductions as a kind of tax. Different companies have different options, but almost everyone pays XXX amount to their employer every month. If I recall correctly, I paid close to $200 month for my healthcare (no dental, no eye coverage) at Temple U. That was on top of my federal, state and local taxes, which at the time totaled about 32% of my income. Right now, I pay about 32% of my income to the Norwegian government and get to keep the $200 per month that otherwise would’ve gone to an HMO because healthcare is already included. (Hmmm, what on Earth should I do with this yearly saving of ca. $2400? I know! I’ll use it to fund my 5 weeks of vacation!)
Lastly, what is this nonesense about the governement “Death Panels”? Seriously, people. Don't you know that the private, for profit HMOs already have their own? My aunt died from liver failure because the healthcare company flat-out refused the transplant that would have saved her life. Had she been 69, it would have been granted, but too bad for her, she was 71. Everyone in my family has good genes and longevity on their side, living well into their late 80’s to mid-90’s. But to the private health insurer’s Death Panel, an odd 20 or so additional years wasn’t enough of a reason to grant a transplant. Honestly, what’s the difference between Uncle Sam’s or the HMO’s Death Panel? It’s not like the average Joe has a chance in hell to appeal a decision from either one.
WELL. If everyone’s posturing and no one’s debating, DO allow me to get in on the brawl. I have no idea what the bill states and have some pretty strong views for an ex-pat. Living in Norway has its pluses and minuses, but I find that the national healthcare system (among other nice socialistic perks, such as the one year paid maternity/ paternity leave) to be increasingly like golden handcuffs. Anders and I have often talked about moving to the US, though we’ve never really discussed the nitty-gritty. My head starts aching when I think about navigating American healthcare and bureaucratic systems again.
I remember distinctly when I read my friend’s blog after he wathced Michael Moore’s Sicko:
“I've forgotten the sensation of living in utter economic fear of ever getting sick or hit by a car, as I often did in the U.S. I say economic fear, because I wasn't worried so much for my health--I was fairly sure, correctly or not, that I'd make it through fine--but that I'd catch something or break something that would make me go into bankruptcy.”(Mind you, I still haven’t seen Sicko, but I am merely posturing here.)
Then and now, I wholeheartedly agree with Ian. My European compadres like to tell of horror stories they hear on the news about Americans being turned away from a hospital because they either didn’t belong to the same HMO that runs that particular hospital or being turned away for not having any insurance at all --or worse yet-- being dropped by your HMO in middle of, say, chemotherapy. This is utterly and completely unimaginable to Europeans. Then again, Europeans see health care as right and not a luxury. After experiencing both, I have to say I agree with the Europeans.
That’s not to say the various national healthcare systems aren’t without their flaws. For one, they’re tailored to the culture/ nation they serve. I’ve heard some crazy stories about friends who’ve received healthcare in places like Japan, Romania, Germany and the UK. We shake our heads, laugh in disbelief at the “they did what?!” aspect of the story and continue the conversation. What never, ever enters the conversation is how we didn’t have access to healthcare in our time of need. And this is where I lose the plot in the US debate: Isn’t and shouldn’t the Healthcare Reform be about accessibility?
What also astonishes me is how Americans who actually have healthcare do not view their monthly deductions as a kind of tax. Different companies have different options, but almost everyone pays XXX amount to their employer every month. If I recall correctly, I paid close to $200 month for my healthcare (no dental, no eye coverage) at Temple U. That was on top of my federal, state and local taxes, which at the time totaled about 32% of my income. Right now, I pay about 32% of my income to the Norwegian government and get to keep the $200 per month that otherwise would’ve gone to an HMO because healthcare is already included. (Hmmm, what on Earth should I do with this yearly saving of ca. $2400? I know! I’ll use it to fund my 5 weeks of vacation!)
Lastly, what is this nonesense about the governement “Death Panels”? Seriously, people. Don't you know that the private, for profit HMOs already have their own? My aunt died from liver failure because the healthcare company flat-out refused the transplant that would have saved her life. Had she been 69, it would have been granted, but too bad for her, she was 71. Everyone in my family has good genes and longevity on their side, living well into their late 80’s to mid-90’s. But to the private health insurer’s Death Panel, an odd 20 or so additional years wasn’t enough of a reason to grant a transplant. Honestly, what’s the difference between Uncle Sam’s or the HMO’s Death Panel? It’s not like the average Joe has a chance in hell to appeal a decision from either one.
You May Call Me Snaggletooth
It all started with a bad haircut. I mean, a really bad one. All I wanted was trim and now my hair looks long-ish, but in reality it is barely long enough to pull back into a ponytail holder. All of the fly-away hairs I so patiently grew out are back, the length that took months to acquire is gone and I'm flat out pissed. Anyhoo, that was on the eve of my birthday.
On my birthday, I was immediately reminded of said crappy haircut when I woke up. My mood was foul. With my morning cuppa joe that my husband so lovingly put into my hands (props to the man who dared to get that close to me whilst so grumpy), I opened the birthday package my folks sent to me. It was full of magazines, clothes and items otherwise unattainable in Norway. Ok, my mood started to improve – a bit.
Then Anders offered to deliver & pick up Theo from daycare, giving me the liberty to take my racing bike to work. I'm still new to the skinny tire revolution and I'm giddy as a schoolgirl on that thing. (Seriously, this thing is, like, vrrrrrrooooooom!) Anyhoo, the ride lifted my spirits and by this point, I was feeling nearly human.
Later, Anders bought me lunch (he had to since I forgot my wallet). We went to my favorite bakery and sat in the sunshine. As if that wasn't enough, he also surprised me with a brand new iPod. Poof! the bad mood was banished.
At the risk of sounding like some soppy actor at the Emmys, I would like to thank my folks for their care-package and my hubby for not being scared by my snaggletooth alter ego and for all the birthday wishes I got on Facebook. A black mood as foul as I started out with is rare and mercifully, it doesn't last long with a day like today. Y'all ROCK.
On my birthday, I was immediately reminded of said crappy haircut when I woke up. My mood was foul. With my morning cuppa joe that my husband so lovingly put into my hands (props to the man who dared to get that close to me whilst so grumpy), I opened the birthday package my folks sent to me. It was full of magazines, clothes and items otherwise unattainable in Norway. Ok, my mood started to improve – a bit.
Then Anders offered to deliver & pick up Theo from daycare, giving me the liberty to take my racing bike to work. I'm still new to the skinny tire revolution and I'm giddy as a schoolgirl on that thing. (Seriously, this thing is, like, vrrrrrrooooooom!) Anyhoo, the ride lifted my spirits and by this point, I was feeling nearly human.
Later, Anders bought me lunch (he had to since I forgot my wallet). We went to my favorite bakery and sat in the sunshine. As if that wasn't enough, he also surprised me with a brand new iPod. Poof! the bad mood was banished.
At the risk of sounding like some soppy actor at the Emmys, I would like to thank my folks for their care-package and my hubby for not being scared by my snaggletooth alter ego and for all the birthday wishes I got on Facebook. A black mood as foul as I started out with is rare and mercifully, it doesn't last long with a day like today. Y'all ROCK.
In like a lion?
I can't believe the entire month of February blew by and we're already in the first week of March. There was a lot to do at work and we were busy during the weekends, too. Since the conditions were perfect for skiing, we took advantage of nice cross-country trails whenever we could.
While I survived the winter with a whole lot less seasonal depression than before, I find myself among the ranks of Norwegians who feel … so… tired. Daylight hours are expanding, but there’s still ca. 70 cm snow on the ground and mixed bag as far as the weather is concerned (warmish/frigid/rain/snow). Now that March is here, the wish for Spring that Works (i.e. mild sunny days that melt the snow away instead of the rainy kind) tops the list of “Things I Long For”. Whatever Spring holds in store for us, I am considering a helmet and hip waders: the helmet is for "takras" (lit. roof avalanche) and the hip waders for the muck.
Otherwise, there isn't much to report. Work is good, the kid is good, and ditto for hubby. Boring I know, but sometimes boring's OK.
While I survived the winter with a whole lot less seasonal depression than before, I find myself among the ranks of Norwegians who feel … so… tired. Daylight hours are expanding, but there’s still ca. 70 cm snow on the ground and mixed bag as far as the weather is concerned (warmish/frigid/rain/snow). Now that March is here, the wish for Spring that Works (i.e. mild sunny days that melt the snow away instead of the rainy kind) tops the list of “Things I Long For”. Whatever Spring holds in store for us, I am considering a helmet and hip waders: the helmet is for "takras" (lit. roof avalanche) and the hip waders for the muck.
Otherwise, there isn't much to report. Work is good, the kid is good, and ditto for hubby. Boring I know, but sometimes boring's OK.
Time to Get Away
What is it about going on vacation that makes me spin around the house like a madwoman? I’ve come to learn that packing means two things for me: 1) putting my clothes in the suitcase; 2) cleaning the house. Naturally, putting my things in the suitcase is the easy part. It’s cleaning the house that gets complicated.
If I were able to vacuum the carpets, put the laundry away, wash the dishes and go, then it’d be simple. Some how, I equate “going away” with “deadline”. Small projects I’ve put off MUST get done before I walk out the door. Things like delivering the recycling, lining the drawers, replacing light bulbs that burnt out months ago start bothering me with an OCD-like intensity. I rarely get to bed before 1am the night before I travel and this unbelievably stupid since I usually have to wake up at 5am.
I wonder if I do this out of some sub-conscious desire to have a spotless house in case, god forbid, anything happens. Honestly though, I doubt anyone would think negatively of me if I didn’t get the stain out of the carpet lest I never return. Or, I wonder if I do it to extend the concept of vacation. The lovely thing about vacation is getting away not only from work, but also from the household routines. It’s nice to come home and not see all of the things I should have done days or weeks ago, but to clean sheets and a clean slate where I can start my to-do list all over again.
If I were able to vacuum the carpets, put the laundry away, wash the dishes and go, then it’d be simple. Some how, I equate “going away” with “deadline”. Small projects I’ve put off MUST get done before I walk out the door. Things like delivering the recycling, lining the drawers, replacing light bulbs that burnt out months ago start bothering me with an OCD-like intensity. I rarely get to bed before 1am the night before I travel and this unbelievably stupid since I usually have to wake up at 5am.
I wonder if I do this out of some sub-conscious desire to have a spotless house in case, god forbid, anything happens. Honestly though, I doubt anyone would think negatively of me if I didn’t get the stain out of the carpet lest I never return. Or, I wonder if I do it to extend the concept of vacation. The lovely thing about vacation is getting away not only from work, but also from the household routines. It’s nice to come home and not see all of the things I should have done days or weeks ago, but to clean sheets and a clean slate where I can start my to-do list all over again.
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