Hugh Laurie In Concert: A Scrumptious Dream

I discovered Hugh Laurie through my husband, who is English. The Limey grew up watching A Bit of Fry & Laurie and Black Adder. Hugh Laurie was constantly on tv, and I believe my husband took this for granted. Contrarywise, even when Hugh Laurie became huge in the US and was on House, I never watched while it was on. It was *too* popular. When something gets that big I feel an overwhelming pressure about it – I didn’t want to watch House with the rest of America. If I was going to fall in love with a tv show – and looking back that was pretty much written in the stars – I wanted it to be on my own timetable.

When we met, the Limey introduced me to the wonder that was Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry. Lawd have mercy, they were brilliant together. Hugh Laurie always looks annoyed and upset while Fry has a very open visage. They’re the perfect double act, playing off each other. I just devoured every Black Adder and Fry & Laurie produced and still wanted more.

I began to consume House like it was water and I was a man who had just had a Guatemalan insanity pepper. I would watch an episode as I did an hour on the elliptical. The show made the time go by quicker. It was brilliant; he was brilliant. Stephen Fry actually had a funny quip about his former co-star in the role of House: “Hugh makes you think he’s as smart as the character.”

Last August I saw him in concert at the Birchmere in Alexandria, VA. It was a tiny venue, and I was about 5 feet away from him. He is astonishingly beautiful up close. I kept imagining how he’d smell and it would send me into a state of blissful catatonia. I just wanted to sit there all night and dream about that sexy, handsome man. He was funny on stage, and his music was flat-out amazing.

Then last night happened.

Holy merlot. As he pointed out when he took the stage, Oxford is his hometown,and he really put on a show for the home team. He was hilarious, such as when he said, “I was born just a … well a placenta’s throw from here… at Radcliffe Infirmary… Wow. Placenta. That’s an odd place to start the evening.” Yup. But somehow, it worked. One thing I truly admired about his performance was his ability to be funny on the fly – it was a weird and delightful mix of humour and truly soulful music. He was loose and funny and open, with tons of praise for his band. His admiration for them was obvious; it is rather amusing to see a big Hollywood actor openly admire other artists, but he was bare in his emotion for them. He danced – often in a ridiculous white guy dance – and he was sexy as hell when he sang a duet with Gaby Moreno. His voice is excellent: it is a voice you trust. Yes, he’s English and speaks with an Eton accent. But he can also sing like he’s fresh from the Louisiana bayous, circa 1928 too, such as when he gave a heart-quaking performance of “Careless Love”. You could feel the wistfulness down to your toes. Then he’d jump up and make you laugh at his comedian’s patter.

That is his talent: his ability to fully become whoever he wants. He was Dr. House. And at the same time, he is a very credible jazz singer. Like his friend Stephen Fry, he is a polymath. He seems to embrace the duel acting/singing roles – though last night he said, “I used to be an actor” which made me think perhaps he isn’t anymore.

That’s a loss. But I am like an Italian wife who keeps making spaghetti as long as Tony keeps showing up for dinner. As long as he’s doing something, I will be watching, and listening, and fantasizing.

My images of the evening are poor, but I share my meagre gifts with you:

My Birthday Sale & Contest

It’s my birthday on Saturday and I have a big surprise for you!

Bestselling romantic thriller At Any Cost is on sale from all retailers for $.99 for a limited time and you have a chance to be immortalized in my next book! It’s easy-peasy. Just buy the book for $.99, then email your name to me (blog.caraellison at gmail). It can be your first or last name (or both) or a name you just want to see in print. I will choose two names to use as characters in my next book, which is untitled at the moment but is Omar and Leah’s story. You can even let me know if you’d like your namesake to be a bad guy, a good guy, or a neutral guy.

Sound fun? Choose your favorite retailer: B&N | Amazon | iBookstore.

Can’t wait to hear from you!

The Paperback Version of At Any Cost

Paul brought this home this evening. He bought it like a regular customer from Amazon.

The Similarities Between AT ANY COST & #PRISM

Wow, it was weird to see the NSA scandal play out this weekend. It all felt very familiar and creepy because essentially the plot of AT ANY COST is what was streaming before my eyes all day. AT ANY COST is the story of a young man who discovers that someone at the NSA has made it possible for everyone to be spied upon at at time, and for every secret to be sold. Fallon Hughes, the daughter of the president-elect, and her Secret Service detail, Tom Bishop, are yanked into the conspiracy when Fallon gets a phone call from a frantic young man saying the NSA is giving away the “map of the keys.” Map of the keys is made up, but it essentially describes the PRISM scandal. And like Edward Snowden, the young informer – Antoine Campbell – is in deep trouble with the US government and those who would prefer these secrets be kept secret.

Edward Snowden is currently in Hong Kong, no doubt paranoid out of his mind while he waits for CIA assassin teams to kidnap him (source: the Guardian). In AT ANY COST, the whistleblower isn’t quite so lucky – he had no time to give interviews before he’s killed. That’s not really a spoiler for the book, incidentally.

The acts that spring from the leak are terrifying – both in real life and, I hope, in the book.

Another strange coincidence was the Chechyan connection in the book. I won’t go into too much detail, but there is a character in the book that sickeningly forecasted Tamerlan Tsarnaev, the Boston Marathon bomber.

How utterly bizarre to see what I conceived as outrageous fiction has materialized before our eyes.

Joyful Girl Fitness

As some of you know, fitness and health have taken a larger piece of my time and attention recently on this blog and elsewhere. In fact, my passion is now so serious I’ve actually begun the process of getting my group fitness certification at the American College of Sports Medicine. I’ve decided to start a new blog called Joyful Girl Fitness. It is a place to share effective workouts, tips, yummy and healthy recipes, and discuss all aspects of well-being. You can find it at joyfulgirlfitness.wordpress.com. You can also like the Facebook page to get regular updates (http://www.facebook.com/JoyfulGirlFitness) and follow my fitness Twitter stream at twitter.com/joyfulgirlfit .

But don’t worry – I’m not abandoning this blog or my books. It is just another place to share something I’m passionate about. If it moves you, please feel to join in that discussion.

Here’s to good books and good health!

Becoming A Badass

After a week of cool, sunny weather that made me forget there was anything but beauty and gentleness in the world, I woke this morning to thrashing rain. I looked at my bike clothes, lined up for me, and felt a little kernel of dread in my tum. When I was a good cyclist, it was a maxim to never ride in the rain. And why not – I lived in Texas, where the skies were not cloudy all day. On those days it rained, it was easy enough to run or swim or hit the gym. But here, in England, if you don’t work out when it rains, you don’t work out at all. The guy at the bike shop said as much; when I wrinkled my nose he told me to harden the fuck up. And I took that to heart. The path to becoming a badass is filled with rain and probably a lot of other unpleasantness.

I pulled on my riding kit, plus a windcheater, and rolled my baby outside. Rain fell from slate grey skies. A cool breeze blew across my face. I mounted my mighty steed and took off.

The road rules here in England are still foreign to me. As I pedaled, I kept thinking LEFT, LEFT, LEFT. Stay on the left side. It felt weird; it added to the whole general awkwardness I felt after having been off the bike for a decade. I stopped at one point before hitting a hill. I just stood there on the side of the empty road, trying to decide what to do. I’m not in cycling shape; hills kick my ass. I stood there in the rain, torn between my heart and my body. I finally got back on the bike, and continued on. I dropped into the lowest gear I had and pedaled. My legs burned but I made it to the top. I then coasted down, while the countryside spread out, green and yellow, in every direction. It felt a little bit like triumph. I’d overcome my second bit of resistance of the day: first the rain, next the hill.

I rode about eleven miles then turned around. I came home on wobbly legs. It would be so easy to say it was a mistake to buy the bike, to try to do an activity again that I once excelled; it would only lead to disappointment. That thought did cross my mind. But it didn’t linger. I won’t allow myself that luxury. I want to constantly be better,and the only way to get better at anything, whether riding or writing, is to do it. Often. Relentlessly. Ignoring all the external pressures to quit.

I learn this every day.

I came home and took a selfie. This is me, happy, with rain on my face:

Cycling Madly

I called the bike shop a bit after 9am and asked if my kit was ready. My bike was there, but the helmet and shoes I’d ordered were still with the courier. I said F it, I couldn’t wait any longer; I had to have my bike.

Paul and I arrived less than hour later. While my bike was being assembled (computer mounted, pedals installed, bike cages mounted), the shop guy – who was very knowledgeable as most bike shop guys are – helped me try some new shoes. I had ordered black but the more I thought about it, the more intrigued by white I became. And what do you know, the white ones were in stock and in my size. I snapped them up:

I then upgraded from the Echelon helmet to the S3.

And I grabbed some gloves:

And some riding shorts and jerseys and socks. When my bike was finally ready I was blown away. It was so beautiful. I couldn’t wait to ride it.

I got it home, got ready and took off. My first impression was that it was the same as it always had been: stiff, responsive, smooth. I was trying to remember the shifting and was immediately met with a steep hill in a gear that was far too large for it. I had to stop and walk it up the hill (humiliating!) then mount again. On the straightaway, I got into the groove, finally got it in the correct gear and took off outside of town. I had forgotten how fast 38 km per hour can seem, how the road blurs under your wheel, how your mind is working on anticipating the next few seconds while taking into account traffic while your body is really working in a way that it simply doesn’t in a spinning class.

Exhilarating and, I’m a little sheepish to say, terrifying.

I had never been scared on a bike before. I marvel now how utterly fearless I used to be, how much I trusted my muscle memory. Now, I have no muscle memory — not for cycling. It will require days and weeks and months of training to become what I want to be, and get where I want to go. But I say this on the eve of a big birthday: I am up for it. I am totally committed, and I take pleasure in the work.

My bike after getting home from the first ride:

I’d Like Something Nice For My Gravestone

England at this time of year produces some of the best weather I’ve ever known. It is radiantly sunny but not too hot during the day and at night grows cool and still. To take advantage of this miracle of nature, Paul and I have begun taking walks. On one such outing we ended up in a cemetery. I rather enjoy seeing graveyards; they tend to bring my own mortality into bas relief, and it is always refreshing to remember YOU ARE GOING TO DIE. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day.

It clarifies things for me. Prioritizes things, certainly.

I was however, sinking into sadness because we’d walked to the children’s graves without realizing it. I read some of the headstones with a pit in my stomach, my eyes burning with empathetic tears. I was at the point where I knew I had to leave or risk being put in an emotional funk for the rest of the day and possibly longer. These cemetery walks can sometimes run a fine line that way: between being a life-affirming venture to remind myself to fly right, live deeply and live NOW, and the opposite of feeling overwhelming sadness for all the bad fortunate and meanness in the world – an emotion that is easy to feel when staring at the grave of a two year old girl or a ten year old boy.

I turned to go and saw this stone, and the sadness flitted away like dandelion fur. I giggled, despite the solemn setting. It was instantly the right message at the right time.

Strange Cookings: An American In An English Kitchen

The Washington DC area is so great for so many things, but particularly getting fresh, organic ingredients to whip up a huge salad or something tasty for dinner. It was also uniquely good for take-out. Baja Fresh had the Baja Ensalada with shrimp and verde sauce that was a scant 200 calories, which I ate at least once a week. And Cosi had a lot of good green salads and sammies that left me swooning. The Whole Foods salad bar was just a few minutes away – a vast array of colorful veggies, proteins, and even some healthy junk food once in a while. It was easy-peasy-Japanesey to walk two blocks and come back home with what I’ve now discovered is some of the world’s best food. It had the two big pleasure buttons for me: it was healthy and it was tasty.

I dream of those now, now like a war-torn lover.

I had naively expected that I would ease right into English life like a nice hot bath, adapting to their cute accents and driving on the wrong side of the road and carry on as usual. Alas, there has been some culture shock. Lots of it, to be honest. But the greatest source of confuzzlement is English food.

My mother in law is an AMAZING cook. I have often pleaded with her to open a bakery with me. I’d run the place and she’d do the baking and we’d make so much money. Alas, she laughs and says she cooks for fun, not profit. BECAUSE SHE’S ENGLISH. No American would say that. This is very typical: she made this for a Sunday tea in the garden. Just whipped it up, seemingly with magic:

She can whip up some dishes that leave me flabbergasted. How did she do it? How did she make that chili taste better than anything I’ve had in Texas? How did she whip up a roast beef and Yorkshire pudding dinner from scratch, and so effortlessly present it as if it were easy as Burger King takeout?

I can’t seem to cook like she does. I don’t have her sense of timing or taste. The ingredients I buy taste nothing like their American counterparts. I believe the soil is different here and it changes the taste of the veggies. In one remarkable case, it is for the better: English strawberries. Lord have mercy, you have never had such amazing strawberries. I could eat them all day, every day, and never get tired of them. I had no idea that strawberries were meant to taste like that – with big, bold flavour. In the US, you can occasionally find good strawberries, but more often they’re huge, colourless on top, and taste of nothing in particular. If you ever encounter someone being snooty about English strawberries, trust me, they have reason to be. They’re divine.

This was an Eton Mess created by my mother in law. The strawberries just knocked me out. The cream and meringue were light and fluffy as a cloud.

Alas, I don’t like the taste of any of my other usual faves. Broccoli has no discernible taste here, nor does cauliflower. And the tomatoes can be very hit or miss. Even canned tomatoes, which I used to make a soup the other day, tastes blah. The soup was a staple in my repertoire at home. So healthy and tasty and easy to make, it was the perfect weeknight dinner: saute some garlic and onion and whatever spices you have on hand, add some spinach, a can of stewed tomatoes, a can of quartered artichoke hearts, some navy beans if you want them (I usually omit these), a can of veggie stock, bring to a boil, add some cheese-filled tortellini, lower the temp to a simmer, let the flavours marry for as long as you want, then serve with a smattering of parm on top.

The stock was the major problem for this dish. I simply could not find a can of veggie stock. I ended up buying these little pots of gel that you could add water to, and would allegedly make a stock. But when I took them out of the package and read the ingredients they were full of fillers and other nasty things so I couldn’t bring myself to use them. I served the meal without the stock.

Though my English Gent did bravely eat it and feign to like it, I could not. It was utterly disgusting. The spinach tasted different, the tomatoes were awful, the whole thing was just “off”. I refused to eat it. Paul politely ate one bowl and threw away the rest.

Part of the problem is converting the measurements and temps from American to English. A funny story about that: Paul received a call last week from Waitrose regarding an order I had placed. “Did your wife really intend to order two kilograms of red Leicester cheese?” the guy asked. Paul doubted it. He modified the order to half a kilogram.

I’d simply not paid attention to the amount. If I saw that it was “2″ of anything, I probably translated it into pounds, and thought… well, I do like cheese. Alas, I’d ordered nearly four pounds of cheese! Thank goodness Waitrose caught that.

The temps of the oven are different – and just hard to translate on the fly. I’m still not used to my stove or oven, which contributes to the large number of crappy dinners I’ve served since I’ve been here. And I can’t find organic, locally-sourced beef or chicken. I have occasionally found organic chicken breast filets but as someone who tries to adhere to a paleo diet, it isn’t quite good enough. I want the chickens to have been loved, to have had free-range to eat what it naturally would. I’m not sure if I’m going to find that here. I’ve been a little luckier with organic milk and eggs.

So I haven’t been eating quite so paleo since we got here. I have been getting a lot of pre-made salads at Marks & Spencers (I can’t stomach Sainsbury’s veggies. They’re not fit for livestock feed.) We’ve also gotten in the habit of having some cheese and bread before dinner, which is actually quite nice. Paul made an amazing Welsh rarebit the other day, which was a stunning success. Certainly better than anything I’ve been able to produce.

I did have a modest success with a goat cheese and red bell pepper strata. I sautéed some onions, red bell pepper, and cracked black pepper. Mixed eight organic free range eggs with some fresh grated parmesan cheese, pepper and salt, then cut some really good crusty bread into cubes. I soaked the bread in the egg mixture, then put the pieces in a baking dish, then poured the remainder of the egg on top. I layered the onion and red bell pepper on top, and then spotted it with a mix of feta and goat cheese. Baked for 25 minutes.

I was scared when it came out of the oven. I looked like the consistency of bread pudding and I wasn’t sure how it would taste. To my surprise, it was actually quite nice.

It was reasonably healthy, quite filling, and actually tasted pretty good. While I was eating I kept thinking it would be a super breakfast casserole. I’d make a mix of cinnamon, sugar, brown sugar and soak the bread in that, then pour the rest on top. I’d then take some sausages and crumble them over the top. And maybe pour some maple syrup over it, with some powdered sugar on top of that. I think the texture is perfect for it. I’ll give it a whirl on some lazy Sunday morning, when there is plenty of time to get it right. And if I mess it up, the village bakery is always there, doors open wide.

A Conversation With My Father In Law

My father in law and I had a text conversation about the Coronation. It is easy to see why I love this family.