Down South

With north London going *phoom* and the cold rain unremitting, we decided to head for sunny Portsmouth for the day. We reasoned that, being closer to the equator, we might perhaps find a ray of sunshine and temperatures hovering somewhere above, oh, 60 deg F (I knew my coats, hats, and gloves would come in handy). Also, the good citizens thereabouts did not seem to be setting any police cars on fire, which is always a desirable state of affairs when one is holiday.

Sure enough, the sun was shining; the brass on HMS Warrior was polished to mirror brightness; Victory was done up shipshape and Bristol fashion; the RN's jolly tars were back from Libya; and the harbour was full of pleasure craft and ferries coming in from the Isle of Wight.

Best of all, there was risotto to be had - liquid as the ocean, wavy as the waters off Selsey Bill, lapping against the sides of the bowl like a high tide. The dish was flavored with pumpkin, pancetta, sage, and creme fraiche and eaten with as agreeable a view as one could wish for.

Yo ho ho - a gluten-free life for me!

Devotion

As we ambled along Fleet Street and the Strand during our explorations of City streets, we passed St. Clement Danes (church of the Royal Air Force), St. Bride's (journalists and printers), St. Andrew's (trade guilds), St. Stephen Walbrook (the Samaritans), St. Mary-le-Bow (true Londoners), and St. Margaret Pattens (shoemakers).

I feel compelled to add my own shrine to this illustrious list - an altar before which I would happily bow down and worship, if it didn't mean kneeling in the gutters and getting my knees muddy:

Falling Behind

Whilst we are visiting London, our home-away-from-home is just near the Fulham Road.

Near the tube station may be found ...

They claim to have lots of British cheese for sale ...

... and they do! Their collection is jaw-droppingly awe-inspiring.

But as I - in dreamy wonderment - admired all those creamy, semi-soft, and aged beauties, I was reminded of a sobering fact: the only English varieties of cheese currently slumbering in my own Pennsylvanian cave are cheddar and Wensleydale.

I have some catching up to do when I get home.

Out of the Rain

We took in the sights of London today during the worst downpour in the city's recent memory.

We saw the Tower ...

... and St. Paul's ...

... and afterwards enjoyed a fine lunch.

Since the chicken accompanying my curry rice was plainly grilled and not fried in a panko crust, I boldly decided to believe that it was gluten free.

Not Good for What Ales You

Campers, I know you are all concerned that there is nothing for a gluten freedom fighter to eat whilst holidaying in Yorkshire.

Let me hasten to add that there is also nothing to drink!

Judge and Jury

To those readers who are of the opinion that I am exaggerating about the dire gluten situation here in the Vale, I submit the following evidence. These photos were taken during a short walk in the centre of York.

I rest my case.

Heartbreak House

Tea-time at England's stately homes can be particularly difficult for gluten guerrillas such as myself.

Behold the spread at Castle Howard's lakeside cafe yesterday afternoon:

How glad I was to find a basket of crisps off to the side. Look how posh they were, too - no ordinary snacks allowed at an aristocratic pile so closely associated with Evelyn Waugh and Anthony Andrews!

As is now my habit, I turned the bag over to examine the fine print on the back. Packet blurbs are so much cleverer on this side of the pond!

Both lactose and gluten? Another cynical betrayal by the ruling classes!

Gluten freedom-fighters of the world unite!

We have nothing to lose but our protein chains.

Superpowers

As I have faithfully recorded elsewhere, I generally do not leave the house without backup provisions in the eventuality that I am stranded in a part of the world where the only food available is loaded with gluten. My rations of choice are Kind cranberry and almond bars (all natural! certified gluten free! dairy free! loaded with anti-oxidants! doesn't taste like packing material!), an entire box of which I purchased in anticipation of my trip to the UK.

For two reasons, it never made it into my suitcase.

• This holiday involves several train journeys and I wanted to pack as little as possible. Of course, since I like to be prepared for any and all eventualities, my idea of 'packing light' makes most seasoned travellers guffaw with disbelief. A sudden blizzard in August? No worries - I've got gloves, hats and scarves at the ready. We receive an unexpected invitation to a fancy dinner right after taking a 5-mile walk in the rain? I have four pairs of shoes standing by. Snake bite? Covered! But at least I saved a bit of room by leaving my cereal bars behind.
• I considered that the UK is civilized place where g/f snacks must be easily available, rendering my packing of same a bit redundant. Anyway, I love grocery shopping when abroad. How else would I know that there's such a thing as kipper-flavored potato chips?

During my introductory trip to Sainsbury's for holiday staples, I found an admirable substitute:

Sadly, my discovery is lacking in certain essential characteristics. Whereas I rely on my Kind bars to provide innumerable health benefits - including life eternal and riches beyond my wildest imaginings - their Brit equivalents are rather more modest in their claims:

I hope I don't regret leaving my trusted standbys at home.

It has always been my plan, after all, to live forever.

Time for Tea

Campers, you will recall that one of my formerly favorite English tea-time bites was a cherry bakewell. The more curious Yanks amongst you might have been tempted to wonder, 'What on earth is one of those?'

Well, I will tell you. A cherry bakewell (not to be confused with a traditional Bakewell tart, an olde English delicacy from, I believe, Shropshire) is the most excellent of the many little cakes produced by the estimable firm of Mr. Kipling, supplier of sweet factory-made goodies to the masses. Each one consists of an aluminum pie plate roughly 1.75 inches in diameter, filled to the brim with five luscious layers of complex almondy goodness. From bottom to top, the strata are composed as follows:

1. shortcrust pastry base
2. raspberry jam
3. frangipane
4. fondant icing
5. glace cherry (one-half)

They are awesome things and I love them very much. In my previously gluten-filled days, whenever I returned to Blighty I always made a beeline to the supermarket in order to purchase a box of six. I rationed myself to one a day and was utterly content.

Shortly after we arrived in Yorkshire yesterday, we embarked on an expedition to Sainsbury's supermarket in Pocklington (trivia alert for history buffs and Ioan 
Gruffudd fans: Pocklington is where William Wilberforce went to school) to stock up on the various delicacies of which we are deprived for much of the year: Walker's cheese and onion crisps; J20 (the Squid's exotic fruit-juice drink of choice); McVities chocolate digestive biscuits (for the others, of course); and a variety of English cheeses.

My sterling SiL, who had previously researched the g/f situation in preparation for my visit, led me to the appropriate aisle to see if any additional temptations might be found there. And what did I see, about a third of the way down on the right-hand side?

What joy! What excitement! They weren't Mr. Kipling's, but who was I to argue with a box of gluten-free cherry bakewells, whatever their provenance?

I noted on the back of the box that British regulations require rather more information than is required or, possibly, desired by the average American gluten guerrilla:

I am still not sure how I feel about the proviso 'suitable for coeliacs' rather than the less judgemental 'gluten-free' assurance to be found on many American products, but at that moment I decided to let it slide. I was too pleased by my new found treasures and too eager to get them back to the house to fret overmuch about such linguistic subtleties!

I organized a family tasting project during afternoon tea: present were Sir, SiL, BiL (aka 'The Knees'), and myself. The Kid Squid is now boycotting all g/f sampling experiments and refused to participate, so I was additionally gratified by the willingness of the others to serve a guinea pigs.

I sliced two of the cakes into halves, carefully ensuring that each contained a sliver of cherry. I was immediately dismayed by the bakewells' crumbly texture and too-thick layer of fondant:

Persevering, I presented each victim (sorry, I mean taster, of course) with a portion. BiL, foreseeing disaster in an uncanny display of prescience, requested that his half be cut into quarters and I dutifully complied.

We all took a bite of cake and chewed thoughtfully. The taste wasn't bad: a quick check of the label revealed no untoward substances such as lentil powder or bamboo fiber but rather more conventional ingredients such as tapioca starch, rice flour, and a touch of xanthan gum for its adhesive qualities.

Clearly, the xanthan wasn't up to the task - or possibly Sainsbury's inattentive food scientists had misjudged the quantities required. Somehow, the tarts were both too dry and too gummy at the same time - a combination I would not previously have thought possible. BiL was of the opinion that the frangipane lacked the necessary binding to hold it together while SiL declared the tarts 'dry' and 'heavy'. Our jaws and molars received an undeniably vigorous workout, as we chewed and chewed and chewed to aid what would no doubt be a challenging digestion situation later on. The fondant layer, earlier judged too thick, was also too sweet: presumably, posited BiL, to distract the consumer's attention from the unappetizing textures beneath. I myself was moved to brush my teeth shortly afterwards.

The remaining half (I consumed BiL's rejected quarter) was eventually consigned to the compost bin, since no one found the tarts to be worth the 245 calories contained within each. The uneaten two (unlike my adored Mr. Kipling's, Sainsbury's tarts come in boxes of four) are even now sitting in their box on the kitchen counter, somewhat lonely and forlorn, surrounded by more popular goodies such as Tunnock's caramel wafers and sweets from the Hotel Chocolat in York.

Thus ended my first experience of gluten-free products here in Jolly Olde. I am trying to remain upbeat and positive, an effort greatly aided by liberal applications of salted caramels and chocolate-covered sticky toffees.

But nothing will ever quite supplant the place in my heart occupied by the fond memory of Mr. Kipling's cherry bakewells.

Blighty Bound

Tomorrow the family is gallivanting off for two weeks of fun and sun (well, 63 deg F drizzle, anyway) in Jolly Olde Englande and Scotlande.

There is lots of gluten in the UK and I shall be watching sadly as my companions indulge. Here follows a list of my favorite British delicacies, every single one of which is completely jam-packed with the forbidden ingredient:

• Breakfast: fried bread, cereal-filled Wall's sausages, toast and marmalade
• Morning coffee: shortbread
• Lunch: prawn mayonnaise sandwiches, egg mayonnaise and bacon sandwiches, scampi in a basket, a good plowman's, Scotch eggs, pork pies
• Tea: scones (plain or fruit, I don't care); Bakewell tarts; anything from Betty's in York
• Dinner: steak pie, fish and chips, crispy duck with pancakes from a Chinese takeaway, the Fiorentina from Pizza Express 
• Dessert: any pud you care to name, including treacle sponge; sticky toffee pudding; vanilla slices with fondant icing; clootie dumplings; and syrup tarts

The rels have reliably informed me, however, that the anti-gluten leagues are alive, well, and fighting the good fight on their side of the Pond so it is unlikely that I will be able to find nothing at all to eat.

I will not be accompanying the Squid on his onward journey to Venice, thankfully, where I think starvation could be a very real possibility. Poor lamb - to languish in a place where they eat nothing but pasta all day!

This is Fractured Amy signing off for a fortnight while she seeks culture and the good life in the Yorkshire Wolds, London, and Edinburgh.

Of course, I may post from time to time if the gluten situation becomes intolerable.

After all, whingeing is one of the things I enjoy most in this crazy old world ... and isn't enjoying oneself what a holiday is all about?