My love affair with English cheese

Of all the things I love about England, cheese might just be my favourite (sorry, boyfriend).  I go to the supermarket almost every day and linger in the cheese section, gazing longingly at all of the mouth-watering options.  And despite refrigerators being absolutely miniature here in comparison to their American counterparts, I usually manage to keep at least 7 kinds of cheese in the house at all times.  Red Leicester. Blue Wensleydale. Mature Scottish Cheddar. Double Gloucester. Even the names are delicious.

And the best way to enjoy English cheese?  Cheese on toast, of course!  Today I treated myself to two different kinds.  It's the little things....

photo credit: Stacy Coyne

Mr. Muscle v. Mr. Clean

The lovely, though sometimes disappointing, thing about travelling to Britain is that it strikes a balance between being quite familiar and comfortable for Americans, while still retaining enough unique cultural charm to qualify as a "foreign experience." The language is ostensibly the same, elaborate and/or baffling rituals and customs are few and far between, and it's relatively easy to obtain almost any American creature comfort that you so desire. Still, upon stepping outside your front door you instantly recognize that you aren't in Kansas anymore; the narrow streets and gabled roofs reek of Old World, European romance.

I think this must be the reason why I often feel as if I'm in a real-life spot the difference puzzle, the kind I used to pore over in the back of Highlights Magazine as a child. Upon first glance, my flat could be my apartment in Chicago; but when you look a bit closer, all the tiny disparities shine through. I thought of this today as I started to clean the new flat, and reached for the cleaning spray only to find not Mr. Clean but Mr. Muscle.

© SC Johnson

At first I assumed that this must be the English cousin of our Mr. Clean (just like I imagine that TK Maxx is the English twin of TJ Maxx). Why wouldn't the English like Mr. Clean? In my personal experience, English men are known much more for their cleanliness than for their muscles. But upon further research I discovered that Mr. Clean (also known as Don Limpio in Spain) is owned by P&G, and is completely unrelated to SC Johnson's Mr. Muscle.  I think P&G really missed the boat on this one; the English would go wild for a brand called Mr. Clean, even if the mascot does look a bit like notorious criminal Charles Bronson without his moustache.

 

If they do decide to introduce Mr. Clean here, I suppose they can go ahead and just use the commercials from the 1950's, as that's what being life here is like. Apparently I've not only moved to another country, I've gone back in time.  Since I've arrived I've washed dishes by hand, hung the laundry to dry out on the line in the backyard, and cooked dinner from scratch for the Boy every night. I think I'm becoming a proper English housewife.

 

Cheerio, Chicago

After months of planning and agonizing, but with little preparation (because how does one prepare for something like a transatlantic relocation?) I'm finally off to foggy London town.  It's heartbreaking to leave my beloved Chicago behind yet again, but I know the City of Big Shoulders will still be my shoulder to cry on if ever I need her.

You say goodbye/And I say hello