Baking a Speedy Recovery: Cinnamon Rolls

There are two activities in my life that I find ultra healing and restorative: yoga and baking.  If I'm feeling under the weather or off-balance, I'll turn to one or the other to make me feel right again.  And one of the few things I've managed to do this week while shuffling around my flat in my rose-print pajama pants and fleece robe is bake: it requires very little energy, produces highly calorific and tasty treats, and all the ingredients can be purchased at the local corner shop, thus requiring no more than a 2 minute walk.

I've never baked cinnamon rolls or anything other than cakes or cookies so was super hesitant to try this recipe as I have a huge fear of failing when it comes to cooking.  Not only was this recipe from Ramshackle Glam (yes, again - I've become a teeny tiny obsessed with Jordan's blog) super easy to follow, but it also produced great results - not bad for my first try, eh?  I love how you can control the sweetness easily and the way the brown sugar and cinnamon just melt beautifully in the middle. 

If you're reading this from the UK and are using a fan oven, the only modification I'd make is to bake for a little less than the recommended time, otherwise your rolls will turn out too brown and crunchy.  I also made a simple icing by mixing together one cup of icing sugar with a half teaspoon of vanilla extract and two tablespoons of milk, then drizzled over the rolls while they were still warm.  

Initially, I made these as a surprise for John as they're his favorites, but I'm also partial to a couple of warm cinnamon rolls and a hot cup of peppermint tea in the morning.  Not to mention that my flat now smells officially like Christmas.

... And Meanwhile ...

I've received a delightful array of flowers from various sources (namely, Alison, Udita, and my co-workers) and numerous get-well-soon cards to cheer me up.  I feel so loved.  And I think I'm getting there. Almost.

Handle With Care: "I'm American."

"I hope you don't mind, but I'm just gonna have to get naked in front of you now," I announced to John's mom, as I assessed the fact that I needed to change into the hospital gown as quickly as possible, after my surgeon swung by my bed and said that they were ready for me.  I was at the Royal Surrey County Hospital in Guildford, Surrey, for my first operation under general anesthetic at a NHS hospital.  Petrified didn't even begin to describe how I was feeling.

I've had two similar operations in the US at a private hospital in Washington, which cost me a mind-blowingly cool $10,000 two years ago as I had returned to America as an uninsured visitor, needing emergency surgery.  I was used to hospitals with lazy Susans and electric blankets.  Shiny floors and art on the walls.  So I wasn't sure how I'd fare in a state-funded, public hospital.  Call it prejudice.  I was ashamed to admit that I had somewhat bought into the anti-NHS hype at some of my frustrating, low points.  Luckily, my US surgeon was able to refer me to his best friend, who happened to be an English maxillofacial surgeon practicing at the Royal Surrey County Hospital, which is how I found myself pulling on highly unflattering anti-embolism stockings on Wednesday afternoon, preparing for the OR.

"Got your sexy socks on?" asked the nurse who was helping me get ready.  "Yup," I replied, showing her the green tights.  "Okay, well, just make yourself comfortable in your bed and we'll wheel you in," she said.  I was a little confused.  They were actually going to wheel me into the operating room?  This was new.  In the States, you get up and walk into the operating room and literally lie down on the table, waiting for the anesthesiologist to work his magic.  "Have you never had a procedure here?" she asked.  "Not in this country," I replied.  "Ooh, yes, you're American!  I LOVE your accent!  Why are you even HERE?" she gushed.  Her friendly chatter helped me feel more at ease and as soon as I hit the prep room, where the anesthesiologist (or anaesthetist, for you Brits) who had consulted me before the op, was waiting.  A team of nurses were by his side - all friendly, smiling, and professional.  It was at that point that I finally let go of my anxiety and put my trust in the men in the green scrubs.  They knew what they were doing.  "I promised you something good to help you relax," said the anesthesiologist kindly, pressing drugs into my IV.

When I came around, after the operation, I remember crying.  I don't know why it happened because I wasn't even upset.  But the nurse handed me some tissues and comforted me.  I wanted to tell him that he reminded me of someone from TV, but I couldn't get the words out.  He asked me about my pain levels and fed painkillers into my IV accordingly.  I specifically asked not to be on morphine before as it made me sick after my previous two surgeries, so I was glad that the anesthesiologist had listened to my concerns.  I was also glad that I had been able to speak to him before the operation and he asked, on more than one occasion, about how I was feeling, what I was afraid of or nervous about.  My surgeon came around shortly after while I was coming around, telling me that the surgery had gone very well and that he'd see me in two weeks.

I had been previously told that if I needed to stay overnight, I'd be in a ward with a few other beds, rather than a private room, which I was slightly anxious about, but okay with.  However, I was given oxygen for quite a while after the operation and wheeled into a private room with my own bathroom, while a very nice nurse came by and kindly brushed my hair from my face while saying, "Keep the oxygen on, my darling, it'll just help brush the cobwebs away."  John's mom came in and quietly read in the corner, staying with me for a few hours afterward, until the same, lovely nurse came in and asked how I was feeling and if I'd like to stay overnight.  I told her I would like to if it was all right with her.  I felt really bad about taking away beds from other people if they needed it more.  I kept expecting them to wheel me back to the bay, but I was able to stay in the room on my own for the rest of the evening, which was perfect.

The junior nurse who had checked me in at the start came in and asked if I wanted some hot food.  I was a bit incredulous at the thought of eating after having had my jaw/sinus operated on, but decided to try anyway.  The menu was immense - she rattled off a selection of probably twenty or so choices and I settled for some swede mash.  "The pasta is quite soft too," she said. "Shall I put some on a plate and you can just try some?"  I ended up eating it all.  And it might have been the drugs I was on, but it was absolutely delicious.

Soon after, I fell asleep and Alison returned to London, with plans to pick me up when I was discharged the next day.  The night nurses came in quietly in intervals to check my blood pressure and offer me painkillers, food, and anything else I wanted.  They were friendly, patient, and understanding - unlike the brusque, non-communicative night team I encountered in the US.

So how would I rate my first overnight stay and surgical experience at a British NHS hospital?  I have to say that it was truly amazing.  I'm so grateful to the kindness, compassion, and thoughtfulness I was shown during my stay there.  I'm thankful for the expertise of the doctors and nurses who treated me and who looked after me in the hours following the operation.

I know that the Royal Surrey is an exception and that not all NHS hospitals across the UK are up to its standards.  I've seen friends receive some rather appalling treatment in London hospitals, for example.  I also know that I'm an exception, having had a special referral to attend this specific hospital in Surrey.  But I must say, after having paid no costs towards the hospital after my surgery (except for the antibiotics and painkillers I took home, which will total just over £14), I'm glad to pay my UK taxes every month and I'm glad to make the NHS contribution that comes out of my paycheck - if it means I can receive treatment of that caliber.

M&Cs: The Chewiest Peanut Butter Cookies

Keeping in line with the Mount Holyoke theme below, I made some peanut butter cookies on Sunday in honor of the MHC tradition of Milk & Cookies (AKA M&Cs), with a recipe stolen from Ramshackle Glam (via Adeline), which I absolutely love.

For cookies, I almost always exclusively follow American-originated recipes: the cookies turn out soft, moist, and most importantly, CHEWY, like the beloved Toll House variety I used to have as a child.  British recipes tend to result in cookies that are slightly too crispy and crunchy to my liking (more akin to biscuits), though if I'm making a cake (especially Victoria sponge), I definitely turn to the wisdom of Mary Berry.

After a very yummy yoga class taught by Lauren on Sunday morning, she, Bindy, John, and I indulged in a sumptuous Sunday roast at The Winchester in Islington.  And while our stomachs groaned at the sight of the dessert menu, I insisted that we needed something sweet and decided to fulfill a craving for peanut butter cookies.  John muttered something about "time constraints", so in an act of defiance, I unfortunately bragged (rather loudly, in fact) that it'd take "20 minutes flat" to produce a batch of warm, chewy cookies.

I spent about 10 minutes looking for my mixer.

So it actually took me thirty minutes, but in the end, I ended up with some delicious, chewy, mouth-wateringly-aromatic peanut butter cookies.  WIN.

Though, when I took them into work, they were enjoyed by all but one - who remarked that they "could be crunchier".  I glowered.

So that got me thinking: how do YOU prefer your cookies?  Crunchy or chewy?  Leave your comments below and I just might send you a batch - just the way you like 'em.

Alumnae Elfing: On The Second Day Of Elfing ...

My elf is full of surprises.  I loved my first elfing gift below, but I didn't expect this to continue!

Sorting through yesterday's post this morning, I found a thick envelope with my name and address written in an unmistakably artistic scrawl accidentally tucked under one of our wooden placemats; turning the envelope over confirmed that it was from Anna and I smiled.

Enclosed was a card:

And a handful of handmade envelopes by Anna, who has her own shop on Etsy:

They're fun, beautiful, and one of the best gifts I've ever gotten across the Atlantic.  I love my elf.  Thanks, Anna!

Alumnae Elfing: It's a Women's College Thing

Recently, Vicky Chu of Wesleyan College came under fire after writing a rather scathing summation of women's colleges in her school paper (she transferred from Bryn Mawr), including the statement, "It really isn't normal."

As I sit with a cup of hot coffee in my Mount Holyoke hoodie in my London apartment, five years after graduation, mulling over Chu's comments (I have a few favorites - check out the Jezebel article I linked above and you'll know what I mean), I'm smirking.  Sorry it didn't work out for you, honey.  I hope you found "normal" real quick as soon as you transferred.

But I'm not normal, so I suppose MHC and I were a perfect fit.

And best of all, it's totally not normal to receive this amazing package on a Monday morning from a fellow MHC alum, two class years above me:

I was elfed.  You wouldn't get it, Vicky.  It's a women's college thing.

It ain't normal.

My elf was Le Petit Elephant AKA Anna.  Why the Peeps? You see, good elves know what their recipients like: Anna picked up on clues via Twitter, and knew to send me these amazing Halloween Peeps all the way from Cambridge, Massachusetts to my office desk, accompanied by an equally fantastic Halloween card.  It was a little too much kindness for a Monday morning and I must admit, I got a little teary (read: NOT NORMAL).

WARNING: Vicky, you might want to stop reading at this point, as I'm going to explain the elfing tradition and you might vomit at all the utterances of abnormality I'm about to make.

Elfing is a tradition that began in the Mount Holyoke residence halls sometime in the mid-60s.  Around this time each year, when the leaves on campus begin to turn a vibrant red, orange, and yellow and carloads of students flock to Atkins Farm for cider apple donuts, two sophomore roommates will quietly sneak down to the room of their two assigned first-year "elfees" - preferably when they're already asleep. As any elf can relate, this often means a) not sleeping, EVER b) setting an alarm for some bizarre time, like 3:17 a.m. or c) waking up very, very early.  They'll be armed with gifts, candy, cards, and magazine cutouts of celebrities whose thought bubbles contain compliments about the elfee, which are then taped to the walls of communal bathrooms (not quite what Chu might expect to find - see article for explanation).  Elves cover and decorate the dorm room door with streamers, newspaper, and banners.  Elfees awake in the morning to confusion, surprise, amusement, and then happiness.  This goes on, oh, every day for about a week, until the elves reveal their identities to their elfees at another MHC tradition called - wait for it - Milk & Cookies (or M&Cs, as true Mount Holyoke students refer to them).  I can't even fathom explaining that now because I can actually sense the disgust seething from Chu's person, even though we've never met (if we ever do, I suggest it be over a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of ice cold milk).

IT'S NOT NORMAL.  But it sure is fun.

By the way ... have you heard about Mountain Day?

Going Back To My Coffee Roots: St. Martin's Coffee & Tea Merchants, Leicester

Lately, I've been refraining from my "You know what? I DESERVE IT!!!" purchases of soya vanilla lattes in the morning.  I actually don't deserve it if my bank balance is nearing zero.

I've never been a serious coffee drinker, which sends many into an incredulous state when I tell them that I hail from Seattle (or at least, a suburb south of Seattle).  "Isn't that like ... the BIRTHPLACE of STARBUCKS????" Brits ask in their distinctive intonation.  Sure, I visited the Starbucks drive-thrus in high school - but not because I particularly liked the stuff, more so because it was cool.  Cool to show up to first period AP American Government with a venti skinny double-shot caramel mocha in hand.

Now that I'm an A-D-U-L-T, I find that I increasingly require coffee to get me going and wine to help me unwind.  I call this: G-R-O-W-I-N-G U-P.  My mom likens it to dependency and is probably counting down the days I'm going to end up in rehab, either catatonic from caffeine overdose or in a permanently drunken state.

None of that's going to happen, of course.  But in order to tighten the purse strings, I've taken to making my own delicious coffee at work every morning in my shiny new, red Bodum cafetiere with coffee from St Martin's Tea & Coffee Merchants in Leicester - all courtesy of John's lovely mom, Alison, who bought me these lovely gifts on a shopping excursion to Leicester's city centre.

Cheers me up just looking at it (even though I'm still in my robe as I write this and will very well be late to work).

Back to the coffee: St. Martin's is, well, it's great.  I don't know anything about coffee, but it's the type of laid back, non-pretentious environment that makes all coffee appreciators - experienced and non-experienced alike - comfortable.  They hold regular "coffee tastings" outside the shop and you're always welcome to try before you buy, which is always a plus (and a must, if you don't know exactly what you like).  The staff is friendly, helpful, and chilled out.  They stock a variety of loose leaf teas as well, so if coffee isn't your thing, you're certain to find something that will appeal.  Location is also helpful: tucked in St. Martin's Square, the shop and cafe is situated between several quirky and artful boutiques, far removed from the hustle and bustle of the high street.  It's feasible to drop by just for a coffee with a friend and browse the shops for the rest of the afternoon without having to step foot into the busy shopping center if you don't want to.  And that kind of sums up what I love about it.

Though there's an online ordering facility available on their website, I'm tempted to make repeat trips up to Leicester just so I can stop by - it's that good.  More importantly, I'd rather support an independent establishment like St. Martin's in a city like Leicester, where the baristas' passion for coffee is inclusive, rather than the blank stares I receive on the other end of the counter in London - indie or not.