The more things change...

...the more they stay the same.

As you can see, the look of the blog has changed. Just a little, but hey after five years of the same old polkadots (which were supposed to resemble thumbtacks, and reflect the URL - did anyone catch that? Anyone?), I bet it made at least one person sit up and take notice (Hi Vic!). I would love to tell you that I changed it because I wanted to go with the times, better reflect my personality or the direction of my writing. But I can't. You see, I just got tired of seeing that blog archive on the right side of the page, telling me I had only posted three times in August. Three! So I moved the archive, and then one thing led to another, and before you know it, you have a REALLY orange blog. Let's see if I decided to keep it.

Anyway, in spite of the new look (and the now less conspicuous location of the blog archives), nothing else has really changed. I haven't blogged in almost two weeks because our fall semester started August 19, and even though I only teach two class now (thanks to the same awesome project I was on last semester), and this is my seventh time starting a new academic year, I still get caught up in the quagmire of late registration, students that need to be added and/or dropped, attendance verification, syllabi, book orders, and other drama that just won't go away no matter how much I plan. And so while three, four years ago I would still find the energy to blog, I must be getting old, because driving home and crashing on the couch/in the pool is about all I have the energy for these days. Plenty of ideas, and plenty of blogs written inside my head while driving to work, but once I get to said work, my creativity is poured into fixing schedules, explaining my attendance policy in ten different ways (to the same student), writing grant proposals, and preparing conference presentations. You know how people tell you things get easier with time? Well, they do, but why don't those same people tell you that as things get easier, people will notice and pile more work on you and so then while your work may still not be as hard as it was at first, there is not just so much MORE of it, you're about to lose your head anyway.

Ahem.

In spite of all of that, I have been able to come to one blogworthy conclusion this week: I am sick of driving. I know, it's a miracle it only took me six years of driving 180 miles per day to get sick of it, but there you have it.

It started when I backed into a lamppost two weeks ago. I was dropping a colleague off on the other side of campus, because I "was on my way home anyway, and it is way too hot to walk anywhere", and I can't say no. Eager to get myself home and into a pool, I backed up, ready to turn, when a lamppost decided to rudely impede my progress. The lamppost was fine, I was fine, my car has a small dent on the bottom of the bumper. And you know what? No one cared, including me. Campus police didn't care. Husband-dear said the car was old and he didn't care. And I, the winner of the type A personaly award four years in a row, didn't care either. Never backed into anything, never caused an accident, never dented or dinged my car through my own fault. Backing into a lamppost should have caused a major meltdown, but it didn't. I just didn't care. Car, schmar.

When I lived in the Netherlands, I used to get so sick of having to deal with transportation. Taking your care into town to shop would have been ideal, but really made no sense since the traffic would be horrendous, there would be no parking spots anywhere, and if there were, you'd have to do a 29-point turn to get in it, and pay a small fortune for an hour's worth of parking. So I would ride my bike, with its enormous bicycle bags piled full of stuff, bags hanging off my handlebars, or if it rained I would brave the ridiculous bus schedule to navigate my way into town that way. Getting anywhere outside of town meant carefully weighing the options between possible traffic delays, parking dramas, and public transportation scheduling nuisances. I remember yearning for a place where you could just get in your car, drive somewhere, and find a free parking space. I would fantasize about it while riding my bike home from the grocery store with twenty pounds of groceries dangling off my bike frame. I would imagine how wonderful it would be to just get in your car and drive off while waiting for a delayed train on a rain-soaked platform.

And then I moved to Georgia. At first, all was glorious. I loved being able to get in my car and go. My town, in spite of its shortcomings, does not really have any traffic issues (base traffic has nothing on a good old-fashioned German stau). I loved having free parking and having lots of it. I loved the empty interstates, the curving highways, the fact that a 90 mile drive really only took about 90 minutes. I loved not having to worry about rain messing up my hair or my nice clothes, and being able to come and go as I pleased.

But you know what? I am so over all of that. I am tired of people's inability to use a blinker or take a turn without crossing over into the other lane (or swinging out to the left to make a right turn - I mean, really, people?). I am done with people (I'm looking at you Florida!) who hog the middle lane on the interstate at 60 miles per hour, or those who pull out in front of you while you're going 55 miles per hour. I'm tired of people passing on the right, of semis driving way too fast, of the endless road construction. I'm over people on their cellphones staring off into space, people who forget their car came equipped with side and rear view mirrors, people who have no sense of distance or space, or when the use of hazard lights is appropriate (hint: a drizzle isn't it). And if I have to navigate one more parking lot where all of these problems appear to meld into a big giant accident-waiting-to-happen (and that only didn't happen because I look out for all those pulling out or in without looking, driving the wrong way, or randomly pulling out in front of you), I may just stop the car, get out, and throw a tantrum. 

Obviously, I can be over this as much as I want to be, there's really nothing I can do about it. The fact is, I live 90 miles from my job, and if I want a paycheck, I will need to get to work. Which means driving, which means navigating all of the above and more.

So, Americans, and Georgians in particular, I am begging you: LEARN HOW TO DRIVE. Watch some youtube videos. Check that old driver's instruction manual. Don't think of the stalks next to your steering wheel as things that get in between you and your coffeemug, or your mirrors as a friendly aid for your morning make up routine. Don't think that because you've been doing it this way for thirty years, it's fine. It's not. It only appears to be fine because those of us who do look out, know how to use our lights and mirrors properly look out for you. But we're about done with that. So put that phone away, turn the radio down, stop worrying about the size of your rims or the engine under the hood, and drive.

Thank you.

In the meantime, I will be riding my bicycle to our local grocery store, heat and bugs be damned.

The sick cow

I am happy to report that I have finally discovered two downsides to owning a pool: bugs and rain.

As we all know, bugs love Georgia. Big bugs, little bugs, bugs that crawl, fly, creep, or all three at the same time, bugs that sting and those that bite, green bugs, brown bugs, red bugs, they're all very much at home in Georgia. And unless you're a squeamish yankee (and anyone not born and raised in the shade of a Georgia pine- "and that's home ya know"- is obviously a yankee), you don't pay them any mind. Or as those uppity yankees would say, you don't care. 

Needless to say, I do care. I don't like anything crawling, creeping, or buzzing anywhere near me. Granted, the past six years (six?! Six?? How did that happen?) have seen me mellow out a little. Roaches no longer send me flying up onto kitchen counters, and spiders just have me reaching for my flip flop. In fact, last year, when we had a roach fall out of an air vent on to the couch I was sitting on, I just egged Zoe on to eat it because I really was not in the mood to get up and look for our can of roach spray. I know. I have come a long way. A looong way. 

Anyway, all of this to let you know that when you own a pool, you become much more intimately connected to the lives and cycles of the local bug population. Our pest guy (yes, we have a pest guy. No, we are not gross, we just live in bug heaven) pointed this out to me when we first opened our pool. I was wondering why we had oodles of ants in our pool, and he replied that they got hot just like us and liked water too. I might have responded with not in my pool, to which mr. Pestman just laughed and told me that after the ants left we'd see Junebugs (check. Big, round, and brown), wasps (check again, both big and small), cicada killers (not sure but I think these are the enormous black spiky insects that I've been finding in our skimmer lately), and then, once fall hits, kudzu bugs. After one  summer, I am now also able to add spiders (mid to late august), ants again (after a hot dry spell), and, yes, frogs (anytime it rains). Although not bugs, they are gross (seeing how most of them are still alive when I catch them), but also strangely helpful, since they do eat as many of the bugs in the pool as they can manage before the chlorine sends them to the big lilypad in the sky. It's been one big biological experiment in my skimmer, people. 

The second downside is rain. Not rain per se, of course, although that does definitely mar one's ability to fully enjoy the pool, but the things one needs to do when it 's been raining a lot. This past weekend, we've had about ten inches of rain, and one of the rules of thumb when owning a pool is that one should not let the water get above the skimmer. It has something to do with the overflow that is attached to the skimmer. Or perhaps the ability of the skimmer to return water through the pump. Or perhaps it was something else together. Or our pool builder just loves the idea that all his new pool owners are out in the rain tending to their pool. At any rate, when your pool level gets too high, you want to drain some of it out by via the pump. You don't want to drain too much as you don't want to lose all your salt, and so the bottomline is that you will be outside in the rain for a considerable amount of time watching your pool and pushing buttons. If it rains a lot for long periods of time, and you have a salt water generator (or SWG for those 'in the know'), you might even hit the pool jackpot and find your salt levels so low you have to add a bag of salt to the pool and brush it out. In the rain. 

So yesterday, after three days of biblical rains, and two runs out to the pump to drain the pool, I realized my salt levels were so low my SWG was no longer working. At this point, the rain is coming down in sheets, the ground is completely saturated and as a result sports deep puddles of water, two of your neighbors need to get their sceptic tank drained, and all of your shoes are soaked through.  And it's just your luck that you need to go out and maintain the pool that you insisted on. The pool that you promised you would take care of...

So what does any self-respecting Dutch woman do? She does what generations of farmers with sick and pregnant cattle have done before her: she dons her waterproof riding hat, her wooden shoes, her impermeable raincoat and gets it done. She first drains the pool a few inches, and then drags a forty-pound bag of salt across the wet grass, makes sure it's evenly distributed along the deep end, and then brushes the pool until the salt has dissipated. Rain is running off the brim of her hat, down her back, and everything is wet, but still she keeps on going. 

And this would have sounded incredibly cool had her two boys not been standing in the kitchen, watching the entire spectacle from the cooled, dry inside of the house, all the while laughing at my outfit and taking pictures. Revenge, my dear readers, will be very sweet:)

P.s the odd looking planks were part of the fence project that husband-dear has since finished

The race that almost wasn't, was, then was again

I'm not big on writing race reports, as the discussions of finished races are called in the world of athletics. I'm pretty sure none of my readers care about whether or not I use caffeinated or non-caffeinated gels during the bike portion, and that you all can also live without tales of painful chafing and how to get out of a tri-top. I keep a race journal I keep where I write about things like that, so I'll remember to wear lube, bring extra socks, and not wear my white, leaky goggles. But I keep race tales to a minimum on this blog. 

As a result of that, I completely forgot to tell you all about my last triathlon of the 2012 season. It was what you might call an unintentional race in that I had no intention of doing it. I had done the race twice before, in 2009 and 2010, and since I wasn't overtly impressed I didn't feel the need to do it again. I had also just come back from a five-week study abroad program in China, one you might remember as being particularly challenging (read bug-filled), and so doing a race was the last thing on my mind. But then husband-dear signed up to support a friend who was doing his first tri, and since I couldn't imagine just standing by the sidelines doing nothing (heaven forbid), I signed up too. 

Race morning started early (normal), dark (also normal), and with flashes of lightning and peals of thunder (not normal). But since none of the race officials said anything, and us athletes sure as heck weren't going to suggest shortening or, heaven forbid, canceling our race, we continued setting up. Keeping an eye on the flashes on the other side of the lake and using ample plastic bags as rain was threatening to join the party. We were all assembled on the beach, eyeing the wavy lake in fear, when the sherrif himself suddenly made an apprarance. The smokey-the-bear-hat-wearing, vastly overweight middle-aged man looked extremely uncomfortable walking in between the scantily clad triathletes, and I would have laughed had I not feared what was bound to come. And indeed, a few minutes later the race official announced that the sheriff's department had ordered the race delayed for thirty minutes due to the thunderstorm. And with that announcement came the rains. 

So there you are, dressed in a skimpy tri top, tri pants, and a swim cap while the thundering is roaring on the other side of the lake, the rain is beating down and there is no place to go but wait on that little beach. And wait. And get really cold. And grumble at the sheriff's department, as the thunder is obviously miles away and all they're accomplishing with the delay is to ensure everyone is really wet, cold, and at this point suffering from a seriously derailed race nutrition plan. 

But the thirty minutes passed, and although the thunder was still rumbling on the other side of the lake, and the rain was still beating down, the race was given the go ahead. And so off we went. Into the choppiest, wildest water I have ever had the pleasure of racing, only to be followed by the scariest bike portion ever. And that is not a hyperbole, people. The hairpin turns are enough to give you pause on a dry and sunny day, add a boatload of water to the mix and the resulting slick pavement and you have one hell of a ride, as evidenced by the numerous crashes I witnessed along the way. (And may the record state that all the crashees were young guys without shirts on, which leads me to conclude that exposing one's nipples to fresh morning air is a prelude to all kinds of craziness, as well as a less than thoughtful attitude as I don't think I need to describe the painful, bloody chafing that was clearly visible even when traveling at 19mph). 

So by the time I got to the run, I wasn't expecting much as far as time went. You can imagine my surprise when I realized I was minutes ahead of plan. Thanks to the rain, the run, usually a beast as it leads through open fields without a hint of shade, was truly exemplary, and I finished seven minutes faster than my previous finish at this race. And to top it all off, this was enough to land me first place in my age category. To say I was amazed was an understatement. And elated. And slightly smug: three races, two second places, one first. Who would have expected that from the clumsy girl who was always picked last in PE. 

Fast forward a year later, and humble pie had replaced the smugness. A strained adductor and a broken toe had brought my half iron training to a screeching halt, and when husband-dear signed up for this race to support another friend, I signed up because I knew that standing on the sidelines would send my eternally precarious mental equilibrium over the edge, even though I also knew I would have to steel myself for the fact that I was going to suck. At least compared to my 2012 result. But anything was better than not racing, or at least so I told myself. And kept telling myself over the next few weeks. As a perfectionist whose motto 'do it right or don't do it at all', this attitude flew directly into the face of everything I had always told myself. I have always wanted to do better, to be better, since as far as I'm concerned, standing still is the same as going backwards. Improvement is the only way forward- go team DC! (insert sarcastic remark here). But with physical therapy still in full swing, and a toe still in recovery, I knew that this time around I was just going to have to give myself participation credit. There was no way I was going to improve on last year's amazing time, and that had to be good enough. It's what I told myself on my runs, my long bike rides, my swims. It's what I told everyone who asked. Whatever I did was going to be good enough, and I didn't like it, but that's how it was going to be. 

The morning of the race, the hottest dat of the summer to date, I looked out at the smooth-as-glass lake and felt something I had not associated with triathlons for years: nerves. Nerves because I was going to do something I hadn't done in years: just race. Not for a time or a place, but just to finish. And it was a scary prospect. So I prayed that I would at least be an inspiration to those around me, many of whom were novices, and that I would just have fun. 

Now I don't know about the inspiration, but I sure had fun. I joked with the other ladies about the swim before the start, yelled encouragement at people on the bike, apologized for being a doofus in taking those hairpin turns, and giggled when one man told me 'aw, that's alright sugar.' I went into the run refusing to do the math on my pace in order to finish at a certain time, and instead called out to a girl I recognized from last year, and chatted with a man who knew both my dean and the university president. And finished. 

Ten seconds slower than last year. 

For the longest time I refused to check the results board. As I told husband- dear, I had given my all, and that was good enough. Finally, finally, after catching up with all the women I had spoken with during the race, and exchanging many sweaty, salty hugs, I made my way over to the board, and apparently whatever I did was also good enough for another first place. 

Sometimes life is not just good, but really good. 

Mellow yellow

I was going to start this post with a statement like, "And for the 7th year in a row, I present to you, the start of the academic year", when I realized I wasn't even sure if this was my 7th or 8th time starting yet another fall term. I'm certain I could do the math, had my brain not already been reduced to its usual middle-of-term state of muddledness. It took only a week this year, and that has got to be a record of some sort. 

So, yes, the era of no-to-do lists and no solid commitments has once again come to a screeching halt, and last week Monday, I pulled on long slacks and a dress shirt, prepared my lunch, and lamented that I couldn't believe summer was over already, only to drive off on my 90-mile drive one more time. The attic will not be cleaned until Christmas, my pictures won't get sorted until Thanksgiving, and I will just have to bribe one of the boys to get fridge cleaned. 

The last three weeks of summer were absolutely awesome. My decision to not do anything I didn't feel like worked out so well, I may make that attitude a staple of all of my breaks. Our skirtboards may never get repainted, and I doubt that I would ever wash our windows again, but who needs a clean, painted house when you can have peace of mind instead? (Yes, and we all know that that is not quite how it works for me, but the thought is so nice, people, really, it is). I did miss blogging (yes, really), but I was just too busy swimming, reading, and sleeping, to get around to it. I do think my spontaneous, unannounced, and unilateral decision to unplug scared some of my overseas family members (Hi mom!), but man, it was awesome. I may really need to rethink this working stepmom thing I got going here. Who needs fulfillment from a career when you can have entire days to yourself?

Anyway, the point I am trying to make is that life has been pretty good down south. I think I may have finally figured out how to keep myself happy and sane out here in dixieland. If I had known that all it would have taken was a pool and a stern email from husband-dear telling me I had earned the right to do nothing, I would have arranged for that to happen years ago. 

As the students are trickling back in, and I start teaching next week, I know you all expect me start a wordy lament about teaching schedules and course content, but with my 50% grant-based release time still firmly in place, I can't even produce the tiniest of rants. I'm actually pretty happy about all the stuff going on this semester. 

I know. I'm sorry. 

On an upnote, however, advisement starts tomorrow, and I'm confident that will quickly undermine my mellowed-out state of happiness. So no worries, Dr. Gripe-and-Complain will probably be back soon. 

Until then, I'll be over there in the corner, smiling at everyone. 

The to-do list

While in past summers, it was safe to say I was pretty much married to my to-do list, this summer had been different. It's not that I don't have a to do list, because I do. I have an entire spiral notebook dedicated to my to-do lists, with separate sections for daily and long-term to-do lists. It has checkboxes, different shapes and colors mini-post-its, a place to keep my pen, and is basically a geek walhalla in between two covers. 

But even though it's full of things I decided I must do before heading back to work (paint Ozziez's room! Sort through pictures! Clean out attic!), I have not touched it since I came back from Ireland, three weeks ago. I've carried it around with me, and it's currently sitting on the coffeetable, staring at me in reproach, but I have simply refused to open it and look at all the things I should have done, should be doing right now, and need to do in the next three weeks. 

This has created an interesting situation. For one thing, I keep forgetting to do things. Like run to the bank to get my hard drives from our lock box, schedule the pool guys to come and paint our deck, and cleaning out the fridge. It also means that when I get around to doing things that I remember from my to-do list, such as sorting through my pictures from Christmas, I do it when I feel like it, and quit when that feeling goes away. I feel like the main character from Office Space, when he's just come out of a hypnosis, doesn't go into work for four days, and when he does, and his boss tells him he's been missing a lot work, he replies with, "Well, I haven't actually been missing it."  Yes, I am definitely less organized (for instance, because I have yet to finish moving certain teaching materials to another computer, on account of I quit when I didn't feel like doing it anymore, my desk is covered in a jumbled combination of used and empty CDs), but I also find that I just don't care. Whatever I'm forgetting is, and this is a shocking revelation to me, really not that important. The fridge, for one, is just not disgusting enough for me to get worked up about it. And if something is important enough (such as scheduling our termite inspection), I am more than capable of remembering. Even over a long weekend. 

So yeah, I'm not sure what to make of this new situation yet. You see, it really means I, like the guy from Office Space, only do what I feel like, unencumbered by to-do lists. So I haven't checked my email as regularly as I should have, not responded to emails from dear friends, not updated my Facebook page in weeks, and we all know how much my blogging skills have fallen to the wayside. Yet I know that those are things I usually like to do. Apparently just not right now. 

However, in line with my current laissez-faire attitude I'm going to cut myself some slack. The 2012-2013 academic year was quite the doozy, with promotion and tenure, a grant, conferences, publications, and it would seem that I just need a break. Between you and me, I honestly kind of like the relaxed me. And I'm sure that once August 5 rolls around, I will be wound tighter than a slinky on espresso. So for now, if I don't respond to your emails, phone calls, or messages, it's not because I don't want to. I just don't right now.

Driemaal..

..is scheesprecht.

Na het verrassende succes van de gevulde koeken van vorige maand was ik overtuigd dat alle Nederlandse lekkernijen vanaf nu binnen handbereik waren. Brinta, roze koeken, spekkoek, erwtensoep, de Amerikaanse recepten zijn allemaal te vinden The Dutch Table, en dus was het een kwestie van tijd maken en de juiste ingedrienten kopen, voordat al die versnaperingen ook in mijn pantry te vinden waren. 

Mijn eerste, of nou ja tweede, success story zou eierkoeken worden. Hoe moeilijk kon een koek die voornamelijk uit eieren bestaat nou zijn? 

Nou, erg moeilijk. 

Het begon met het recept van The Dutch Table. De eierkoeken, die tot mijn grote verbazing corn starch bevatten ( een middel waarmee je sauzen dikker maakt), waren groot en dik, mooi goudkleurig, maar ook hard en redelijk smakeloos. Manlief en de jongens vonden ze heerlijk met jam of honing, maar laten we wel wezen, een eierkoek behoort men met honing noch met jam te eten. 

En dus werd het tijd voor het zwaarder geschut: mijn oom Jan (die voor de verandering ook eens echt Jan heet). Jan is namelijk professioneel brood en banketbakker. Zo iemand die om middernacht naar zijn werk gaat zodat wij allemaal vers tijgerbrood, sesambolletjes, en slagroompunten kunnen kopen. Die na bijna veertig jaar dienst de favoriete patient van zijn tandarts is, en niet omdat hij zoveel snoept, maar omdat suiker in een bakkerij letterlijk in de lucht zit, en hij dat decennia lang al aan het inademen is.  Iemand wiens baan een duidelijk nuttige bijdrage aan de samenleving levert (terwijl dat bij mijn baan nog maar te zien valt). Na een recept dat maar liefst 75 eierkoeken zou produceren afgewezen te hebben als ietwat onrealistisch, kwam Jan met een simpel, klein recept aan. Eieren, bloem ('dat is flour voor jou'), suiker, citroenschil en bakpoeder ('en dat is baking soda voor jou'). Het leek reuze makkelijk. En dat was het ook. En de koeken zagen er prachtig uit. Alleen smaakten ze werkelijk voor geen meter. Niet zoet genoeg, en met een vreemde vissige bijsmaak. 

U begrijpt, dit was het. Het teken dat opegeven geen optie was. It was on. Challenge accepted. In it to win it. 

En zo ging ik op zoek naar een Amerikaans recept. Van een Amerikaanse kok. En kwam na veel wikken en wegen bij een recept uit dat wel wat leek. Zo was er geen corn starch nodig. Maar wel baking soda. En baking powder. En als semi-wannabe-bakker weet ik dat je die combinatie nodig hebt als je enige fluffiness wil krijgen. Wel moest er corn syrup aangeschaft worden, en de oven op een onfatsoenlijke temperatuur voorverwarmd worden, maar mensen, dan heb je ook wat. Want deze derde keer zijn ze dus mooi gelukt. Perfect, goudbruine, luchtige, plakkerige eierkoeken. Van Amerikaans mega-formaat, maar dat nemen we voor lief. 

En ik heb maar meteen besloten dat mijn volgende poging boterkoek gaat worden...en dan? De moeder van alle banket: spekkoek.

Queen of tarts

Many people have asked me about my favorite part of my recent trip to Ireland. Because I live in the Bible belt, where, to borrow from Ms. Austen, sensibilities are many and sense is hard to come by, I have yet to share the absolute best part of the trip with anyone. Instead, I talk about other parts of my trip, such as seeing the Book of Kells, touring Dublin with Mary, exploring County Wicklow, or the inspirational nature of the conference, or perhaps even the success of my presentation. All truly exciting and wonderful experiences, but none can hold a candle to the high tea Mary and I shared on my first day in the country. A first day that was marked by rains, winds, and temperatures in the high 40s. A day so full of new impressions and freezing ankles that when Mary suggested finding a tea place she had read about on TripAdvisor that was known for its pies, cakes, scones, and tarts, saying yes was the only logical thing to do. So, using her ever-useful city app, Mary guided us across Temple bar, through crooked streest, past bars, boutiques, and lots of Carroll's tourist shops. And just when we were about to guve up, we both looked up, and saw the bright red sign with the infamous name 'Queen of Tarts'. Yes, Queen of Tarts. And now you know why I have yet to share this with anyone down here. In a part of the world where talking about armpit hair by innocent first graders at summer camp is seen as the worst kind of inappropriate (yes, this did indeed happen. Back in 2008 in fact), just  mentioning the name of this particular establishment is enough to give most people a fit of the vapors. So I have refrained from sharing this particular tidbit. (And that expression would be a no-no as well..just so you know). 

But I digress. 

The Queen of Tarts was easiest the smallest eatery in all of Dublin: six tables were squeezed together in front of the most scrumptuous display of tarts, pies, and pastries, and patrons had to watch their elbows and knees lest one of them ended up in their neighbor's scone or pot of tea. The decorations in the shape of lots of red hearts, and references to various species of womanhood one might describe as 'tarts', did an amazing job walking the fine line between cute and camp, and gave the place an uncanny resemblance to Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shoppe in the Harry Potter series. In one word, it was awesome. 

In spite of the rain, cold, and the fact that it was Sunday at tea time, one small table next to the display case was empty. Mary and I quickly made it our own, and proceeded to have a very warm, delicious, and much-appreciated tea. 

And seriously, can anything trump sharing a pot of tea, a slice of pound cake with an old friend on a cold day in a teashop called Queen of Tarts?

No, I didn't think so either...