When not living as a unit
in The Indie Attic,
Rachael, Hillary and Kelcey,
three women with wanderlust souls,
are traveling wherever possible,
scribbling down their thoughts,
memories and advice inspired
by those journeys and experiences.
Meant to post this yesterday but got a tad distracted while cooking :) This was in The Globe yesterday! ’Twas the night before Thanksgiving and all through the town, Americans were stirring, shopping around. The Scotsmen were snugged in their beds without care, about to experience a day of great share.
On this day last year, I woke up at 6 in the morning, caught the earliest bus to town, and headed over to my American friend Tori’s flat to do some serious cooking. Cooking mass amounts of food like never before — especially for Tori, who wasn’t much of a chef, let alone learning how to cook a complete Thanksgiving meal for 16 non-Americans. It was a learning experience for both of us on multiple different levels and a true moment of realizing how far our friendship had grown. Doesn’t the saying go “Friends who cook together stick together?”
The night before the big event, Tori and I scrambled to find ingredients for the classic Thanksgiving staples. “Pureed pumpkin?” the Tesco worker stared with confusion, “We only have pumpkins around Halloween. . .”
“Fried onions? Like sautéed onions? I don’t know what you mean. Let me ask the manager.”
“Well, there’s this boxed stuffing that might work. . .”
So pumpkin pie was out of the question, the green bean casserole tasted a little bit more exotic, and the usually hearty stuffing was more akin to a baby food texture, but in spite of all the mishaps, by the grace of God alone (and maybe the help of Food Network), it was the most successful meal of my cooking career. We had one 10 lb. turkey stuffed with vegetables, two turkey breast rolls, a vat of creamy mashed potatoes, two green bean casseroles, bread rolls, cranberry sauce, an apple pie, an apple cake, stuffing and gravy.
After a 14-hour day spent cooking, watching American football on Jonny’s TV, streaming a Thanksgiving episode of “Friends,” and eating, drinking and laughing with 16 dear friends, I learned what Thanksgiving means to me. It’s about being thankful for old friends, new friends, old traditions, and new traditions and the opportunity to share life with others, mashing together a bowl of delicious memories.
This Thanksgiving I’m thankful for my parents, for encouraging my love of cooking (from my dad) and my love of baking (from my mum). If it wasn’t for their inspiration as a kid, spending my weekends and school vacations oohing and aah-ing at their skills in the kitchen, I never would’ve been able to pull-off this American tradition unknown to my new found friends in Scotland. And even though Tori wasn’t well-versed in culinary lingo, she was the perfect side kick, helping me assemble multiple dishes with a calm and cheerful attitude. xx Hill
While studying in the library, sometimes I get a little distracted by my Spotify account. Browsing the homepage with so many suggestions, it's hard not to click on a few and see what happens.
Today when I got on to find some good studying music, Johnny Flynn was recommended to me because I listen to the Scottish alt. rock band Frightened Rabbit. After one click, I've listened to almost 10 of his songs. It's mellow, poetic, soothing, and has a mystical darkness about it. Flynn is an actor, poet, song-writer and a member of British folk group the Sussex Wit before becoming the frontman of the group. His strong vocal range and methodical lyrics compliment his shy, boyish blonde-haired, blue-eyed presence on camera. It's a great combination of intrigue and talent.
Here's a duet called "The Water" with Laura Marling. The lyrics are perfect for a dreary November afternoon in the library!
Within and Without When do we stop floating? Do birds ever settle in one place? I flit, I flee, I disappear. Are humans like doves? Innocent creatures bound to one soulmate- two souls, settled forever. I don't belong here, I don't belong there; I float along the parallel, within and without the sky, a hopeful friend. Pillowing pink clouds arouse romantic feelings; the littlest things satisfy a wandering soul. But even the sky disregards a wingless bird, drifting, drifting, constantly drifting. When do I stop floating? When will I be a dove? Wingless birds drift, stuck, lusting for another branch, another home, another soul. I flee on my feet, I flit through pages I disappear on planes, a wingless bird trying to fly. wingless birds don't have a home wingless birds travel alone.