Cider insider

We don't know much in Somerset, but we do know cider. The word cider actually comes from an old Somerset phrase that means "look what happened to these apples I left in a bucket and forgot about for a month!" Many of us born and raised in the West Country moved straight from mother's milk to the stuff, progressing through Strongbow and Diamond White before returning to what is now referred to as "artisanal" versions (i.e. sold out the back door of the local farmhouse in old paint stripper bottles).

So it was with much skepticism and no little trepidation that we decided to head to City Orchard, an "urban cidery" that has just opened in Houston, that we spotted on our way to Target. It's in a newly-renovated warehouse space on an old industrial site, with the railway track running right past it. Next door is Urban Axes where (yes) you can pay to throw axes. What could possibly go wrong?

They've done a wonderful job; the whole place is light and airy, with a beautiful laminated wooden "tree" that rises behind the bar and holds up the ceiling. Outside there's a large area for kids to run around in (and watch trains rumble past) with seating for games and food.

But onto the good stuff! Hannah, unable as ever to decide, ordered a glass of each cider they produced, five in total. Four are regulars with one new/experimental, all clocking in around a healthy 7% alc by vol. Hannah didn't get much work done that afternoon.

I'm happy to say that it was all surprisingly good! Nothing too sweet at all, which is the usual sin of a bad cider, and some very nice floral flavours, especially in their King Blossom. Our waiter told us that they're selling in various supermarkets across the city, so let's hope they're here to stay as we have many visitors that will enjoy a "look what these crazy Americans have done to our apples!" trip here.

As for the Somerset cider industry? Well, nothing to worry about at the moment. If you're not straining out the bits through your teeth as you drink it, is it really cider? And is that cider at all, or actually scrumpy? That's a whole other level of Somerset philosophical question for you...

Pete: half British, half American, all Somerset.

Some kind of metaphor?

This is the last thing that she can remember.

Outdoor living

Houston: so uncomfortably hot and humid! Until we decide to go camping, when the weather gods crank the thermostat right down as if to mock our Britishness. Frankly I'm too old for all this, which is why after waking up in a tent where I could see my breath we decided that maybe one night was all we could cope with this particular weekend.

Not that Pete minded, or noticed; together with a tribe of other kids he spent the whole time in pyjamas and welly boots, chasing zombies off into the forest. When we'd thawed sufficiently, Hannah and I went for a walk around the lake, although given the place is called Double Lake Campground we could only find one.

The weekend was organized by Stefano and Heidi, parents of Emilia who was friends with Pete in his old school, and they know everybody. It was therefore a very large and diverse bunch of us, hailing from Italy, Peru, England, Wales, and even New Zealand. Thankfully I'd brought a cricket bat, because cricket - as everyone knows - unites the world.

I woke up the next morning feeling accomplished and satisfied. Partially because I'd helped a Kiwi dad introduce his American-born daughters to the wonders of the greatest game, but mostly because I was at home in my own bed.

Hannah, thrilled to be in the great ourdoors again.

Pete and Emilia, actually thrilled. 

Double Lake, although missing one.

There is no greater gift a child can receive than cricket.

Except maybe S'mores.

Post-apocalyptic scavenger society.

 

 

Too many cooks...?

Years slip by

Time is an abstract concept, until you have a child that keeps getting older and reminding you how you're getting older. So it was that Pete celebrated his 7th birthday. Hannah was traveling for work on the actual day, which meant he was able to use childlike guilt to stretch his celebrations over a whole week.

The culmination of that celebration? ANOTHER trip to Chuck E Cheese. I was surprised, until I watched the utter bliss with which he and his friends spent their 2+ hours playing games and dancing with a huge mouse. The parents weren't immune either, with plenty of gambling for tickets. I swear most of those machines are fixed.

So my little baby is indisputably a young man, and I'm no longer required for hugs, or to help with computer games, or to read books ("But we're 750 pages into The Lord Of The Rings!!").

I suggested to Hannah that maybe this is the perfect time to have another baby, allowing me to buttress my emotionally shaky self-esteem by being "needed" once again. I won't record her reply here.

Happy birthday kid!

Wasn't it just Christmas?

And...we're back.

Elena and her mum Carolina, who isn't at all competitive.

Hannah and Lexi team up.

Space invaders.

For the kids.

The other famous mouse.

I guess he still needs his mummy for some things.

Christmas story

In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world, and everyone went to their own town to register. Except that instead of Caesar it was American bureaucracy, and instead of a census it was getting our visas renewed.

Yes, for some reason, you have to leave the US to get a visa to remain in the US, and while I argued strongly for South Africa (coincidentally where the English cricket team are currently playing) Hannah and Pete said Britain would be easier. This led to a crazy 24 hours when we flew from Houston to Manchester, drove down to Somerset to drop Pete (a smug non-visa-needing US citizen) with Grandma and Grandpa, then caught the train to London.

Our visa appointment went smoothly in the brand new US embassy that has more mood lighting and frosted glass than an Apple store. As ever there were disappointingly no exciting or probing questions, just queuing and a request for filled-in forms. Hollywood heartthrob Tom Hiddleston was in the waiting hall with us, proving that even famous people can't escape paperwork, although he did get through a lot quicker than us civilians. Not that it was too slow; three days later our new visas arrived! I was all set to jump on a plane, but was told we had to stay for Christmas.

And it was a wonderful Christmas, apart from the times we had to go outside. I'm sure it never used to flood this much! Thankfully seeing the family, and consuming the copious food and drink, kept us warm and very happy. Americans have never really got stodgy puddings, and with so many on offer throughout the season I'm actually returning to Texas more obese than when I left.

Pete, seeking passage back to America on the SS Great Britain.

 The unsinkable Davieses.

A young engineer.

Two old engineers.

Weymouth beach, not as crowded as in the summer.

Christmas lights, in the rain.

Helping Grandma with another stodgy pudding.

Helping Grandad with another drink.

Stopping off to see the Queen (she wasn't in, rudely).

Climbing with cousin Izzie.

Back into the usual sibling-like antagonism with Meg.

A final trip into the capital...

...then back to Manchester to fly home.

Keeping out of the mud.

Thankful for free babysitters

It was Thanksgiving, when America celebrates British people moving here by eating then going shopping. Keeping with that theme we brought more British people over: Mum and Dad, who stopped into Boston on their way through (where the British were once politely asked to leave America again).

Pete has a week off from school, so we decamped to Galveston for some time by the sea. Americans like to sit around a table and violently argue politics with their family at this time of year - we Brits save that for Christmas - so hotels are incredibly cheap. And "cheap" and "Davies" go together like turkey and trimmings.

Aside from beach combing we went to a maritime museum, where the guide (on finding out Dad was a Royal Navy veteran) spent over two hours giving us a tour. Mum and Pete somewhat lost the will to live, disappearing to a kids' play room there. We also took a boat trip down the bayou, played some mini golf, and visited The Rainforest Cafe, the height of American fine dining.

Mum and Dad are now back home, several pounds heavier and several dollars lighter. It was a wonderful family holiday, mostly because I could use the phrase "I'm just popping out - Grandma's in charge" as frequently as I liked. Maybe we'll come back to Britain for Christmas...

Your best-childcare-in-Houston team.

The city from the water.

Grandma receives some musical instruction.

Who knew we have a maritime museum in Houston! I do now, having spent several hours inside.

Navy talk.

I used to be my mother's favourite...

...but that changed some time ago.

Family pre-Thanksgiving.

Watch out, buried treasure!

Dad taught me how to fly a kite on the beach at Woolacombe, and here he is proving he's still got it!

Actual Thanksgiving dinner.

Carving the turkey with surgical precision.

"Try a brussel sprout, you'll like it!" And other lies we tell children.

Traditional post-Thanksgiving entertainment.

Mini golf! Hannah's winning.

Another trip on a boat, this time pedal-powered.

And after taking care of this lot, I need a holiday.