Adventures in Babysitting/B.A.'s Birthday

Rome: frequent conversation topic.

My right arm aches, and so I have been keeping typing to a minimum. I am working though--I got an email from a concerned reader whose wife had noticed I haven't written any articles for work lately. It's because I've been pulled up into the editorial team. My decision-making powers are limited to my colleagues' sentence structures and diction, though. 

Recent excitements include babysitting a four-year-old who has put his parents on the stage and thus needed to be entertained while his mother workshopped in London and his father played two performances here. Torquil, as he is not really named, informed me that his mother is not on the stage, but on the floor, and only his father is on the stage. I presume this is a reflection on their most habitual concert venues. Torquil also resisted being called a Stage Child, saying that he is too young to go on the stage. 

Torquil and I got to know each other on the bleachers (stone steps, really) at an open air venue, and our most exciting moment came when he picked up a tiny spider and was thoroughly grossed out. He asked me if I had ever picked up a spider, and I had to admit that I had never picked one up with my bare fingers and that he was very brave.  Our next exciting moment was when one of Torquil's markers went rolling down the rain-slippery steps and I chased after it. I looked back up at Torquil to see that, for the first time, he was laughing. 

Another excitement was Benedict Ambrose's birthday, and so I took the heavy chains off the coffers and sprinkled money liberally on cocktails and supper at an Italian restaurant B.A. says is "fun." In the morning he got to open his card from me (which included the promise of new trousers, which naturally I could not buy on my own) and a box from my parents, which included brand-new bedroom slippers from Barbour. We were both very impressed, and there is even a chance the slippers (being Barbour) were Made in Britain. 

My parents, frugal all their days, have begun to splash out on presents in their old age, and not only is B.A. now tromping round in Barbour slippers, we spend a good chunk of our mornings wrapped in white terrycloth robes with "ARMANI" written down the arms. This is such a contradiction to the shouts of "You'd only be paying for the label!" I heard throughout my childhood that I find it worthy of mention here. Meanwhile, the children of this neighbourhood are sometimes given designer labels as Christian names, so we are not shy about going outside in our Armani bathrobes to pick an apple from the tree or a slug off the rhubarb. 

 

The restaurant B.A. finds fun is called Bar Napoli, and I suspect its most diverting quality is its decent house red, which costs less than £17 a bottle. That said, the servers are actually Italian and speak enough tourist-aimed Italian for B.A. to understand, and we speak Italian back at them. The food is not the kind of Italian food we eat in Italy but the kind the more daring non-Italian Scots have eaten since 1965 or so. At the table next to us, a family ordered their dishes by the numbers.

We had asked our parish priest to join us, and he demurred as he thought it would be too noisy, and actually he was right. He would not have enjoyed the Aerosmith in the background, or gotten misty (as I did) at John Waite's "Missing You." 

B.A. ate everything on his plate and 2/3s of what was in the bottle, whereas I saved half of my dish and demanded a box (una scatola per domani!), just so I would have room for a cannoli. (That would be a cannolo, spellcheck.) Despite saying he couldn't and being in actual pain from overeating, B.A. helped me eat the cannoli, which came with ice-cream and whipped cream and a wafer and a small Italian paper flag. 

So yes, that was very fun. We talked about Rome, and when we are likely to go back, and about the fact that his Italian teacher there and my Italian teacher here are coincidentally from the same small town. We pondered the idea of visiting this small town, and we reminisced about our Christmas in Umbria. In Umbria, unlike in Edinburgh, we feasted on chestnuts, truffles and wild boar. 

The bill for this meal, including la mancia, came to £70. 

This morning I am contemplating renting a holiday flat in North Berwick in October, since it seems highly unlikely we would be able to go to Italy or Poland for our autumn break without a great deal of expense and unpleasantness. Another subject of B.A.'s birthday supper conversation was how grateful we are we spent the entire month of October 2021 in Rome. 

 

Planted the Rhubarb

Today I planted the rhubarb, and they must be relieved. I noticed that the one in the big pot has been doing a lot better than the one in the small pot. They were also looking a tad dry, poor things. However, this morning as I was doing dumbbell presses in the kitchen, I saw a video that inspired me to go out at once and make them a proper home. 

Here's the video:

The proper home is the raised bed beside the ivy-bound shed, between the black current bushes. One section has been covered with cardboard for several months and the other was a riot of sweet-smelling weeds. I did sow that bit with lettuce and rainbow chard, but it was really not to be. Really, that bed is useless for tender things. 

Anyway, I lifted the cardboard and pulled out the weeds,  turned over the dirt, got some leaf mould, dug it in, watered the whole, and put in my poor thirty rhubarb plants. Then I watered them again. They must think, in their plantish way, that they are in heaven--or at very least a lovely spa. 

 

Speaking of recovery, the latest rumour I heard is that Cardinal Burke is responding well to treatment, so hoorah! Keep the prayers going, as it would seem they are working (as it were). I brought up the issue of the dodgey concept of changing God's mind at theology school, and it was explained to me that by praying  we participate in God's will for the person, which is what God has invited us to do. 

To return to gardens, today I will make another apple crumble---if Benedict Ambrose goes out and picks me another lot of the six ripest. If it were a holiday I would bake a tarte tartin, but making puff pastry is too much of a challenge today. Our local Tesco doesn't have all-butter puff pastry, so perhaps it would be a good idea to pick up some the next time we are in Waitrose. (Cue angelic harps.) 

Poor Benedict Ambrose has promised to mow the lawn next week when he has finished his current diploma assignments, but this morning I was half-seriously thinking of buying a scythe. Now that's old school. Then, when I was enjoying myself making a home for the rhubarb, I gazed over the grass and pondered putting in six raised beds for more vegetables. This way, we'd have more vegetables and less lawn for B.A. to mow. We'd have to keep some lawn, for like everyone else around we dry our laundry outdoors whenever possible. 

I don't want to get carried away, however, as all the permaculture videos I've been have featured either California or Australia. Sure you can grow almost all your food in a suburban yard in Australia. Serious food gardening in Scotland involves polytunnels and horticultural fleece, and as they are made from plastic, I disapprove of them---for me, that is, not for the professional farmers. 

Praying for Cardinal Burke

Yesterday Benedict Ambrose and I got on our very knees and prayed for Cardinal Burke's recovery. Normally we are pray-while-lying-in-bed kind of people. Sometimes we might go on a Rosary walk. Sometimes we might pray from our armchairs. But on special occasions we get right down on our knees.  I got right down on my knees when a social media call went out to all relatives, friends and acquaintances for information on a young British mariner, lost at sea. (He turned up the next morning. Whew!)

Everyone I know who actually knows Cardinal Burke is writing about what a kind, warm, accommodating man he is, and it's true. B.A. and I met him last October at the church given to the FSSP in Rome, Santissima Trinità. It was one of those meetings that stay with you for life. 

I had been sent by work with a message for His Eminence, and I wasted a goodly amount of time lurking outside his apartment building before concluding I could just speak to him after the Pontifical High Mass he was going to celebrate for the Una Voce pilgrims. My message was an important one, and so I was rather nervous about it. I was also nervous about taking photos of Cardinal Burke at Mass because it was, you know, Mass. (I can't remember now why I felt I should take these photos, but I'm glad I did.) 

Anyway, after Mass, we saw people slipping into the warren of rooms behind the sanctuary and perceived that Cardinal Burke was receiving visitors. Therefore, we hastily made our way to the hallway outside the sacristy where, I believe, I was addressed by a Seraphic Singles fan. That was totally unexpected and very pleasant. 

Anyway, when it was our turn to go in, we went in and Cardinal Burke was sitting in a chair. Being old school, B.A. plunked down on his knees, and so I did, too, and then B.A. kissed Cardinal Burke's ring, so I did, too. B.A. made rapid introductions and a sort of speech of gratitude to His Eminence and after what seemed like an age mentioned that I wrote for LSN. At this the Cardinal turned to me, a picture of wifely silence under my black veil, and asked me what my name was again.

Before I could say anything, B.A. told him my name again, this time pronouncing all three elements with care, and--no word of a lie--the Cardinal's face lit up. 

"I know who you are," said the Cardinal, or words to that effect. "I always read your articles." 

His Eminence admitted to not reading all LSN articles (and what the hey, neither do I), but mine he did read. 

So that was very nice, and I delivered my message, and listened very carefully to what His Eminence had to say in reply, and that was that. We got up, probably still assuring H.E. of our very great devotion and gratitude, and toddled back out the sacristy door. I felt stunned, like we had won the lottery. Then we went to St. Peter's Square to interview Alexander Tschugguel and a journalist from a rival organization elbowed me hard in the ribs. (Ribs here is a euphemism.) 

It may sound funny that we had our whole meeting with Cardinal Burke on our knees, but it was either that or tower over him, which would have felt very wrong. He was clearly tired---the word is all the clobber cardinals have to wear if they celebrate a  TLM is very heavy and he only wears the weighty cappa magna to make liturgy nerds happy. When else would we see the cappa magna, eh? I don't think he wore it on that  occasion, but I think did when he said a TLM in Glasgow back in 2017, and we were all "Squee!" 

Naturally Catholics who want to sing a new church into being have written poison pen posts online about Cardinal Burke and the cappa magna, and they may be the same people who are writing poison pen posts now about his illness. However, the cappa magna, which represents martyrdom and the office of cardinal, really is a good symbol for Cardinal Burke because he refused to violate his conscience by taking a COVID-19 vaccine and yet he still put his health at risk by travelling back and forth, doing his duties as a cardinal. On this subject, I highly recommend reading this heartfelt post by my colleague in France, who spoke to Cardinal Burke many times. 

I know Catholics who have a very high bar for determining which Cardinals are real believing Catholics who would die for the Faith like St. John Fisher.  Nobody I know doubts that Cardinal Burke is the real deal. I remember reporting on a homily His Eminence gave at the shrine to Our Lady of Guadalupe in Wisconsin. If I remember correctly, he encouraged all families to have images of the Sacred Heart and the Immaculate Heart in their homes, and now B.A. and I do. 

Suddenly I feel very sad, so I will stop and just ask those of you who pray to stop reading now and say a prayer for Cardinal Burke. Tens of thousands of Catholics want him to recover completely and carry on being a good shepherd to us. Presumably he would rather go to the Lord sooner rather than later, but we know he will shoulder the heavy cappa magna for our sake, so we hope the Lord will let him continue to do so for at least a few years more. 

England, Scotland, Languages

First Apple Crumble of the season

One of my favourite things to do is travel by train, and we certainly have had a lot of train travel in the past week. On Wednesday we took a train from Edinburgh to London and then to Reading and to Woolhampton. On Sunday afternoon we travelled from Reading to London and then to Edinburgh. As always, we got a bit excited whenever we crossed the Tweed River (i.e. the Border) and admired the great cathedrals of the Eastern Line--principally Durham and York--through the windows. 

ENGLAND

The weather in England was very good. London was hot and sunny when we briefly emerged from train stations on both Wednesday and Thursday. I love London, so it was a shame we had less than an hour to get from King's Cross to Paddington, or from Paddington to King's Cross. West Berkshire was warm, mild and comfortable. We walked a mile from the railway station uphill to Douai Abbey. 

Old & new parts of Abbey church 

Corridor in guest house

Later I was driven to the TLM and back through narrow winding roads through tall hedges and past thatch-rooved houses. (B.A. stayed at the Abbey and went to the N.O. in the Abbey church.) My colleagues and I even drove as far up the road to Highclere Castle (aka "Downton Abbey") as we could before we were chased away by a stone-faced security guard. We saw the tops of the towers and had to be satisfied with that.       

On Saturday we stayed in a little white cottage with a rosebush in front and an iron stove in the great brick fireplace between the sitting-room and the dining-room. The view of the hills was charming, and one of the nearby sheep had a voice like Louis Armstrong. We went for walks amid the beautiful old houses (more thatch) and less beautiful new houses (commuter distance from London), examined the construction of an old church with local stone, and admired the beautiful horses and their straight-backed riders. 

It was the sort of England one thinks about when one reads books set in England pre-1963--only our version was a lot more Catholic, as daily Mass featured. On Sunday we went to the SSPX church frequented by our hosts, and their celebrations for the Assumption were lavish, joyful, and positively iconic. 

First, I had rather a jolt when the Asperges began, for Holy Water has been banned everywhere we've been, and singing has been rather muted. Well, the congregation roared out DOMINE HYSSOPO as if the phrase "air-borne virus" had never been invented. The chapel was full, not to say packed, and there was no social-distancing that I noticed. I had the distinct impression that the congregation did not believe that death is the worst thing that can happen to you and spiritual health trumps physical health, hands down. Funny that. 

Then there was Mass with Priest, Deacon, and Sub-Deacon, and naturally it was utterly beautiful. It was followed by Marian hymns in English and Latin and a Marian procession out of the church and around a field, with the recitation of the Rosary, with little girls in white First Communion dresses and veils strewing rose petals on the ground. When we all processed back into the chapel, we sang another Marian hymn, which was followed by the Litany of Loretto in Latin and the Divine Praises in English during Benediction. After that, it must have been around noon, and we went back to the little white cottage for breakfast. 

It was all very heavenly: traditional Catholic worship and traditional Catholic household with delicious food and books, conversation, walks, board-games and whist for entertainment. 

Incidentally, I went to the FSSP Mass on Thursday morning, and there were 13 children, if I remember correctly, 4 of them teenagers. There were quite a number of children at the Sunday SSPX Mass, too, of course. How difficult it is to extricate ourselves from the "Does it attract YOUNG PEOPLE?" mentality. However, it probably is a good yardstick to measure the life and health of a Catholic community. 

Sadly I forgot both missal and mantilla in my rush to leave on Wednesday morning, so I assisted the Abbey, FSSP and SSPX Masses with one of B.A.'s clean handkerchiefs tied around my head. You can see it early in the Twitter video of the Dominican pilgrims at Douai Abbey.  Blink and you'll miss it. (You'll need to hit "full-screen" and look for 0:06, far right [cough].)

SCOTLAND

We got back to Scotland on Sunday night despite the weekly Sunday railway strike, caught our bus despite the massive roadworks, and picked up a lovely Chinese takeaway supper despite the lateness of the hour. Our favourite nosh is "prawn toasties" which is not on Chinese (or "Chinese") menus in Toronto, but should be. 

On Monday we went to Tesco for groceries and came across this (thankfully anonymous) shopping list in the carpark. (I apologise for the unshined state of my shoe.)

Presumably this Monday shop was merely a top-up after a proper weekly haul of groceries. However, we found it delightfully evocative of our neighbourhood--especially the combination of vodka, cheap rose, toilet paper, and Iron Bru. For those who have never been to Scotland, Iron Bru is roughly like Orange Fanta, only worse. It is also, after whisky and a cheap tonic wine called Buckfast, the national drink. 

Also on Monday, B.A. picked six of the ripest apples he could see on the tree, and I made apple crumble (crisp). We may not rejoice in a little white cottage with roses and neighbouring sheep, but we DO have the apple tree. 

LANGUAGES

I had two conversations about language-learning last week. The first was from someone whose son has married a Pole and gone to live in Poland and whose daughter is now seeing a Pole. My English acquaintance foresees moving to Poland one day and asked me how to begin learning Polish. 

I launched into my How to Learn Polish advice, which begins with Pimsleur for pronunciation, continues with Teach Yourself Books, progresses to Night School Classes, and advances with private tutors. I suggested that, unless he works hard at Polish every day, it will take him about 10 years to acquire fluency. However, my acquaintance said that for now he really just wanted to know how to get around by train and buy things in shops. 

My second conversation about language-learning was with an Englishman who has married a French lady and wants to chat easily with her family. My advice was completely different. It began (as always) with Pimsleur for pronunciation and then recommended illiteracy. The wonderful thing about the Englishman is that he knows exactly what he wants from French, and it is conversation en famille. I assume he would love to be able to read French Literature in the original, but his number one goal is Chatting with French Family. Because, as I have painfully discovered, when you try to learn how to speak, hear, read and write a language, you are actually learning four languages, you can save a lot of time by focussing on just one--or two, since clearing your in-laws are more charmed if you listen to them as well as talk to them. 

Here is a brilliant video about acquiring a language without getting bogged down with reading, writing and grammar. It inspired me to sign on with a language exchange group and now I have a new Polish language buddy. 

 

Trip (real and metaphorical)

1. I'm going to England today, so blogging--as they say--shall be light. I'll take photos, though. 

2. I made the mistake of getting involved in a Twitter conversation about a celebrity's wife, mother of five, who wants to use IVF. A pro-life acquaintance highlighted the story, and I agreed that mothers should be grateful for the children they have. I also mentioned that infertility was a heavy cross, and I disliked how the NHS dealt with mine. (Update: They kept offering me IVF as if it was my only option and as if I had not already refused it several times, citing my religious faith.) Eventually a "Catholic" told me that refusing IVF was my choice, so I shouldn't "castigate" women who have it.  Her actual message was insensitively written, shall we say. 

It was an ideological rug-pull. Caroline was told (in short) she couldn't say anything about IVF because she doesn't know the pain of infertility. I was told (in short) I can't say anything about IVF because, although I do know about the pain of infertility, I refused IVF. 

The two pro-IVF women in this conversation identified themselves as Catholics, but when I brought our Lord Jesus Christ into the conversation, the first had the grace to admit that she had lapsed. This may be a discovery that when someone who clearly doesn't believe one of the harder teaching says she is a Catholic, one should mention Our Blessed Lord and see what she says then. After all, Catholicism is not veganism. It's not an ethical code (let alone an ethnic group): it's a relationship. 

What made me angry about the remarks of the second non-Catholic Catholic was that she assumed I feel pain over refusing IVF. I feel no pain over refusing IVF. I'm proud that, under God, I refused IVF. Of course, it wasn't a struggle, as I found the concept stomach-churning even back when I first found out such a thing existed. 

This is not, by the way, a rejection of anyone, least of all the innocent human beings conceived that way. God can and does bring good, in this case babies, out of such evils as extramarital sex, rape, and IVF. 

No, I'm proud I refused IVF, and it gives me something in common with the brave women who continue to trust in God after their 12th pregnancy. The pain is about not having children--a bruise the unbelieving second Catholic walloped. However, I have learned my lesson, and it is not to reveal my weak spot on Toxic Twitter, even in a good cause. 

Update (August 13): I didn't have time to say so, but when a Christian woman is so desperate to have a child that she turns to IVF (knowing what moral compromises that entails), her choice is reminiscent of Milton's version of Adam, who chose Eve over God. In this scenario, the woman choses what child she might have (who does not as yet exist) over God. God in His mercy sometimes gives that woman what she desires so badly anyway.  (Of course, there are some women who might think that God gave man the intellectual gifts to develop IVF for the better flourishing of mankind, in the way man developed the polio vaccine, and it is a brave Catholic who steps in to explain why this ideas is wrongheaded.)

Unity

On Sunday evening, I sat down and bought a joint membership in Una Voce Scotland. Una Voce is an international organisation--comprised mostly of laypeople--for the support and advancement of the Traditional Latin Mass. I put off joining for years and years, in part because an elderly member of our community advised me not to do so, in part because the meetings always seem to be in Glasgow, and in part because I worried that I would at once be asked to become Secretary and have to take minutes. Ick.  

However, I have been radicalised by Traditionis Custodes, so I joined the west coast-dominated UVS, and presumably if I live to be old and retired I will make the organisation my life and become a real trad battle-ax, feared by bishops from Galloway to Aberdeen.

Of course, the iron first entered my soul in October 2014 when I read the mid-term relatio (report) of the Extraordinary Synod on the Family and realised that something very, very wrong was going on in the Holy See. Thus, in a certain sense I've been radicalised for almost 7 years. It was as if, when he clapped a meaty Slovenian hand down hard on my shoulder during my Confirmation--a not-bad substitute for the ancient slap--then-Bishop Ambrozic had passed on the trigger word that would turn me into a doughty fighter against the anti-JP2, anti-Ratzinger forces currently running amok. 

Speaking of growing old, my father had a shock 18 years ago or so when I mentioned I had spoken to a Jesuit professor in the university weight room. My poor dad reflected that such a thing would have been unheard of when he was young, and perhaps he belonged back in the 1950s, etc. Well, I had a shock yesterday, and it was this short video, filmed in the White House apparently to encourage more young people to accept COVID-19 jabs. I felt sad, and that such a thing would have been unheard of when I was young, and maybe I belong back in the 1990s, etc. 

However, I don't live in the USA, and I don't know young people like that, and I work from home, so I am free to live--and fight for--a life of indefatigable traddery. By the way, not only did I sign Benedict Ambrose and I to sign up with Una Voce Scotland, I encouraged another Trad to do so, too. 

But I do think that the most important thing to do is to remain cheerful, hopeful and friendly; to dress distinctively (mantilla, Padre Pio-approved skirts) but not eccentrically; to continue learning about the Traditional Latin Mass and perennial Catholic doctrine; to continue supporting traditional Catholic parents and their children; to live apart from the world, but not become a total weirdo; to pray, fast, and give alms, but also live as the laity should. 

If you love the Traditional Latin Mass and are similarly galvanised by the recent motu proprio, I strongly encourage you to join your national branch of the International Una Voce Federation.  

Marchmont

Yesterday Benedict Ambrose and I went on a trip to Edinburgh's Morningside. We started, however, by buying two bacon rolls from a nearby cafe. I was interested in the fact that they cost £2 each, but B.A. was   much more interested in their (to him) excellence: soft white rolls; salty, lightly fried back bacon. Bacon rolls are a Scottish national dish. 

We went a certain distance by the Rough Bus, and I silently wondered at the black teeth of the young lady in the seat in front of us, and we alighted the stop by a certain pub so as to walk in the leafy, rather grand Marchmont neighbourhood. Marchmont abounds in enormous four storey stone Victorian houses, riotously floral front gardens and hidden back gardens of (I imagine) indescribable lusciousness. There is also a Michelin-starred restaurant, about which more anon. For the time being, we were walking to the Gillis Centre, which is where the Archdiocesan offices are,  The oldest buildings, including a large chapel, were designed by James Gillespie Graham and finished in 1835. 

Today there is also a young apple orchard and yesterday a group of pretty, slim young women, including two nuns, sitting on chairs in a circle near the rosary chapel. B.A. recognised one of the girls by her bright hair, and we pondered, in our gossipy middle-aged way, what cause the group was serving. Nobody expects the McLeans just to turn up at the Gillis Centre and sit on a bench, but there you go. The only time  I ever went to Morningside in a miniskirt, I ran into an older person, and it was all over the  parish news by Sunday. Don't trust anyone over 45, that's what I say. 

Anyway, after we tired of our bench, we continued our walk, luxuriating in the stately row houses and their bright gardens, walking past the Archbishop's Palace and its wreckovated chapel, and heading towards cozy Morningside. We popped into charity shops, making me feel ten years younger, but did not buy anything until we sailed into Waitrose. In Waitrose we bought a couple of pastries to eat on a bench; tea we had brought with us in a thermos. (We also bought a couple of small ersatz 'cannoli' in a new, very not-Italian pastry shop, and only honesty compels me to confess this.) 

B.A. informs me we have to leave for Mass in 15 minutes, so I will say only that we walked back though Morningside and then Marchmont to get our bus, and when we got home I made peanut butter brownies again. It was a very nice way to spend the day.

And yes, the Motherwell TLM has been totally cancelled, and I look forward to soon meeting the discommoded faithful young families being punished for their attachment to Catholic tradition.