Home Economics: February Report

I knew my February Report was going to be somewhat different when I found myself in Hobby Craft contemplating the cost of acrylic jewels. They were made in China--what was I doing? But I was in the grip of a creative mania, and I was determined to make two crowns for a Platinum Jubilee party. 

The invitation suggested "patriotic costuming," and I was in no mood for a Spice Girl Union Jack sparkly dress, so I decided Benedict Ambrose and I would go as the Lion and the Unicorn from the Royal Arms. When I looked up masks on Amazon, I discovered that party masks have come a long way.  Reproductions of the crowns on the Royal Arms have not, however, and that is why I spent £15.75 on metallic cardboard, glue, acrylic jewels, fake pearls, red tissue paper, and cotton balls. (By the way, cotton balls are a lousy substitute for ermine, and eventually I will throw good money after bad and get some fake fur trim.)

Incidentally, when B.A. and I turned up, half-blinded by our masks, disguised as the Royal Arms but otherwise in overly-correct evening wear, we discovered that none of the other guests had gone to such lengths and even the host was sporting just a Union flag cravat. But we certainly made an Entrance, and I very much enjoyed my Saturday of crown-making. 

But normally I just reveal our food expenses, so here we go:

February 2022: Groceries: £307.15; RBCT (Restaurants, Bars, Cafes, Takeaway) £166.80. Total: £473.95.

That's not too bad: just £23.95 over my tentative budget. And to examine the recent past, we naturally saved more than in January, my birthday dinner month:

January 2022: Groceries: £313.05; RBCT:  £267.00. Total: £580.05. 

We also did better than December:

December 2021: Groceries: £319.10; RBCT: £214.80. Total: £533.90. 

But we did not do better than February 2021, which was partly in Lent, and looked like this:

February 2021: Groceries: £299.70; RBCT: £45.15. Total: £344.85. 

It looks as though our usual food purchases have not been affected by inflation. Meanwhile, so as to enjoy the memory of our 13 bouts of RBCT, here is the tally: 

My coffee & croissant at favourite cafe; B.A.'s coffee & cake with pals; Sunday lunch in Stockbridge; cappuccini & bun/croissant after dermatologist's appointment; cocktails after seeing Belfast; Sunday pints with a pal up from England; Chinese takeaway for Valentine's Day; my coffee & croissant in favourite cafe; Sunday lunch and doughnuts in Stockbridge; takeaway cannoli and croissant; B.A.'s pints with pal in pub; Sunday lunch in Stockbridge; B.A.'s coffee with old university pal.

The NHS being in the state it is, I went to a private dermatologist to see about an irritated mole, and B.A. came with me in case we had another sudden cancer drama. I am happy to report both that the mole was merely irritated, not cancerous, and that the appointment was only £50.   

Hope and Spots

Yesterday it was announced that...the FSSP is going to be okay. At least, that is what I gleaned from Twitter. When I tried to click on the actual FSSP announcement, their website appeared to be down.

I then went to Facebook to say that the FSSP was going to be okay. In response, I was bitterly reproached by a leading Catholic activist in Australia, an ally, as it were, and a thoroughly good and useful chap. Thus, I do not really know what to make of yesterday's news. When it comes to the Traditional movement, I mostly think about the concrete individuals who make up the Traditional movement in Edinburgh and Dundee, and then occasionally farther afield, like Motherwell and Glasgow---and Rome--and wherever Dr. Peter Kwasniewski lives, for occasionally I am sent one of his excellent books to review. 

Not wanting to be overwhelmed by things I cannot control---and I write as someone who has watched her stable, peacefully dull native country descend into virtual civil war and psychological chaos--I focus on things I can control, like having enough biscuits for next Sunday's after-Mass tea. Happily I do have enough biscuits for next Sunday, and yesterday's news leads me to hope I will be putting biscuits out on the same table for the next month, perhaps for the next decade. 

(Incidentally, I need to put out fewer biscuits, or at least space them out better, as one of the treasures of the parish confessed to his mother on Septuagesima, I believe, that he had eaten too many biscuits and his stomach hurt.) 

Thus, in an awful month, I have some hope my local TLM community will be able to continue to worship together and then hang out together in the wheelchair accessible church and hall the FSSP rents. I hope that what we have so far lost will also be reinstated. I do not really dare hope for more; that last sentence makes me feel like I am living on the edge.

Speaking of living on the edge, I meant to do a lot of stuff yesterday, which was Family Day in Ontario, and thus a day off for me. Unfortunately, I had one too many requests to add to the stuff I have promised to do, and the result that I dissolved into a puddle and slid off to bed. There I read Kim, which I am discussing with one of my pupils. I also watched an episode of Framed: A Sicilian Murder Mystery with the subtitles off. And in between, mirabile dictu, I had a nap.

My new method of bribing myself with stickers to do everything I want to do is working very well. For some reason, I very much want to have my red, blue, green,  and orange dots (or at least most of them) as well as my anti-sugar gold star at the end of the day. The blue and orange dots are for temporary projects---they should be done by Easter, please God--and then I will not take on any other projects until September or something like that. The reason I find it so hard to get things done without sticker-bribes, I suspect, is because I have too much to do.  

Valentine to the TLM community of my archdiocese

Once upon a time, it was said that you had made your Sunday obligation if you got to Mass before the priest uncovered the chalice and did not leave until he had covered it up again. And that is why, my fellow Edinburgh TLMers, it is when Father covers the chalice that I gather up my belongings and toddle out the more easterly door towards the church hall. Unless there's Adoration or the Blessing of Throats, I figure I have five, maybe ten minutes, to set the tea table before the first children come bursting in or the first adult appears looking for a cuppa. 

It takes concentration, and as soon as I take off my hat and coat, I'm in the Zone. 

Usually another lady appears, whom I welcome with shouts of joy and instructions like "More cups! Saucers! Milk jugs! We need spoons."

I seem to remember my predecessors leaving a tad earlier--right after Holy Communion, for example--but they were older than me and possibly slower-moving. In their day, I was a dashing, relatively young-ish married woman, who associated the pouring out of the tea and the drying of the cups with the over-70 set, the Old Guard who stayed faithful to the Traditional Latin Mass from the darkest days of the 1960s and 1970s. Miss Campbell, who studied Anglo-Saxon at the University of Glasgow even before Tolkien had written published The Monster and the Critics, brought a dish towel in her handbag and rose up once she had finished her tea and tired of chatter to help the other Old Guard ladies to dry the dishes. 

Miss Campbell has now joined the list of the parishioners I remember in my prayers at Mass, and today I (cough) feature as one of the older ladies of the community, in part because the average age of our members has plummeted in the past four years. Yes, we always attracted students, but now we have been sought out by a number of young parents, too. Loving what they find in the church, they often go into the hall afterwards, bringing their babies, toddlers and more active children. And loving children, they periodically appear with new ones bundled up in their arms. And one mother, seeing on a visit that--unlike her usual parish community--our community had children her sons' age, opted for the Traditional Latin Mass simply because of that. (In Canada, this a similar phenomenon was once known as La Revanche du Berceau.)

I am reminded, by the way, of the end of my Left-wing Period, a time when I used inclusive language at Mass and repeated made-up pronouns for God. I was at a meeting for women's ordination advocates (this was over 20 years ago and before I went to theology school), feeling rather shy and disturbed that the meeting had not begun with a prayer. Near the end of the meeting, one of the women said, with the enjoyment of the comfortable complainer, something like "Our children won't continue this fight. When they were babies, we'd have priests and nuns over all the time, and now they don't even go to Mass." 

At the time I was a mixed-up twenty-something (at whom our current twenty-somethings would raise an eyebrow and very likely not invite to their Sunday Lunches), but even I understood that that woman had read out her movement's death warrant. 

Of course, John Paul II was still alive, so I wasn't counting on the vampire-like return of certain discredited cardinals I could name and the rise of the crypto-progressives then hiding under cleverly donned coats of orthodoxy. But that said, that particular group was more interested in women's ordination than they were in the spiritual and social sustenance of women with more than one or two children. And frankly, mes amis, whoever has the most babies for the Berceaux wins. 

But to get back to my Valentine to the TLM community of my archdiocese, I  love it when the children flock to the biscuit plates, wheel away like seagulls, and then return when the biscuit plates are replenished. 

I very much enjoy asking "Coffee or tea?" of everyone in the jumbled queue, even as other people murmur such interesting information as "We had 100 today" in my ear or extol me to alert everyone to this prayer movement or that missive to Rome.

I cherish the view of the crowds beyond the tea table: the young parents talking to young parents, the students chatting with students, the middle-aged finding common cause, the occasional mixing and the periodic mingling. My predecessors, I am sure, did not have so impressive and varied a view.  

And Master of Divinity and author of two books, I exult in the fact that I have invented a new, more efficient, and definitely more hygienic way of washing the cups. 

Child of the 1970s, I even relish in the phrase "you young people" as in, "Would one of you young people hoover the carpet?" Being a child of the 1970s (and teenager of the 1980s), I was solidly formed in the ecclesiastical school of the Importance of the Young. The young confer demographic prestige, I know, and we have the young. Bless you, you young people.    

I realise suddenly that I have not really said much in this Valentine about the TLM itself. However, if you want to read about the liturgy, away with you to the New Liturgical Movement or One Peter Five to read the learned thoughts of Gregory Di Pippo or Dr. Peter Kwasniewski. There are any number of men (and presumably some women) who are experts on what happens between Noon and 1:20 PM in our (rented) little wooden church. My field is what happens immediately afterwards, and my interest is that anyone who enters the hall, on foot or in wheelchair, feels safe and welcome and has enough milk and biscuits to go with his or her tea or coffee. 

It's not as high status as being an Assistant Professor of Systematic Theology at Marquette, but it's what I was clearly called to do, and so, for me, it is better. I pray you all hear your own calling sooner rather than later, and that you all have a happy Valentine's Day with people you love!

Update: Let it be known that the tea ladies of the earlier Mass left us their leftover biscuits, banana bread and squash, which was thoughtful of them. 

Dorothonomics: January confession

I love New Year's Resolutions and make some every year. Normally I forget them, but I have been so impressed by the power of writing down what Benedict Ambrose and I spend and save that I have been writing down the results of my Resolutions, too. 

One of my Resolutions is to go to the gym 20 times a month, and I have done that for January. Yay me!

The second Resolution is to invest a Certain Sum by January 2023. I have invested January's portion, so yay me again!

The third Resolution is to write a letter to a young relation every month. I have written my January letter. Gold star! (More on gold stars later.)

Then we come to languages and no gold stars, for I have definitely not done the following:

4. Read a page of Polish every day.

5. Read a page of Italian every day. 

Can it be that one can keep only three New Year's Resolutions at a time? Why was I able to propel myself out the door to the gym 20 times, and to save a Certain Sum out of our slim purse, and to think of things to say to Generation Alpha, but not to read my daily pagina of italiano or even my daily strona of polskiego?

It is mysterious. 

Possibly the difficulty is one of reward. As I recently wrote to Generation Alpha, human beings like rewards. Recently I have been awarding myself a gold star for every day I go without eating something sugary. Truly--I have a sheet of gold star stickers, and every evening of every day I do not eat a biscuit or pudding or absentmindedly sprinkle brown sugar on my porridge, I stick a sticker in my diary. You might think, "But it's just a sticker." However, even just the thought of that sticker chases temptation away. 

I have another set of stickers for my household accounts book, and whenever we are in the black, I put a sticker reading "WOW!" or "GREAT WORK!" beside the ultimate sum.  

Some of the stickers in that set say "GOOD GIRL" which seems inappropriate for a household of two, so I stuck one on Page 20 of my pocket gym diary. 

I did not give myself a gold star or sticky pat-on-the-back just for writing to Generation Alpha; instead I ordered some glorious personalised writing paper from Papier (and if you are in Britain and a stationary fan, too, use this link and save both you (?) and me (!) some stationary money.)

When I think about it, I have mentally assigned myself large rewards for my larger projects, too. For example, if I go to the gym 230 times this year and stay off the sugar, I'll buy myself an exciting new coat this Christmas. And if I make it to retirement without dying, I'll enrol in an intensive Polish course in Poland. 

Therefore, maybe if I buy myself some green stars for Italian and red ... hmm, maybe not red stars ... for Polish, I'll do a better job of sticking (seewhatIdidthere?) to those resolutions. 

Any other ideas? 

Home Economics: January Report

February at last, and I enjoyed myself this morning tallying up the month's earnings and expenses. It was enjoyable because we saved a sum towards retirement/mortgage overpayment/holidays instead of going in the red. And whereas we went over my (optimistic) budget, it was only by £140.37.

Some of that over-spending was on food, as we will see. For January I budgeted £300 for groceries, for that is how we roll, and £250 for eating out, £175 of that earmarked for my super-fantabulous Michelin-starred birthday lunch. In reality, we spent 

Groceries: £313.05; RBCT (Restaurants, Bars, Cafes, Takeaway): £267.00. Total: £580.05. 

To compare this with last month:

December 2021: Groceries: £319.10; RBCT: £214.80. Total: £533.90. 

I'm a bit impressed, especially as $5 of January 30's grocery bill went towards yellow roses for Benedict Ambrose, who had fallen down some stairs. Because of that it seemed mean to fuss about coupons and kindly to get roses and Sunday supper from Waitrose as a treat. 

I don't mind paying for delicious food, as long as it is intentional and not just mindless profligacy. We were not even out of 'The Kitchin' before I began to look at the reservations available at 'Martin Wishart'. However, B.A. vetoed another Michelin meal so soon, so I will hold off until our wedding anniversary. 

Meanwhile, as at least half the reason to spend money on eating out is for the memories, here is what we did with our £264: Sunday coffee and sandwiches on Rose Street after Mass; Sunday coffee and sandwich/pastry at La Barantine in Stockbridge after Mass; cappuccino while waiting for a train after physio; Chinese takeaway supper after a long Saturday walk near the Borders; coffee and tea while homeschooling in my favourite cafe; my glorious birthday lunch; rounds of drinks in two Edinburgh pubs. 

Tomorrow we will have a look at my New Year's Resolutions and ponder how I might do better in future. 

Freedom

I can't remember exactly when I lost faith in the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, friend and guide of my childhood, but I think it was probably after moving to the United Kingdom and voicing shock and annoyance at the clear bias at the BBC. Benedict Ambrose was surprised by my reaction, and it occurred to me that since he had watched and listened to Auntie Beeb all his life, he just was used to nodding along.  And this made me think, "Holy cow! What about the CBC?" 

One of the benefits of living abroad is that you have time and distance to reflect on what it means to be a native of your birth country and what your birth country is like in relation to other countries. However, one downside--which I had considered, but only from the standpoint of the availability of fossil fuels--is that you might not be able to get home again. 

Take, for example, Canadians who have decided not to take the emergency use preparations that have, as we have seen, a limited and time-sensitive effect against COVID-19. For a time, it was believed that these shots would "stop the spread," and so, although lamentable, it was at least logical that the Canadian government took punitive measures against people who decided not to take them. However, now that we know people who take the shots can still get sick and, crucially, pass on the virus, it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever to violate citizens' rights to make them submit to medical treatments they do not want. 

One of the many rights Canadians have lost is the right to travel throughout our country and to use travel services. To get on a plane, ship, train, or bus in Canada now, you must have evidence that you have had at least two COVID-19 shots. This is unprecedented; during my lifetime, the only reason to show a vaccination card was to be enrolled in elementary and then high school. 

This leaves Canadians who don't live in Canada and, after pondering the issue for over a year now, have decided not to take the COVID-19 shots in a kind of exile. As far as I can make out, a Canadian who does not have a COVID-19 passport can indeed go home (where he can read or hear all about how evil/stupid he is across a gamut of Canadian media). However, it is unclear that a Canadian who does not have a COVID-19 passport can get out again, as that would necessitate getting on a plane. 

Once again, we know now that COVID-19 jabbing is inadequate and time-sensitive. It does not "stop the spread." The most its advocates can say for it now is that it may lessen the severity of the disease in people who catch it. Therefore, it makes no sense to fire people from their jobs and forbid them from using public transport or play ice hockey or whatever else because they have chosen not to take the emergency-use inoculations on offer. And not only does it make no sense, it is illegal and unconstitutional. It is a violation of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. 

Therefore, when I see footage of Canadian truckers on their way to Ottawa--and the crowds of people cheering them on--I don't see what the CBC and, God forbid, the Toronto Star want me to see. (Truckers have temporarily replaced so-called "anti-vaxxers" as the hate object du jour.)

I see a lot of fathers and sons doing what they can to make Canadians unconditionally free again: unconditionally free to work,  free to travel, free to take a flight into Canada,  and free to take a flight out of Canada. Some of the truckers have taken the COVID jabs, some of them haven't: that's not what this is about. This is about freedom--and it is also a protest against the hate-mongering every Canadian child is (or was) taught is wrong.

Any Canadian living in the United Kingdom can travel from Land's End to John O'Groats, no questions asked. I never imagined Canadians would have more freedom in the U.K. than in our own country, but we do. I also never imagined Canadians would find themselves effectively in exile from their own country, like the Cold War era Eastern/Central European who knows if he goes home, he's not getting out again. And I never imagined that, when our rights as Canadians were taken away (not by any occupier, but by the Canadian Government, forsooth!), it would fall to truckers to try to get them back.  

Update: This is also a very good look into how mainstream media works to support the powerful, starring... Russell Brand?

Update 2: Look very carefully at how the media edits news reports today. This morning I saw great footage of a Central/Eastern European lady in the Greater Toronto Area explaining very cogently what freedoms she believes are being violated, how much she loves Canada, and how much she and her elderly mother suffered during lockdown. But I have now just seen footage of the same lady shouting "You're liars" at the mainstream media reporter. Any bets on what footage is going to be on the news tonight? 

I can guarantee that the MSM reporters are looking for the bystanders who will most shock Canadians comfortably sitting at home. They will not be publishing footage of people who suffered vaccine injuries; they will be looking for the kind of person who thinks the COVID jab makes them magnetic. 

Birthday Treats

It was my birthday recently, and we made up for last year's rather locked-in occasion by going to one of Edinburgh's most celebrated restaurants, The Kitchin in Leith. 

Incidentally, it occurs to me that some of my readers may still be locked in themselves. One of the wonders of the internet is that all of us with access to a computer can see what is going on all around the world. Obviously something things are by design harder to find out about, for example, underground Masses, but if there is anything that should be obvious, it is that different countries are handling the COVID emergency differently. 

In Scotland we are free to go to restaurants without having to disclose our medical history at the door. The public pressure to continue wearing masks on public transit and in shops is still strong here, however.  Fortunately, there is no directive to buy single-use plastic masks made in China, so I wore one of the 3-layer denim masks my mother made us almost two years ago. 

The Kitchin has a number of menus, including the lunch menus, which are very good deals for people on a budget. There is a carnivore lunch menu, and a vegetarian lunch menu, and a wine menu, all of which we pursued online before we even got to the restaurant. Benedict Ambrose was enamoured of the thought of cod, but I was strongly attracted to the idea of black truffle grated all over cauliflower done two ways. Thus, he went for the carnivore menu, and I went for the veggie, and we were both very happy. 

There were a number of amusing surprises. The first was that there were special chairs for handbags, covered in faux-sheepskin. Presumably this is very nice for the ladies with the status bags, and I thought this high honour for my humble little saddlebag from Leatherworks rather funny. The next one was amuse-bouches: a haddock tartlet with very crispy pastry, cheese, cream, and tiny cubed potatoes, followed by a little pot of cold beetroot veloute with horseradish, apple, and dill. The first was like a delicious summing up of daily Scottish cooking, whereas the second was delightfully Polish. We were also brought a small loaf of hot bread and a quenelle of butter: delicious.

Then came our actual starters--oysters for B.A. and cauliflower with truffles for me--after which I was feeling rather full. Fortunately there was a pause (too long, B.A. thinks) before our main dishes arrived, the cod and octopus mousse in squid-ink tortellini for B.A. and pumpkin veloute with cheese tortellini for me. All splendid. Then there was pudding: we both had rhubarb crisp souffles. 

Later young friends joked at B.A.'s supposed parsimony in ordering only half a bottle of wine, but actually I was pleased, for he picked one that was under my mental budget. (The young friends did not seem to consider the cheapskate might be I.) This meant I felt perfectly free to call for coffee, and when coffee came (served in the bar area), it came with two little French almond cakes called financiers. So that was a final nice surprise. Well, not totally final: with tip the whole bill came under budget, and thus I rolled out of The Kitchin feeling both full of delicious things and wonderfully responsible. 

Another exciting event of the day was the Synod on Synodality gathering at the Catholic Cathedral's church hall/cafe. We knew that a number of young Catholics we see every Sunday would be there, but we went there, too, to add to their numbers and lend them support. I certainly thought it was going to be open warfare between white-haired 68ers and 20-something traddies, but I was wrong. The situation was very well organised and managed, with everyone encouraged to join tables of people from different parishes, a heavy emphasis on listening, sheets to fill in, and minutes of silence for prayer.

By the way, there was a  rather scolding prayer to begin with in which we all admitted we were sinners, promised not to be disruptive, and professed (rather dodgy) that we had only the Holy Spirit to guide us. (It occurred to me that hitherto we have also received much guidance from the Word made Flesh, and that the Holy Spirit, about Whom there is a whole field of study called Pneumatology, is Someone rather more than the deeply cherished hopes of the current pontiff's favourite advisors.) I recognised the style of the prayer, so I acquit anyone in this archdiocese of having written it. 

I confess that I was too much of a coward to leave B.A. and join a table dominated by the elderly, and instead found myself at a table with under-50s, including two tradition-friendly young things and three Poles. (B.A., for his part, avoided catching the eye of a famous left-wing octogenarian he knows.) We all got along very well, and I was surprised that the biggest issue for everyone at the table was the atheism/agnosticism of children in local Catholic schools, which we thought could be ameliorated by better catechesis, less dumbing down of the faith, more cooperation between Catholic parents in modelling the faith to their children, and better modelling in general.

The other question we were to discuss was welcoming back lapsed Catholics, and there was more surprisingly frank and truthful talk, for example, that people who have left the Church don't consider themselves Catholics (or Christians) any more and resent being told that they are. We agreed that we should take what they say about their relationship to the Church at face value, listen to their complaints--or very real pain--without feeling responsible for having the "right answers," not lie about what the Church teaches, but do apologise for the scandals and abuses, making it clear that believers, too, are ashamed and angry about what has happened. 

Interestingly, someone brought up the scandal caused to non-believers when even the Catholic churches  shut down during the pandemic. A non-believer husband exhorted his wife on the subject, saying there must be underground Masses somewhere. Alas, she did not know if or where they were.  

Afterwards some of our friends met at a pub to compare notes, and we all had had a good time--it was even "heart-lifting," B.A. said--- and none of us was at the table from which one of us overheard the elderly saying things like "The Church is mean to LGBT people." 

By the way, Benedict Ambrose took what I wanted for my birthday at face value and bought me Made-in-Scotland boot socks. If you are in Scotland and feel, as I do, that supporting local industries is important for the well-being of both your own communities and the environment, check out Moggans for your sock needs. If not in Scotland, why not check out what things you can buy made from your own local factories and workshops?