Travails of a transatlantic transplant: One alarm, two birthdays, and three Seders

Our cooker here at Clare Hall looks benign, even encouraging. It has a shiny black glass surface and uses convective magic to make things in pots hot. The oven has several knobs with runic symbols.

But looks are deceiving.

A watched pot never boils, they say, but ours do in the split of an instant, followed by water spluttering over the sides and the whole stovetop shorting out. We have to switch it off at the wall, wait, wipe, and start again--that, or eat crunchy pasta. The oven, meanwhile, is good at making smoke. Yes we have cleaned it (although possibly not well). We could ask for repair or replacement and for sure the ever-ready Clare Hall maintenance staff would come to our assistance, but instead we have taken it as a further sign that we are not meant to cook this year. Luckily, we rarely have to; the buttery provides most of our meals and we forage for the rest in pubs, cafés, or Marks and Spencer.

However very occasionally we do buy some items that need heating up. Recently we visited the charming Suffolk town of Bury St. Edmunds on its market day. The market sold the usual suspects-- fruit and veg, bread--and also some non-traditional things: insurance, flooring, wild game. At the wild game stall husband and I sampled some boar sausages and venison burgers and decided to bring home a four-pack of the burgers. That night we made our best guess as to which symbol meant 'grill' and set the burgers beneath the element, carefully propping open the oven door.

Bury St. Edmunds' Saturday market

Smoke came out. Lots of it. I put the extractor fan on high, threw wide the windows, opened doors. We knew that even a slice of burnt toast could trigger the smoke detector which then sets off the fire alarm for the whole complex of twenty-one flats. I rang the Porters Lodge and spoke to one of our favourite porters, Brent. "I think we might be about to set off the fire alarm, " I told him. "It's pretty smoky in here."

Brent laughed genially and offered reassurance. Five minutes later when I retrieved the burgers, plumes of smoke issued forth and the shriek of the alarm filled the air. Fortunately it was still early-ish in the evening (sometimes we don't get around to cooking dinner until after most people have gone to bed). I called Brent. "Sorry, sorry."

"I'm already on my way," he said.

In the two minutes it took him to reach us, I stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, Juliet-like, and called to the assembled crowd, "Friends, neighbors, Clare Hallers! It's all good! No fire, just smoke!" Brent arrived, did his check, laughed again, and left us to eat slightly cool venison burgers. They were delicious. The teasing from our neighbors only lasted for a day or ten.

When Passover arrived early this month, we were lucky enough to have three Seder invitations. Given that in a typical year there are only two nights of Seder (in the Diaspora anyway), we felt ourselves blessed. Also cursed, because what could we contribute to the shared meals? We knew better than to attempt to cook for multitudes given our track record (and our cookware), so we provided charoset, the second most delicious Passover food (following matzo brei IMHO)-- made of apples and walnuts and sweet wine and cinnamon. No deciphering of runic symbols was required, nor any heat.

Some of our fellow Clare Hall residents have successfully mastered their ovens. We benefit in the form of baked goods. Husband's birthday-- several days after mine, and a big one--brought us cake from kind neighbors including Abby Rasminsky's strawberry masterpiece and the Shmuelofs' delightful fairy cakes.