Use Your Accent

During a Mum’s Night Out with the mums from T1’s class, I overheard one asking another to order a turkey from her farm. The next week I took the liberty of admitting to the mum that I was eavesdropping and inquired about her farm. Apparently, her dad has a crop farm but raises a handful of turkeys for the holidays.

After a very lengthy and somewhat unusual conversation with the mum, I put in my order. Why so much discussion? Well…I had previously searched several local establishments at Thanksgiving time, in search of a bird. Joe and I knew we didn’t want a frozen commissary turkey, but I ran into an unexpected hurdle: all of the local poultry still had their appendages attached. We were not ready for this.

Wondering if this was how British poultry was typically presented, I had to ask the mum exactly how the turkey would come. Even though I’m not the chef, I didn’t want any surprises in the kitchen. She said there would be no legs (or necks!) attached! Phew!

We agreed upon a Christmas Eve pickup. But poultry is absolutely not the point of the story. She sent me her address and I was like whaaaat?!?! She gave me the name of her house, not a street address. Example (totally fabricated for safeguarding sake): Green Hilltop House. For those of you that know me, directions are not my forte. I rushed to Joe and said, “She didn’t give me an address. Just the name of her house. And Google Maps doesn’t recognize it. What do I do?!?! What do I do?!?! Ask her for the street name and number?!?!”

Joe declared that if there was a house number she would have given it to me. And I felt too foolish asking her a bunch of questions. So, I studied the map as best I could and headed off to collect our turkey.

She lives in the same town as me, so check that off the list. I couldn’t possibly get that lost. Right?! I used Maps to get to an intersection at the north end of her road. Then I just kept driving until I saw the sign for her village. Here’s the point where I turned into an official creeper. I drove about 15mph, reading the names of each and every house on both sides of the street. As was assumed, there were no house numbers, just names. And small, barely legible ones at that! Ones covered in decades (centuries?) of moss and vines. Ones so weathered it felt like I was in England. Oh wait….

Nothing screams I’m not from here! like a lady driving incredibly slow, looking incredibly confused, in a huge American car with the steering wheel on the left side. I got more than a few strange looks from families outside on a beautiful Christmas Eve day. I gave them the most pleasant smile and wave I could muster while continuing to stare down the name on their abode.

But I finally found it! A small, unassuming wooden sign at the end of a long driveway, nearly hidden with hedges. As I wound down the drive, I had so many questions: How does the postperson find you? How does Amazon find you? How do clueless Americans find you?!?!

So the kids had a playdate and then I collected our dinner from her fridge. I must say, it was the most amazing turkey we have ever tasted. Never frozen, direct from the farm. So delicious! Joe did a great job in the kitchen and T2 gobbled it up! We will be asking for another next year!

UPDATE SINCE ORIGINAL COMPOSITION: I have been to “Green Hilltop House” several times since Christmas, and I am lost every time. Every. Single. Time.