Cake Encore, Big Explore

Greetings to the devoted readership of A Flat on Abbey Road.
BlogMama is gearing up for her big trip across the pond to secure her Visa.
Here is an update on her latest activities.
We join her as of Thursday morning.

I got up early (7 am) and hit the kitchen to bake. The occasion was back-up baking for Stitchery Group. My friend MomA was hosting it at her flat due to the fact that the regular hostess was out of town. I had been researching a sour cream coffee-cake recipe, and wanted to give it a try.

The amount of batter looked like it would be too much for one round cake pan, so I decided to put half in one pan and half in another. There is a person at Stitchery with a nut allergy, so one pan went nutless while the other got a handful of chopped walnuts sprinkled in amongst the cinnamon-crumb topping. I was then hit with an epiphany. Who had indicated that he regretting letting that slice of chocolate cake get away? Why, Receptionist Extraordinaire Fabian, of course! Gateau numero deux would go over to the Hospital.

Meanwhile, slumbering Son awoke in his spacious guest accomodations on the sofa.
"Something smells good". I cut him a piece from Fabian's nut-cake, and rearranged the slices with a little space in between each one. Perhaps the guys over at the hospital wouldn't notice that the sum of the parts was less than the whole.

Other equipment was being trundled over to MomA's on Maida Vale, so I loaded up the stylin' shopping cart and hit the street via the rickety old lift. A brisk two-minute walk brought me to the front entrance of the Hospital. I am used to seeing Fabian posted at the rear reception area, so I charged in the automatic front doors (no "Shazzam!" needed) and breezed past the front desk. It was then that I heard the ubiquitous Dr. D's voice. I turned to wave hello, and who was he addressing, but Fabian, right there at the front lobby's reception area.

I stopped in my tracks and reversed my shopping cart. "Fabian! Just who I'm looking for!" I thrust the "aluminium" foil-wrapped cake, still warm from the oven, at the unsuspecting receptionist. "Fabian, you're a Blogstar, and you've been Caked!!" (I think I've invented a new TV show, a la "Punked", only much tastier. Anyone who appears on this blog will be randomly presented with a Cake.) The kind doctor made himself scarce while I chatted for a quick moment with the surprised Fabian. "I guess I have too much time on my hands, but I was baking for the Stitchery Ladies Group and decided to bring you a cake, too." I then whirled the funky shopping cart on a dime/ten pence and rolled off into the west toward Maida Vale.

The women who showed up at MomA's were a small but high-quality subset of the larger group. I enjoyed getting to know each of them a little better, and really enjoyed the tour of MomA's spacious, light-filled flat on the top floor of a building that was designed by the same architect who designed the iconic red phone boxes.

MomA's husband is the proud owner of an Espresso Machine. Neither MomA nor I had ever operated one. Once she showed me how to use it, I was hooked, and wound up being the barrista for the morning anytime anyone wanted another cup. Using the steam wand to froth up the hot milk was my favorite part. I won't be getting a machine like this anytime soon, as hitting the "Hi" street for a morning cuppa joe or an afternoon chai latte is a good excuse to get out of the house. What I'd like to know is how the Capuchin Monks, after whom the cappucino is named, managed to get the milk all hot and frothy without an electric espresso machine...

The time knitting passed too quickly, and before we knew it, it was 1 pm (13:00) and time to decamp. Upon returning to the flat, I convinced Son to hop a bus with me and we went down to Trafalgar Square to the National Gallery (free admission!). Here one can see what seems like thousands of medieval and renaissance paintings of Madonna and Child (including the "Madonna of the Rocks" as featured in The Da Vinci Code), the Holy Family, Jesus with Disciples, Holy Family with Saints, Patron ArchBishops, Popes, Virgin Martyrs, allegorical paintings of Christ's life, huge panoramas of renaissance market squares with a tiny figures in the background depicting Jesus' life and works, and countless scenes of crucifiction, etc etc. I enjoyed seeing all the expressions and realism in the paintings, but I think Son was overwhelmed with the fact that every single piece of art from 1250 through the seventeenth century was exclusively Christian.
"Isn't there any modern art in here?" he wanted to know. No, there was not. We hit the gift shop, where I bought three postcards, and then left to go across the road to St. Martin's In the Field church. I wanted to go to the crypt there and do a brass rubbing.

After accomplishing my mission there, (and doing a rubbing of a medieval-looking woman whose first name was the same as my own) we hopped back on the 139 bus and got off on Abbey Road just steps from the flat.

I have dubbed the last day of the week Tidy Friday. This is the day that I engage in all my domestic goddess rituals, such as kneeling in front of the porcelain pulpit with toilet brush, scrubbing the bathroom floors in near-prostration, using a "Hoover" to exorcise the demon dustballs, and waving the magical Method Floor Mop over the floors to sweeten the room with almond-scented floor cleaner. Once these ablutions were performed, I hit the streets with my Oyster card in hand. I was on the lookout for a fabric store where I could purchase some craft supplies.

My walk to the bus took me down the "Hi" Street. I popped into the Hospice Charity Shop to say hello to the manager and to ask if she knew of any fabric stores in the area. This is the shop where I had been team co-leader several weekends ago. My team spent two hours tidying the shop, organizing the glassware, etc (see previous posting). I guess we had done TOO GOOD a job, as the manager asked me if I would be willing to come in several mornings a week to help her do the same thing while she ran the hoover. I must have still smelled like almond-scented cleaner. We sat and talked about the shop, the hospice and Glastonbury Tor, which is a place in southwestern England to which we both feel connected. I set out on my way again.

I boarded the 274 bus to Islington and the Angel tube stop. I had done this once before when going to find a yarn store (Loop), but wanted to get a better look at the shops right near the terminus of the bus route. Unfortunately I had started out too late (2 pm) for a leisurely explore, but figured I'd just go with the flow and see what I could see. The bus ride was enjoyable, as people of all ages, nationalities and colours boarded, chatted on their phones, or adjusted their shopping. Several times a cane-wielding elder would board the bus, and someone always gave up one of the easily accessible seats and helped him or her get settled. The bus driver would always-always-always floor the accelerator pedal before the frail person was fully seated, so several pairs of hands would reach out to steady them so they wouldn't be flung to the floor.

I recognized many of the sights on this second trip on the route; two separate giant Sainsbury's Supermarkets in two neighborhoods, Her Majesty's Prison in Pentonville, playgrounds, and parks. My handy fold-up map ended just to the south of the neighborhoods through which we journied, but I had a vague idea of where we'd come out.

Once at the Angel tube stop, I thought I might get something to eat, as I hadn't had lunch yet. It's not like me to skip a meal, but I wasn't going to miss my Day Out. While looking down several side streets, I saw a poster marked "The Islington Arts and Crafts Show". Someone had told me about this, and I thought I had missed it, but there it was. This was the week for fiber arts and jewelry. If I had been looking for it I never would have found it, but there it was, right under my nose. Before I entered the gallery an unusual vehicle caught my eye. It was a pick-up truck with a huge sign that read "Bone's Breakers, 1610 Powerline Rd., Pompano Beach, Florida". I found this particulary amusing since my parents live in Pompano Beach, Florida. The next time I'm there I'll have to drive past 1610 Powerline Rd. (see photo).

I went into the Show and spent some time browsing around and talking to some of the artists and crafters. By now I was really hungry, so I thought I'd get some noodles from a noodle shop I had spotted from the bus window. "Good Karma" the sign said, so in I went and helped myself to the oriental buffet (country of origin unknown). Stepping back outside, I said to myself, OK, if that is Angel, and this is Islington High Street, then that must be.... Pentonville Road, which I knew from having been on it once thirty years before would take me towards Euston Station and eventually Baker Street or Gloucester Place, from which I could catch the 139 bus back to the flat. It was too cold and windy to be able to eat my noodles, meat, sauce and broccoli comfortably while waiting for the bus, so I had to wait until seated to get my lunch on board. I hate to eat on buses, as I consider it rude, but it was now almost 3 pm and I was really hungry, so I flung decorum to the wind.

It was a Friday afternoon and this particular stretch of road was packed. The bus had been labelled Baker Street, but when it took an unexpected turn to the south I decided to bail out. I was near Portland Place, and decided to hoof it. I went across Tottenham Court Road, which jogged some memories from my days at University College London thirty years ago. Soon I was on Grafton Way, near the University Health Centre, and University College Hospital, where I had encountered the rudest and most insensitive receptionist ever placed on the face of this earth "back in the day". It reminded me how lucky the patrons of the local hospital are to have Fabian and his compadres.

On I pressed. The sun was now completely down behind the buildings and the air grew chillier. I had my handy pocket map with me, but it was taking a while to go what looked like a hop, skip and a jump toward Gloucester Place. "Perhaps I'll stop in at the Theosophical Society there" I thought to myself. I had been meaning to do just that since I arrived, having given a few talks and workshops at Boston's Theosophical Society, located in Arlington Center just a mile from my house in Belmont. Finally, I crossed Old Marylebone Rd, took a dog-leg to the right-and-left, and thought I could spy my final street with 139 bus route. A quick glance up to my right showed a sign for the Baker Street underground stop. Why spend more time stuck in traffic when I could just hop the tube? TeenE had already phoned me to tell me she was home from school, and I had said I wouldn't be more than half an hour, so I impulsively made the right turn that would take me up to the underground stop. As I walked the one short block up towards the busy intersection, I saw a door on my right marked "Self-Realization Fellowship Founded by Paramahansa Yogananda". Once again, I had auto-piloted myself exactly to the perfect destination. This is an organization started in 1920 by one of my favorite spiritual authors, for the purposes of exploring scientific methods of meditation in the search for the fully-realized Self (i.e. the Self that knows it is connected to and part of the Source we call "God"). Yogananda taught that the historical Jesus was a fully-Realised (i.e. Christed) being, fully divine while in human form. One of his books, "Autobiography of a Yogi" is one of my top-ten books of all time, and was the inspiration for my Most Favorite Band of All Time, "YES"'s album Tales from Topographic Oceans. When I look at photos of Paramahansa Yogananda, I feel a deep love and a feeling of inner recognition of a wise and kindred soul. Serendipity? Coincidence that I should find myself on the doorstep of Yogananda's organization? I'll let you decide.

Within a moment of passing this door I was on my way into the Baker St. station, and was on a train toward St. John's Wood within two minutes. Still lost in my reverie about the afternoon, I almost missed my stop, but managed to get off the train and float up the escalator toward Grove End Road and A Flat on Abbey Road.

Once again, a simple walk, during which the cosmic auto-pilot had been in control. With the destination as Angel, and with a forkful of Good Karma, I had visited my Present, Past, and, I hope, Future, and had ultimately found parts of my Self.