Oatcakes at the door
The doorbell rang this morning. The young man at the door was the same young man who had come from the post office last week. He had rung the first time and asked me to sign for a package for Simon. When I called out to Simon in English, the postman quickly changed from French to English. I complimented him on his English and he said that he speaks French, English, Italian, German and Arabic. He said happily “We are Arabs. We are everywhere.” His smile was beautiful and huge, but toothless. Four or five teeth in a row were missing across the top of his mouth. The absence of teeth did not seem to affect the clarity of his speech.
This morning he greeted me in English and asked me to sign for another package. Today’s box contained a birthday gift of oatcakes from Scotland. They were carefully packed in a bed of shredded newspaper so that they would not break on the journey. They arrived in a nearly perfect state. They are the best oatcakes I have ever eaten. I think they must be the best oatcakes in all of Scotland. There are two packets of the regular ones (high bake) and two packages with cracked black pepper. I am so fond of the regular ones that I wonder if they need to ever add anything like black pepper. Even while I was thinking this about the black pepper ones, I decided they might be lovely with a soft goat’s cheese.
EVH
notes from an urban hibernation 
you want to share one? love, Kate >