Stranger – In A Strange Land

I had the great misfortune to be born in a terraced house on Chester Road in Watford.  Watford is a great place to be from if one is not going back.  From there the family moved out of the Greater London Area, seemingly with about half of Watford, to Northamptonshire and the village of Deanshanger home of the only red oxide works in Western Europe.

As the golden age of the ’70s went from the Wombles and Slade to Ted Heath, Harold Wilson and strikes, the family moved (actually my parents moved and I was sort of forced to go along for the ride) to the west coast of the US.  I was 14 years old at the time.  Everyone should pick up sticks and move to an alien culture at that age.  And believe me, nothing is more alien to the Midlands than the wilds of Oregon.  As a result, I became neither English or American, or I became a combination of both:  it is very difficult to tell which is more accurate.

What I do live for, besides my family, is the Oregon lifestyle.  I hunt, I fish, I eat well at great restaurants.  If I had my way, I would have a garden full of great vegetables and flowers that I grew myself.  Nothing beats a meal made from fish caught in a local stream and veggies straight from the garden.  I am about three years shy of the vegetable garden happening as paying child support has ruled out the possibility of owning my own house, with arable land attached:  September 2014 is when the youngest turns twenty-one,

I love to write.  I write about whatever is on my mind.  I do love to talk about cooking and restaurants.  Fortunately Portland has more than enough restaurants to fill a blog.  And I love going to little tiny out of the way places that feature great food:  some of the best eating in town is within walking distance of where I live. 



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