a weekend in paris

After having just settled down to life in a new country, getting used to a new culture, new food, new customs and a new sort of “language,” what do you do? Travel to a different country, of course.

Dave surprised me with a trip to Paris for our 6th wedding anniversary. How lovely is that? I had never been to Paris. Or London. And the truth is, it wasn’t so much of a surprise as a, “Hey, I have this in the wings. Are you settled enough to take off and leave the kids for a weekend?”


My answer? Oh hell yes. Because after traveling across the world with 2 small children, switching our body clocks 8 hours ahead, handling the tantrums and the “this [insert British food here] is yucky!” and the endless walking (sometimes carrying), I was ready for a break.

As I mentioned in the last post, our lovely friend and nanny Beki came with us out of sheer luck and happenstance. She moved into our apartment for the weekend and off we went. The girls were fine. Happy, in fact. A whole weekend with Beki? Hooray!


Notre Dame from across the River Seine

One bag, one tube, one train and we were there. I’m still amazed at how easy travel is in this little (big) place we call Europe.

What did we do in Paris? Tried the local cuisine. Tried the local cuisine again. And again. And again. There is a reason Paris is famous for its food. We had the best meal of our lives (for serious) at a small spot called Rossi & Co. We stumbled upon it on a Saturday night, having no reservation to speak of, and perusing Open Table or whatever the French equivalent is. I have no photos because the whole meal was spent with my eyes shut, savoring each bite, trying to remember it forever.


I drank coffee. Lots and lots of delicious coffee, because I have yet to find a spot in London that will make me an Americano. They either stare at me blankly or say, “No, but we can make you a latte or an espresso.” Because apparently they don’t have water behind the counter. Sometimes I stare right back at them until they notice what idiots they are, and sometimes I just ask for an iced espresso and then ask for some water to pour into it. Then I ask for a little milk. Then I ask for a little sugar. Then they kick me out of the coffee shop.

I forgot more and more about London coffee shop quarrels with each café a lait in Paris. Because that’s what you drink in Paris. I still dream about it.


“Lovelocks” bridge which spans the River Seine. No, we didn’t put our own lock on and toss the key in the river. But it was entertaining to watch others!

We crossed the “lovelocks” bridge and wandered around Notre Dame. When it got hot we’d take a break at a cafe or hop back to our apartment for a siesta.

Now I’m just totally culture-crossed. Maybe I need to re-visit Spain to have a nice long siesta.


Paris is just as beautiful as everyone says. The streets, though dirty, unkempt, and littered with cigarette butts, are lined with the most quaint buildings and lovely shops. The French, we found, are hilarious. They look like they are fighting every time they speak with their hand gestures and rapid river of words gushing out of their mouths. It’s entertainment in itself to watch them and figure out whether they’re talking about the weather or arguing over who gets Grandpa’s estate.


A fromage vendor at Bastille Market.

We found the beautiful Bastille Market and perused its tents full of cheeses, meats, fruits, fabrics, and everything in between. We sampled the fromage and the melon, laughed at the random vendors selling €1 tube socks, and sat by a fountain to catch any mist that we could. It mixed with the sweat on our faces and we sat there, happy and hot, delighted just to be sitting in a market in the middle of Paris.


When we had seen all there was to see at the market, we followed a stream of locals, not really knowing where we were going but knowing it was in the general direction of our train. Turns out they were going here: Boulangerie 28. They were coming to pick up baguettes to complete their shopping. We scooped up some sandwiches for the train home (delicious) and an eclair caramel that I will never forget.


At the base of the Eiffel Tower we asked a stranger to take a photo of us. He got down low to the ground and quickly snapped one shot, indicating to us in his native language (Czech?) that it was good. I doubted him, naturally, since I usually take multiple shots and choose the very best one. But it turns out it was perfect. It’s now my favorite picture of us.

Now we’re back to day-to-day life in London. Entering week three I’m starting to know my way around. The girls know exactly how to “mind the gap,” however large or small it may be. We signed a lease on a house and can move in later on in the month. I’ll share more about London later, but for now, I’ll leave you with thoughts of Paris: the most perfect pain au chocolat, sipping a cafe au lait, and sitting outside a little boulangerie on a hot summer morning.

Ta for now,


the millers take london

Well friends, we made it to London, though our journey was precarious and I still feel as though I am narcoleptic.



Our flight departed from Seattle at 2pm our time. Nine hours later, neither girl had slept…until the last 10 minutes of descent and landing (*fork in eye*). London is eight hours ahead, so when we arrived it was 7am local time. What could we do but forge ahead? We all had to get our bodies adjusted as quickly as possible.



I had no idea what to expect on the drive in from the airport. But our driver gave us a treat, whether on purpose or not I still don’t know. We drove past Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, hugged the Thames and took in amazing views of the Eye and the city beyond.

Sunrise over Big Ben

Sunrise over Big Ben

The girls then fell asleep. Again. This time just before we pulled up to our apartment (are you noticing that they have impeccable timing for this sort of thing?). We pulled them from the car and put them to bed for a few hours. When noon arrived we decided it was time to wake them or there would be no hope of a semi-normal bedtime later that evening. So we tried to wake them. And tried. And tried. No dice.

Our temporary home lies in this building, above the most amazing grocer. Waitrose is like Trader Joe's and Whole Foods had a gorgeous, delicious baby.

Our temporary home lies in this building, above the most amazing grocer. Waitrose is like Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods had a gorgeous, delicious baby.

We’d pull them to different spots (couch, chair, lap) and they’d stir for a moment, then pass right back out. What finally worked was singing at the top of my lungs, “When ayyy was one ayyy had some fun on the daayyy I went to seeea! I jumped aboooard a pirate ship aaand the captain saaaid to me…” You know the song? Top. Of. My. Lungs. While stomping and clapping. It made them pissed as all hell but it woke them enough to stay awake for 5 minutes, and then they were awake enough to walk out the front door, and then when the sun hit their faces they were nearly almost awake.

Dave and I, semi-awake, on the tube.

Dave and I, semi-awake, on the tube.

That first day (it was only saturday, but it feels like about a week ago) we walked a lot, which will be our new habit here in London. We toured the London Museum, decided that the Brits don’t know how to make chocolate milk, and abandoned all hope of finding pizza, much to Charlie’s dismay . We rode the tube and counted double-decker busses, decided that the water tastes awful, fell in love with a grocery store and walked some more. That night the girls went to sleep at 7:30, woke off and on from 12-4, then slept soundly until 10:30 the next morning.

In this tiny playground we heard more different languages being spoken than in our entire lives in Seattle. I love how multicultural London is!

In this tiny playground we heard more different languages being spoken than in our entire lives in Seattle. I love how multicultural London is!

Day 2. Yesterday. I was itching to see their school–at least the outside and surroundings, since it’s still closed for summer. We had a slow start with some of the most bizarre children’s shows I’ve ever seen (apparently the British actors love to make asses of themselves in the name of children’s programming), rehydrated, and finally got enough coffee in me not to feel like the walking dead. Then we made our way to Swiss Cottage, the name of the neighborhood in which their girls’ school is situated.

Lucy on the front steps of her new school. I think she likes it!

Lucy on the front steps of her new school. I think she likes it!


Charlie was enthralled with the soccer…ahem…football games going on.

It is cuter than cute. White town houses go for blocks and blocks, leading to parks, cute little cafes and (cha ching!) a “leisure centre”, which is basically a community centre (oh my gosh, I spelled it that way naturally…they’re having their way with me already!) but way nicer than in the States. For a small monthly fee you can use the pool, gym, children’s play area, spa, etc. It seemed to be the center for the neighborhood, surrounded by a soccer field, playground, community center cafe, large grassy knolls and fountain. I could surely get used to living nearby.

The fountains just outside Swiss Cottage leisure centre.

The fountains just outside Swiss Cottage leisure centre.

Swiss Cottage/Belsize Park neighborhood.

Swiss Cottage/Belsize Park neighborhood.

Today Dave starts work. From now until September 1st I’ll be on my own with the girls along with our wonderful nanny and friend Beki, who out of sheer luck and happenstance also moved to London for a short while. In that time we need to find a permanent place to live, get the girls uniforms and other school necessities, find doctors for me, remember to look right instead of left whist crossing the street, and figure out what the hell “spotted dick” is, among other quirky British menu items. It’s all an adventure.


Just one of the bazillion pubs where you can have a pint and a bite outside. And kids are welcome in pubs! Amazing.

Stay tuned, friends. Love to you all!

xo Jenny, Dave, Lucy, Charlie, and London

bon voyage

Seattle, we’ve come to the end of the line, you and I. In a mere 24 hours I’m leaving your cool, breezy hills for an equally cool, breezy (but flatter) city across the continent and across an ocean. There will be so much distance between us. At least for two years, that is. Don’t go thinking I would leave you forever!

photo (53)

Sun up over the beach at Fort Worden

I don’t want you to go making any big changes while I’m gone, okay? I’d like my house to still be standing and its cherry trees to always bloom soft pink blossoms in spring. I’d like my dear neighbors to stay my dear neighbors—protect them and keep them safe from disease and old age and the lure of selling in this lucrative market.


Home. I’m not crying! I’m not!


Goodnight couch, goodnight chair…

I’d like my favorite coffee shop not to be bought out by Starbucks, thank you very much. I would like the crappy grocery store down the street to stay crappy, because I still want to know exactly what’s not on every aisle and the name of every ornery checker and bag boy. And while you’re at it, pretty please protect the blind woman who walks miles in rain, sleet or snow every day along 35th avenue. She’s more reliable than the postman. You can go ahead and do away with the post office, though, if you need to make any major changes, or at least rename it “Dante’s Tenth Circle of Hell: Inefficiency.” The stamps could feature junk mail burning in eternal hellfire and…

I’m going off on a tangent.


Goodnight dog parks everywhere.

I’d like you to take a huge soft grey cloud—the kind that you’re famous for, Seattle—and wrap it around my friends and family. Keep them safe and happy but don’t let them forget me. Maybe every once in a while the cloud could whisper, “Jenny misses you…” or maybe not, because being enveloped in a talking cloud would just scare the shit out of them and make them pee their pants just a little. Or a lot. [Mental note: Jenny, steer clear of personification.]


Goodnight Lake Union.

How about this: give them sun in summer and rain in fall (but not too much). Let their visits to doctors only be for checkups. Light up Mt. Rainier when they’re having a bad day. Make their lattes perfect each time, and let the smell of Top Pot swirl through the air on clear early mornings. Remind them to phone me regularly. But above all, tell them that I love them. All. The. Time. And that I’m going to miss them more than cherry trees and Puget Sound and coffee and the perfect chocolate-glazed old fashioned.

Until we meet again,

Your Jenny

photo (52)

turning the page

Oh friends, there is so much to catch you up on! I have been absent for an inexcusable amount of time. But, with my new specks…


I can finally write on the computer without getting a headache. It only took the right eye doctor to diagnose something that I’ve had all my life, and the right glasses to fix it. But glasses are only the tip of the metaphorical iceberg of my medical issues. I’ve had my head cracked open, tooled around with, and sewed shut (it was all peaches and cream, I assure you). And I’ve also had a needle inserted from the back of my jaw to the front of my cheek, while awake. Not fully sedated. And then a searing hot needle in the same spot (peaches and cream).

But I’ve learned a lot from these experiences. And here’s an important tip from me to you: when someone is about to pull surgical staples out of your head and they say, “This is going to feel like a little pinch,” they are LYING. It is going to feel like they are PULLING F***ING STAPLES OUT OF YOUR HEAD.


But I digress. After my surgery in January there were lots of tears for the inability to take care of my girls, lots of anger because the surgery didn’t work. Well, it worked a tiny bit. As I told the surgeon a few weeks after, it took my sound sensitivity down from an 8 to a 6. It’s something. I can be in restaurants a tiny bit longer without hiding in the bathroom. I can put soft music on in the car for the girls. But it was not the miracle cure we were all hoping for. There are still days when I want to pull a Van Gogh. But then I realize that I would then be the girl with no ear, and probably committed to a mental institution, and still have this damn sound sensitivity and unbearable pain.


Two months after the surgery I was recovered and settling back into life. I had accepted that this was how it was going to be; this was how I was going to be.  I had accepted it, but I didn’t like it. I was tired of the same routine and the same 4 walls. I was bored. I looked into the future and couldn’t see anything other than the same day-to-day blah. During my daily meditation I would ask the universe (you might call it God, I call it something different) for something big. Something happy. A change.

The universe answered. Shouted, practically. But I didn’t really know it at the time.

One day as I was resting in my bed, watching Call the Midwife on my iPad for the umpteenth time (amazing show), Dave messaged me: “Want to move to London?”

I nearly choked on my coffee. And if anyone can choke on coffee, it would be me.


His company was looking for 10 Americans to help lead teams in the expanding London office. So this wasn’t just a joke: he was serious. Should he apply or not? We discussed it at length. Would my medical needs be met the UK? What would we do with the house? The car? How would we function with no family support? Where would the kids go to school? How would they react to the move?

Dave grew up a military brat, moving from place to place all over the world. A move like this didn’t faze him. In fact, it feels odd to him being in our house for so long (6 years).  But me? I’ve lived in Seattle my whole life. And when I’ve moved away for short periods, I’ve gotten homesick…to say the least. Just the thought of leaving my family gives me butterflies and makes me feel like I want to throw up but not throw up but oh, man I might…and I need a ginger ale.


So I sat on it. And thought everything through. And then I realized something: in college I was accepted to a writing program in London the summer after my junior year. That June, my mother was diagnosed with stage four uterine cancer. I stayed home to take care of her. It was the most difficult and saddest time of my life, up until now. That was 10 years ago.

She survived, and thrived, and I would never take back a moment spent with her while she was fighting for her life. I never got to see London, and I don’t regret it.  But right at the moment when I was reflecting on the ten-year anniversary of the year we nearly lost my mom, I was also thinking about the magic of London (clearly; I was watching Call the Midwife for the 7th time!) and what might have happened had she not gotten sick; had I gone to London to write. And just then, the universe offered up the city to me, clear as day. Looking back, I don’t know how I didn’t recognize it right at that moment; this gift landing in my lap. This opportunity I needed and still need so very much. A clean slate.

IMG_2371 IMG_2324

The last 2 years have been the hardest and unhappiest of my life, equal to that of holding my mom’s hand in that awful hospital room for weeks on end. London would be a new beginning. An adventure. And I had to take a leap of faith that this could be my chance to be happy once again. For so many reasons, I knew that this was a gift being given to me. I had to honor it and embrace it and, above all, enjoy it!

Dave applied and was accepted, of course, because he’s a rock star. We leave at the end of July for two years across the pond. I am frightened and excited, sad and thrilled. Now that most of the logistical details are taken care of, I’m focusing on keeping myself healthy—physically and mentally. My shrink and I are becoming fast friends.


Someone said to me, “I guess the name of your blog will still work over there: Rainy Day Gal.” They were right. London weather is about the same. The only thing that’s changed is me. The way I look at the world is very different after I’ve been chewed up and spit out these last 2 years. I’ve grown up. I know myself better. I’m more centered, more grounded. But I’m sadly not that funny, lighthearted Jenny that used to fuddle about in the kitchen making Bacon Cinnamon Rolls and Cuban Pork. I want to get back to her. I want to find life funny again. Maybe everything is funnier in Britain. At least the people watching will be better.

What I’ll be writing from here on out will be more about our adventures in moving, house hunting, testing London cuisine, shopping for groceries the way Londoners do. I’ll get lost on the tube, get soaked to the bone with rain and meet some hilarious woman at a coffee shop and become fast friends. Because London is a rom-com, right? I want to live in a rom-com right now. That sounds nice.


I know you all want lots of photos of everything Britain, and I can absolutely promise you that, along with our travels around Europe (France, Denmark, Spain, Croatia, Ireland, Scotland…our list is never-ending). I’ll attempt to keep you updated (most) every step of the way. And when we get settled in our new kitchen, I’ve taken a vow to start cooking again. I will, I will, I will!

Thank you, dear readers and friends, for always being here, even when I’m not. You mean more to me than I can express with words. Until next time,



like a hole in the head

I came to my site this morning to find an old recipe. Reading through the post I needed, I was struck with how much I have changed in the last year: I’m more serious, less funny. I don’t write anymore. My brain exists in a cloud of medications that have made me a different person. I need them to survive, but it’s not a lively existence whatsoever.

I’d give anything to go back to the old Jenny. Starting Monday morning (January 27th), I just might have that chance.

Taken by Katie Blanch Photography - http://katieblanch.com

Let me take a step back. A few months ago, by sheer chance and a bit of good luck, a doctor spied something on my CT that no one had before: a hole. Not a hole in my head (though Monday I’ll have one of those, too!), but a tiny, microscopic hole in my superior semicircular ear canal. It’s called Superior Canal Dehiscence Syndrome, and it’s incredibly rare.

The watered-down version is this: you have three semicircular ear canals that are filled with fluid. They communicate with the brain as your head moves to keep you balanced. The canals are made of bone which encase the fluid. When a hole forms, naturally your balance–and your hearing–can get all sorts of wacky. In my case, the hole is right next to my brain, so with no bone there, only a thin membrane runs between the canal and the brain. This could very well explain my extreme sound sensitivity, balance issues, pain, vertigo, and dizziness.

Taken by Katie Blanch Photography - http://katieblanch.com

I met with the most fantastic surgeon here in Seattle and scheduled the procedure. Unfortunately, they can’t patch the canal by entering through the ear, so it is a cranial operation–they will cut out a small piece of my skull in order to access the canal they need to patch. Since it’s close to brain surgery, it comes with many inherent risks. Believe me, I’ve lost a lot of sleep over this one! After the operation is over I’ll spend 2 days in the ICU, followed by 3-5 more days in a regular room. When I’m discharged they’ll send me home with a walker so I don’t stumble around the house like a drunken sailor (but if I do I’ll be sure to take hilarious video for y’all).


Now it comes back to the old question: am I hopeful? Unequivocally, yes. I have the best doctor, the best family and friends, and the best husband to help me through this. I believe that I will get back to my old self after all said and done. I’m thinking positive, and won’t let myself think otherwise.

Hopefully this year you’ll see a lot more of me. Hopefully I can get back to cooking, and photography, and writing, just as life was before I got whacked over the head with this illness. I want to laugh again, and cry from joy and not pain. I want to take care of my kids all day long and not get tired; not curl up in a ball of pain on the couch. I want to go out to restaurants, and parties, and play dates. I want to get my life back. And the next time you hear from me, I’ll be funny and sarcastic and cooking something weird. I’ll be Jenny again.

Taken by Katie Blanch Photography - http://katieblanch.com



All photos in this post © 2013-2014 Katie Blanch Photography http://katieblanch.com/