It happened at a restaurant in Liverpool, about one month after I moved to the UK. My partner and I had just finished a lovely dinner, and the server slid the dessert menu across the table. I picked it up, fully confident. I speak English. I can handle a dessert menu.

I could not handle the dessert menu.

Eton mess. Sticky Toffee Pudding. Banoffee pie.

Not a brownie in sight. Not a slice of chocolate layer cake. Not even a cheesecake.

I looked up at my partner with the expression I’ve come to recognize as my default British cultural confusion face.

They looked back at me with pure delight.

“Right,” they said, rubbing their hands together. “Let me explain.”

That was the beginning of my British dessert education, and honestly, it’s one of my favorite things I’ve learned since moving here. Because British desserts aren’t just different from American ones. They tell a completely different story about what pudding (more on that word in a moment) is supposed to be.

Welcome to An American’s Guide to British Life - my lighthearted celebration of British culture! As an American living in the UK for the past four years, I love exploring the delightful cultural differences and similarities that make life here so interesting. These articles are written with affection and humor, never judgement and always with respect.

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First Things First: “Pudding” Doesn’t Mean Pudding

Before we go any further, we need to address the word “pudding.”

In America, pudding is one specific thing: a smooth, creamy, wobbly dessert that comes in chocolate, vanilla, or butterscotch, and often arrives in a little plastic cup. Jell-O brand. You know the one.

In the UK, “pudding” means dessert. All of it. Any of it. The whole category. “What’s for pudding?” just means “what are we having for dessert?” This single linguistic difference caused me no small amount of confusion in my early days here. I once proudly told someone I’d made pudding for dessert. I meant Jell-O. The silence that followed was instructive.

Which brings us neatly to the star of the show.

Sticky Toffee Pudding

My partner has a favorite. It is not up for debate. It is Cartmel.

Cartmel Sticky Toffee Pudding comes from a village shop in Cumbria, in the Lake District, where Howard and Jean Johns took over a struggling shop in 1989 and Jean started making food for the self-catering market. The sticky toffee pudding became so popular that they went from making 25 a week to over a million a year. It’s now sold in Waitrose, Selfridges, and Harvey Nichols. It has been called the best sticky toffee pudding in the world.

My partner would agree.

The pudding became so famous that Howard and Jean’s son, Simon, eventually moved to America to sell it there, setting up shop in Santa Monica. He found it a trickier sell than back home, partly because of the climate, and partly because Americans kept seeing the word “pudding” and expecting something like Jell-O. Which, as someone who has lived both sides of that confusion, I completely understand.

So what is Sticky Toffee Pudding, exactly? It’s a warm, dense date sponge cake drenched in a rich toffee sauce, usually served with cream, custard, or vanilla ice cream. It is deeply, unapologetically comforting. It tastes like a hug from someone who really means it.

There is no American equivalent. I’ve looked. Extensively. This was not casual research.

Eton Mess

The name sounds like something went wrong, and technically, it did. The most charming origin story holds that an Eton mess was created when a pavlova (more on that in a moment) was accidentally sat on, or dropped, or otherwise ruined, and someone decided to serve it anyway by mixing everything together. Whether that’s true or not, the result is a glorious combination of crushed meringue, whipped cream, and strawberries.

It looks chaotic. It tastes like summer. My partner introduced me to it at a restaurant in Angelsey and watched my face carefully as I took the first bite. I did not disappoint them.

Pavlova

Speaking of meringue, pavlova is one of the great British (well, technically disputed between Britain, Australia and New Zealand, but that’s an argument for another day) dessert achievements. A crispy meringue shell with a soft, marshmallowy inside, topped with whipped cream and fresh fruit.

The texture is unlike anything I’d encountered before. The outside shatters. The inside is almost chewy. It shouldn’t work as well as it does. And yet here we are, pretending we always trusted it.

Victoria Sponge

The Victoria sponge is Britain’s classic celebration cake, and it took me a while to understand it. Two light, airy sponge layers sandwiched with jam and cream or buttercream, dusted with icing sugar on top. That’s it. No elaborate frosting. No ganache drips. No three-inch buttercream rosettes.

The first time I saw one I genuinely thought it was unfinished.

The British baking tradition is largely from scratch, and the result prioritizes texture and flavor over drama. The Victoria sponge is light, delicate, and quietly confident. It doesn’t need to show off.

I’ve come around to it completely.

It has become almost synonymous with the Women’s Institute, which has been a cornerstone of British community life since 1915. I won’t go into the full history here, but what started as a movement to support women during the First World War, with deep roots in the Suffragist movement, has become, among other things, the unofficial guardian of the perfect Victoria sponge. Americans might picture a quaint village hall and a lot of jam. They wouldn’t be entirely wrong. But they’d be missing quite a bit of the story.

Crumble (and the Crisp vs. Cobbler Situation)

This one I thought I understood. I grew up eating a variety of fruit crisps, fruit baked under a mixture of oats, butter, flour and sugar until golden and crunchy. Surely a crumble is the same thing?

Almost. A British crumble uses flour, butter and sugar rubbed together into a loose, sandy topping with no oats typically, which makes it finer and more, well, crumbly. The American crisp usually includes oats for extra texture. They’re close cousins, not identical twins. One went to finishing school. The other brought oats.

The cobbler, my personal American favorite, is a different beast entirely. Instead of a crumbly topping, you drop soft scone-like dough in rough dollops over the fruit, and it bakes up soft and golden on top. Those uneven mounds of dough are said to resemble a cobblestone street, which is apparently where the name comes from.

Bread and Butter Pudding (and Summer Pudding)

This brings us to perhaps the most uniquely British dessert instinct: putting bread in things and calling it pudding.

Bread and butter pudding takes slices of buttered bread, layers them in a dish with dried fruit, pours over a custard mixture, and bakes until golden. It is wonderful, rich, creamy, warm, and it absolutely should not work as well as it does. And yet, somehow, it’s excellent. This feels like a pattern.

Summer pudding takes it even further. You line a bowl with slices of white bread, fill it with cooked summer berries and their juice, weigh it down overnight so the bread soaks up all that color and flavor, then turn it out onto a plate. The result is a deep crimson dome of berry-soaked bread that is delicious and looks impressive and is fundamentally just bread.

Spotted Dick

I cannot write this article without including it, because the name stops every American in their tracks without exception. Including me. I saw it on a pub menu in my first month here, looked at my partner, and had to make a decision: ask what it was and reveal myself immediately as an outsider, or confidently order it and hope for the best.

I asked. Obviously.

Spotted dick is a steamed suet pudding (yes, suet, the hard animal fat that Americans primarily associate with bird feeders) studded with dried fruit. The spots are the fruit, and the “dick” likely derives from an old word for dough or pudding. It’s dense, warming, and I’m told genuinely tasty served with custard. It’s next on the list.

The name has launched a thousand sniggers. British people find the American reaction to it equally amusing. It is one of the great transatlantic comedy exchanges.

Bakewell Tart

Named after the town of Bakewell in Derbyshire in the north of England, this is a shortcrust pastry case filled traditionally with raspberry jam and a dense almond frangipane mixture, often topped with flaked almonds or icing. It’s not as sweet as American tarts tend to be. The almond flavor is the star, and the whole thing is deeply satisfying rather than sugary.

I very much like a Bakewell tart.

There's also the Bakewell pudding, which is quite different from the tart, and that distinction matters enormously to people from Bakewell. The pudding is the original, created in the 1800s by a cook who accidentally poured the almond and egg mixture over the jam rather than mixing it into the pastry. The result was a soft, custardy almond filling in a puff pastry case. The tart came later, with its shortcrust pastry and frangipane sponge topping. Related, but not the same. I have learned not to confuse them.

Trifle

A trifle is an architectural project disguised as a dessert. Layers of sponge cake (often soaked in sherry or fruit juice), fruit, jelly (that’s Jell-O to Americans), custard, and whipped cream, assembled in a glass bowl so you can see all the layers, then often decorated with fruit or sprinkles on top.

It’s so good that many Brits have been known to eat the entire thing in one sitting.

It appears at parties. It appears at Christmas. It is very serious business. There are expectations. There may be judgment.

The sherry question is one I tiptoed around for a while. I don’t drink, so I’ve tended toward the fruit juice versions, but the layered spectacle of a proper trifle still delights me every time. My British mother-in-law’s trifle is a thing of beauty and is deployed only at significant occasions.

Custard: The Backbone of Everything

If there is one thing that unifies British desserts more than any other, it is custard. I mentioned it in the trifle section. It appears in the spotted dick section. It appears in the bread and butter pudding section. At some point, I had to stop and ask my partner: " What exactly is this stuff, and why is it on everything?

Custard in the UK is a warm, pourable, vanilla-scented sauce made from eggs, milk, sugar and cornflour. It is not the same as American pudding, though I understand the confusion. It is thicker than cream, smoother than anything from a box, and it goes on, or under, or alongside, almost every warm dessert on this list.

There are loyalties involved. Bird’s Custard, made from powder and one of the great British pantry staples, has been a household name since 1837. Ambrosia Devon Custard comes ready-made in a distinctive tin and has its own deeply devoted following. And then there are the purists who make it from scratch with egg yolks and will look at you pityingly if you mention either of the above.

The Bird’s vs Ambrosia debate has the same energy as America’s Heinz vs Hunt’s, or Duke’s vs Hellmann’s. Technically about condiments, actually about identity.

I came to custard late. I had only ever had pumpkin pie three ways: with ice cream, with squirty cream, or with cream poured straight over the top. Then one autumn, my partner suggested trying it with warm custard.

I cannot overstate what this did to me.

Warm custard, pumpkin pie, the smell of cinnamon and vanilla together. It is the perfect transatlantic marriage of desserts, and I have my partner entirely to thank for it.

Golden Syrup

One last thing no American is prepared for: golden syrup.

Golden syrup is a thick, amber sweetener made from cane sugar with no real American equivalent. It tastes like a softer, more complex version of corn syrup, slightly caramelized, deeply golden. Lyle’s Golden Syrup, in its distinctive green and gold tin, is a British institution, first sold in 1885.

It is the backbone of two classic British desserts that Americans often confuse.

Treacle tart is a baked pastry case filled with golden syrup, breadcrumbs and a hint of lemon — it is also, for the Harry Potter fans in the room, Harry’s favorite dessert.

Treacle sponge is the steamed pudding version, saturated with golden syrup and served warm, usually with custard. Related, but quite different.

Banoffee Pie

I had never heard of banoffee pie before I moved to the UK. Which, it turns out, is a genuine shame.

It was invented in 1972 by the chef and owner of The Hungry Monk restaurant in East Sussex. The name is a portmanteau of banana and toffee, and that’s exactly what you get: bananas, toffee made from boiled condensed milk, a biscuit base, and whipped cream on top.

Americans would recognize every single flavor. None of it is strange or unfamiliar. And yet most Americans have never heard of it, let alone tried it.

My partner couldn’t understand why Americans had missed this one entirely. Honestly, neither can I.

All I can say is that banoffee pie deserves far more attention on the American side of the Atlantic, and I am doing my small part to correct this.

Cheese Is Dessert Here

I would be remiss not to mention the cheese course.

In the UK, finishing a dinner with a cheese board, proper cheeses, crackers, chutney, maybe some grapes and nuts, is completely normal. Refined, even. The cheese course is a legitimate dessert option on restaurant menus.

In America, cheese is firmly an appetizer. Serving it at the end of a meal would deeply confuse people.

I have fully adopted the cheese course. It is one of my better cultural integrations.

What I’ve Learned About British Desserts (And Maybe About Britain)

My philosophy with food has always been simple: it could be my new favorite, and I’ll never know until I try. It’s what got me here: ordering things off menus I didn’t fully understand, trusting my partner’s enthusiasm, and discovering that custard on pumpkin pie is a life-changing decision. I still haven’t made it to spotted dick, summer pudding, or treacle sponge. But they’re on the list. Everything is on the list.

What I didn’t expect was how much food would teach me about Britain itself. More than any guidebook, more than any history lesson, sitting down to eat something a culture has been making for centuries tells you something real: what they find comforting, what they celebrate with, what they put on the table on a cold Tuesday evening just because. The dessert menu I couldn’t read four years ago in Liverpool was basically a map of a culture I was just beginning to understand.

I still occasionally scan a menu for a brownie or a slice of apple pie. Old habits. But these days I’m just as likely to order something I can’t quite explain, trust that it will arrive warm, and hope there’s custard.

And then there's ice cream, which sounds universal until you encounter a Mr Whippy van for the first time, soft serve dispensed through a little window, with a Flake chocolate bar stuck in the top. That's a 99, and it is an institution. Definitely a future ice cream article to come.

Finally, I know I haven’t even scratched the surface with British desserts. Syllabub, fool, clootie dumpling, jam roly-poly, flummery and I'm sure there are others. British desserts run deep.

Also British cheese and everything that goes with it deserves its own article, and I promise that’s coming.

Your Turn

I’ve done my best to try them all, but I wouldn’t dare rank them. That’s your job. Tell me in the comments: what’s your definitive top three?

For my British friends: Which of these is the undisputed champion of the British dessert table? And which one do you think Americans are most wrong to overlook?

For my American readers and expats: Which British dessert surprised you most, and which one are you still not sure about?

See you Sunday,

Marianne

P.S. If this feels familiar, you might also enjoy “Wait, That’s Not a Biscuit”, where I discovered that British biscuits are equally delightful.

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My British mother-in-law has a habit of asking for “tidy bread.”

When I first heard this, I had no idea what she meant. Tidy bread? Like... neat bread?

Thankfully, I’d already been warned. My Irish sister-in-law had learned the hard way before I came along. When she first heard my mother-in-law ask for “tidy bread,” she did what any reasonable person would do. She went on an actual mission around the shops looking for bread that appeared tidy and neat. She was genuinely inspecting loaves for their level of presentability. Did the crust look well-groomed? Were the slices even? Was this bread tidy enough?

She eventually learned, and then kindly passed the knowledge on to me, that my mother-in-law actually meant: nice bread.” Good bread. Artisan-type bread. In British slang (it’s most strongly associated with Wales, where my mother-in-law has lived for over 50 years, but you’ll hear it in parts of England too) “tidy” means good, nice, or quality. So “tidy bread” just means “get the good stuff, not the basic sliced.”

Armed with this insider knowledge, I’ve been spared my own tidy bread shopping disaster. But it perfectly captures the experience of navigating British bread culture as an outsider. Even when you speak the same language, the bread aisle has its own vocabulary.

Welcome to An American’s Guide to British Life - my lighthearted celebration of British culture! As an American living in the UK for the past three years, I love exploring the delightful cultural differences and similarities that make life here so interesting. These articles are written with affection and humor, never judgement and always with respect.

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The Bread Aisle: A Different World

If you’ve read my sandwich article, you’ll know I touched on how British bread is fundamentally different from American bread. But I didn’t do the bread aisle justice. Not even close.

Walking into a British supermarket’s bread section for the first time is an experience. In America, we have bread. White bread. Wheat bread. Maybe some rye if you’re feeling adventurous. A few artisan options if your grocery store is fancy. But the basic bread transaction is straightforward: you pick a loaf, it’s sliced, it’s in a bag, and you go home.

British bread comes in shapes and varieties I didn’t know existed. There are bloomers, crusty, elongated loaves with diagonal slashes across the top (the name likely comes from the bread “blooming” as it expands freely in the oven without a tin, though nobody’s entirely sure). There are farmhouse loaves dusted with flour that look like they’ve walked straight out of a painting. There are cobs, which are round. Cottage loaves, which are essentially two round loaves stacked on top of each other like a bread snowman. Tiger bread, which has that distinctive crackled crust. And then there’s the entire Warburtons empire.

Oh, Warburtons. The first time I saw a Warburtons Toastie loaf, I genuinely thought something had gone wrong at the factory. This bread is tall. I’m talking skyscraper bread. It towers over anything I’ve ever seen in an American bread aisle. The slices are enormous. Proper, thick, substantial slices designed for what I now understand is a nation that takes its toast extremely seriously. They even have special toasters designed to fit tall Warburtons bread.

Warburtons has been baking since 1876 and is now the UK’s most popular bread brand, which I find delightful because it started when Ellen Warburton began baking bread at the back of the family’s small grocery shop in Bolton during a slump in the grocery market. It’s still family-owned, five generations later. That’s a proper British success story right there.

The Sweet Truth

Here’s the thing that nobody warned me about before I moved to the UK: American bread is sweet. Not “oh, there’s a hint of sweetness” sweet. Sweet enough that British people taste it immediately and react like you’ve just served them cake for breakfast.

I never noticed this living in America, because when everything is sweet, nothing is sweet. But after three years of eating British bread, I went back to the States for a visit, grabbed a loaf of the bread I’d grown up with, and thought oh no, they’re right. It genuinely tasted sugary to me. American standard white bread can contain roughly three times the sugar of its British equivalent. Some comparisons suggest certain American brands contain more sugar per loaf than a chocolate bar.

British bread, by contrast, tastes like... bread. Flour, water, yeast, salt. The flavour is more savoury, more wheaty, more neutral. It’s designed to be a canvas for whatever you’re putting on it, not a sweet treat in its own right.

And here’s a fun bit of bread history: about 80% of the bread made in the UK is produced using something called the Chorleywood Bread Process, developed in 1961 in (you guessed it) a village called Chorleywood. British scientists created a high-speed mixing technique that dramatically reduced bread production time and allowed bakers to use more locally grown British wheat. While American bread was being engineered for softness and shelf life with added sugars and preservatives, British bread was being engineered for efficiency and affordability using homegrown ingredients. Two countries, two completely different bread philosophies.

What I Miss: An American Bread Confession

I need to confess a few things to my British readers. There are breads I miss.

French bread. I can already hear the confusion. “But we have baguettes! We have tiger bread!” And yes, you do. British baguettes are lovely, and tiger bread with its gorgeous crackled crust is one of the best things about the British bread aisle. I have no complaints about either.

But American French bread is its own thing entirely. It’s not trying to be an authentic Parisian baguette. It’s a soft, pillowy, slightly crusty loaf that’s wider and fluffier than a proper baguette. Perfect for garlic bread, for tearing apart at dinner, for making French toast on lazy weekend mornings. It was a staple of my childhood, and it occupies a very specific space in my food memory that no British bread has quite managed to fill. I’ve tried making French toast with British bread and it works, but it’s different. Less sweet. More substantial. More... bread-like. Which is probably the healthier option, but nostalgia doesn’t care about health.

Dinner rolls. This is the one that really gets me. In America, dinner rolls are a thing. Those soft, fluffy, pull-apart rolls that accompany every important meal. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Sunday dinners, any occasion where the good plates come out. They sit in a basket lined with a cloth napkin, warm from the oven, and you tear one off and it’s pillowy and light and perfect for soaking up gravy.

In the UK? Not really a tradition. You might get bread served with a meal at a restaurant, but it’s not the same. There’s no equivalent of that basket of golden, buttery dinner rolls appearing at the family table for a roast dinner. And I’ve tried to make them here. Truly, I have. But I still haven’t cracked the code. I don’t know if it’s the humidity, the lack of altitude compared to where I grew up, or the different flour, but my dinner rolls in England just don’t come out the same. They’re fine, but they’re not right. It’s one of those baking mysteries that keeps me up at night. Well, not literally. But close.

If any fellow American expats have solved the British dinner roll puzzle, I am genuinely all ears.

Bread bowls. In America, you can order soup or chilli served inside a hollowed-out round loaf of bread. You eat the soup, then you eat the bowl. It’s bread doing double duty. The bread soaks up the soup as you go, getting more flavourful with every bite, and by the end you’ve eaten your entire meal, container included. I was surprised to discover this isn’t really a thing in the UK, because it feels like it should be. A nation this devoted to both bread and soup feels like the perfect home for the bread bowl.

I’ve made them for my British friends, and the reaction has been unanimous: amazement, followed by delight, followed by “why don’t we have these?” Exactly. I often daydream about opening a little popup food stall serving bread bowls and soup for all of us surviving the British damp. If anyone wants to invest, you know where to find me.

The Bread That’s Actually Cake

Here’s something that confuses my British friends to no end: Americans have an entire category of baked goods that we call “bread” that British people would firmly categorize as cake.

Banana bread. Zucchini bread. Pumpkin bread. In America, these are staples. The kind of thing your neighbor drops off wrapped in foil, the thing you bake when you have overripe bananas, the thing that fills your kitchen with the smell of cinnamon and warmth on an autumn afternoon. We call them “quick breads” because they use baking powder or baking soda instead of yeast, and they’re baked in loaf tins. Bread tins. Therefore: bread.

The British look at these and say, “That’s cake. You’ve made a cake. In a loaf tin. It’s still cake.”

And honestly? They might have a point. Banana bread has sugar, butter, and eggs. It’s sweet. It’s moist. It’s basically cake that’s been allowed to call itself bread because of the shape of the tin it was baked in. But in America, calling it “bread” somehow makes it acceptable to eat for breakfast, which is really the whole point.

The UK does have banana bread. It became massively popular during COVID lockdowns when everyone was panic-baking with overripe bananas and stockpiled flour. But here, it tends to be called a “loaf cake,” which is a much more honest name. Courgette bread (that’s zucchini bread for my American readers) and pumpkin bread, however, remain deeply American concepts. I’ve tried explaining pumpkin bread to British friends and received the kind of polite, slightly concerned looks usually reserved for when I mention putting marshmallows on sweet potatoes.

Quick breads are one of those American comfort food traditions that don’t quite translate across the Atlantic. Not because the recipes don’t work, but because the whole cultural framework around them is different. In America, quick breads are a love language. You bake pumpkin bread in autumn because it’s autumn. You bake banana bread because the bananas went spotty. You bake zucchini bread because your garden produced seventeen courgettes overnight and you’re desperate. It’s practical, seasonal baking that happens to taste like a hug.

Here, I’ll just have to keep baking them for myself and slowly converting my British family, one suspiciously cake-like slice at a time.

The Bread Roll Debate: A Nation Divided

If you really want to start an argument in Britain, don’t mention politics or football. Ask people what they call a bread roll.

In the South, it’s a roll. In the Midlands, it’s a cob. In parts of the North, it’s a barm or a bap. In Liverpool, I believe it’s called a batch (or sometimes a bin lid). In Yorkshire, you might hear bread cake. In parts of Lancashire, it’s a barm cake. In some areas around Manchester, it’s a muffin. And no, not the sweet American kind, just a plain bread roll.

I learned about this regional bread vocabulary the hard way, when I asked for a “roll” in the wrong part of the country and received a look that suggested I’d just spoken ancient Greek. My partner has tried to map the terminology for me, but honestly, it changes every thirty miles. The UK is a small country with an extraordinarily large number of words for a round piece of bread.

And the passion people have for their regional bread term is something to behold. I’ve seen calm, reasonable British adults become genuinely heated over whether the correct term is “cob” or “bap.” This is not a casual preference. This is identity. This is heritage. This is where you come from, baked into bread.

What We Share

For all our differences, Americans and Brits share something fundamental: bread is comfort. It’s the first thing you reach for when you need something simple and satisfying. It’s toast when you’re poorly, sandwiches when you need lunch sorted, and warm bread with butter when the world feels like too much.

We just express that comfort differently. Americans express it through soft, sweet, familiar loaves that taste like childhood. Brits express it through sturdy, savoury bread that’s built to carry butter, Marmite, Branston pickle, and whatever else gets layered between the slices.

And my mother-in-law expresses it by asking for tidy bread, which I now know how to find, even if my Irish sister-in-law still hasn’t entirely forgiven her for not explaining it sooner.

Your Turn: Bread Stories Welcome

I want to hear about your bread opinions, confessions, and cultural clashes!

British friends: What’s your regional bread roll term? What’s your go-to bread brand? Have you ever tried American bread and been horrified by the sweetness? And be honest: is banana bread cake or bread?

Fellow Americans: What bread do you miss most from home? Has anyone cracked the dinner roll code in a British kitchen? What was your first reaction to the British bread aisle?

For everyone: What bread hill are you willing to die on?

I know I’ve only scratched the surface. Please share and continue to teach me the British ways.

Just a quick note: Things have been a little busier than usual lately, so I haven't been able to reply to comments the past couple of articles. Please know that I read every single one. Your stories, corrections, and opinions genuinely make my week, and I'm hoping to be back in the comments properly very soon!

See you Sunday,

Marianne

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Just after I started living in the UK, I was sitting on the sofa scrolling through the news when I came across a headline about a chunk of ice breaking off in Antarctica. It was enormous, apparently. Catastrophically enormous. And the article helpfully explained exactly how enormous, by telling me it was a quarter the size of Wales.

I stared at the screen.

I turned to my partner. “How big is Wales?”

They looked up from their book. “Wales as in the country? Or whales as in... the animal?”

“The country, I think.”

A pause. The kind of pause I’ve come to recognize. The pause that means they are trying to work out whether I am joking.

“It’s... Wales sized,” they said finally.

Reader, that did not help.

This was my introduction to something I have since come to think of as the Great British Unit of Informal Measurement. A shadow system of sizing that runs quietly alongside the official metric and imperial ones. And once you notice it, you cannot stop seeing it everywhere.

Americans do it. Brits do it. Turns out, we all do it.

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Welcome to An American’s Guide to British Life — my lighthearted celebration of British culture! As an American living in the UK for the past four years, I love exploring the delightful cultural differences and similarities that make life here so interesting. These articles are written with affection and humor, never judgment and always with respect.

The Double Decker Bus: Britain’s Most Versatile Yardstick

In Britain, things are regularly measured in double-decker buses.

Not kilometers. Not meters. Buses.

A fatberg pulled from the London sewers in 2017 weighed as much as eleven double-decker buses. (Which is already not a sentence I was prepared to process.) An asteroid that narrowly missed Earth was described as “about the size of a double-decker bus.” Wave heights, whale lengths, building clearances. If it has a dimension, the British press will find a way to express it in buses.

It makes a certain amount of sense. The double-decker is iconic and everywhere, and if you’re American, the one you’re picturing is almost certainly red. That image has done decades of work as a global shorthand for Britain, appearing on postcards, souvenirs, and travel ads. But British readers will know they come in all sorts of colours depending on the city. The red one just got there first in the global imagination.

Whatever colour yours is, the double-decker is tall (about 4.4 meters / 14 feet), long (roughly 9 to 11 meters / 30 to 36 feet depending on the model), and has been part of British streets since horse-drawn versions in the 1840s. When a journalist needs a reference point, there it is.

The thing is, for a long time I didn’t have a personal reference point for the double-decker bus. When an article said a glacier was “the length of forty double-decker buses,” I had to do mental gymnastics, drawing on my only prior experience: a hop-on/hop-off tour I took during a 16-hour layover in London in 2008, while extremely jet-lagged. Which means my entire reference point was essentially a blur of red and exhaustion.

Four years of actually living here has helped considerably. Progress.

Fun fact: The classic Routemaster, the iconic red double-decker most associated with London, the one on every postcard and tea towel, was introduced in 1956 and served regular routes for nearly fifty years before being retired in 2005. For Americans: yes, there was a whole farewell moment. Crowds came out. It was a thing. Two heritage tourist routes kept running until 2021, and you can still book vintage bus experiences in London today if you'd like to ride a piece of British measurement history firsthand.

It’s worth noting that Americans do use the yellow school bus, which measures about 11 to 12 meters (35 to 40 feet) long, is unmistakably yellow, and is just as culturally embedded as the double-decker is here. Same idea. Different vehicle.

The Size of Wales: A Nation as Area Reference

Let’s talk about Wales.

Wales is a real place. It has mountains, a rugby team, a language that appears to contain more consonants than the rest of Europe combined (this is not true, but it feels true when you first see it), and a total area of about 20,779 square kilometers.

It is also, apparently, the standard unit of area for anything very large.

Rainforest cleared? The size of Wales. Wildfire damage? A portion of Wales. Ice sheets, game reserves, potential disaster zones. If it is big and needs contextualizing, Wales will be invoked.

This usage goes back further than you might expect. According to Google’s Ngram Viewer, a tool that lets you track how often phrases appear in books over time, which is exactly as niche and fascinating as it sounds, “about the size of Wales” shows up in texts as early as 1844 and peaked in 1949.

There is even a conservation charity called Size of Wales, founded in 2010, which set out to protect an area of rainforest equivalent to the size of Wales. They achieved it in 2016. A journalistic shorthand turned into something genuinely meaningful.

In America, we use Rhode Island for the same purpose. "An area the size of Rhode Island" shows up regularly in news coverage. Rhode Island is the smallest US state, about 4,000 square kilometers, which makes it a useful lower-end comparison. For the upper end, we reach for Texas. Wales sits somewhere in between — about five times larger than Rhode Island, but considerably more modest than Texas, which is probably why it works so well for glaciers and wildfires.

Neither is particularly helpful to someone who has never been there. But they both do the same job: turning an abstract number into something that sounds like a place you could theoretically drive across.

When I first arrived in the UK, “the size of Wales” meant absolutely nothing to me. But my partner is Welsh, and I have now been to Wales quite a lot, and I can report that I finally, genuinely know how big Wales is.

Progress, again.

Rhode Island still defeats me.

The Football Field

In America, we measure things in football fields.

Not square feet. Not acres. Football fields.

A football field is about 91 meters (100 yards) long, and it turns up constantly. Shopping malls, oil spills, prehistoric wingspans. If something needs scale, the football field is there.

This makes sense in a country where the field itself is deeply familiar. It’s a shared visual reference point that cuts across regions and generations.

In the UK, this lands differently. My partner, who has watched exactly one American football game with me (they were very patient, they asked good questions, they fell asleep in the fourth quarter, which feels like a completely reasonable outcome), does not have an immediate sense of its dimensions.

What I did not initially appreciate is that British journalists do exactly the same thing — just with a different football.

A football pitch appears constantly in British comparisons. My partner uses it without thinking, the same way I reach for a football field. The difference is that the two are not quite the same size: an American football field is 91 metres (100 yards) between end zones, while a standard football pitch is around 105 metres (115 yards).

Two countries. Same instinct. Slightly different units.

The human brain, it turns out, really wants a rectangle to measure things against.

Fun fact: Including end zones, an American football field is actually 120 yards (just under 110 meters / 360 feet) long. This detail almost never makes it into comparisons, which creates a quiet inconsistency that nobody seems particularly bothered by.

The Freddo: A Chocolate Bar That Became an Economic Index

So far, everything we’ve looked at measures physical size. But Britain also has an unofficial unit for something far more emotional: the cost of living.

And the unit of choice is a small chocolate frog.

The Freddo is a Cadbury chocolate bar shaped like a cartoon frog. It weighs 18 grams. It fits in a coat pocket. It lives near supermarket checkouts, quietly waiting to be added to a basket by someone who is tired and just needs something small and chocolate.

In the UK, the Freddo is not just a snack. It is an economic benchmark.

The bar cost 10p (pence) when many British millennials were children. Today, it’s closer to 25–35p. Each price increase has sparked a level of outrage far beyond what you’d expect for a small chocolate frog, because the Freddo represents something bigger: the feeling that your money doesn’t stretch as far as it used to.

“Wish my wages had gone up at the same rate as a Freddo” is a sentiment that has circulated widely, prompted headlines, and even inspired parliamentary debate.

The British public will tolerate many things. Political chaos. Weather that feels personally vindictive. Trains that may or may not arrive. But raising the price of a Freddo appears to cross a line.

In America, we don’t really have an equivalent.

Well. Almost.

New York City had the Pizza Principle.

First noted in a 1980 New York Times article, it observed that the price of a slice of pizza tracked almost perfectly with the cost of a subway ride for decades. When one rose, the other followed.

And then, post-COVID, it broke.

Pizza prices surged ahead, while subway fares lagged behind.

The Pizza Principle quietly fell apart.

The Freddo, meanwhile, carried on, steadily rising in price and provoking outrage each time.

Two beloved informal ways of measuring things, on two sides of the Atlantic. One undone by inflation. The other powered by it.

The chocolate frog and the pizza slice, united in economic grief.

And if you want to go global, there is the Big Mac Index. Created by The Economist in 1986, it compares the price of a McDonald’s Big Mac across countries to assess currency value. It started as a joke. Economists took it seriously. It’s still published today.

Food, it turns out, explains a lot.

Fun fact: The Freddo was actually invented in Australia in 1930 before arriving in Britain in 1973, where it quickly became a national emotional reference point.

The Rest of the Toolkit

Once you start noticing these, you realize Britain and America both have entire toolkits of unofficial measurements they reach for.

For height, Britain has Nelson’s Column (about 52 meters / 170 feet tall in total). America has the Empire State Building (443 meters / 1,454 feet to the tip of its antenna, 381 meters / 1,250 feet to the roof), the Statue of Liberty (about 93 meters / 305 feet from base to torch), and the Washington Monument (169 meters / 555 feet).

For area, Britain uses Wales (and sometimes Belgium), while America cycles through Rhode Island, Manhattan, and Texas depending on scale.

For volume, both countries unite around the Olympic swimming pool.

If something contains “enough water to fill 500 Olympic swimming pools,” everyone collectively nods and accepts that this is, indeed, a lot of water.

This is reassuring. At least we agree on the swimming pool.

A Quick Translator’s Guide

• “The size of Wales” → Very large. About 20,800 km² (8,000 sq miles). Roughly five Rhode Islands.

• “The size of Rhode Island” → Large, but smaller. About 4,000 km² (1,500 sq miles). Roughly a fifth of Wales.

• “Double decker bus” → About 4.4 meters (14 feet) tall and 9–11 meters (30–36 feet) long.

• “Yellow school bus” → About 11–12 meters (35–40 feet) long. Emphatically yellow. No second story.

• “Football field” → About 91 meters (100 yards) between end zones. 120 yards (110 meters) including end zones.

• “Football pitch” → Around 105 meters (115 yards) long for major competitions. Slightly longer than an American football field.

• “Nelson’s Column” → About 52 meters (170 feet) tall—roughly 12 double decker buses stacked.

• “The price of a Freddo” → The emotional state of the economy.

• “The Pizza Principle” → NYC’s former economic indicator. Held for forty years. Then inflation.

• “The Big Mac Index” → Global burger-based economics. A British invention, actually.

Your Turn

For my fellow Americans: Have you ever read a British article and been completely derailed by a size comparison that meant nothing to you? What was the comparison? What did you think it meant?

For my British friends: Are there any size comparisons I’ve missed? I feel certain there are more. And please be honest with me about the Wales thing. Does it actually help?

For everyone: What’s the most memorable or baffling unit of informal measurement you’ve ever encountered in print? I feel like this topic has no bottom.

I'm sure I've only scratched the surface here. Every country, every region, probably has its own system of informal measurement that I've never even heard of. Please share yours in the comments. I'd love to know what I've missed.

See you in a couple of weeks,

Marianne

If this article made you smile, the best compliment would be sharing it with someone who’d appreciate the discovery. Or simply, Restack it. Thank you!

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Hello Friends,

This weekend snuck up on me — in the best possible way.

Yesterday was Pi Day — March 14th, or 3/14 as Americans write it, which is where the whole mathematical magic comes from. And today is Mothering Sunday here in the UK, the British version of Mother’s Day, that still catches me off guard every single year.

Two occasions. One weekend.

And, as it happens, I wrote articles about both of them last year.

Since many of you have joined our little community since then, I thought this would be the perfect moment to revisit them — because honestly, they’re two of my favorites I’ve written, and the timing feels almost too good to ignore.

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🥧 Pi Day: A Tale of Two Pies

What happens when Pi Day meets a country that writes dates the other way round? And what exactly counts as a pie? The answers are more delicious and more divisive than you might expect.

Read the full article here:

https://anamericansguidetobritishlife.substack.com/p/pi-day-a-tale-of-two-pies

💐 A Tale of Two Mother’s Days

British Mothering Sunday and American Mother’s Day aren’t just the same holiday on different dates; they have entirely separate histories, and I had absolutely no idea until I moved here.

Read the full article here:

https://anamericansguidetobritishlife.substack.com/p/a-tale-of-two-mothers-days-the-uk

I hope there was pie yesterday and something warm today — and either way, I’m glad you’re here.

See you in two weeks,

Marianne

P.S. I'll be honest, I've been burning the candle at both ends lately, which is partly why revisiting two favorites felt like exactly the right call this weekend. Thank you for being the kind of readers who make that feel like enough.

My first British winter, my partner made what I thought was a very odd request.

“Have you seen my woolly hat?”

I looked around. I saw no woolly hats.

I saw a beanie on the hook by the door.

“Do you mean your beanie?” I asked helpfully.

A pause. A look.

“That’s my woolly hat.”

It turned out we were looking at the same hat.

We just had completely different names for it.

In Britain, it’s a woolly hat. In America, it’s a beanie. Meanwhile, “woolly hat” made me think of actual wool. Rough wool. Straight-from-the-sheep wool. Not the soft knit hat sitting right in front of me.

That small exchange turned out to be the start of something genuinely fascinating, because it turns out that hats, of all things, are a surprisingly rich window into the cultural differences between the US and the UK. What we put on our heads, what we call it, and when we wear it? It varies more than you’d think.

Consider this your guide to the surprisingly complex world of transatlantic hats.

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Welcome to An American’s Guide to British Life - my lighthearted celebration of British culture! As an American living in the UK for the past three years, I love exploring the delightful cultural differences and similarities that make life here so interesting. These articles are written with affection and humor, never judgement and always with respect.

🧢 The Ball Cap vs. The Cap

In America, it’s a baseball cap. Or just a ball cap.

And it goes everywhere.

It is worn:

• To actual baseball games (obviously)

• To hikes and the park

• On planes and on vacation

• To Disneyland (this is basically a uniform)

• To concerts

• To work

• To the grocery store

• To conceal hair that has made poor life choices

Possibly not to weddings. Probably not to church. But honestly, never say never.

The baseball cap in America isn’t just a hat; it’s a canvas. It makes statements. It shares values. It declares team loyalties, favourite brands, places you’ve been, causes you support, and things that make you laugh.

An American’s cap collection tells you quite a lot about them. I own more than I’d care to admit, but there are two whose bills are shaped to absolute perfection through years of careful handling, broken in to exactly the right fit, and at this point functioning as much as a comfort blanket as a hat. You know the ones. Almost every American does.

And since we’re here, I have a pet peeve (bug bear) I need to get off my chest: a flat bill. A baseball cap's bill should be gently, perfectly curved, framing your face like it was made for you. A bill that’s been left completely flat and sticking straight out looks unfinished to me, like someone forgot the final step. The good news is there’s a fix: curve the bill to your desired shape, then place it inside a wide-mouthed glass or mug overnight so the glass holds the curve in place. By morning, you have a proper curve. You’re welcome.

Now, to be fair, there are caps that are designed with a flat, straight bill. They’re called flat bill or straight bill caps, popular in hip hop culture and with certain sports teams, and on the right person, they look intentional and cool. I am not that person. But they exist, and they are valid.

Then there's the question of the back and Americans have feelings about this too. There are three camps: the snapback (a plastic snap closure, very 90s, permanently in fashion), the velcro strap (practical, adjustable, and perfectly respectable though it does have a habit of taking your hair with it when you least expect it), and the fitted hat (no closure at all, sized exactly to your head, and the gold standard if you can find your size though completely impractical if you like to pull your hair through the back in a ponytail, which rather rules it out for me). Which closure you prefer says something about you. I'm not sure what, exactly. But something.

In Britain, it’s often just called a cap, or sometimes a baseball hat. My partner favours the latter and was very clear on this point.

Which is also confusing, because in America, “cap” could mean a graduation cap, a bottle cap, a winter cap, a dental cap, or something your teenager says when they claim, “No cap.”

In the UK, if someone says “Nice cap,” they almost certainly mean the sporty, curved-brim situation Americans call a baseball cap or, as we now know, a baseball hat.

🧶 Beanies vs. Woolly Hats (And the Great Pom-Pom Divide)

In America: beanie. In Britain: woolly hat, or bobble hat if it has a pom-pom on top.

Now, let’s discuss the pom-pom. Because it deserves its moment.

In the UK, woolly hats often come proudly topped with a fluffy bobble. It’s cheerful. It’s festive. It suggests you might break into a snowball fight at any moment. In the US, many of us quietly remove the pom-pom or avoid it entirely. The beanie tends to be sleeker. Streamlined. Slightly more “urban winter chic.”

British woolly hats feel cozy. American beanies feel practical. Both keep your ears warm. But culturally? Different energy.

And it turns out the pom-pom has proper historical credentials. On traditional Scottish military caps, the little wool bobble, called a toorie, which is delightful, was used to distinguish between regiments. Different colours helped soldiers identify their units in the chaos of battle. It was essentially a regimental badge made of fluff. Now it’s just... festive. Honestly, the more British winters I survive, the more I think a small burst of fluff on top of your head is exactly the energy you need in February.

Fun fact: The word “beanie” likely comes from early 20th-century slang for “bean,” meaning head. Which feels very American. Casual. Efficient. Slightly ridiculous.

The Flat Cap (And Its Slightly Posher Cousin)

Ah yes. The flat cap.

In America, this hat exists. Technically. In Britain, it thrives.

The flat cap carries:

• Grandad energy

• Countryside pub energy

• “I own a Labrador” energy

• “I’ve just come from the allotment” energy

It’s practical. It’s timeless. It somehow works on both a retired farmer in the Cotswolds and a trendy 28-year-old in East London. When I spot one in the wild, I feel like I’m watching a live-action BBC drama unfold.

In the US, flat caps feel more like a deliberate fashion statement, a nod to old-Hollywood style. Here, they feel genuinely woven into the fabric of everyday life. Which, it turns out, is entirely by design.

Fun fact: The flat cap can be traced back to 14th-century Northern England. It has been part of British life for centuries. Then in 1571, an Act of Parliament required all males over six years of age (except nobility) to wear woollen caps on Sundays and holidays or face a fine, specifically to protect the domestic wool trade. The flat cap is essentially a patriotic hat with about 700 years of history. No wonder it stuck.

Now, the flat cap has a cousin worth knowing about: the baker boy cap (also called a newsboy cap). Same heritage, but rounder and puffier, with a full ballooned crown made of multiple panels. It’s the one the Peaky Blinders lads are wearing, which should give you a clear picture. It’s been having a real fashion moment in the UK lately, spotted on everyone from market traders to people who very much know what they’re doing with an outfit. In America, most of us couldn’t tell the two apart. In Britain, they are absolutely not the same hat.

The Bucket Hat: A Cultural Touchstone

Here is something Americans may not fully appreciate: in Britain, the bucket hat is not just a hat. It is a statement of identity.

Yes, bucket hats exist in America. We wear them at the beach, sometimes at music festivals, occasionally while fishing. They are practical. They are fine.

In Britain, the bucket hat carries an entire cultural biography. It moved from practical fishing gear to streetwear, then into music culture, most memorably in the 1990s Manchester scene. Think Oasis, The Stone Roses, and the whole Madchester era. Liam Gallagher didn’t just wear a bucket hat. He practically turned it into a personality trait.

It is also the hat of British festival culture, of Glastonbury Festival mud, unpredictable weather, and looking effortlessly cool while being slightly damp.

And in Wales, the bucket hat has taken on an entirely different layer of meaning. During Wales’s football resurgence, particularly at UEFA Euro 2016 and the 2022 FIFA World Cup, red bucket hats became a defining symbol of the national team’s supporters. What began as fan merchandise evolved into something closer to a wearable flag. In Cardiff, you are just as likely to spot one at a match as a scarf.

When an American puts on a bucket hat, we are keeping the sun off. When a Brit puts on a bucket hat, there is often an entire subculture being referenced: music history, terrace chants, festival fields, or some combination of all three. I am still working to fully decode it.

The Trilby, the Fedora, and a Very Common Mistake

We need to talk about something that causes genuine anguish in certain hat-aware circles: Americans calling trilbies fedoras.

They are not the same hat.

A fedora has a wider brim, a soft felt body, and a pinched crown. It’s what Indiana Jones wears in Raiders of the Lost Ark. It’s what Humphrey Bogart wears in classic Hollywood noir. It has presence. Drama. A sense that you might be about to outrun a rolling boulder.

A trilby, on the other hand, has a much narrower brim, often shorter at the back and slightly angled down at the front. It sits higher on the head. It’s sleeker. More compact. In Britain, it’s been associated with mid-20th-century jazz culture, sharp tailoring, and later with certain 1960s and 2000s indie style revivals. Think early Pete Doherty energy. Think “skinny tie and knowing smirk.”

The difference is subtle — until it isn’t.

In Britain, people notice. The trilby has a long and distinct identity of its own. In America, we can spot a cowboy hat at fifty paces. Anything else with a brim and a crease? Fedora.

I have been gently corrected on this.

More than once.

Weddings: Enter the Fascinator

Now we must discuss the British superpower: the fascinator.

I thought I knew about British wedding hats before I moved here.

I’d watched the coverage of William and Kate’s wedding and remembered thinking how extraordinary everyone’s headwear was. Beautiful, dramatic, architectural. Very British, I thought. Very royal. A special occasion thing. A palace thing.

Then I moved here. And I started noticing shops, actual dedicated shops, selling wedding hats and fascinators. Then I saw pictures of my mother-in-law wearing one to her son’s wedding. Then, friends wore them to their friends’ weddings. And it slowly dawned on me: this isn’t a royal thing. This is just a British wedding thing. Full stop.

A fascinator is not quite a hat. Not quite a headband. Not quite a small bird’s nest. It is a statement. It sits on the side of the head, secured with a comb or clip, and it might be a tiny pillow of feathers, a sweeping arc of ribbon, or a miniature top hat at a jaunty angle. The sky, apparently, is the limit.

Fun fact: The word “fascinator” comes from the Latin fascinare, meaning to bewitch or enchant. Which, having now seen some of the more dramatic examples, feels entirely accurate. You cannot not look at them.

Bonus fun fact: There’s a difference between a fascinator and a hatinator. A hatinator has more structure and a wider base, sitting somewhere between a fascinator and a hat. British people will absolutely know the difference. I am still learning.

Royal Ascot: Where Hats Become Art and Competition

If you want to understand the full British commitment to hat culture, look no further than Royal Ascot.

My first introduction to Royal Ascot was not in person. It was through My Fair Lady. If you have not seen it, the plot hinges on a bet. Professor Higgins wagers that he can transform Eliza Doolittle, a Cockney flower seller, into someone who can pass as a duchess in high society. Royal Ascot is his grand test.

She arrives impeccably dressed, hat perfectly positioned, speaking beautifully. Then she loses herself entirely while cheering on a horse and shouts, “Move your bloomin’ arse!” The illusion collapses. The scene works because everyone understands the stakes. At Royal Ascot, what you wear, especially on your head, signals exactly who you are and where you belong.

Having now lived in Britain for four years, I can confirm that this was not an exaggeration.

Royal Ascot, held each June at Ascot Racecourse in Berkshire, is not simply a horse racing event. It is one of the most anticipated hat-wearing occasions of the year. Women arrive in creations that have often taken months to design and construct. Think sculptural masterpieces, wide-brimmed picture hats in bold colours, and fascinators so elaborate they appear to have their own gravitational pull.

The men are not spared. In the Royal Enclosure, gentlemen are required to wear morning dress and a black or grey top hat. No novelty versions. No personal flourishes. The top hat at Ascot is not an accessory. It is a condition of entry.

The rules are actively enforced. Since 2012, women in the Royal Enclosure must wear a hat or headpiece with a solid base measuring at least four inches in diameter. Fascinators without a proper base do not qualify there, though they are welcome in the other enclosures.

In America, the Kentucky Derby has its own glorious hat tradition, and it is genuinely wonderful. But it is one event, once a year. In Britain, the hat occasion extends across an entire social season. Weddings, garden parties, race days, the Chelsea Flower Show. There is a whole calendar of events that quietly assumes you have a hat plan.

I respect this enormously.

Hats of Legend

Some hats do not appear in everyday life, but they live rent free in the national imagination.

The bowler hat, called a derby in America, was designed in 1849 for the estate gamekeepers of the Earl of Leicester in Norfolk. It was intended to be practical. The hard felt crown would not be knocked off by low branches, and it offered more protection than a top hat. Somehow, it evolved into the defining hat of the London businessman and eventually into a global symbol of British identity.

Charlie Chaplin made it immortal. City workers made it uniform. And in one of the more dramatic turns in hat history, Oddjob turned it into a weapon in Goldfinger. His steel-rimmed bowler was specially constructed for the film and famously sliced through statues with unnerving precision. Few hats have undergone such an unexpected cinematic rebrand.

You may not see many bowlers on the streets today, but their cultural shadow is long.

The deerstalker is technically a country hat designed for field sports, with brims at the front and back and ear flaps that tie at the crown. In practice, it is now almost exclusively associated with Sherlock Holmes. Curiously, Arthur Conan Doyle never explicitly described Holmes wearing a deerstalker in the original stories. That detail came from the illustrator Sidney Paget. Britain saw the image, nodded, and accepted it as fact.

The panama is one of Britain’s great summer traditions. Light, woven, and elegantly wide-brimmed, it appears at cricket matches, garden parties, and Wimbledon with effortless confidence. Despite the name, the hat is woven in Ecuador. It became known internationally as a Panama hat because it was widely sold to travellers passing through the Panama Canal zone in the early twentieth century. Britain adopted it anyway and made it feel entirely at home.

The beret occupies an interesting space. It reads French to American eyes, but it has a genuine British lineage through military regiments and art schools alike. Different British regiments wear distinct-coloured berets as part of their uniforms, and creative circles embraced them as a quiet marker of style. Today, it signals understated confidence more than nationality, but it still belongs firmly in the conversation.

🇺🇸 American Hats Worth Knowing

Now that British hats have had their hall of fame moment, here are a couple of distinctly American entries that might raise eyebrows on this side of the Atlantic.

The trucker hat is a foam-fronted, mesh-backed cap with a snapback closure, and it is deeply, specifically American. Born out of rural working life, feed stores, farming, and the open road, it was originally a promotional giveaway printed with tractor brands and agricultural suppliers. Then, in the early 2000s, Ashton Kutcher started wearing one ironically; celebrities followed, and for a bewildering couple of years, it became a fashion item. It then cycled back to being unpretentious again. The trucker hat has lived several lives and has absolutely no equivalent here.

The sun visor deserves a moment, too. It is a brim, just a brim, with no top. The crown of your head is completely exposed. It exists purely to shade your eyes while leaving the rest of your head to fend for itself. It is worn almost exclusively by golfers, tennis players, poker players shielding their eyes from casino lights, and a certain vintage of American on holiday. I understand it entirely. I also understand why, from the outside, it looks like someone forgot to finish the hat.

And then there's the one that is so distinctly American that no British equivalent exists: the cowboy hat. I have one back in the States. I wear it at rodeos, when riding horses, and anywhere the sun is making genuine threats. It is practical, it is iconic, and it carries an entire cultural identity on its brim. Britain has many wonderful hats, as this article has thoroughly demonstrated, but none that functions as a national symbol in quite the same way. The flat cap comes closest, but it's regional and everyday rather than mythological.

A Quick Translator’s Guide

In case you need it, and you might:

Beanie → Woolly hat

Baseball cap / Ball cap → Baseball hat (or just "cap")

Trucker hat → ...I beg your pardon?

Sun visor → A brim. Just a brim. No top.

That hat with the pom-pom → A perfectly normal bobble hat

Fedora (probably) → Trilby (possibly, please check the brim)

Bucket hat (functional) → Bucket hat (a whole personality)

Flat cap (fashion statement) → Flat cap (way of life)

That rounder flat cap thing → Baker boy cap

Cowboy hat → ...nothing. This one's American.

...fascinator? → Fascinator (no translation needed, we just don't have one)

Derby → Bowler hat

Panama hat → A panama hat, worn apologetically given the name situation

Your Turn

For my fellow Americans: When did you first realize your beanie had been renamed? And be honest, would you wear a fascinator?

For British friends: What hat have I described completely wrong? Have I missed any? Is there a secret British hat rule I haven’t discovered yet? (Please warn me before I accidentally break it.)

For everyone: What’s the most memorable hat you’ve ever seen at a wedding, race day, or any other occasion?

I've only scratched the surface of a surprisingly deep topic, so please share and keep teaching me the British ways. Every day is a school day!

See you Sunday,

Marianne

If you enjoyed this article, the best compliment I could receive would be if you shared it with one person you think it would resonate with. Or simply Restack it.

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I hope you had a lovely Valentine’s Day yesterday. Whether you celebrated with a partner, with friends, or simply treated yourself, I’m sending hugs your way. x

Valentine’s Day always gets me thinking.

If you grew up in America, Valentine’s Day meant glue sticks, glitter, and a class list of 28 names you absolutely could not spell wrong.

If you grew up in Britain, it probably meant one card. Possibly anonymous. Possibly awkward.

And that’s when I realized the answer to “Who is Valentine’s Day for?” depends entirely on which side of the Atlantic you were raised on.

Because in America, Valentine’s Day is not just for couples.

It is for everyone. Especially kids.

Welcome to An American’s Guide to British Life - my lighthearted celebration of British culture! As an American living in the UK for the past three-ish years, I love exploring the delightful cultural differences and similarities that make life here so interesting. These articles are written with affection and humor, never judgement and always with respect.

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The American Valentine Production

Every February, American elementary school children participate in what I can only describe as a full-scale Valentine’s Day production.

Weeks before February 14th, you’d go to the supermarket and choose your box of themed Valentine’s cards. This was serious business. Barbie? Ninja Turtles? Wonder Woman? Puppies? The cards had to reflect your personality at age seven.

Then you would sit at the kitchen table and carefully write one out for every single child in your class.

Everyone got one.

That was the rule.

But here is the part I think will truly baffle my British readers. The Valentine’s box.

Every child had to create a Valentine’s box, essentially a mailbox to receive all those cards from classmates. Some children decorated a shoebox with construction paper hearts and glitter.

Others went big.

I went big.

One year, I built a computer out of cardboard. This was the era of floppy disks, so mine had a floppy disk slot, and that’s where classmates inserted their Valentine’s cards. Another year, I made a papier-mâché hot air balloon, and the basket was where the cards went.

Honestly, some of my finest architectural work happened in the name of Valentine’s card storage.

The cards came paired with candy, of course. Conversation hearts, those little pastel sweets stamped with messages like “Be Mine” and “Kiss Me,” were the signature Valentine’s treat. You could also get boxes of cards with lollipops or tiny chocolate hearts attached.

My primary school-age nieces and nephews back home still do all of this.

It is alive and well.

When I first described this to my partner, they looked at me like I was describing a fictional holiday.

“Every child gives every other child a card?”

“Yes.”

“And you build boxes?”

“Yes.”

“And there’s a party?”

“Yes.”

It’s a whole thing.

And It Doesn’t Stop at School

In many American households, Valentine’s Day spills into home life too.

Heart-shaped pancakes for breakfast. Heart-shaped pizza for dinner. Pink milk. Red napkins. A little bit of cheerful chaos before 8 a.m.

My sister-in-law still does this with her children, heart-shaped food, festive plates, and I love that the tradition is alive and well.

They also go around the table and take turns telling each person something they love about them.

It’s sweet. Slightly sentimental. Completely sincere.

And very, very American.

In Britain, Valentine’s Day Is Strictly Romantic

This is the fundamental difference that took me by surprise. In the UK, Valentine’s Day is for couples. Full stop.

British Valentine’s tradition is rooted in anonymous cards sent to romantic interests, a practice that really took off after the introduction of the Penny Post in 1840, which made it possible to send cards without the recipient knowing who paid for the postage. Victorians apparently believed that signing your Valentine’s card was bad luck, which is the exact opposite of the American classroom tradition of writing your name on every single one.

A British card company once described their surprise when American customers started requesting Valentine’s cards suitable for brothers, sisters, mothers, and grandmothers. In Britain, that’s simply not what the day is for.

So when I tell British friends about the classroom card exchange, themed cards, decorated boxes, candy, and the class party, they find it genuinely fascinating. And maybe a little baffling.

And for any British readers thinking, surely American schools have stopped doing this by now? They haven’t. You can still buy boxes of 32 classroom Valentine’s cards at every supermarket in America come February. It’s an institution.

Beyond Primary School: The American Valentine’s Timeline

In America, Valentine’s Day shapeshifts as you get older.

In high school, it became about crushes. Schools would sell roses or giant decorated cookies, and you’d send one to whoever you fancied. Receiving one in front of your friends was thrilling. Receiving nothing was... noted.

As I got older, it shifted to the flowers-and-chocolates phase. Restaurants are booked up weeks in advance. Jewellery adverts took over every commercial break.

Then there’s Galentine’s Day, when women get together to celebrate friendship instead of romance. It started as a joke on the TV show Parks and Recreation, but became a real thing that people genuinely celebrate, usually on February 13th. There’s now a gender-neutral version called Palentine’s Day (from “pal”) for celebrating all your platonic friendships, and even Malentine’s Day for the guys, though that one hasn’t quite caught on the same way.

I have a dear friend back home who, every year without fail, bakes thick, chewy heart-shaped sugar cookies with pink frosting. I always got one, and it was always one of the best parts of my Valentine’s Day.

These days, my partner and I don't really do anything for Valentine's Day. We've both landed in the same place; we'd rather surprise each other with romantic gestures throughout the year, avoiding the pressure of one day in February. But I still like to make a nice dinner to mark the occasion in my own little way. Old habits die hard.

Jack Valentine: Norfolk’s Delightful Curveball

Just when I thought Britain had opted out of child-centric Valentine’s traditions entirely… Norfolk quietly said, “Hold my tea.”

In parts of Norfolk, there’s a centuries-old tradition involving a mysterious figure known as Jack Valentine (also called Old Father Valentine or Mr Valentine).

On Valentine’s Eve, that’s the 13th of February, Jack Valentine knocks on doors and leaves gifts for children on the doorstep before vanishing into the night.

Children would hear the knock and rush to the door, but Jack was always gone before they could spot him. Sometimes the gifts came with a mischievous twist; a parcel might have a string attached so it could be whisked away just as you reached for it. There’s even a darker alter ego called Snatch Valentine, who’d leave gifts that turned out to be elaborately wrapped empty boxes or cheeky notes.

It’s essentially a Valentine’s version of Father Christmas, complete with the mystery, the excitement, and the parents secretly enlisting neighbours to do the knocking and gift-leaving.

What’s remarkable is that this tradition is still alive in Norfolk today. And in incredibly timely news, there’s currently a campaign to have Jack Valentine recognised by UNESCO as intangible cultural heritage, as fewer families are aware of this wonderfully quirky piece of local folklore.

I absolutely love that this exists.

Norfolk readers, please tell me everything about Jack Valentine. Did he visit your house growing up?

Wales Has Its Own Lovers’ Day

While we’re exploring the British Isles, Wales doesn’t even wait until February 14th. The Welsh celebrate St Dwynwen’s Day on January 25th, honouring the Welsh patron saint of lovers.

The traditional gift? Hand-carved wooden lovespoons, a practice dating back to the 17th century. Welsh sailors would carve intricate designs into wooden spoons while at sea and bring them home to their sweethearts. The designs had specific meanings: hearts for love, keys for security, and flowers for affection.

I find this incredibly thoughtful and romantic.

There’s something beautiful about a gift that took hours of careful work rather than a quick trip to the petrol station for a marked-up bouquet on February 14th.

Britain Invented the Heart-Shaped Chocolate Box

Here’s a fun fact to share with friends and family: the heart-shaped box of chocolates that has become one of the universal symbols of Valentine’s Day. That’s British.

In 1868, Richard Cadbury, son of the Cadbury founder, introduced the world’s first Valentine’s Day chocolates in a decorated, heart-shaped box. It has become iconic worldwide, but it started right here.

So the next time someone says Valentine’s Day is just an American commercial holiday, you can point out that Britain literally invented one of its most recognisable symbols.

The Valentine’s Flower Effect

If you want to understand how seriously a country takes Valentine’s Day, follow the flowers.

In the United States, Valentine’s Day is typically the single biggest day of the year for fresh flower sales. Florists brace themselves. Red roses dominate. Prices climb. It is, quite literally, the floral Super Bowl.

Mother’s Day is close behind in the US, but Valentine’s usually wins in total spending.

In the United Kingdom, the crown often shifts.

Mothering Sunday frequently drives more overall flower sales than Valentine’s Day. Because while Valentine’s Day focuses on romantic partners, Mother’s Day stretches across generations. Mums, grandmothers, stepmothers, mothers-in-law. That is a lot of bouquets.

So while heart-shaped chocolate boxes may be British in origin, the red rose frenzy feels distinctly American.

Sweet vs Cheeky: A Different Card Aisle

Something else that surprised me was the tone of the Valentine’s Day cards themselves.

American Valentine’s cards are most often typically earnest and sentimental. Even the funny ones tend to be wholesome. Lots of hearts. Flowery language. A certain sincerity.

British cards, on the other hand, can be unapologetically cheeky. The innuendo is stronger. The sarcasm is sharper. Occasionally, you pick one up and think, “Well. That escalated quickly.”

It is less glitter pen poetry and more dry wit with a raised eyebrow.

Here’s a video to show how the two can feel like extremes at both ends of the scale.

Warning: some of the British examples are fairly explicit.

The Beautiful Common Ground

For all the differences, classroom cards and anonymous admirers, candy hearts and Cadbury chocolate boxes, Jack Valentine and the absence of classroom celebrations in much of Britain, both countries circle back to the same idea.

Valentine’s Day is about expressing affection.

Sometimes that looks like a seven-year-old carefully writing out 28 cards. Sometimes it is a Norfolk parent sneaking sweets onto a doorstep. Sometimes it is a Welsh sailor carving a love spoon at sea. Sometimes it is two people deciding they do not need the fuss, but still cooking dinner together.

The delivery changes.

The instinct does not.

And honestly, I think I have taken a little from both traditions.

I was wishing colleagues Happy Valentine’s Day on Friday, which probably marks me out as very American. That instinct to celebrate the day broadly, with friends, family, and the people around me, is deeply wired.

But I have also come to appreciate the British approach. Keeping it simple. Keeping it personal. A nice dinner. No fuss. Maybe a card, if the spirit moves me.

Though I do still miss those candy hearts.

Your Turn: Valentine’s Confessions Welcome

I’d love to hear about your Valentine’s experiences, traditions, and memories!

For my British friends: Did you grow up with any Valentine’s traditions? Any Norfolk readers who had Jack Valentine visit? Have you ever sent or received an anonymous Valentine’s card? Does the American classroom exchange tradition sound charming or completely bonkers?

For my fellow Americans: What was your Valentine’s box masterpiece? Do you remember the agony of picking the right themed cards? Do you do Galentine’s/Palentine’s Day?

For everyone: Has Valentine’s Day changed for you as you’ve gotten older? Do you celebrate, ignore it, or something in between?

Whether you marked the day with a five-course dinner or pretended it didn’t exist, I hope yesterday was a good one, however you spent it. x

See you Sunday,

Marianne

If you enjoy these cross-cultural deep dives, the best compliment you can give is sharing them with a friend who loves uncovering the little differences and similarities between Britain and America.

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If you don’t spend much time on Substack Notes, you may have missed a slightly unexpected development over the past couple of weeks.

I ran a crisp tournament.

What started as a lighthearted question — “What are Britain’s favourite crisps?” — turned into a full bracket, daily matchups, strong opinions, childhood nostalgia, mock outrage, and an impressive amount of crisp-based loyalty.

There were 57 different crisp nominations, spirited debates about what does and does not count as a crisp, and a level of enthusiasm I was not remotely prepared for (but very much enjoyed).

After weeks of voting, the final came down to two classics:

Mini Cheddars
vs
Walkers Ready Salted

And in the end…

🏆 Walkers Ready Salted took the crown.

A quiet, dependable classic — which, honestly, feels very on brand.

More than the result, though, I loved how joyful this became.

It was nostalgic, playful, occasionally dramatic, and a genuinely lovely distraction — the kind of thing that reminds you how much fun it can be to care loudly about something playful together.

I'm so grateful to everyone who nominated, voted, debated, and corrected me along the way. You turned a simple question into one of the most joyful things I've done since starting this newsletter.

If you’d like a bit more context on how this all unfolded — the nominations, the debates, and what a crisp tournament revealed about British culture — I wrote about it midway through the tournament here:

If you’d like to run your own version, I’ve made a blank printable bracket you can download here: https://tinyurl.com/british-crisp-tournament

Consider this your permission slip to open a packet of crisps — the winner, or perhaps one you’ve never tried before.

Thanks for indulging in this very British (and very fun) detour.

See you Sunday for our next regular article.

Marianne

P.S. Several of you have already asked what's next, and I think you've earned a say in that. So…here’s your chance to share what you think the next Great British Tournament should be?

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Just over a week ago, I started something that I thought would be a bit of fun.

Over the holidays, my brother-in-law mentioned a party game he’d heard about - the World Cup of Crisps. It sounded brilliant. Naturally, I wondered what would happen if I tried something similar on Substack.

As an American living in the UK, I’ve learned that crisps (what Americans call chips) aren’t just a snack. They come with loyalty, memory, and, as I was about to find out, strong opinions.

So I asked people to nominate their favorites, set a few simple rules to keep things manageable, and watched what unfolded.

What followed wasn’t just a tournament. It was a week of humor, nostalgia, gentle disagreement, and surprisingly thoughtful conversation - all centered around packets of crisps.

Also, I learned that calling them all “crisps” is apparently controversial in itself.

The Definition Question

One thing I hadn’t anticipated was how quickly the question of what even counts as a “crisp” would come up.

For some people, crisps are strictly thin, potato-based slices. Others take a more everyday view: packet-based, savoury snacks you’d find in a corner shop or pub that might accompany a sandwich.

For the sake of the tournament, I went with the latter - not because it’s the “correct” definition, but because it reflects how most people encounter crisps in daily life. It also meant we could spend more time talking about flavors and memories than debating semantics.

Corrections and clarifications were offered along the way, always with humor - which has become a theme throughout.

57 Nominations

I asked people to nominate up to three crisps. What I received was 57 different suggestions - and the strong sense that no list could ever be complete.

Even with that many nominations, someone’s favorite was always missing. Which, I quickly learned, is part of the point.

The nominations revealed flavor profiles I’d never encountered: Pickled Onion, Prawn Cocktail, Beef & Onion, Worcester Sauce, Smoky Bacon. In the U.S., we have salt, barbecue, sour cream and onion, and maybe some ranch if you’re lucky. The British crisp aisle is like walking into a parallel universe where someone asked “what if we made potato chips taste like an entire Sunday roast?”

With 57 different nominations, narrowing it down was fairly straightforward: I took the 16 most nominated crisps to create a tournament bracket that represented what people wanted to see compete.

When the Tournament Began

Once voting started, something unexpected happened. People haven’t just voted and moved on - they’ve stayed. They have commented. They are following along. They are treating the whole thing with a level of investment that feels both deeply serious and completely playful.

“This is what Substack and Brits were made for,” someone commented. Another called it “my favourite thing at the moment.”

What has struck me isn’t just how much people are participating, but how they are.

There is mock seriousness — the kind where everyone knows it’s a game, but commits fully anyway. “This is getting really upsetting,” someone has written about a difficult matchup, likening it to “choosing between your children.” The exaggerated stakes make it safe to care loudly, together, without anyone getting hurt in the process.

There is nostalgia, with people defending crisps less for how they taste now and more for what they represent. One person mentioned they hadn’t eaten Skips in 20 years, but were still voting for them. Someone else has lamented that “Modern Pickled Onion Monster Munch are a pale shadow of the original version. They used to make me break out in a sweat if I ate them too quickly.”

And there is a lot of playful investment. “I’ve got a lot of money riding on Monster Munch.” “Can’t survive without mini cheddars - essential child fodder.” Even disagreements have stayed fairly gentle: “How can anyone prefer Monster Munch? They turn to congealed gunge and stick to your teeth.”

In a world full of genuinely stressful topics, people seem genuinely delighted to have something playful they can care about loudly, together.

My Research Mission: Important Work

These are the crisps in the tournament that I haven’t ever tried.

Along the way, I have realized there are still gaps in my own crisp education. So I did what felt necessary and tried a few I’d somehow missed.

Pickled Onion Monster Munch lived up to their reputation - intense, divisive, and oddly compelling. The aggressive onion hit was unlike anything in American snack aisles.

Frazzles were unmistakably bacon. Not vaguely bacon-ish, but like someone captured the essence of a slice of bacon and infused it into a crispy corn snack.

McCoy’s Flame Grilled Steak: Possibly the most American-friendly of my research subjects. The “flame-grilled” element added a smokiness that elevated them beyond standard beef flavor.

I’m still undecided on some of them. But that, too, felt appropriate for someone who’s still the rookie here, learning as I go.

What I Didn’t Expect

Running this tournament taught me a few things I hadn’t anticipated.

When someone mentioned “French Fries” in the nominations, my American brain immediately pictured fried potato sticks. Turns out French Fries are a Walkers crisp product.

I also made an executive decision early on about vegetable crisps (parsnip, beetroot, carrot) that probably should have qualified under my “corner shop snacks” definition. I should have consulted my British partner first. Vegetable crisps are not just a fringe category - they’re genuinely beloved and widely available. Live and learn.

I’m still making mistakes and learning from them. But this lovely community has been generous in going along with this experiment, corrections and all.

Where We Are Now

We’re in the quarterfinals.

Monster Munch (Pickled Onion) faces Quavers (Cheese) - a battle between aggressive flavor and nostalgic favorite. Mini Cheddars take on Walkers Cheese & Onion. Today (Sunday), we have Frazzles going up against Walkers Thai Sweet Chilli. And later this evening, Walkers Ready Salted will be facing off against Skips (Prawn Cocktail).

Want to participate?

The tournament is still running on Substack Notes!

You can also download a blank bracket template here to run your own crisp tournament with friends or family.

What It Has Become

What started as a casual British crisp tournament has turned into something much nicer: a shared space where people can be playful, opinionated, nostalgic, and kind - all at once.

In a world that can feel heavy, I hope this has given people something fun and playful to enjoy together.

I’m grateful to everyone who joined in, corrected me when I got things wrong, and treated the whole thing with exactly the right level of seriousness and playfulness.

The winner of the Great British Crisp Tournament will be decided soon.

But the joy, I’ve learned, is in the community and the conversation - not the result.

Your Turn: Crisp Stories Welcome

I want to hear about your own crisp experiences and tournament opinions!

British friends: What crisp memory defines your childhood? Which tournament matchup made you genuinely distraught? What’s your strongest crisp opinion that you’ll defend with mock-serious passion?

Fellow Americans: Have you tried any of these British crisp flavors? What surprised you most? Do American chips have the same nostalgic power?

For everyone: Which crisp would you defend to the death? What’s the most controversial crisp opinion you hold?

And the question I'm dying to know: Has anyone ever made a crisp salad - as in, a mix of different crisps together in one bowl? If so, which crisps did you include in said crisp salad?

Thanks for reading!

See you next time,

Marianne

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It’s raining again.

I’m standing at my kitchen window on a gray January morning, watching water stream down the glass, and for just a moment—as I have a thousand times before—I imagine it’s snow. Big, fat flakes of dry Utah powder drifting down, coating the backyard in white, transforming everything into that bright, silent winter world I grew up with.

Then a gust of wind sends the rain sideways, and I remember: even when it does snow here, it won’t be that snow.

Tomorrow is Blue Monday—supposedly the most depressing day of the year, falling on the third Monday of January. You might have seen it mentioned in the news or on social media, accompanied by tips for beating the winter blues. Here’s the thing, though: Blue Monday isn’t real. It was created in 2005 by a British travel company as part of a PR campaign to sell holidays. A psychologist was paid to come up with a “formula” that factored in weather, debt, time since Christmas, and motivation levels. It was marketing, not science.

But just because Blue Monday is made up doesn’t mean January can’t feel genuinely tough, especially if you’re trying to make sense of British winter for the first time—or the third time, or the tenth time.

The Winter I Knew

Winter in Utah was my favorite season. Not everyone’s—I understand that—but absolutely mine.

Picture this: You wake up to fresh snow covering the Wasatch Mountains, the sky that brilliant, impossible blue that only comes with dry, cold air. The sun is so bright on the snow that you need sunglasses. The temperature might be 20°F (-7°C), but it’s a dry cold, the kind that feels clean and crisp rather than bone-penetrating.

Winter in Utah meant activity. Skiing and snowboarding at world-class resorts less than an hour from home. Almost everyone I knew grew up learning to ski or snowboard—it was just part of growing up there. School groups organized ski trips. Church youth groups would go night skiing during the week. It wasn’t a luxury hobby back then (pre 2002 Salt Lake City Winter Olympics); it was what you did in winter.

Snowshoeing through silent pine forests. Cross-country skiing on groomed trails. Sledding (or “sledging” as British people say) down hills. Even just walking in fresh powder, hearing that satisfying crunch under your boots.

And then there were the seasonal things that only existed because of winter: Ice Castles—massive structures built entirely from ice with tunnels, slides, and sculptures lit up at night. Like how autumn has corn mazes, winter has ice slides and frozen wonderlands. Snowmobiling through mountain trails. Sleigh rides that weren’t just something from a Christmas song, but an actual thing you’d do on a winter evening.

But winter wasn’t just recreational—it was infrastructure. Shoveling snow was a regular workout, and people had different types of shovels depending on whether it was light, fluffy snow or heavy, wet snow. Snowblowers for driveways. Four-wheelers with snow blades attached. Some people added plows to their trucks for bigger jobs. As kids, we’d shovel neighbors’ walks, and sometimes they’d pay us for it. Winter was something you actively managed, not something that shut life down.

We dressed for winter, of course—base layers, fleece, a good jacket—but the cold was straightforward. Predictable. You knew what you were dealing with. And you had so many ways to engage with it.

Winter was a season to embrace, not endure.

And then I moved to Britain.

A Different Kind of Cold

The first thing that surprised me about the British winter was how it could feel colder at 40°F (4°C) here than at 20°F back home. This makes no mathematical sense, and yet.

The difference is the damp. British cold is a wet cold, a seeping cold, the kind that works its way through your clothes and settles into your bones. It’s the difference between a dry sauna and a steam room—same temperature, completely different experience.

I learned this the hard way during my first British winter when I confidently wore my Utah “waterproof” jacket in the rain. Twenty minutes later, I was soaked through. Turns out, Utah waterproof gear is designed for occasional snow flurries and dry conditions, not the relentless, sideways-driving rain that Britain specializes in.

I had to relearn how to dress for winter entirely.

Proper waterproofs became essential—and by proper, I mean actually waterproof, not water-resistant. The kind with taped seams that can handle hours of British rain. I learned about layering in a whole new way: base layers that wick moisture, mid-layers for warmth, and outer layers that actually keep the wet out. I discovered that in Britain, you don’t dress for the temperature; you dress for the damp.

Even my shoes needed an overhaul. My beloved winter boots from home, perfect for snow, were useless against puddles that appear out of nowhere on British pavements. Wellies (rubber boots) became a wardrobe staple, not a fashion statement.

When It Actually Snows

Britain does get snow—especially in Scotland and parts of northern England—and we were recently hit with a proper winter storm. But it’s a completely different creature from Utah snow.

Utah snow is dry and powdery, the kind that brushes off your jacket easily and makes that satisfying squeak under your boots. British snow is often wet and heavy, the kind that soaks through your gloves and turns to slush almost immediately. It’s the difference between champagne powder and wet cement.

What fascinates me is the completely different cultural relationship with snow. In snowy parts of the western US like Utah, we don’t just welcome snow—we pray for it. Literally. The mountain snowpack is our water supply for the entire year. We don’t get much rain, so if we don’t get a good winter snowfall, we'll face massive droughts and summer fires. Snow isn’t just recreational; it’s survival.

This shapes everything about how we approach winter. Roads are pre-salted, snow plows are ready to go, everyone has winter tires, and school closures are rare unless conditions are truly dangerous. In Utah, people would genuinely rather drive in snow than rain—we're as familiar with snow as British people are with rain.

Here, even a few centimeters can bring things to a standstill. Not because British people can’t handle the weather (they absolutely can—they navigate relentless rain with ease), but because the infrastructure isn’t built for it in most of England and Wales. Why invest heavily in snow equipment for weather that might happen a few days a year? It’s a completely logical approach, just different from what I grew up with.

Scotland is a different story entirely. They get snow regularly, they’re prepared for it, and they’ve even embraced it with personality—their snow gritters (snow plows) have names like “Gritty Gritty Bang Bang,” “Sir Andy Flurry,” and “Snowbegone Kenobi.” It’s the kind of delightful cultural quirk that makes me smile even while missing Utah snow.

The excitement kids feel when it snows is universal—they love it everywhere. But the frequency makes it different. In Utah, snow days are a special treat in an otherwise snow-filled season. Here in parts of Britain, snow itself is a rare treat.

The Gray and the Dark

But the wet cold isn’t the only adjustment. There is also the gray.

In Utah, even in the dead of winter, we had those stunning blue skies. Sunshine. Light. Britain in January offers a different palette: fifty shades of gray, as it were, ranging from light pewter to deep charcoal, with occasional breaks of watery sunlight that feel like small victories.

And then there’s the darkness. At this time of year in the UK, the sun doesn’t rise until after 8 AM and sets before 4:30 PM. You leave for work in the dark, you come home in the dark, and if you work indoors, you might not see proper daylight for days.

This isn’t just my American perception—it’s geography. The UK sits much further north than most of the United States. London is at roughly 51°N latitude, while Salt Lake City (where I grew up) is at 40°N. That’s the difference between being level with Calgary, Canada versus being level with Southern Europe. The further north you go, the more extreme the difference between summer and winter daylight hours.

In mid-January in Utah, sunset is around 5:30 PM. Not great, but manageable. Here in parts of the UK, it’s dark by about 4:30 PM. That extra 60 minutes might not sound like much, but when you’re already starved for light, it’s significant.

The good news? By mid-January, the days are gradually, noticeably getting longer. It’s still dark, but every day you gain a few more minutes of light. It’s something to hold onto.

This was genuinely hard for me to adjust to. I missed the light. I missed the snow. I missed that whole active outdoor winter culture I’d grown up with.

This Is Hard for Everyone

I want to be clear about something: I’m not suggesting British people have it easy with their own winter. This is genuinely difficult for everyone.

Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD)—a type of depression related to changes in seasons—affects about 7% of people in the UK and around 5% of adults in the US. That’s millions of people dealing with genuine seasonal depression. And beyond those with clinical SAD, many more experience ‘winter blues’—that general low mood and lack of energy that comes with the dark months. The lack of sunlight, the gray skies, the bone-deep damp—these things take a toll, whether you grew up with them or not.

I’ve had British friends tell me they struggle every January, that they count down the days until spring, that the darkness and wet get to them too. This isn’t about Americans being soft or unprepared. British winter is objectively challenging, and it affects people who’ve lived here their whole lives just as much as it affects newcomers like me.

The difference is that for people who grew up here, they at least have established coping mechanisms. I had to build mine from scratch.

What I’m Trying

I’m still learning, but here are the small, very British things that are slowly helping:

The sun thing is real. I used to think my partner was joking when they’d say “the sun’s out!” and immediately suggest going for a walk, even if we were in the middle of something. Now I understand. When the sun breaks through the clouds—even for twenty minutes—you drop everything and get outside. British people aren’t being dramatic about this; they’re being practical. In January, you can’t take sunshine for granted. Your body needs it, and those rare sunny winter days feel like genuine gifts.

Proper waterproofs are a legitimate category. In Utah, “waterproof” meant “will handle a bit of snow.” Here, it’s an entirely different standard. Once I invested in actual British-level waterproofs and wellies, I realized I could genuinely go walking in the rain. Not just dash from car to door, but properly walk.

There’s something oddly peaceful about walking in the rain when you’re actually dressed for it—no tourists, no crowds, just you and the damp woods or empty beach. British winter walks are genuinely beautiful in their own moody way. And here’s something I’m starting to understand: you can’t really appreciate how cozy your home is unless you’ve been properly cold and wet first. The contrast is the point. (Though I’ll admit, I still have to talk myself into going out some days.)

Cozy isn’t just aesthetic—it’s a survival strategy.

I thought the British emphasis on tea, jumpers, fires, and blankets was just... cultural? Charming? Now I get it. This is peak cozy season because it has to be. You create warmth and light and comfort because the outside world isn’t providing it. Stews, roasts, soups, hot water bottles, thick socks—this isn’t indulgence, it’s how you make it through January.

Hot water bottles and electric blankets. Electric blankets aren’t uniquely British—we used them in Utah too when it got cold. But hot water bottles? That’s a distinctly British discovery for me.

I thought hot water bottles were for when you’re ill. British people use them recreationally. On the sofa watching television. In bed while reading. Carried from room to room like a portable heating system. We have one and I love it.

The real game-changer for me here has been the electric blanket throw. I work from home, and it’s become one of my best purchases since moving to Britain. It lives on my office chair, and on particularly gray days, I wrap it around myself while working. Heat the body, not the house—it’s become my new philosophy.

We also have an electric mattress pad, which has genuinely changed winter nights. Getting into a pre-warmed bed when it’s cold and damp outside is a small luxury that makes January considerably more bearable.

Sunrise alarm lamps are essential. I’d actually used one for years back home—I’ve never been a natural early riser—but in Britain, it’s become essential. It gradually brightens over 30 minutes before my alarm, simulating sunrise, so I’m not jarred awake in pitch darkness. On those dark January mornings, it’s the difference between groaning miserably and actually managing to get out of bed.

Fairy lights aren’t just for Christmas. I’ve embraced them with possibly unseemly enthusiasm. We keep them up year-round now, not just for Christmas. They’re strung in the living room, up our staircase, and the kitchen. When it’s dark and gray outside, those little twinkles of light make everything feel cozier. I change their colors for different occasions—orange for autumn, warm white for winter, and sparkles for special occasions. (And yes, they’re still infinitely better than the big light, as we discussed before.)

The heart of the home. We’re lucky enough to have a log burner, which has become the heart of our home in winter. There’s something deeply satisfying about sitting by a real fire when it’s cold and damp outside. It’s a different kind of winter comfort than I knew before—less about conquering the elements and more about creating a warm refuge from them.

Honestly? I was already drawn to this even in Utah. I used to put on videos of a cozy fire on my laptop to simulate one when I didn’t have a real fireplace. Maybe I was unknowingly preparing for British winter all along.

Even if you don’t have a fireplace, you can create these warm gathering spots—a favorite chair with good light, a cozy corner with blankets, somewhere that feels like sanctuary.

Rechargeable candles on timers. I’ve discovered the joy of these. Real candles are lovely, but rechargeable ones mean I can have that flickering warm glow without worrying about fire safety or running out of candles mid-January. They’re on timers, so they turn on automatically as it gets dark—another small bit of light pushing back the darkness.

Warm drinks as the activity. I stick to herbal tea and hot chocolate, while others enjoy coffee, traditional tea, and mulled apple juice (what Americans call hot apple cider, though in the UK "cider" means something alcoholic). In Utah, winter drinks were fuel for outdoor activities. Here, they're the activity themselves. You sit with a warm mug, you watch the rain, you're cozy inside. It's a whole different philosophy.

Reading without feeling guilty. This one surprised me. In Utah, spending three hours reading in the middle of the day felt self-indulgent. Here? It’s dark anyway. Might as well light a lamp, grab a blanket, and commit to that book. British January gives you permission to be still without productivity guilt. I’m still getting used to this, but I’m trying.

Baking as heating. One particularly gray afternoon, I made bread just because the act of baking would warm the kitchen and make the house smell good. That was it. That was the whole reason. The dough, the kneading, the rising, the smell—it made the dark afternoon feel less oppressive. I don’t do this often, but when I do, it helps.

Pubs as warm gathering spaces. I used to think pubs were just British bars. But I’ve learned they’re warm community spaces, especially important in January when complete hibernation isn’t healthy. They’re dim (in a good way), filled with gentle conversation, and you can sit for hours with a single drink.

When it’s dark and gray, humans need communal warmth. The pub provides that. (If you’re curious about the full British pub experience beyond just winter warmth, I wrote about pints, pub quizzes, and social rituals last spring.)

I love saunas. Back in Utah, my gym had one, and it was a warm hug for my soul—especially needed after a cold workout. After learning about how Scandinavians handle their dark winters with saunas, I wondered if this might be the answer to the British winter too. I do seek them out when I can access one here, though they're not as common in British homes as they seem to be in Nordic countries.

I suspect there are good reasons for this—space, cost, maybe just different cultural traditions around warmth. British people seem to have their own approach worked out with log burners, electric blankets, and those little lamps everywhere. Different solutions to the same winter challenge, but I do miss having easy sauna access. That said, sauna culture is growing in the UK as more and more people discover the magic—so maybe there's hope yet.

Vitamin D is a genuine thing. Multiple British friends mentioned taking vitamin D supplements through winter, and my doctor recommended the same. I’d never needed to think about this in Utah, but here, when you’re getting so little sunlight, your body needs help. This is practical rather than poetic, but it matters.

And the thing that keeps me going: By mid-January, the days are already getting noticeably longer. Every evening, sunset is a minute or two later than the day before. Spring comes earlier here than in Utah—by March, daffodils are blooming. British winter is dark and damp, but it’s also relatively short.

Still Learning, Still Missing Home

I’d be lying if I said I’ve completely adapted.

I still imagine snow when it rains. I still miss those brilliant blue Utah skies more than I can quite put into words. Some January mornings, I wake up to gray drizzle and feel a genuine ache for the winter I knew—for sun on fresh powder, for that active outdoor winter snow culture, for cold that doesn’t seep into your bones.

The wet and the gray still get to me. There are days when the darkness feels relentless, when I wonder how British people do this year after year without losing their minds. The fairy lights help. The log burner helps. The electric blanket helps. The tea helps. But I haven’t cracked the code entirely, not by a long shot.

And honestly? I’m not sure I ever will completely. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe you don’t have to love something to make peace with it. Maybe you just have to find your own small ways of getting through.

But I’ve learned enough to know that British people aren’t just enduring winter—they’ve built entire cultural practices around making it bearable, even beautiful in its own way. The emphasis on coziness isn’t weakness; it’s wisdom. The rush outside when the sun appears isn’t silliness; it’s survival.

I’m still learning. Still adapting. Still sometimes standing at my window wishing the rain would turn to snow.

But I’m here, I’m trying, and I’m genuinely curious: How do you do it?

Your Turn—Please, I Actually Need Your Help

This is where I’m hoping you’ll come in.

British readers especially—how do you survive British winters? What are your non-negotiable January survival strategies? What gets you through the darkest, dampest days?

And I’m genuinely curious: what are the winter activities or traditions here that I might be missing? Things that make British winter special in its own way? I’ve described Utah’s ice castles and sledding culture—I’d love to know what the British equivalent is, or if winter here is more about those cozy indoor traditions I’m slowly discovering.

For my fellow expats—what’s helped you adapt? What do you still struggle with? What surprised you about British winter?

And honestly, I’m open to any tips, tricks, or wisdom you want to share. How do you cope with the darkness? What makes the wet bearable? How do you stop yourself from booking a one-way ticket to somewhere sunny? Do you have a hot water bottle collection?

Leave a comment

Drop your strategies in the comments—I’ll be reading every single one while wrapped in a blanket, drinking tea, with my electric blanket throw on my lap, watching the rain.

See you on Sunday,
Marianne

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“Excuse me, where’s the restroom?”

The barista smiled. “The toilet’s just through there, love.”

Right. The toilet. Not the bathroom, not the restroom, not the ladies’ room. Just… the toilet.

It took me a long time to stop automatically saying “restroom” when I needed to go, and it still happens. British people know perfectly well what I mean—they’re not confused—but there’s always this split second of amusement in their eyes, like they’re thinking, “Ah, American.”

And it’s not just “toilet.” British people will casually say they’re “going for a wee” while Americans typically say “going to pee.”

Though when it comes to anything more serious, both cultures suddenly rediscover euphemism. No one’s announcing that at work on either side of the Atlantic. Some boundaries are universal.

A Toilet by Any Other Name

Before you even find a toilet in Britain, you have to know what to call it.

Americans, bless us, have developed an entire ecosystem of euphemisms designed to avoid saying what we actually mean. We ask for the bathroom (even when there is no bath), the restroom (even when no resting will occur), or the ladies’ room, which sounds like it should contain fainting couches and smelling salts.

British people, meanwhile, are far less interested in pretending.

They say toilet. Or loo. Sometimes the ladies or the gents. And they do so calmly, without apology, as if naming the thing makes it no more powerful.

Here’s a rough translation guide:

Americans might say:

• Bathroom

• Restroom

• Ladies’ room / Men’s room

• Washroom (especially in the north and near Canada)

• Water closet (older or more formal usage)

• The John (casual, familiar, slightly old-school)

• The crapper (very informal, usually said jokingly or in private company)

• “I’m just going to step out for a minute” (deeply suspicious)

Brits might say:

• Toilet

• Loo

• The ladies / the gents

• “I’m popping to the loo” (no pop involved)

Neither is wrong. They just reveal very different comfort levels with naming basic human needs.

And once you start noticing it, you realize this difference shows up everywhere—from how we talk about bodily functions, to how we design public spaces, to how much privacy we expect once we’re finally inside the cubicle.

But here’s the thing: once you get past the linguistic adjustment, using UK public toilets becomes a completely different experience. From the moment you locate one (not always easy) to the actual act of using it (sometimes complicated), the differences reveal a lot about our two cultures.

Finding the Facilities

First challenge: locating a public toilet in the UK.

In America, public toilets are abundant and obvious—clearly marked with universal signage, usually right off the main floor of any establishment. You expect to find them near the entrance or follow clear directional signs. The idea of having to hunt through a beer garden would never occur to us.

British public loos, however, require detective work. Many are tucked away in unexpected places—downstairs, along pub corridors, up narrow Victorian staircases, or behind what looks like a maintenance closet.

I once spent ten minutes in a lovely pub searching for the “Ladies” only to discover it was through the beer garden, past the outdoor seating, and in what I can only describe as a shed.

Spending a Penny (Literally)

Then there’s the payment situation.

The first time I encountered a turnstile that required 20p to enter a public toilet, I stood there completely baffled. Pay? To pee? As an American, this felt almost offensive.

In the United States, public toilets are overwhelmingly free. We rely on a retail culture that fills the gap—cafés, supermarkets, big-box stores, gas stations, malls, libraries, fast-food chains, rest-stops. Even if you’re not buying anything, you’re usually not challenged. The word “public” carries a strong implication of free access to basic facilities.

A few US cities experimented with pay toilets in the 1960s and 70s, but public backlash killed the idea pretty quickly. There were lawsuits, concerns about accessibility and discrimination, and a general sense that charging people to use the bathroom was fundamentally wrong. The occasional transport hub might have a paid toilet, but it’s rare and often doesn’t last long.

So for Americans, paying to use the toilet feels nickel-and-dimey.

This British tradition actually dates back to 1851 at the Great Exhibition at Crystal Palace in London, where George Jennings installed the world’s first paid public flushing toilets. Over 675,000 people paid one penny each to use them, which is where the British phrase “spending a penny” comes from.

Today’s rates range from 20p in most places to £1 in tourist-heavy spots like London. Many now accept contactless payment, which at least saves the coin scramble.

The reason for the charge? Maintenance, cleaning, toilet paper, soap, utilities, and keeping vandalism at bay. And I’ll admit, paid toilets are generally much cleaner than their free American counterparts.

Still feels weird to tap my card to use the loo, though.

Inside the Loo: The Privacy Revelation

Once you actually make it inside a UK public toilet, the first thing you notice is the privacy.

Glorious, blessed privacy.

American bathroom stalls are basically suggestions. The gaps are so large that you can make accidental eye contact with strangers. The doors hang a foot off the ground. There’s usually a sight-line gap at the door edge where anyone walking by can see right in.

I never questioned this until I moved to the UK.

British toilet cubicles—what Americans would call stalls—have doors that often actually reach the floor and walls that go all the way up, which already feels like a small victory. It’s like someone finally decided that people using the toilet deserve actual privacy.

The American design apparently exists for “practical reasons”: emergency access, easier cleaning, ADA wheelchair accessibility requirements, deterring illicit activities, and air circulation. The gaps also help you see if someone’s in there by spotting their shoes.

And I’ll admit, there are some advantages to American gaps I didn’t appreciate until they were gone. There’s the ability to ask a neighbor to “spare a square” when your stall runs out of toilet paper.

But there’s also the practical matter of knowing if a cubicle is occupied. With full privacy doors, you can’t just glance under to check for shoes. Not all UK toilets have reliable occupied/vacant indicators, which means you’re sometimes left doing that awkward thing where you gently try the handle while internally panicking that someone might be in there. It’s a uniquely British moment of polite dread. It’s a small price to pay for privacy, but it does add a moment of stress to the experience.

The UK approach represents a completely different philosophy about public space and privacy—one that prioritizes dignity over convenience.

The Square Seat Mystery

Speaking of things that surprised me: some UK toilets have square seats.

The first time I encountered one, I thought it was oddly charming. Square! Who knew toilets could be square?

Turns out, square toilet seats aren’t uniquely British—they exist in the US too—but they seem more common here, especially in older buildings.

The Dual Flush Button Dilemma

And then we get to the buttons.

Those two mysterious buttons on the top of the tank or above the toilet that I stared at in confusion during my first week in the UK. I’ve never seen them labeled in a way that actually helps you decide what to do.

Which one do I press? Are they both for flushing? Is one for emergencies? What does it say about me if I choose wrong?

Actually, British toilet flushing mechanisms vary quite a bit. Sometimes it’s two buttons, sometimes it’s a pull chain (especially in older buildings or traditional pubs), sometimes it’s a single button, and occasionally you’ll encounter automatic sensors. The dual-flush button system is increasingly common in modern facilities, with flush handles now rare enough to feel faintly unfamiliar.

American toilets are simpler—one flush handle, a fixed amount of water every time (usually around 1.6 gallons, or 6 liters). No decisions, no confusion, just flush and go. The federal government passed the Energy Policy Act in 1992, mandating this maximum (it took effect in 1994), but there’s no half-flush option. The same amount of water, whether you need it or not.

There’s also a mechanical difference: American toilets often require you to hold down the handle to release more water during the same flush if needed. British toilets generally work with a quick push and release—holding it down doesn’t have the same effect. It took me a while to stop instinctively holding down British flush buttons.

The UK’s dual flush system was invented in 1980 by Bruce Thompson in Australia during a drought. The smaller button releases about 3–4 liters of water for liquid waste, while the larger button (or both buttons pressed together) releases 6–9 liters for solid waste.

It’s all about water conservation—a household can save up to 20,000 liters of water a year with this system.

Which is brilliant. Except...there’s a small problem.

Thames Water claimed in 2020 that dual flush toilets might actually waste more water than they save due to leaks and—wait for it—user confusion about which button to press.

So apparently, I’m not the only one who stood there panicking about the buttons.

The Tiny Sink Phenomenon

In single-occupancy public toilets in the UK, you’ll often find the tiniest sinks you’ve ever seen.

I’m talking sinks so small you can barely fit both hands under the tap at once. Sinks that make you question whether they’re decorative.

American public bathroom sinks are built for efficiency—wide enough to wash both hands at once, usually with some splash risk, and designed to get you in and out quickly. A sink so small you can barely fit both hands under the tap would strike most Americans as not so much minimalist as vaguely uncooperative.

These compact British basins are designed to save space in small toilet rooms, which makes sense given how much older and tighter British buildings tend to be compared to sprawling American structures.

They work perfectly well for a quick hand wash—but if you’re used to being able to wash both hands at once without strategic planning, it’s an adjustment.

The Tap Challenge

And speaking of taps (that’s “faucets” in American), we need to talk about one of the UK’s most infamous plumbing quirks: separate hot and cold taps.

While this setup is far more common in British homes than in public toilets (which increasingly have mixer taps), you’ll still encounter it occasionally in older public facilities. And when you do, it’s usually unexpected—and always memorable.

You turn on the cold tap—freezing. You turn on the hot tap—scalding. There is no in-between. You’re left doing this awkward hand-shuffling dance between the two taps, trying to achieve a comfortable temperature without either frostbite or third-degree burns, all while being very aware that you’re standing in a public loo.

The history behind this, and why it still turns up in public places at all, is actually fascinating.

In older British buildings, cold water came directly from the mains and was safe to drink. Hot water, however, was stored in a tank in the attic, where it could become contaminated with rust, sediment, or worse. For a long time, there were regulations designed to prevent hot and cold water from mixing, to protect the main water supply.

The positioning of the taps has an equally practical origin. When indoor plumbing was first introduced in the 19th century, there was only cold water, delivered by a hand pump typically placed on the right side of the sink for right-handed users. When hot-water systems were added later, the hot tap was placed on the vacant left side. Having hot consistently on the left is now recommended as a safety standard for everyone, including blind or visually impaired people, but that wasn’t the original reason.

Most modern UK buildings no longer rely on attic water tanks, which means both taps are perfectly safe. But tradition is tradition, and in some older public toilets, the separate taps remain.

Some Brits even prefer them, arguing that mixing water in the basin saves water compared to letting a tap run while you adjust the temperature.

As an American, I’m still adapting, especially when I encounter it in a public loo.

The Royal Loo

I need to share one of my greatest loo stories.

On a hiking weekend with friends in mid Wales a few years ago, we stayed in a very small rural village. The place we stayed had a small museum-style display dedicated to 12th and 13th-century Welsh princes, which we spent some time exploring.

At one point, we noticed a photo of Prince Charles (as he was then), taken a few years earlier. We got chatting with the elderly woman who owned the place and asked her about it.

“Oh yes,” she said. “He came to visit here when he went to see ‘The Abbey’.”

We talked a bit more about his visit and the surrounding area, and then, just before leaving, asked if we could use the toilet.

“Of course,” she said. “In fact, the loo you’re about to use was the one he used that day.”

So there you have it.

I have, in fact, sat on a Royal Loo.

History is everywhere in Britain. Sometimes it’s even behind the bathroom door.

What I’ve Come to Appreciate

After over three years of navigating UK public toilets, I’ve come to see these differences as reflections of deeper cultural values.

The British emphasis on privacy (proper cubicle doors), environmental consciousness (dual-flush systems), and publicly maintained facilities reveals priorities that don’t always align with how public facilities tend to be designed and provided in the United States.

Are UK public toilets perfect? No.

Are American public toilets perfect? Also no.

American public toilets excel at availability and convenience. You can almost always find one quickly, usually for free, and usually without having to hunt for coins, navigate a maze, or decode a payment system. When you need a toilet now, the American model is hard to beat.

When I asked my British partner what surprised them about American public toilets, they didn’t hesitate.

“They’re lower to the ground, longer and thinner,” they said. “There’s a metal lever you can flush with your foot, the locks feel experimental, the waste pipes are smaller so blockages seem more common, and if you’re tall, the stall height becomes a personal issue.”

The UK approach, meanwhile, prioritizes privacy, upkeep, and long-term sustainability, even if it means sacrificing some speed and ease. The separate taps can be puzzling. Paid toilets can be inconvenient when you don’t have change. And the location of some loos seems designed to test your navigational skills.

But there’s something refreshing about a culture that calls a toilet a toilet, provides real privacy when you need it, and has created thoughtful systems to make facilities work better for everyone.

Even if I still occasionally panic about which button to press.

(And I should note: I’ve focused here on public toilets specifically. Home bathrooms in the UK are a whole different story—with even more variation in fixtures, layouts, and delightful quirks. But that’s a topic for another day.)

Your Turn

What’s been your most confusing or memorable public toilet experience in a foreign country?

For my fellow Americans: Have you encountered the separate taps situation? What was your first reaction to the dual flush buttons?

For my British friends: What aspect of American public toilets surprises you most? Have you ever had to explain the dual flush system to a confused visitor?

I know I’ve only scratched the surface of the public toilet topic—there’s so much more variation out there, and I’m sure I’ve missed something. Please share. I’m still learning.

Leave a comment

A Small Change Going Forward

As we head into the new year, I wanted to share a small update about the rhythm of this newsletter.

I’ve loved writing An American’s Guide to British Life every Sunday, and I’m not going anywhere. But with a few more things happening behind the scenes—personally, professionally and creatively, including the very exciting work of writing a new book—I’m learning to be a bit more intentional about balance.

So going forward, I’ll be publishing twice a month, still on Sundays.

That means fewer posts, but the same spirit: thoughtful observations, affectionate cultural comparisons, and the small everyday moments that make living between two cultures endlessly fascinating.

This space matters to me, and I want to keep it joyful rather than rushed. Thank you for being here, for reading, for commenting, and for sharing your own experiences along the way. I’m very grateful.

As always—
See you on Sunday,
Marianne

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As 2025 draws to a close, I find myself in a reflective mood. With the new year just around the corner, I wanted to take a moment to look back at what we've built together this year.

How This Started (And a Personal Win)

Here’s something you might not know: when I launched this newsletter on January 16th, it started as something quite simple—a way to document all the wonderfully strange things I was noticing about British life before they became so normal I’d forget to find them remarkable.

I didn’t want to lose those “wait, what?” moments when my British partner casually mentioned something utterly baffling, or when I’d discover yet another domestic quirk that made perfect sense to everyone around me but left me completely confused.

It was also an experiment. Could I actually write consistently every week?

Spoiler alert: I’d never managed that before.

So hitting 50 posts this year (including this one, despite one week spent stuck in Tanzania during civil unrest, long story involving whale sharks, an internet shutdown and cancelled flights) is genuinely one of my proudest accomplishments. Turns out I just needed the right topic and the right community cheering me on.

What started as personal documentation became something much bigger. These weekly explorations have taught me so much about British culture, but even more, they’ve connected me with this incredible community of readers who’ve become my teachers, my fact-checkers, and my friends.

And here’s something exciting I’m exploring: turning these articles (along with future ones) into An American’s Guide to British Life book. I write fun fact books, but I’ve loved writing about this so much that I want to create something more permanent from our conversations. More on that as it develops!

The Year in Numbers

This year brought 50 weekly posts exploring everything from the sacred taboo of the big light to the mysteries of British sandwich culture. Our community has grown to 930 subscribers spanning 36 US states and 40 countries. Together, we’ve generated 129,000 views and countless thoughtful conversations.

But honestly? The numbers that matter most are the insights you’ve shared, the corrections you’ve gently offered, the memories you’ve contributed, and the laughter we’ve created together.

Your Favorite Posts

You made it pretty clear what resonated most this year:

Most Read & Most Liked:

“The Big Light: Britain’s Most Forbidden Source of Light” (June 15) absolutely took off with just shy of 6,000 views. With 201 likes and overwhelming engagement, this post about overhead lighting taboos struck a chord with British readers, who immediately recognized themselves (“That’s us!”), and with Americans discovering yet another fun British quirk. Who knew that a simple light switch could reveal so much about cultural differences?

Most Commented:

“Between the Bread: Why Brits Butter Everything” (June 22) sparked 177 comments as we debated the butter imperative, coronation chicken controversies, and the genius of crisp sandwiches. Your stories about regional sandwich traditions, childhood favorites, and passionate opinions about Branston pickle made this conversation truly come alive.

Some Other Favorites Worth Revisiting:

If you loved the big light post, you might enjoy “An American’s Guide to British Homes” (February 23) about washing machines in kitchens and “period features.”

For more food culture discoveries, check out “Beyond Ketchup & Ranch Dressing” (May 25).

If you want pure linguistic comedy, “Squeaky Bum Time and Other British Phrases” (October 5) explores the chaos of living with a Brit and changes to your vocabulary.

And for something more heartfelt, “Thanksgiving: The Holiday That Follows Me Across the Atlantic” (November 23) captures what it means to maintain American traditions while building a British life.

Want to explore more? Browse the full archive to find topics that intrigue you: from Eurovision to A&E experiences, from Harry Potter cultural education to spider season survival (still working on that one).

What Made This Year Special

Beyond the popular posts, this year was really about the conversations we’ve had together. We explored everything from workplace culture differences to mince pie confusion, from the ritual of putting the kettle on to decoding the mysterious ‘X’ in text messages.

What strikes me most is how this newsletter has become a true community. British readers patiently educate me (and fellow Americans) about their culture’s quirks and history. Americans share their own bewildered discoveries. And everyone contributes stories, corrections, and insights that make each post richer than I could create alone.

While I haven’t been able to respond to every comment, I want you to know I’ve read every single one. Your thoughtfulness, humor, and willingness to share your own experiences means more than I can express.

For Our New Subscribers

If you’ve joined us recently, welcome! You’re now part of a warm, thoughtful community that explores cultural differences with affection, humor, and respect. We never mock or judge—we celebrate what makes each culture unique. Whether you’re British, American, or anywhere else in the world, there’s room at this table for your perspective.

Your Turn: Looking Ahead to 2026

I’m already planning more cultural explorations, but I want your input:

What was your favorite article from this past year? Was it one of the hits mentioned above, or a quieter post that spoke to you personally?

What topics would you like me to cover in 2026? What aspects of British (or American!) culture are you curious about? What confuses you? What delights you?

If this becomes a book, what would make it most useful or enjoyable to you? Additional content? Photos? A particular organization?

Drop your thoughts in the comments. I read and treasure every single one.

Happy New Year!

Whether you’re bundled up in Times Square waiting for that glittering ball to drop, gathered with friends watching London’s spectacular fireworks over the Thames, or celebrating in your own corner of the world, I hope your year ahead is filled with joy, discovery, and perhaps a few delightful and memorable cultural moments.

Thank you for being part of this community. Thank you for reading, commenting, sharing, and teaching me about British culture one post at a time. Thank you for your patience with my American confusion and your generosity in sharing your knowledge.

Here’s to another year of cultural bridge-building, one Sunday post at a time.

See you next Sunday,

Marianne

If you enjoyed this year-end reflection, the best compliment would be sharing this newsletter with one person who’d appreciate the journey. Or simply Restack it. Thank you.

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The first Christmas stocking I put together for my British partner was, I thought, a triumph of thoughtfulness. I’d carefully selected small gifts - useful things, fun things, sweet things - and arranged them perfectly in the stocking. I was genuinely proud of myself.

Then I gave it to them (early, since I was still living in the States at the time), and watched their face go through a series of expressions I couldn’t quite read. Confusion. Mild alarm. A desperate attempt at politeness.

“Oh,” they said.

“The gifts, they’re not... wrapped?”

I looked at the stocking. Then back at them. “Was I supposed to wrap them?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Apparently, in many British households, you wrap the gifts that go inside the stocking. Every single one. Even the tiny ones. Although there seems to be universal acceptance that the obligatory chocolate coins, the nuts, and the satsumas are not (this American never even knew those items were meant to be in there).

In America, stocking gifts are typically unwrapped. The whole point is you can see everything immediately - the visual abundance spilling out, the instant gratification of knowing what you’ve received. Wrapping stocking gifts would be like wrapping the wrapping.

Our mutual friend, witnessing this cultural disaster unfold, kindly took the stocking, wrapped every single item, and carefully placed them back. My partner got their traditional British stocking with the gifts wrapped.

And that was just the beginning of discovering how differently Americans and Brits actually celebrate Christmas.

Happy Christmas? But It’s Merry!

In Britain, “Happy Christmas” is everywhere - the Royal Family uses it, it’s on Christmas cards, it’s in Love Actually. I’d heard it countless times in British shows and movies. But experiencing it in person, hearing real people around me say it naturally, still felt surreal.

In America, you’ll hear “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays,” but never “Happy Christmas.”

Almost four years in, and “Happy Christmas” still doesn’t quite roll off my American tongue. I will most likely stick with “Merry Christmas” for now.

Santa vs. Father Christmas: A Rose By Any Other Name

Then there’s the question of what to call the man himself.

In America: Santa. Santa Claus. Sometimes St. Nick. Occasionally, Kris Kringle, if you’re being fancy or referencing Miracle on 34th Street. But 99% of the time? Santa.

In Britain: Father Christmas. Or sometimes Santa, increasingly so, which seems to cause mild consternation among some British people who feel that “Santa” is an American import pushing out the traditional British term.

I’ve noticed that British children seem to use both interchangeably these days, though “Father Christmas” still dominates in official contexts: department store grottos (another British vs. US difference is “Santa’s grotto” vs. “Santa’s workshop”), Christmas cards from schools, and in proper Christmas storytelling.

The terms apparently have slightly different historical origins. Father Christmas was a personification of Christmas itself in British folklore, more about feasting and celebration than gift-giving. Santa Claus came from Dutch settlers in America (Sinterklaas), merged with British Father Christmas traditions, and evolved into the modern gift-bringer we know today.

The Christmas Card Confusion: Where Are All The Family Photos?

My first British Christmas, I eagerly awaited the Christmas cards. In America, December means your mailbox fills with photos of everyone you know: their families posed in matching outfits, their kids grinning in front of Christmas trees, their dogs wearing reindeer antlers. Some families even include newsletters detailing every achievement, vacation, and life update from the past year.

So when the Christmas cards started arriving at our UK address, I was excited. Let’s see everyone’s Christmas photos!

Except... they weren’t photos. They were just cards. Beautiful cards: elegant designs, artistic illustrations, religious scenes, winter landscapes, often from charity organizations. But no family photos. Just signatures inside: “Happy Christmas, love from Sarah and James.”

We send photo cards ourselves, a thoroughly American tradition my British partner has now fully embraced. Cultural exchange goes both ways, even if it means annual outfit negotiations.

Christmas Dinner: Where It All Gets Deliciously Different.

Some Americans and most Brits serve turkey for Christmas dinner, which initially made me think this would be familiar territory. Then I discovered everything else on the table was completely different.

The Starter That Wasn’t

In Britain, Christmas dinner often begins with a proper starter. The most classic? Prawn cocktail.

Now, Americans know shrimp cocktail (that’s what we call it - we say “shrimp” where Brits say “prawns”). Cold shrimp served with red cocktail sauce - that spicy, horseradish-kicked tomato sauce that’s distinctly American.

British prawn cocktail is different. The prawns are served with Marie Rose sauce - a beautiful blush-pink sauce made from mayonnaise, ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, and lemon juice. It’s creamy and tangy, not spicy and red. The whole thing is typically served in a glass on a bed of lettuce, looking elegant and retro-fabulous.

Having a fancy starter makes the whole meal feel more special and leisurely, though it was yet another moment of realizing that “Christmas dinner” meant something quite different here.

The Plates

British Christmas plates feature roast potatoes, Brussels sprouts, pigs in blankets (bacon-wrapped sausages, not pastry-wrapped as they are in the US), Yorkshire puddings (a matter of taste for some), bread sauce, and a variety of vegetables.

American Christmas dinner varies wildly by family - ham, prime rib, turkey, even lasagna or tamales. There’s no traditional Christmas plate the way there is in Britain.

The Cheese Revelation

Then there’s the cheese course. After the main meal, after Christmas pudding, many British families bring out a cheeseboard. Proper cheese: Stilton, Cheddar, something fancy.

The first time I experienced this, I genuinely thought it was a mistake. “Shouldn’t we have eaten the cheese before dinner?” In America, cheese boards are most often appetizers. The idea of being absolutely stuffed and then being offered cheese? My American brain couldn’t process it.

But now I understand. The cheese course is its own wonderful thing: a savory note after all that sweetness, a moment to sit and chat while everything settles, an excuse to open another bottle of wine or a bottle of port.

(British cheese culture is actually an entirely different beast that deserves its own exploration: the varieties, the regional pride, the proper accompaniments. But encountering it for the first time at Christmas dinner is particularly bewildering when you’re already uncomfortably full.)

Christmas Pudding: The Figgy Pudding from the Carols

Then came dessert, and with it, one of the most theatrical moments of British Christmas.

Someone dimmed the lights. My partner emerged from the kitchen with the Christmas pudding on a plate in one hand, and a ladle full of brandy in the other. They took matches and held them under the ladle, warming the brandy until suddenly - whoosh - it ignited. Then they carefully poured the flaming brandy over the dark dome of pudding, blue flames cascading across its surface.

“Is the dessert... on fire?”

“It’s Christmas pudding,” they said, as if this explained everything.

British Christmas pudding isn’t pudding in the American sense. It’s a dense, boozy fruitcake that can be legally described as “flammable.” Which is exactly what you want when warming brandy in a ladle until it ignites, then pouring it flaming over your dessert.

The whole process is incredibly theatrical. Everyone “oohs” as the blue flames flicker across the pudding in the darkened room. You’re supposed to make a wish as it burns. Then someone serves it with accompaniments - and here’s where British Christmas gets even more indulgent. You might have brandy butter (butter whipped with sugar and brandy), whipped cream, custard, or, if you're my partner, all three!

The first time I tried it, I wasn’t sure what to expect. It’s dense and rich and intensely flavored - sticky with dried fruit, warm with spices, boozy from the brandy. It’s a commitment. Some people love it religiously. Others politely push it around their plate.

The tradition dates back centuries. Families sometimes make their Christmas puddings weeks before Christmas. My 85-year-old mother-in-law still makes her Christmas pudding in October half-term, and everyone in the household gives it a stir while making a wish. And hidden inside are often silver coins (thoroughly cleaned, one hopes). Find a coin in your slice, and you’ll have good luck in the coming year.

Watching that brandy ignite in the ladle and cascade over the pudding in the darkened room, everyone’s faces lit by blue flames, I understood the appeal. It’s drama. It’s a tradition. It’s Christmas magic made literal with fire.

Christmas Crackers: Pull, Snap, Paper Crown

The first time someone handed me a Christmas cracker and told me to pull it, I had no context for what was happening.

We pulled. It snapped loudly. A paper crown, a tiny plastic toy, and a slip of paper fell out. Everyone at the table was doing the same thing, and suddenly the entire room was full of adults wearing paper crowns and reading terrible jokes aloud.

In America, we have party favors. We have poppers for New Year’s Eve. But Christmas crackers? These elaborate paper tubes that snap, contain prizes and jokes, and result in everyone wearing crowns for the rest of the meal? Purely British territory.

Christmas crackers are embedded in British Christmas culture. You pull them with the person next to you; whoever ends up with the larger piece wins. You must wear your paper crown for the rest of the meal, and you must read your joke aloud, no matter how groan-worthy.

The jokes are uniformly terrible, and that’s entirely the point. They’re designed to be groan-inducing. No one expects clever wordplay. Everyone expects to roll their eyes. It’s a shared experience of collective groan-inducing humor, and somehow that makes it perfect.

By the time the King’s Speech comes on at 3 pm, half the family is still wearing paper crowns, slightly askew, having forgotten they’re even there.

The Queen’s/King’s Speech: A Christmas Day Ritual

One tradition that completely caught me off guard was the sudden hush that fell over the room at 3 pm on Christmas Day.

“What’s happening?” I whispered to my partner, confused by why everyone had stopped talking mid-conversation.

“Shh,” they said. “The Queen’s Speech is starting.”

And just like that, everyone gathered around the television to watch the Queen’s Christmas message to the nation. Ten minutes of reflection, acknowledgment of the year’s challenges, and messages of hope and unity. Then, just as suddenly, normal Christmas chaos resumed.

In America, there’s no equivalent tradition. The idea of pausing Christmas celebrations to watch any kind of formal address would feel deeply odd to most Americans.

But in Britain, what was the Queen’s Speech, and is now the King’s Speech, is woven into the fabric of many a Christmas Day. It airs at 3 pm, strategically timed after Christmas dinner but before tea. The tradition dates back to 1932, and for many British people, watching it can be as essential to Christmas as turkey and crackers.

Even families who aren’t particularly royalist often watch it. I know it's not for everyone, but it happens every year and is seemingly very much part of Christmas in Britain.

My American brain still finds it slightly surreal, but I’ve come to appreciate it as a uniquely British moment: a reminder that even private celebrations can have a public, communal dimension. Plus, after a full British Christmas dinner with starter, main course, pudding, AND cheese, sitting down for ten minutes is absolutely necessary.

The Santa Protocol: A Minefield of Differences

My first British Christmas, I automatically made cookies to leave out for Santa. My partner gently suggested we should probably leave a mince pie instead. “But does Father Christmas even like mince pies?” I asked, genuinely concerned. They looked at me with the same expression I imagine British people use when Americans call football “soccer.”

In America: cookies and milk for Santa.

In Britain: mince pies and brandy (or sherry, or whisky) for Father Christmas.

But the real revelation was the stockings.

As I mentioned, in many British households, everything inside the stocking is carefully wrapped. The stocking appears at the end of your bed on Christmas morning (delivered by Father Christmas while you slept), and you open each wrapped surprise one by one. In my house growing up, stockings hung in the room with the Christmas tree, and the unwrapped gifts were visible at a glance. American Santa didn’t enter our bedrooms.

British stockings traditionally include chocolate coins, a satsuma in the toe (when fresh fruit was a Christmas luxury), possibly a Terry’s Chocolate Orange or Toblerone, and small wrapped gifts. Mine always had candy canes, various chocolates, small toys, and a new toothbrush. (Mom being a dental hygienist may have had something to do with that.)

But here’s what I’ve learned: stocking traditions vary wildly on both sides of the Atlantic. Some British families hang them by the fireplace, others do bedroom delivery, some wrap everything, others don’t. American families have just as much variation. The common thread is that everyone’s convinced their family’s way is the “normal” way.

Boxing Day Decoded: The Holiday Americans Don’t Have

So what actually is Boxing Day?

I’ve asked this question of multiple British people, and I get slightly different answers every time. The historical origins are debated (servants getting boxes of gifts from employers? Churches opening alms boxes? The boxes of leftover food? Nobody’s entirely sure), but what matters is what it’s become: an official bank holiday on December 26th, a day for recovering from Christmas, visiting extended family, eating leftovers, going for walks, and watching football.

For many British families, Boxing Day is when you visit the relatives you didn’t see on Christmas Day. It’s also when the sales start - Boxing Day sales are huge here, the equivalent of America’s Black Friday but without the camping-out-overnight intensity.

And then there are the leftovers.

Bubble and Squeak: The Genius of Leftover Culture

Americans do leftovers, obviously. Turkey sandwiches. Turkey soup. Maybe a casserole if your grandmother is particularly resourceful. But Britain has turned Christmas leftovers into actual traditional dishes.

Enter bubble and squeak: leftover roast potatoes and vegetables (especially Brussels sprouts) fried together until crispy and golden. The name comes from the sounds it makes while cooking - bubbling and squeaking in the pan.

I was skeptical when my partner first made this. It sounded like “refrigerator surprise” given a fancy name. But actual bubble and squeak, made properly? It’s brilliant. Crispy edges, soft interior, everything tasting better together than it did separately. Pair it with chutneys, home-made piccalilli (now that was a discovery!) and leftover turkey or ham, and it becomes a perfect combination.

The Decorations Gap: A Personal Sorrow

Here’s something I genuinely miss about American Christmas: the absolute commitment to exterior decorations.

In America, particularly in suburban neighborhoods, Christmas lights are a competition. People start planning in October. They outline every roofline, wrap every tree, create elaborate displays with inflatable snowmen, light-up reindeer, and occasionally entire nativity scenes with spotlights.

The truly committed program their entire display to flash and dance in perfect synchronization with Christmas music, turning their front yard into a full light show that neighbors can tune into on their car radios.

Some houses are modest, just some tasteful white lights along the roof and maybe a wreath. Other houses are visible from space. Entire streets become destinations, with families driving through specifically to see the decorations.

In Britain, Christmas decorations are generally more restrained. But when British houses do go all out? They truly commit. My neighborhood has a few houses that give American decorators a run for their money, and my partner has learned to spot them and make sure we seek them out. I’m that person who audibly gasps with delight when I see a well-decorated house.

“They’ve got lights this year!”

I’ll announce, as if this house three streets over has just won an award.

“Yes, they’re very nice,” my partner will say, patiently.

“No, you don’t understand - they’ve got lights AND an inflatable snowman!”

The over-the-top houses are rarer here, which somehow makes finding them even more delightful. Every lit-up tree, every string of lights, every attempt at festive cheer feels more precious when it’s not wall-to-wall coverage.

Christmas Movies

Christmas movies are another cultural divide I didn’t anticipate.

My American Classics:

Growing up, certain movies were Christmas canon: A Christmas Story, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, While You Were Sleeping, Home Alone, and Miracle on 34th Street.

British Christmas Classics:

Meanwhile, Britain has Love Actually (which I’d only seen once before moving here and is now inescapable every December) and crucially, The Snowman - the animated film that every British person apparently watched as a child and gets emotional about.

A Christmas Story is peak Americana, capturing 1940s American Christmas culture in a way that resonates with generations of viewers. While You Were Sleeping is one of my favorites, but many of my British friends have never heard of it.

Similarly, when they tried to explain why The Snowman is so meaningful, I understood intellectually, but couldn’t feel it the way someone who watched it every Christmas as a child would.

We’ve found common ground in some universal Christmas films - It's a Wonderful Life, Home Alone, Elf, The Muppet Christmas Carol, The Holiday, and the Harry Potter movies (which Britain rightfully claims but Americans have also adopted for Christmas watching).

The Beautiful Overlap

For all these differences, there’s enormous overlap in what makes Christmas special.

Both countries prioritize family gathering, special meals, gift-giving, and creating magic for children. Both have Santa/Father Christmas arriving overnight, bringing presents, and rewarding good behavior. Both make the day feel special and set apart from ordinary time.

Both countries are dealing with the commercialization of Christmas while trying to maintain its meaning. Both have people who go all-out decorating and people who keep it simple. Both have families who argue about proper turkey cooking times and whether sprouts are actually necessary.

The rhythms are different - two bank holidays versus one, mince pies versus cookies, variations in stocking traditions - but the underlying experience is remarkably similar. We’re all trying to create warmth and joy and magic in the darkest part of the year.

And honestly, having experienced both versions? Each has its merits.

The American approach gives you that intense Christmas Eve anticipation and tradition. The British approach gives you an extra day to recover and celebrate with Boxing Day. American Christmas lights are spectacular and joyful. British restraint makes each display feel more special. American cookies are comforting. British mince pies are complex and interesting. American pies are straightforward and delicious. British Christmas pudding is theatrical and literally on fire.

Neither is better. Both are right for the cultures that created them.

Your Turn: Christmas Traditions and Discoveries

I want to hear about your Christmas experiences on both sides of the Atlantic:

For my British friends:

• Where did your Christmas stocking appear? End of bed, fireplace, door handle, somewhere else?

• Were your stocking gifts wrapped or unwrapped?

• What had to be in your stocking? Chocolate coins? Satsuma? Terry’s Chocolate Orange? (Let’s poll this too!)

• Is cheese after Christmas dinner essential in your family?

• How do you celebrate Boxing Day?

• Do you have prawn cocktail as a starter?

• Brandy butter, custard, cream, or all three with your Christmas pudding?

For my fellow Americans in the UK:

• What British Christmas tradition surprised you most?

• Have you been converted to any British Christmas customs?

• What American tradition do you miss most?

• Have you mastered the art of wrapping stocking gifts?

• Have you tried Marie Rose sauce?

• Did you understand what figgy pudding was before moving here?

For everyone:

• What’s your most cherished Christmas tradition?

• Any Christmas cultural confusions to share?

• Team wrapped stocking gifts or team unwrapped?

• What’s the worst Christmas cracker joke you’ve ever heard?

Leave a comment

Whether you’re leaving mince pies for Father Christmas or cookies for Santa, whether your stockings are wrapped or unwrapped, whether you watch the King’s Speech in a paper crown or your house is visible from space with Christmas lights, I’d love to hear your stories.

May your Christmas be merry - wherever and however you celebrate it.

See you next Sunday,

Marianne

P.S. Speaking of Christmas traditions and trivia - I actually wrote a whole book of Christmas fun facts a few years ago. If you’re the kind of person who enjoys random holiday knowledge, you can check it out [here] or find it in other fine bookstores.

P.P.S. Between work and life, I may not always be able to respond to every comment, but I do read them all. Your thoughtful, funny, and insightful contributions are genuinely the best part of writing these articles.

If this brought back your own Christmas memories or helped you understand the Christmas happening on the other side of the Atlantic, please share it with someone navigating their own cross-cultural holiday season.

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A quick panto disclaimer: I’m still learning, so British friends—please feel free to offer gentle corrections and your favourite panto traditions in the comments!

That first December in Britain, I attended a pub quiz with high hopes and moderate confidence. I’d been studying British culture, learning the lingo, and feeling pretty good about my cultural integration.

Then came the Christmas entertainment round.

“Question one,” the quizmaster announced, “What are British pantos famous for during performances?”

“Silent acting?” I whispered. “Physical comedy? It’s panto-mime, like Charlie Chaplin and Marcel Marceau.”

My British teammates stared at me like I’d just called football ‘soccer’ on purpose.

“Audience participation,” someone explained gently. “Shouting at the stage. ‘He’s behind you!’”

That’s when I learned that British pantos have absolutely nothing to do with mime. They’re loud, chaotic, interactive theatrical experiences where silence is basically forbidden.

I got every single question wrong in that round. Every. Single. One.

What Actually IS a Panto?

Let me start with what I thought pantos were: silent theatrical performances involving white face paint, invisible boxes, and someone pretending to walk against the wind.

In America, people often use “pantomime” to mean the silent art form: mime.

Here’s what they actually are: Pantomimes, or “pantos” as everyone calls them, are loud, campy, family-friendly theatrical productions performed during the Christmas season, featuring fairy tale stories, musical numbers, slapstick comedy, audience participation, cross-dressing actors, and enough innuendo to keep the adults entertained while flying completely over the children’s heads.

They’re based loosely on fairy tales like Cinderella, Aladdin, Jack and the Beanstalk, or Peter Pan, but with so many additions, modifications, and pop culture references that the original story becomes almost unrecognizable. It’s like someone took a classic fairy tale, fed it through a comedy filter, added current events jokes, threw in some songs from the Top 40, and cast a famous television personality in drag.

And somehow, it works brilliantly.

Pantos typically run from November through January, and attending one is considered an essential British Christmas tradition, right up there with mince pies and arguing about whether Die Hard is a Christmas film.

The Bizarre Rules of Panto Engagement

The first time my partner suggested we attend a panto, I imagined something quiet and sophisticated. I was spectacularly wrong.

Pantos have rules, and they’re enforced by the entire audience with the dedication of football fans and the volume of a rock concert. Here are the essential panto participation protocols I’ve learned:

The Sacred Audience Responses

“He’s behind you!”

When the villain sneaks up behind the hero (and they always do, repeatedly), the audience must shout this warning. The hero, of course, never hears it the first seventeen times, leading to escalating audience volume and increasing desperation. This happens so often during a panto that you’ll be hoarse by intermission.

“Oh yes it is!” / “Oh no it isn’t!”

This is the fundamental panto argument. Someone makes a claim. The villain (or Dame, or another character) contradicts them. The audience takes sides and shouts back and forth until everyone’s thoroughly committed to their position on whether there is, in fact, a cow in the kitchen.

Booing the villain

The appearance of the villain requires immediate, enthusiastic booing. Not polite disapproval but full pantomime villain booing. Children take this particularly seriously, as if their boos might actually defeat evil.

Cheering the hero

Conversely, heroes receive raucous applause and cheering every time they appear. My British partner demonstrated proper hero-cheering technique at my first panto, and I realized this was participatory theatre taken to professional sports levels.

Responding to “Can you hear me?”

When performers ask if the audience can hear them, the required response is “YES!” shouted at maximum volume. If they ask, “Can you hear me at the back?” the people at the back must prove it by shouting even louder. This call-and-response can go on for several minutes while the actors “adjust” their volume and the audience gets progressively louder.

The Dame: A British Institution

Perhaps the most baffling element of panto culture is the Dame, a female character (usually the hero’s mother) played by a man in drag, but not in a subtle way. We’re talking exaggerated costumes, outrageous wigs, obviously false eyelashes, and enough makeup to stock a department store counter. The Dame isn’t trying to pass as a woman. The point is the absurdity, the camp, the humor of a grown man in a sparkly dress making terrible puns and double entendres.

American drag shows have their own fantastic traditions, but they’re typically evening entertainment for adults. British pantos put a man in a dress, add inappropriate jokes that fly over children’s heads, and make it family-friendly Christmas entertainment. It’s brilliant and baffling in equal measure.

The Principal Boy Tradition

Adding to the gender confusion, the male romantic lead (the “Principal Boy”) was traditionally played by a young woman. So you’d have a woman playing a man falling in love with a woman who might also be played by a woman, while a man in a dress makes jokes about it all.

Modern pantos sometimes cast men as Principal Boys, but the tradition of cross-gender casting remains a fundamental part of panto culture. It’s pantomime, after all—everything’s a bit topsy-turvy.

Those Year-Round Panto References

Here’s what nobody tells Americans: panto doesn’t stay in the theatre. It escapes into everyday British life and haunts conversations year-round.

“He’s Behind You!” in the Wild

Turns out, British people deploy “He’s behind you!” whenever someone’s oblivious to something obvious happening behind them. It could be someone about to photobomb a picture, a friend sneaking up for a surprise, or a coworker approaching while you’re gossiping about them. The phrase has transcended its theatrical origins and become part of the cultural vocabulary.

“Oh No It Isn’t!” / “Oh Yes It Is!”

This argument format also escapes the theatre and infiltrates British conversation. Someone makes a claim. Someone contradicts them. And suddenly you’re in an impromptu panto exchange right there in the office kitchen.

“That’s not how you make tea.” “Oh yes it is!” “Oh no it isn’t!”

And everyone within earshot knows exactly what’s happening and might even join in, because panto participation is apparently a lifelong commitment.

Seasonal Panto Anticipation

Starting in October, British people begin asking each other, “What panto are you seeing this year?” with the same casual enthusiasm Americans reserve for “What are your Thanksgiving plans?”

It’s not whether you’re going to a panto. It’s which one.

When I first heard colleagues discussing panto plans in October, I genuinely thought they were talking about planning mime performances. Why were they debating whether to see Cinderella or Aladdin? What did this have to do with silent theatre?

The History: How Did This Happen?

The origins of pantomime help explain absolutely nothing about modern pantos, but they’re fascinating anyway.

The word “pantomime” comes from the ancient Greek pantomimos, meaning “imitator of all.” In ancient Rome, pantomime performances involved highly expressive physical storytelling, with performers communicating through movement rather than spoken dialogue.

That older meaning is what many Americans still associate with the word today. In the U.S., “pantomime” is commonly understood as silent performance art. Think Marcel Marceau, not Mother Goose in a sparkly dress.

But somewhere between ancient Rome and Victorian Britain, pantomime took a dramatic turn. Influences from Italian Commedia dell’Arte introduced stock characters, physical comedy, and improvisation, which blended with British music halls, fairy tales, and variety shows.

By the Victorian era, pantomimes had become elaborate Christmas theatrical spectacles featuring the elements we recognise today: fairy tale stories, music, comedy, audience participation, and cross-dressing performers. They were designed as accessible, working-class entertainment that the whole family could enjoy, turning panto into a seasonal tradition rather than a rare treat.

What strikes me most is how much of that formula still survives. While many theatrical traditions evolved and modernised, British pantos kept their core structure intact. The jokes get updated, the songs change, and the celebrities rotate, but at heart it’s still men in dresses telling terrible jokes while children shout helpful warnings at the stage.

My First Panto: A Masterclass in Confusion

My partner took me to see Jack and the Beanstalk for my first panto experience. They’d given me the basics: expect audience participation, there’ll be a man in a dress, just shout along with everyone else. But nothing truly prepares you for the reality.

The show opened with the Dame making an entrance in a dress that appeared to be made from an entire fabric store, including what looked like a disco ball fascinator. The audience erupted in cheers and applause. I sat there wondering if I’d missed something.

Then came my first “He’s behind you!” moment. The villain appeared upstage while Jack searched for something downstage, and suddenly hundreds of people (including my normally reserved British partner) started shouting “HE’S BEHIND YOU!” with genuine urgency.

I looked around, bewildered. Everyone was fully committed. A small child near me was standing on her seat, pointing and screaming, “TURN AROUND!” with the passion of someone trying to prevent actual tragedy.

I tentatively whispered, “he’s behind you,” and my partner elbowed me. “Louder! He can’t hear you!”

Right. Because the actor’s failure to turn around was definitely a volume problem and not scripted a bit.

By the second “He’s behind you!” scene, I was shouting with everyone else, swept up in the collective determination to warn a fictional character about a threat he definitely already knew about.

The plot made almost no sense. The Dame made jokes I didn’t quite understand but that had the adults cackling. There was a cow costume that was clearly two people, and everyone thought this was hilarious. Someone got soaked with water. The audience sang along to songs I’d never heard.

It was absolute chaos.

It was also somehow wonderful?

At intermission, I turned to my partner and said, “I have no idea what’s happening, but I’m having a great time.”

“That’s panto!” they said cheerfully.

Pop Songs Get the Panto Treatment

One of the most delightfully absurd elements of modern pantos is how they take current pop hits and rewrite them with lyrics about whatever fairy tale is being performed.

Imagine you’re watching Aladdin, and suddenly the cast breaks into Ed Sheeran’s “Shape of You” - you know, the one about being in love with your body - except the panto version transforms it into:

“So come on now, follow me, through Agrabah’s streets,

Every day discovering something brand new,

Oh I’m in love with my magic shoe.”

These aren’t subtle adaptations. They’re gloriously obvious rewrites where someone clearly sat down with a rhyming dictionary and thought, “How do we make this pop song about fairy tales?”

The best part? Everyone sings along. The tunes are familiar enough that audiences can join in immediately, even if the lyrics are now about poisoned apples instead of teenage angst. This commitment to making every pop song somehow relevant to fairy tales is very British. They take something contemporary and immediately make it silly, accessible, and perfectly acceptable for your grandmother to sing along to.

The Panto Formula: Structured Chaos

Despite the chaos, pantos follow a remarkably consistent formula, with one crucial variation: most productions are updated each year with topical humour and current cultural references.

A panto might include jokes about reality TV, pop culture, or whatever has been dominating conversations that year. The Dame might reference a celebrity scandal, while the villain sneaks in a wink to recent events. This blend of ancient theatrical tradition with jokes about last week’s news is part of what makes pantos feel both timeless and current.

Act One:

• Introduce the hero or heroine (young, earnest, probably wearing tights)

• Introduce the villain (greeted with enthusiastic booing)

• Introduce the Dame (greeted with cheers and laughter)

• Establish the problem (an evil plan, a curse, poverty, or missing beans)

• Multiple opportunities for audience participation

• At least one song everyone recognises

• The Dame makes increasingly ridiculous costume changes

• Interval (intermission)

Act Two:

• The adventure begins

• Even more audience participation (you’re warmed up now)

• The Dame has even more outrageous costumes

• Everything goes wrong (prompting collective gasps)

• A frequently messy scene involving water, flour, or slime

• The climactic showdown (with enthusiastic help from the audience)

• Good triumphs over evil (everyone cheers)

• Everyone lives happily ever after

• A final song, usually a pop hit everyone can sing along to

• The entire cast comes out for curtain call

• The audience gives a standing ovation

Nearly every panto follows this structure.

And nobody minds. That’s the point. It’s comforting predictability with just enough variation to keep it fresh.

The Modern Panto: Celebrity Casting

Contemporary pantos have discovered that casting television personalities, former pop stars, and reality TV contestants draws crowds. This means you might see someone from a beloved soap opera playing the Dame, or a former boy band member as the Principal Boy.

And sometimes, pantos land truly spectacular casting. Here are some internationally recognized stars who’ve embraced the panto tradition:

Sir Ian McKellen - Yes, Gandalf himself played Widow Twankey (Aladdin’s mother, the Dame) at the Old Vic Theatre in London. One of the most respected actors of his generation, known for Shakespeare and epic fantasy films, wearing an outrageous dress and making puns. That’s the range of British panto.

David Hasselhoff - The Baywatch and Knight Rider star has appeared in several pantos, including roles as Captain Hook. Yes, the man who talked to his car now talks to audiences about crocodiles and flying children.

Craig Revel Horwood - The notoriously critical Strictly Come Dancing judge appears in pantos as villains, including the Wicked Queen in Snow White. His trademark cutting remarks translate perfectly to pantomime villainy.

The British relationship with celebrity pantos is fascinating. They’re perfectly aware it’s a bit ridiculous to pay premium prices to watch a Hollywood actor or reality TV star portray a fairy tale character, but they do it anyway with genuine enthusiasm. It’s not ironic appreciation - they genuinely love seeing famous faces commit fully to the panto absurdity.

While major theaters in cities like London host grand productions with celebrity casts and elaborate sets, smaller theaters and communities across the UK also put on their own delightful shows. Village halls, community theaters, amateur dramatic societies all do panto. It’s truly democratic entertainment, accessible across class and geography.

Americans don’t have an equivalent tradition. Our holiday entertainment tends toward big production musicals or television specials in major cities, not interactive local theater chaos.

Why America Doesn’t Do Panto

I’ve spent considerable time wondering why pantomime never caught on in America.

We have theatrical traditions. We have Christmas entertainment. We even have audience participation shows. But we never developed anything quite like panto, and I think it comes down to a few key cultural differences:

American earnestness vs. British camp

Americans tend to approach entertainment more literally. We like clear genres, defined expectations, and entertainment that takes itself at least somewhat seriously. The pure camp of panto (men in dresses not trying to look convincing, actors breaking the fourth wall, plots that make no sense) doesn’t quite fit our entertainment sensibilities.

Audience participation expectations

American audiences are trained to be quiet during performances. Shouting at the stage would feel like disruption rather than participation. We’re not comfortable with that level of interactive chaos in traditional theater settings.

The cross-dressing element 

While America has fantastic drag traditions in its own right, we tend to separate “family entertainment” from performances involving cross-dressing in ways Britain never has. The Dame character exists in a space that American culture doesn’t quite have: simultaneously family-friendly and risqué, appropriate for children and adults.

Regional vs. national tradition

Panto evolved as truly local entertainment, with performances in nearly every town and city. American entertainment culture is more centralized, with big productions in major cities rather than the grassroots theatrical tradition that sustains British panto.

Christmas entertainment preferences

Americans fill our holiday season with The Nutcracker, A Christmas Carol, and church pageants - performances that prize quiet appreciation over rowdy participation. Different countries, different theatrical traditions.

The Beautiful Absurdity

Here’s what I’ve come to love about panto culture: it’s delightfully absurd and completely committed to that absurdity. In a world that often takes itself very seriously, British pantos stay proudly silly, loud, camp, and fun. They exist purely to entertain families during the holidays with the same jokes, the same format, and the same audience participation that’s worked for over a century.

There’s something wonderful about watching an entire audience (from small children to elderly grandparents) shouting “He’s behind you!” with complete commitment, as if this time, their collective volume might actually change the predetermined plot.

And those year-round panto references? They’re actually rather charming once you understand them. They’re little moments of shared cultural experience, callbacks to childhood memories of shouting at the stage, family traditions passed down through generations.

I may have gotten every pub quiz question wrong, but I’ve learned something valuable: not all pantomimes involve white face paint and invisible boxes. Some involve men in sparkly dresses, fairy tale characters making contemporary cultural references, and hundreds of people shouting warnings at actors who are contractually obligated to ignore them. And its all really rather wonderful!

Your Turn

I’m curious about your panto experiences:

For my British friends: What’s your earliest panto memory? Do you have a favorite panto tradition or show you see every year? And what’s the best local panto you’ve ever seen (village hall or West End)?

For my fellow Americans abroad: Have you been to a panto yet? What was your reaction? Did you also think it involved mime?

For everyone: What’s the most chaotic or memorable panto moment you’ve witnessed? And are there any panto phrases I’ve missed that pop up in everyday British conversation?

Leave a comment

Oh Yes, It’s Been Educational

So here’s to the wonderfully weird world of British pantos. Here’s to shouting “He’s behind you!” with complete strangers, to men in dresses being family entertainment, to theatrical traditions that make absolutely no sense until you’re in the audience with hundreds of people, all committed to the collective absurdity.

And here’s to patient partners who take their confused American companions to panto and gently explain that no, it’s not mime, it’s pantomime, and those are two completely different things, obviously.

See you next Sunday,

Marianne

Quick heads up: Between work and life, I may not always be able to respond to every comment, but I do read them all. Your thoughtful, funny, and insightful contributions are genuinely the best part of writing these articles.

If you enjoyed this (whether you’re British and smiling at an outsider’s panto confusion, or American and having your own “wait, it’s not mime?” revelation) I’d love it if you shared this with someone else navigating their own cross-cultural Christmas discoveries.

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The first time I heard “Fairytale of New York” was on the car radio, driving through the British countryside with my partner in early December.

I was surprised. Not about the song itself (which is undeniably catchy in that distinctly British way where melancholy and celebration somehow occupy the same space) but about my partner’s reaction. Their entire face lit up as the opening notes played, and they immediately turned up the volume and started singing along with what sounded like a slightly argumentative duet about broken dreams and Christmas in New York.

I sat there, watching this unexpected enthusiasm unfold, thinking: “Is this... a Christmas classic? How have I never heard this before?”

I had no idea Christmas songs in Britain came with plot twists, emotional damage, and full character arcs.

When the song ended, I asked the obvious question: “What was that?” My partner looked at me with genuine surprise. “Kirsty MacColl & The Pogues. ‘Fairytale of New York.’ It’s only one of the best Christmas song ever made.” They said it with such certainty, as if stating a universally acknowledged fact. Which, to be fair, in Britain it apparently is.

That moment crystallized something I’d been experiencing all December: British Christmas music operates in a parallel universe to American Christmas music, with its own classics, its own traditions, and its own curious rituals that everyone seems to understand except me.

The Familiar Territory

Before I dive into the British Christmas mysteries, let me acknowledge the songs we share, because there is common ground, even if the proportions feel different.

Both countries embrace the mid-century classics: Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” and “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song,” Judy Garland’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” and the crooners like Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin with “Let It Snow!” These songs transcend borders and generations, playing in shopping centers on both sides of the Atlantic.

The cheerful staples work their way into both our playlists too: Brenda Lee’s “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” Bobby Helms’ “Jingle Bell Rock,” and the children’s favorites like Gene Autry’s “Frosty the Snowman” and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Eartha Kitt’s sultry “Santa Baby” and Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” are universally recognized, even if they feel slightly more American in their cultural weight.

Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” has achieved universal domination on both sides of the Atlantic, playing on loop in shops from Liverpool to Los Angeles. I knew Wham!’s “Last Christmas” before moving here, though I had no idea just how foundational it would be to British Christmas culture. In America, it’s a fun ‘80s throwback. In Britain, it’s basically a sacred text that entire generations can recite from memory.

We both have our charity Christmas singles and our modern additions. Michael Bublé has somehow become the official voice of Christmas for millennials everywhere, regardless of nationality. And we share the same Christmas film soundtracks. Everyone knows “Jingle Bell Rock” from Mean Girls and every song from Love Actually, though I suspect the British relationship with that film runs considerably deeper than mine.

But there are songs I genuinely miss hearing more often here. José Feliciano’s “Feliz Navidad” was inescapable in America. Its bilingual joy and simple message made it a staple everywhere from grocery stores to school concerts. Here in the UK, it barely registers. The same goes for many of the American classics that shaped my childhood Christmas soundtrack. They exist here, certainly, but they don’t carry the same cultural weight, don’t evoke the same collective nostalgia.

It’s a strange feeling, realizing that some of your most cherished Christmas memories are tied to songs that mean something completely different (or nearly nothing) to the people around you.

But that’s where the common ground ends. Because British Christmas music has an entire ecosystem of classics that I’d simply never encountered, and discovering them has been like finding out there’s been a second Christmas happening all along, complete with its own soundtrack.

The British Classics I Never Knew Existed

Let me be clear about something: I’m not a Christmas music novice. I knew my Christmas carols and my Christmas songs. I could distinguish between versions of classics. I had opinions about the best recordings.

But British Christmas classics? Those had completely passed me by.

“Fairytale of New York” (Kirsty MacColl & The Pogues)

I’ve since learned that this song, while Irish, is essentially the British Christmas anthem. It’s the one that defines the season for an entire generation. Released in 1987, it’s played constantly throughout December, and people have genuine emotional attachments to it.

What makes it even more fascinating is that it’s nothing like a traditional Christmas song. It’s raw, it’s bittersweet, it tells the story of a couple’s deteriorating relationship through memories of past Christmases, and yet somehow it captures something essential: the ability to be both melancholic and celebratory, realistic and hopeful, all at once.

The song is a duet between Pogues frontman Shane MacGowan and English singer-songwriter Kirsty MacColl, and their dynamic (his rough delivery against her strong, clear voice) creates this perfect tension that makes the song work. MacColl was already a successful artist in her own right, and her performance is absolutely essential to why this song resonates so deeply.

My partner has tried multiple times to explain why this song matters so much. “It’s honest,” they said. “It’s not all perfect snow and perfect families. It’s real.” And watching British faces light up when those opening notes play, I’m starting to understand. This song gives permission to acknowledge that Christmas can be complicated while still being worth celebrating.

“Merry Xmas Everybody” (Slade)

The first time I heard this glam rock Christmas anthem blaring from the radio, I was genuinely taken aback. It’s loud, it’s energetic, and it sounds nothing like the Christmas music I grew up with. The first time Noddy Holder screamed “It’s CHRISTMAAAAAAS!” through my speakers, I nearly jumped out of my seat.

Slade released it in 1973, and apparently, it’s been a Christmas staple ever since. My British friends speak of it with the same reverence Americans reserve for “White Christmas” or “The Christmas Song.” It’s everywhere in December: shops, radio, parties. And people genuinely love it.

What’s wild to me is that this would never have become a Christmas classic in America. We tend toward either traditional carols or smooth, crooning ballads. A glam rock Christmas anthem? That’s a uniquely British contribution to the holiday season, and I’m still adjusting to its prominence in the cultural landscape.

“Do They Know It’s Christmas?” (Band Aid)

Released in 1984 to raise money for famine relief in Ethiopia, this charity single brought together basically every major British pop star of the era. Midge Ure and Bob Geldof’s project became enormous.

In America, we knew the song, but it didn’t become woven into the Christmas season the way it did here. In Britain, it’s been re-released multiple times over the decades, and it carries real emotional weight for people. It’s a reminder that British Christmas music makes space for awareness and charity alongside celebration - the season isn’t just about joy, it’s also about looking outward and helping others.

The song plays every December, and rather than feeling out of place, it somehow fits into the British approach to Christmas: acknowledging the world’s complications while still finding reasons to come together.

“Driving Home for Christmas” (Chris Rea)

This one is inescapable on British radio throughout December. Released in 1988, it’s become synonymous with the Christmas journey home. Given Britain’s geography and the importance of returning home for Christmas, it resonates deeply here.

I’d never heard it before moving to the UK, but now I hear it constantly. It’s gentle, nostalgic, and captures that specific feeling of anticipation as you make your way home for the holidays. My American friends visiting for Christmas are always surprised by how often this one comes on the radio. It’s not a song that crossed the Atlantic, but it’s absolutely embedded in British Christmas culture.

“I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday” (Wizzard)

Another 1970s glam rock Christmas entry (apparently, the Brits were really leaning into glam rock during the holidays), this one is pure, unbridled Christmas enthusiasm. It’s joyful, it’s over-the-top, and it’s another song that plays constantly throughout December. America could never. We simply don’t have the glam rock stamina.

I’m slowly learning to recognize these songs when they come on, though I’m still several decades behind everyone else in terms of being able to sing along.

In America, glam-rock Christmas anthems are almost unheard of. In Britain, they practically power December.

“Stop the Cavalry” (Jona Lewie)

This one genuinely confused me the first time I heard it. It’s technically an anti-war song that happens to be set around Christmas, yet it’s become a Christmas staple. Released in 1980, it has this haunting, slightly wistful quality that somehow fits the British Christmas aesthetic.

My partner explained, “It’s about wanting to be home for Christmas. That’s the bit that matters.” And watching how British culture embraces songs that blend different emotions (longing, sadness, hope, celebration) I’m starting to understand why this one endures.

Plus, if you’ve never seen the mash-up of a Beyoncé video set to this tune, it’s worth a Google. Makes my partner laugh out loud every Christmas!

“Stay Another Day” (East 17)

Here’s another song that demonstrates the British talent for turning non-Christmas songs into Christmas classics. Released in 1994, “Stay Another Day” was actually written by band member Tony Mortimer about personal tragedy in his family, but the timing of its release and those church bells at the beginning somehow transformed it into the Christmas Number 1 that year.

It’s now the UK’s 12th most-loved Christmas song, and it perfectly captures that bittersweet British Christmas sensibility, celebrating the season while acknowledging that it can be complicated and emotional. Imagine trying to explain to an American that a boy band ballad about grief is a Christmas classic. They simply wouldn’t believe you. Americans tend to want their Christmas music unambiguously cheerful. The British seem more comfortable with the melancholy mixed in.

“Merry Christmas Everyone” (Shakin’ Stevens)

Released in 1985, this is another one I hear constantly on British radio throughout December. Shakin’ Stevens is one of those artists who’s massive in the UK but relatively unknown in America. He had more UK hits in the 1980s than any other artist except Michael Jackson and Madonna, yet I’d never heard of him before moving here.

“Merry Christmas Everyone” re-enters the Top 10 seemingly every single year, and British people of a certain age have deep nostalgia for it. It’s pure, uncomplicated Christmas joy, and it’s as embedded in British Christmas culture as mince pies.

Every December, the local Cub and Scout group comes around our neighborhood blasting this song out the back of a truck with Santa. So I know it well now.

“Walking in the Air” (from The Snowman)

This one deserves special mention because it’s not just a Christmas song. It’s tied to a beloved British Christmas tradition. “The Snowman,” Raymond Briggs’ 1982 animated film, airs on British television every Christmas, and generations of British children have grown up with this hauntingly beautiful song as part of their Christmas experience.

The original was sung by St. Paul’s Cathedral choirboy Peter Auty, though Aled Jones’ version is also beloved. For British people, this song is deeply woven into childhood Christmas memories in a way that has no real American equivalent. It’s not just a song. It’s part of the fabric of British Christmas itself. If you want to make a British person emotional, just hum the first three notes.

“Wonderful Christmastime” (Paul McCartney)

Paul McCartney is obviously internationally famous, but “Wonderful Christmastime” (1979) is one of those songs that seems to play far more frequently in the UK than in America. Critics apparently regard it as one of McCartney’s weaker efforts, but that hasn’t stopped it from becoming a fixture of British Christmas radio.

The British relationship with this song seems to be one of those “it’s not objectively great, but it’s ours“ situations. And honestly, after three British Christmases, I’m starting to understand the appeal. Sometimes a slightly silly, repetitive Christmas song is exactly what December requires.

“Step Into Christmas” (Elton John)

Before his recent collaboration with Ed Sheeran, Elton John released “Step Into Christmas” way back in 1973, and it’s remained a British Christmas staple ever since. It’s upbeat, it’s joyful, and it’s Elton being quintessentially Elton.

What strikes me about this one is how it’s just accepted as part of the Christmas soundtrack here, while in America, it’s more of a deep cut that only serious Elton fans might know. The same artist, completely different levels of Christmas cultural penetration on either side of the Atlantic.

“Christmas Time (Don’t Let the Bells End)” (The Darkness)

Released in 2003, this is glam rock Christmas taken to its absolute extreme. Falsetto vocals, guitar solos, theatrical excess. Everything about it screams British rock indulgence. It’s not subtle, it’s not traditional, and British people absolutely adore it. Americans would probably find it baffling, but that’s part of its charm.

“Lonely This Christmas” (Mud)

This 1974 Elvis-inspired Christmas ballad is pure melodrama, and it’s beloved precisely because it leans into that melancholy we keep coming back to. It’s about being alone at Christmas, which shouldn’t work as a holiday classic, but somehow in Britain, it does. The British Christmas playlist has room for heartbreak alongside the jingle bells.

The Christmas Number One: A National Obsession

Perhaps nothing illustrates the British relationship with Christmas music quite like the Christmas Number One phenomenon, a concept that simply doesn’t exist in America with the same intensity.

Every year, there’s a genuine race to see which song will be number one on the UK Singles Chart on Christmas Day. This isn’t just industry gossip; it’s something the entire nation follows. People campaign for their preferred song, there are news articles analyzing the competition, and achieving the Christmas Number One is considered a significant cultural achievement.

In recent years, there have been deliberate campaigns to subvert expectations. In 2009, a social media campaign successfully pushed Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the Name” to the Christmas Number One spot instead of that year’s X Factor winner, which was seen as a triumph of people power over corporate predictability.

But perhaps my favorite example of how seriously (and simultaneously, how playfully) the British take this tradition happened in 2021. Ed Sheeran and Elton John released “Merry Christmas” as a charity single, with all UK proceeds going to the Ed Sheeran Suffolk Music Foundation and the Elton John AIDS Foundation. The song went straight to Number 1.

Then (and this is where it gets very British) YouTuber LadBaby created a parody version called “Sausage Rolls for Everyone,” featuring both Ed Sheeran and Elton John, to raise money for The Trussell Trust foodbank charity. The parody beat the original and became the actual Christmas Number 1.

This meant that 2021 became the first year in UK chart history where the Christmas Number 1 and Number 2 were two versions of the same song by the same artists. Both versions raised money for charity, everyone was good-natured about it, and the entire country was invested in a chart battle between a Christmas song and its own sausage roll parody.

Try explaining that to an American. I gave up somewhere between “sausage rolls,” “charity parody single,” and “beating Ed Sheeran with Ed Sheeran.”

The whole phenomenon is fascinating to me because American Christmas music just doesn’t work this way. We have songs that are popular each season, but there’s no single day that matters, no dramatic race to the top, no cultural investment in which song “wins” Christmas. It’s yet another example of how the British have formalized and ritualized their relationship with Christmas music in ways that feel distinctly foreign to an American.

My Musical Guide Through the Tinsel

As with my broader musical education in Britain, my partner has been patient in helping me navigate this Christmas soundtrack. They’ve explained why certain songs matter, what memories they evoke for British people, and which songs are acceptable to skip. For example, my partner always skips Wonderful Christmastime (Paul McCartney); there’s no particular reason for this, they just don’t like it. Their favorite Christmas song, however, is rarely played, so it is always met with sounds of delight whilst turning the volume up full blast when it comes on the radio (if you’re interested to know, it’s ‘A Winter’s Tale’ by David Essex).

We’ve spent car rides with them testing me: “Do you know this one?” More often than not, my answer is no, followed by them incredulously explaining that it’s been a Christmas staple since before I was born. How did these songs not make it across the Atlantic?

The musical education has been delightful, if occasionally humbling. Every new song I recognize feels like a small victory. Every pub singalong where I actually know the words is a moment of genuine cultural integration.

Radio Christmas: The Constant Soundtrack

British radio transforms in December. If you thought regular British radio was its own universe (and if you haven’t read my article on that, it’s worth a visit), Christmas radio is that universe decorated with tinsel and turned up to eleven.

Every station seems to have its own Christmas music strategy. Some blend the classics with contemporary hits. Others dive deep into obscure Christmas recordings. We tend to listen to BBC Radio 2 in the car, and their Christmas playlists become a masterclass in balancing nostalgia with novelty, and the DJs discuss each song’s cultural significance with the seriousness of radio historians.

What strikes me most is how the same songs come around again and again, and nobody seems tired of them. “Fairytale of New York” plays multiple times a day throughout December, and people still stop what they’re doing to sing along. In America, even our most beloved Christmas songs can start to grate by mid-December. Here, repetition seems to enhance the magic rather than diminish it.

The Songs That Sound Different Here

There’s something peculiar about hearing familiar Christmas songs in a British context. Even songs I knew well in America seem to carry a different weight here.

“White Christmas” hits differently when you’re in a country where white Christmases are actually possible (though still relatively rare). The longing in the song takes on new meaning when you’re the one far from home, hearing it play in a British shop while Christmas shoppers bustle past.

Similarly, “Jingle Bells” and “Winter Wonderland” feel less like nostalgic fantasies and more like realistic possibilities when you’re living somewhere that genuinely gets proper winter weather. The songs haven’t changed, but my relationship to them has shifted now that I’m experiencing Christmas in a different place.

The American Christmas Music Britain Missed

Of course, the musical gap goes both ways. There are American Christmas songs that my British partner had never encountered until meeting me.

Mariah Carey aside, many contemporary American Christmas songs simply didn’t cross the Atlantic. Country Christmas music (which was huge in my childhood) is virtually unknown here. Songs that were inescapable on American radio throughout my youth might as well not exist in British Christmas culture.

My partner was genuinely surprised to discover that Americans have our own robust catalog of Christmas music beyond the shared classics. We each developed our own traditions, our own favorites, and our own collective memories around different songs entirely.

It’s a reminder that even when we think we’re sharing the same cultural moment (Christmas, with all its supposed universality), we’re actually experiencing distinct parallel versions, each with its own soundtrack.

This is where I finally understood something essential about British Christmas: you don’t shy away from bittersweetness. You put it right in the middle of your holiday playlist, bells and all. American Christmas music wants to convince you that everything is perfect. British Christmas music acknowledges that it’s complicated, and that’s okay.

The Beautiful Discovery

What strikes me most about discovering British Christmas music isn’t what divides our traditions, but what it reveals about how communities create meaning through sound.

These songs matter not because they’re objectively superior to American Christmas music, but because they’re woven into British memories, British Christmases, and British ideas about what the season means. They’re the soundtrack to childhood memories, to family gatherings, to that specific kind of British Christmas that balances joy with realism, celebration with reflection.

And now, four Christmases into my British life, I’m starting to build my own relationship with these songs. “Fairytale of New York” no longer confuses me. I’m learning to appreciate its honest complexity. “Driving Home for Christmas” has become part of my December soundtrack. Even “Merry Xmas Everybody” is growing on me, though I’m still not entirely prepared for its volume when it comes on the radio.

I may never have the deep childhood nostalgia that British people have for these songs, but I’m discovering something different: the joy of new traditions, the pleasure of learning to love unfamiliar music, and the warmth of slowly becoming part of a culture that isn’t originally mine.

Your Turn

I’m curious about your Christmas music experiences:

For my British friends: What British Christmas classics do you think are genuinely essential, and which ones could I skip?

For my fellow Americans abroad: What British Christmas songs have become part of your holiday season? Have you had any “Wait, this is a classic?” moments?

For everyone: Do you have Christmas songs that only work in certain countries? Music that makes you feel at home during the holidays, wherever you are?

Leave a comment

Deck the Halls with Cultural Discovery

So here’s to “Fairytale of New York” playing in every pub. Here’s to finally understanding why “Merry Xmas Everybody” matters so much. Here’s to patient partners who become our guides through unfamiliar Christmas soundtracks, and here’s to the beautiful experience of discovering that while we were all celebrating Christmas, we were each hearing different songs entirely.

And here’s to that moment (I’m starting to have them now) when a British Christmas song comes on during a cold December evening, the lights are twinkling outside, and for a little while I feel less like an outsider and more like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Quick heads up: Between work and life, I may not always be able to respond to every comment, but I do read them all. Your thoughtful, funny, and insightful contributions are genuinely the best part of writing these articles.

See you next Sunday,

Marianne

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If you enjoyed this (whether you’re British and smiling at an outsider’s perspective, or American and having your own “Fairytale of New York” revelation) I’d love it if you shared this with someone else discovering their own cross-cultural Christmas soundtrack.

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There’s a particular moment every year when British shops transform into mince pie wonderlands. They’ve been lurking on shelves since late August (much to everyone’s dismay), but by late November, they’re absolutely everywhere. Coffee shops display them proudly on their counters. Colleagues bring them to meetings. Someone’s always offering you one with your tea.

And now, finally, it feels appropriate to actually eat them.

Which brings me to a confession: for my entire first British Christmas, I thought mince pies had meat in them.

The Great Name Confusion

Look, I’m just going to say it: the name “mince pie” set me up for complete failure.

In America, “mince” pretty definitively means meat. Minced beef, minced lamb - if it’s minced, it’s probably going into a taco or spaghetti bolognese. And in Britain, when someone says “pie,” it’s usually savory - steak and ale pie, chicken and mushroom pie, shepherd’s pie.

So when someone first offered me a “mince pie” at a Christmas party during my first year here, my brain did some perfectly reasonable math: mince = meat, pie = savory. This was clearly going to be a savory pastry filled with ground lamb or beef.

“Oh, I love mince pies!” my British partner announced enthusiastically when they were offered.

Perfect, I thought. A nice savory pie. That makes sense for a holiday party.

“Would you like one?” our host asked, holding out a small golden pastry.

“Sure!” I said, taking a bite.

And then my entire understanding of British food nomenclature shattered into a thousand confused pieces.

It was sweet. Dense with dried fruit. Spiced. Absolutely, definitively not meat.

I must have made a face, because my partner looked over. “Everything okay?”

“It’s... not meat?” I managed.

The entire room erupted in laughter, and that’s when I learned my first lesson about mince pies: they contain absolutely zero meat.

Well, mostly. We’ll get to that.

The Plot Twist

Here’s where it gets wonderfully complicated: I was sort of right to be confused.

Mince pies really did used to contain meat. Not just a little bit, either. Medieval and Tudor mince pies were savory affairs, filled with minced mutton, beef, or even ox tongue, mixed with dried fruits, spices, and suet. They were rectangular, supposedly shaped like the manger from the nativity story, and sometimes even had a pastry baby Jesus on top.

These weren’t dainty little dessert pies. They were large, substantial dishes meant to serve several people, and the pastry crust (delightfully called a “coffin”) was basically just a baking container that you weren’t even meant to eat.

The spices - cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg - were said to represent the gifts of the three wise men. The combination of meat, fruit, and exotic spices was a way of showing off your wealth, because spices were incredibly expensive and rare in medieval England.

So when I thought “meat pie,” I wasn’t being ridiculous. I was just about 500 years too late.

The Great Transformation

So how did we get from “mutton and suet” to “no meat whatsoever”?

The transformation happened gradually over centuries. By the Victorian era, meat had become more of an afterthought in the recipe. Sugar from the West Indies had become more affordable, and British tastes were shifting toward sweeter treats. The pies also shrank dramatically from their original large, rectangular shape to the small, round pastries we know today.

By the 20th century, actual meat had disappeared entirely from most recipes. What remained was suet, which, my British partner patiently explained, is beef or mutton fat. So technically, there’s still an animal product in many traditional mince pies, though vegetarian versions with vegetable shortening are now common.

Modern mince pies are filled with what’s called “mincemeat” - despite containing no meat at all. It’s a mixture of chopped dried fruits like raisins, currants, and sultanas, mixed with candied citrus peel, apple, brown sugar, and warming spices. Often, it’s soaked in brandy or rum, which gives it that rich, warming quality that makes them perfect for cold British winters.

The “mince” in mincemeat actually comes from the Latin word “minutus,” meaning small or finely chopped. It refers to the texture, not the ingredients. Though I suspect the name has confused many an American over the years.

My First Bite

After the laughter died down and someone explained what was actually in them, I took another bite.

And after my brain rewired to expect a sweet pastry instead of a savory one? I liked it.

The buttery pastry crumbles just right. The filling is warm and spicy and fruity all at once, with that deep, complex flavor that comes from the brandy-soaked fruit. It’s sweet, but not too sweet. Rich, but in a comforting way.

I can see why they’re everywhere during the Christmas season. They’re the perfect little bite with afternoon tea, or warmed up with a dollop of cream. My British partner has perfected the art of delicately lifting the pastry top to add a generous dollop of brandy butter inside before eating them warm, which I have to admit is rather brilliant. Some British friends have even suggested eating them with a slice of cheddar cheese on top, though I’m still not brave enough to try that combination.

The Great Mince Pie Debate

What I wasn’t prepared for was the sheer variety of mince pies available, and the absolutely passionate opinions British people hold about them.

There are mince pies at every supermarket - Tesco, Sainsbury’s, M&S, Waitrose, Aldi, Lidl - each claiming theirs are the best. There are luxury versions with extra butter in the pastry, or special blends of spices, or extra brandy in the filling. There are mini ones, large ones, ones with crumble toppings, ones with star-shaped lids, ones dusted with icing sugar (powdered sugar to Americans).

And British people have OPINIONS.

Every year, newspapers, magazines, and consumer organizations conduct serious taste tests, ranking mince pies from various shops like it’s an Olympic sport. Which? magazine assembles panels of baking experts - including actual Great British Bake Off winners - to blind taste test dozens of varieties. Good Housekeeping tests 55 different mince pies. The comment sections fill with passionate defenses of preferred brands.

This year’s official winner?

Waitrose No.1 Brown Butter Mince Pies with Cognac won Which?’s Best Buy award for the second year in a row - clearly they’ve perfected something special. The debates remain fierce in the comments: “M&S are overrated.” “The Aldi ones are surprisingly good.” “Nothing beats homemade.” “You haven’t lived until you’ve tried the Waitrose ones.”

The Traditions and Superstitions

Beyond just how to eat them, mince pies come with their own set of customs and superstitions that I’m slowly discovering:

You’re supposed to make a wish when you eat your first mince pie of the season. I learned this on my second Christmas here, which means I missed an entire year of wishes. (No wonder that year was challenging.)

Some people eat one mince pie every day for the twelve days of Christmas for good luck. That’s a lot of mince pies, but also a lot of potential good luck, so I can see the appeal.

You should never cut a mince pie with a knife - it’s considered bad luck. (Though I suspect this tradition might have originated with someone who just wanted an excuse to pick up the whole pie and eat it with their hands.)

When making mincemeat from scratch, you must stir it clockwise. Stirring counterclockwise brings bad luck. I haven’t verified this scientifically, but I’m not about to risk it.

And perhaps most importantly, children leave mince pies out for Father Christmas on Christmas Eve, along with a glass of brandy or sherry and a carrot for the reindeer. It’s the British equivalent of cookies and milk, which makes perfect sense once you know that mince pies are sweet and not, in fact, filled with minced beef.

Fun Mince Pie Facts to Share This Season

Want to impress your British friends with your mince pie knowledge? Here are some statistics that amazed me:

The UK consumes over 800 million mince pies every year. Some estimates put it closer to 1 billion. That’s a lot of pastry.

The average British person eats 19 mince pies during the festive season, though this varies by region. The South West holds the crown, with people there averaging 24 mince pies each.

More than half of Brits (53%) say they’d happily eat mince pies all year round if it were socially acceptable.

During the English Civil War in the 17th century, Parliament (not Oliver Cromwell personally, as the myth goes) banned Christmas celebrations as part of their Puritan reforms. Mince pies weren’t specifically banned, but they were condemned by Puritan pamphleteers as symbols of Catholic excess - one writer colorfully called them “an invention of the Scarlet Whore of Babylon.” Fortunately, the Restoration in 1660 brought back Christmas and mince pies, and we can now enjoy our excessive mince pie consumption without fear of Puritan judgment.

In 1909, a 92-pound mince pie was given to US President Taft, delivered in an oak case. I can only imagine the logistics of that gift exchange.

Sadly, 74 million mince pies are wasted each year in the UK according to DEFRA - presumably the ones that didn’t quite measure up in the great mince pie rankings.

The Beautiful Irony

There’s something wonderfully British about a tradition that started as a way to show off your wealth and access to rare spices, transformed through centuries of culinary evolution, lost its meat somewhere along the way, kept its meaty name, and ended up as a small, affordable treat that everyone eats throughout December.

It’s also very British that nobody seems to think twice about the fact that “mincemeat” contains no meat. Of course it doesn’t. Why would it? The name is just the name.

Meanwhile, I’m nearly four years into my British life, still occasionally having that split second of confusion when someone offers me a mince pie. My American brain needs that extra moment to remember: fruit, not meat. Sweet, not savory. Christmas tradition, not cognitive dissonance.

Though honestly, knowing that they used to be filled with ox tongue makes me feel better about my initial confusion. At least I was confused in good historical company.

Your Turn

For my British friends: What’s your mince pie allegiance? Are you team store-bought or team homemade? Any special traditions around mince pies in your family?

For my fellow Americans: Have you tried a mince pie yet? What did you think? Did you also expect meat, or was that just me?

And for everyone: Warm or cold? With cream, brandy butter, or (dare I say it) cheddar cheese?

I’d love to hear your mince pie stories and preferences in the comments below.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go eat my first mince pie of the season - with a nice cup of tea and making a wish that next Christmas, I’ll remember what’s actually in them without hesitation.

See you next Sunday,

Marianne

P.S. I love baking and haven’t yet tried making my own mince pies. If you have a foolproof recipe (or tips for a first-timer), I’d love to hear them in the comments!

If this made you smile - whether you’re a Brit enjoying an outsider’s perspective or an American who’s had their own mince pie moment - please share it with someone navigating their own British-American Christmas.

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There’s a particular kind of homesickness that hits in late November.

It’s not the dramatic, tear-filled kind. It’s quieter than that. It arrives on a random Thursday afternoon, specifically the fourth Thursday of November, when I realize everyone back home is gathering around tables laden with food, arguing about whether marshmallows belong on sweet potatoes, and settling in for that gloriously drowsy post-turkey nap. Meanwhile, I’m at work, answering emails, pretending it’s just another ordinary Thursday.

Except it’s not ordinary at all. It’s Thanksgiving, and Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday.

Fun Fact: Thanksgiving always falls on the fourth Thursday of November, a detail that’s automatic knowledge for Americans but completely unknown to everyone else. Ask a Brit when Thanksgiving is, and you’ll likely get “November sometime?” Americans know it’s always the fourth Thursday—though we still need to check the calendar to see which date that actually is each year.

The Holiday That Refuses Commercialization

Here’s what I love most about Thanksgiving: it’s stubbornly, wonderfully resistant to commercialization.

Yes, grocery stores sell turkeys and pumpkin pie filling. Yes, there are a few decorations like paper turkeys and autumn leaves, maybe some cornucopias if you’re feeling fancy. But you can’t really buy your way into Thanksgiving the way you can with other holidays. There are no Thanksgiving gifts to purchase, no massive shopping obligations, no pressure to prove your love through presents.

It’s just food. And people. And gratitude.

The entire premise is disarmingly simple: gather with people you care about, make more food than any reasonable group could possibly eat, and spend the day together. That’s it. That’s the whole holiday. No one should eat alone on Thanksgiving. It’s the one day when Americans collectively agree that being together matters more than anything else.

Even the most isolated person (the student far from home, the person who just moved to a new city, the elderly neighbor living alone) gets invited somewhere. Friendsgiving exists specifically to catch everyone the traditional holiday might miss. It’s a cultural safety net made of mashed potatoes and pie.

For a country that’s often criticized for being individualistic and work-obsessed, Thanksgiving reveals something beautifully communal about American culture. For one Thursday in November, we all stop. We cook. We gather. We eat until we can’t move. And for a few hours, nothing else matters.

The proof is in the travel. Thanksgiving is the busiest travel day of the year in America—busier than Christmas, busier than the Fourth of July, busier than any other holiday. Americans will brave crowded airports, packed highways, and weather delays to get home for Thanksgiving. There’s enormous cultural pressure to be with family, to make the journey no matter how difficult. That says something about what this holiday means, about what we’re willing to endure just to sit around a table together.

The History We Learned (And the History We Should Actually Know)

At its heart, Thanksgiving is meant to be a harvest celebration—a day to give thanks for the year’s blessings, for food and shelter, for family and community. It’s become woven into our national identity as a day of unity and reflection, regardless of religion, politics, or background. Everyone is welcome at the Thanksgiving table. That’s the ideal, anyway.

But like many holidays, the reality is more complicated than the story we tell ourselves.

The “First Thanksgiving” we learned about in American schools—the 1621 feast between Pilgrims and Wampanoag people at Plymouth Colony—wasn’t actually called Thanksgiving at the time, and it certainly wasn’t the harmonious celebration of friendship we were taught.

The Wampanoag people helped the struggling colonists survive. They taught them how to plant corn, fish local waters, and navigate the unfamiliar land—crucial assistance after half the Plymouth colonists died during their first winter. The Wampanoag, however, had been devastated by European diseases, and so they were also seeking alliances for their own survival. What followed that three-day harvest celebration was a complex relationship marked by conflict, disease, and displacement.

The simplified, sanitized story I grew up with glossed over the devastating impact of colonization on Indigenous communities. It wasn’t until university, when I had a Native American roommate, that I began to understand a different perspective—one that wasn’t taught in my elementary school Thanksgiving pageants.

The holiday itself wasn’t even an official annual tradition until President Abraham Lincoln declared it a national holiday in 1863, during the Civil War, as a way to unite a fractured nation. Today, many Native American communities observe the day as a National Day of Mourning, commemorating the loss of Indigenous lives, land, and culture that followed European arrival—a perspective that deserves acknowledgment alongside the holiday’s celebration of gratitude and community.

I’ve tried to become more culturally aware as I’ve gotten older. I still love the gathering, the gratitude, and the food—but I also try to hold both truths at once. You can love the tradition of coming together while also acknowledging the painful history behind it. The tension between these two things is something Americans are increasingly discussing and grappling with, and I think that’s important.

Wait, Canada Has Thanksgiving Too?

Here’s something that genuinely surprised me: Canada celebrates Thanksgiving too, on the second Monday in October—a full six weeks before the American version. The earlier timing makes sense given Canada’s more northern harvest season. And Canadian Thanksgiving’s origins actually trace back to 1578, when English explorer Martin Frobisher held a ceremony in what’s now Nunavut to give thanks for surviving the journey across the Atlantic. That’s 43 years before the Plymouth celebration Americans claim as the “first” Thanksgiving!

The Traditional Feast (And Regional Variations That Spark Debates)

Ask any American to describe Thanksgiving dinner, and you’ll get the same core menu: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. These are non-negotiables, the foundational elements that make Thanksgiving recognizable.

But beyond that? The regional and family variations create passionate food debates that can last for hours.

The turkey itself is the centerpiece, often roasted for hours until it achieves that glossy, golden-brown exterior. Some families brine it, some butter it, some swear by deep-frying it in the backyard (a spectacularly American approach that involves lowering an entire turkey into boiling oil and hoping nothing catches fire). The goal is the same: tender, flavorful meat that provides leftovers for days of sandwiches.

Stuffing versus dressing becomes a linguistic and culinary divide. Technically, stuffing goes inside the bird, while dressing is baked separately in a pan. But depending on where you’re from, you might call it all stuffing, all dressing, or use the terms interchangeably while having strong opinions about which method produces superior results. Some families swear by cornbread-based versions, others use regular bread cubes. Sausage, oysters, chestnuts, or dried fruit might make appearances depending on regional and family traditions.

Sweet potatoes spark their own controversy: should they be topped with marshmallows and brown sugar, transforming them into something closer to dessert? Or should they be treated as an actual vegetable with savory seasonings? This divide often runs along regional lines, with the marshmallow version more common in certain parts of the country and considered absolute sacrilege in others.

Green bean casserole might include cream of mushroom soup and those crispy fried onions from a can, or it might be fresh green beans with almonds and actual mushrooms, depending on whether your family embraces the convenience of mid-century American cooking or prefers a more elevated approach.

Regional variations create even more diversity. Some parts of the country consider macaroni and cheese essential. Not the boxed kind, but properly baked mac and cheese with multiple cheeses, sometimes topped with breadcrumbs, elevated to side dish glory. In some regions, this becomes “cheese pie,” a Southern specialty that’s basically a crustless cheese and egg custard that sounds odd but tastes divine.

Broccoli and cheese casserole appears on many tables, particularly in certain regions, providing a green vegetable option that’s been thoroughly Americanized with cheese sauce and sometimes crushed crackers on top. Collard greens might appear in Southern households. Corn pudding, creamed corn, or succotash might make appearances depending on family tradition and geography.

The beauty of Thanksgiving is that while the core elements remain consistent, every family has their own essential dishes, their own non-negotiables that wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without them.

There’s also something wonderfully stubborn about Thanksgiving recipes. They get passed down through generations, written on stained index cards in grandmothers’ handwriting, and even when no one particularly likes a dish anymore, you make it anyway because it’s tradition. Someone’s great-aunt’s Jello salad with marshmallows and canned fruit might not be anyone’s favorite, but it appears on the table every year because that’s what she always made. The green bean casserole recipe might seem outdated, but it was your mother’s signature dish, so you keep making it exactly the same way.

These recipes become more than just food—they’re links to people who are no longer at the table, reminders of past Thanksgivings, small acts of remembrance disguised as side dishes. You make them not because they’re the best version of that dish, but because they’re your family’s version. And somehow, that matters more.

And then there’s the fruit salad incident that still makes my spouse laugh.

The Great Fruit Salad Culture Clash

During my first Thanksgiving in the UK, I attempted to recreate the full American experience. I was determined to do it properly, with every traditional dish explained and prepared with care.

I set out the spread with pride: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, rolls, and, nestled among all the savory dishes, a beautiful fruit salad.

My spouse stared at it for a moment, then looked at me with genuine confusion. “Is that... dessert?”

“No, it’s a side dish,” I explained. “It goes with the meal.”

The look on their face was priceless. In Britain, fruit salad is definitely a dessert. The concept of serving it alongside turkey and gravy seemed to violate some fundamental food categorization system I hadn’t known existed.

“But it’s sweet,” they protested.

“So are the sweet potatoes with marshmallows,” I countered.

“Those are also concerning,” they admitted.

We’ve come to an understanding: American Thanksgiving is allowed to have its sweet sides alongside savory mains. It’s just one of those delightfully odd cultural food quirks that makes sense within its own tradition, even if it baffles outsiders. These days, I leave the fruit salad off our UK table—my spouse is quietly relieved. But when we’re back in the States with my family, it reappears, and my spouse has learned to accept its presence with bemused tolerance whilst absolutely still leaving it until the end of the meal.

The Perfect Marriage of Cultures: Pumpkin Pie with Custard

If the fruit salad represented cultural confusion, pumpkin pie has become our triumphant fusion of traditions.

For Americans, pumpkin pie is Thanksgiving. That smooth, spiced filling, the flaky crust, the way it tastes like autumn condensed into dessert form. It’s essential, non-negotiable, the sweet conclusion to the feast.

Americans typically serve it with whipped cream. Some people add a dollop of ice cream. But that’s about as creative as it gets.

Then we discovered the British solution: custard.

Proper British custard, that warm, smooth, vanilla-scented sauce that makes everything better, poured over pumpkin pie creates something magical. The spices in the pie (cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, cloves) play beautifully with the custard’s vanilla sweetness. The warm custard against the cool pie filling creates a temperature contrast that’s genuinely delightful. It’s comfort food elevated.

My spouse was skeptical at first. “You’ve never had custard on pie?”

“We don’t really have British-style custard in America,” I explained. “We have frozen custard (which is fancy ice-cream) and thick baked custards (a bit like an egg custard), but not this—the warm, pourable sauce you put on desserts. This isn’t really a thing in the States.”

“You’re missing out,” they said, and they were absolutely right.

Now, pumpkin pie with custard has become our Thanksgiving tradition, a small way that British and American cultures meet and create something better together. It’s a reminder that the best parts of living between two cultures are these unexpected moments of fusion, where traditions combine to create something neither culture had thought of on its own.

The Great Pie Debate: Because One Is Never Enough

Here’s something that might surprise non-Americans: pumpkin pie is essential, but it’s never the only pie.

For my British readers who are more accustomed to savory pies (your steak and ales, your chicken and mushrooms, your shepherd’s and cottage pies), the American Thanksgiving table’s emphasis on multiple sweet pies might seem peculiar. (I explored this cultural pie divide in my Pi Day article earlier this year, if you’re curious about just how differently our nations view the word “pie.”)

But in America, Thanksgiving means sweet pies. Plural. Always plural.

Thanksgiving tables typically feature at least three pies, sometimes more, because apparently Americans believe in options when it comes to dessert. Every family has their favorites, and passionate debates about which pies qualify as “traditional” can rival discussions about stuffing recipes.

Pecan pie is the other major player, with its rich, caramel-like filling that’s basically concentrated autumn in pie form. Apple pie often makes an appearance, because nothing says American tradition quite like apple pie. Cherry pie, blackberry, razzleberry (a mix of raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries) and various cream pies (chocolate, coconut, banana) might join the lineup depending on regional preferences and family traditions.

The unspoken rule seems to be: you need at least one spice pie (pumpkin), one nut pie (pecan), and one fruit or cream pie (your choice). Anything less feels like you’re not taking dessert seriously enough.

My first Thanksgiving in the UK, I made four pies for four people. Two pumpkin pies (because what if we ran out?), one pecan, and one cherry. It felt completely normal to me, a reasonable representation of Thanksgiving dessert options.

My spouse just stared at the counter lined with pies. “There are just four of us for dinner.”

“I know,” I said, not seeing the problem.

“Four pies.”

“Yes.”

“For four people! That’s one whole pie per person!”

“Well, we’ll have pie for days,” I explained, as if this was the most logical thing in the world. “It’s an investment in the entire weekend.”

They were flabbergasted. Utterly flabbergasted. The concept of making four large pies for four people violated some fundamental British principle of proportional dessert-making that I hadn’t known existed.

We did end up sharing them out with neighbors, slices delivered with explanations about Thanksgiving traditions. My spouse took some to work, introducing their colleagues to American pie culture one slice at a time. But here’s the thing: we still ate a substantial amount of pie over the following week, and it was glorious.

I still struggle with the idea of just making one or two pies. It’s against my nationality, I think. Multiple pies are now part of our Thanksgiving tradition, and sharing them with neighbors has become its own lovely ritual. They’ve come to expect it, asking in early November, “Are you making those American pies again?” It’s become a small way of bringing Thanksgiving to our British neighborhood, one slice of pumpkin or pecan at a time.

The Leftovers: The Gift That Keeps Giving

Here’s something non-Americans might not realize: the leftovers are half the point.

You don’t work that hard to make an enormous feast just for one meal. You make it knowing you’ll be eating gloriously for days afterward, reaping the benefits of all that cooking effort without having to cook again.

Pie for breakfast? Absolutely. It’s tradition. Cold pumpkin pie with your morning tea, a slice of pecan pie while you’re still in your pajamas. This is not only acceptable but expected. I have a saying: “It’s pie. It’s basically fruit and vegetables. It’s breakfast food.” The logic is questionable, but the practice is delightful.

The real star of Thanksgiving leftovers, though, is the turkey sandwich.

Not just any turkey sandwich, but THE turkey sandwich: leftover turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, maybe some gravy, all piled between two slices of bread or a soft roll. Some people add mashed potatoes directly to the sandwich. Some toast the bread. Some go cold, some heat everything up. Regional and personal variations abound, but the core concept remains sacred.

For the next several days after Thanksgiving, Americans live on turkey sandwiches. Lunch, dinner, midnight snacks. The turkey sandwich becomes the default meal, a delicious reminder of the feast that was. The cranberry sauce provides the perfect tart contrast to rich turkey and savory stuffing. It’s the ultimate leftovers meal, better in some ways than the original feast because it requires zero effort.

The leftovers justify the excess. You’re not making too much food. You’re being strategic. You’re investing in several days of easy, delicious meals. You’re ensuring that the work of one day pays dividends throughout the rest of the week.

My British spouse has come to appreciate this approach, though I think it took actually experiencing a week of turkey sandwiches and breakfast pie to understand why Americans cook such absurd quantities of food. Now they get it. The leftovers aren’t a bonus. They’re part of the plan.

Working Through Thanksgiving: A Reality I’m Still Not Used To

Here’s the hardest part about Thanksgiving in the UK: it’s not a holiday. It’s just Thursday.

In America, Thanksgiving is sacred. Offices close. Schools shut down. And increasingly, stores are pushing back against Black Friday creep and closing on Thanksgiving Day again, respecting it as a day meant for family and rest rather than shopping.

But in Britain, life continues as normal. I go to work. My colleagues carry on with their day. The world keeps turning while something inside me insists it should have stopped, that we should all be home, cooking and gathering.

I’ve been in meetings on Thanksgiving. I’ve answered emails on Thanksgiving. I’ve worked a full day on Thanksgiving, then come back to a quiet home that should be filled with family, noise, and the smell of turkey roasting.

It’s jarring in a way that’s hard to explain. It feels wrong, even though I know intellectually that for everyone around me, it’s just another Thursday. There’s no reason for them to mark it, no reason for British life to pause for an American holiday.

And Black Friday? That’s another layer of cultural dissonance.

In America, Black Friday was once a single day, the day after Thanksgiving, when stores opened early and offered big sales, marking the official start of the Christmas shopping season. The name comes from retailers finally moving “into the black” (profitable) after a year of being “in the red” (losing money), thanks to the massive shopping surge. It made sense within the American calendar: you had Thursday off to feast with family, then Friday, you could venture out to shop.

I never did, though. I refused to be part of the madness, the crowds fighting over deals at 4 AM. I’d shop online instead and support independent shops, especially on Small Business Saturday. But I hated the idea of adding to the Black Friday chaos, of feeding into the frenzy that had people skipping Thanksgiving dinner to camp outside stores.

Here in the UK, Black Friday has been imported as a shopping event, but without Thanksgiving, it just becomes a random sale day in late November. I’m expected to work on the Friday after Thanksgiving, treating it as a normal day, while my phone buzzes with American Black Friday deals.

The Great Christmas Timing Divide

But Black Friday represents something deeper in American culture: the official, socially-sanctioned beginning of the Christmas season.

In America, there are essentially two types of people. Those who refuse to acknowledge Christmas until after Thanksgiving—no tree, no music, no decorations before the fourth Thursday of November. And the early enthusiasts who start playing Christmas music on November 1st and genuinely cannot understand what everyone’s fussing about.

Growing up, I was firmly in the first camp. The Friday after Thanksgiving was when you made the switch. It was a clear boundary, a cultural milestone that everyone understood.

Here’s what’s particularly disorienting about living in the UK: without Thanksgiving as a marker, there’s no clear boundary. Mince pies appear in August. Christmas decorations hit shops in October. People put up trees whenever they feel like it—late November, early December, mid-December. There’s no collective agreement, so it just gradually seeps in.

My spouse, it turns out, is a December 1st person. They have their own firm boundary—nothing Christmas-related before the first of December.

“Just wait until December first,” they say, as if this solves everything.

“But that’s after Thanksgiving anyway,” I point out.

“Exactly. Problem solved.”

And so, I still get to wait until after our Friendsgiving celebration to put up our tree, and Thanksgiving gets its moment first. Old habits, it turns out, follow you across oceans. And somehow it all aligned perfectly for the both of us.

UK Friendsgiving: The Weekend After

All of this, the working through Thanksgiving, the missing of familiar rhythms, the strange displacement of Black Friday, the confusion about when Christmas should begin, has led my spouse and me to develop our own solution: Friendsgiving on the following weekend. We invite friends, British and American, expats and locals, and create our own celebration, untethered from the official calendar.

The preparation requires more planning than it would back in the States. Turkey isn’t a November thing here. In the UK, turkey is the star of the Christmas feast. November turkeys are a special order; you have to request them in advance from your butcher.

So a few weeks before Thanksgiving, I make the trip to our local butcher and ask them to order a turkey or turkey crown (just the breast, without the legs, which is more manageable for a smaller gathering). They’re used to me now—they see me walk in during early November and know exactly what I’m after. And I’m not the only American in the area doing this anymore. Thanksgiving turkey orders have become a thing, a small but growing November tradition at our local butcher shop.

Then there’s the canned pumpkin situation.

In America, canned pumpkin is available year-round in any grocery store. It’s a pantry staple, sitting reliably on shelves alongside other baking essentials. In the UK, it appears for a brief window in October and November, then vanishes until the following autumn. Some specialty stores might stock it longer, but it’s not something you can count on finding in February when you’re suddenly craving pumpkin cookies.

So I’ve learned to stock up. When those familiar cans appear in British shops in October, I buy several. If I visit the States, I bring cans back in my luggage. Yes, I am that person traveling internationally with canned goods. When friends or family visit from America, I shamelessly request they bring canned pumpkin as tribute. It’s become a running joke: “Forget souvenirs, bring pumpkin.”

Here’s something worth knowing: canned pumpkin in America isn’t made from those big orange carving pumpkins you see at Halloween. It’s made from smaller, sweeter varieties specifically bred for pies, often called sugar pumpkins or pie pumpkins. They have a smoother texture and sweeter, less watery flesh than carving pumpkins. Pumpkin pie should be sweet and richly spiced, not savory like a soup. This is why attempting to make pumpkin pie from a carved Halloween pumpkin will lead to disappointment and a stringy, watery mess.

So when British friends ask if they can just use any pumpkin, I have to gently explain the distinction. The pumpkin matters. The timing matters. The availability matters. Celebrating Thanksgiving in the UK means planning ahead for ingredients that Americans take entirely for granted.

The menu for our Friendsgiving feast becomes a collaborative effort, which is actually very true to American Thanksgiving tradition. In the States, people rarely expect one person to cook the entire feast alone. Everyone contributes something: a side dish, a pie, a bottle of wine, (or sparkling non-alcoholic cider in my family), rolls from the bakery. It’s a communal effort that makes the celebration manageable and ensures variety.

Our Friendsgiving follows this pattern beautifully. Traditional Thanksgiving dishes I’ve prepared alongside contributions from friends, British and American alike. I share out the recipes—sweet potato casserole, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce—and friends get to try their hand at these traditional dishes. Mashed potatoes, those classic American sides. I leave off the fruit salad (my spouse is relieved). And of course, I make multiple pies that get shared around.

It’s not quite the same as the American Thanksgiving I grew up with. The timing is different, the turkey is special-ordered, and the guest list includes people experiencing their first Thanksgiving alongside this lone American craving a taste of home.

But there’s something beautiful about this adapted version. It’s Thanksgiving filtered through the reality of living abroad, shaped by British market schedules and friendship circles that cross cultural lines. It’s become our holiday, celebrated on our terms, bringing people together over food and gratitude regardless of which side of the Atlantic they call home.

What Makes Thanksgiving Endure

I’ve spent three years explaining Thanksgiving to British friends, colleagues, and curious strangers who wonder what all the fuss is about.

“So it’s like Christmas dinner, but in November, without presents?”

“Sort of,” I say. “But it’s really about being together. And being grateful for what you have.”

There’s often a moment during the meal—after everyone’s gathered, before the eating begins—when we go around the table and each person shares one thing they’re grateful for. It’s simple, usually brief. Someone’s grateful for health, for family, for new friendships, for making it through a difficult year, for the people gathered around that very table.

It can feel awkward at first - especially for the sometimes ‘socially reserved’ Brits. Americans who’ve done this their whole lives sometimes groan or joke about it, but there’s something profound in the practice. For just a moment, before diving into the feast, everyone pauses to acknowledge something good in their lives.

My spouse was skeptical the first time we did this. But it’s become their favorite part of Thanksgiving now that they’ve been adopted into an American family tradition. That moment of collective gratitude transforms the meal from just eating together into something more intentional, more connected. It provides space and time to reflect on the year that’s passed.

“Is it religious?” people sometimes ask.

“Not really,” I explain. “Some families say a prayer, but it’s not tied to any particular religion. It’s one of the few American holidays that isn’t about religion or patriotism or consumerism. It’s just about people and food and gratitude.”

And when I say it like that, I realize why I love it so much.

Thanksgiving strips away the commercial obligations that come with other holidays—no gifts to buy, no decorations to hang—and focuses on something beautifully simple: gather the people you care about, cook together, eat together, be together.

It doesn’t matter if you’re celebrating on the actual Thursday or the following Saturday. It doesn’t matter if your turkey came from an American supermarket or a British butcher who special-ordered it with a bemused smile. It doesn’t matter if you’re serving traditional sides or sharing recipes with British friends trying their hand at sweet potato casserole.

What matters is the gathering. The gratitude. The reminder that even in a fragmented, rushed world, we can still create space to slow down and be together.

That’s the part of Thanksgiving that follows me across the Atlantic. That’s why I still celebrate it, still insist on making the effort, still feel that quiet homesickness on the fourth Thursday of November even while building new traditions in a new country.

Because the good holidays aren’t really about the place or the timing or even the specific foods. They’re about what we do when we gather, who we choose to gather with, and the gratitude we share for having people worth gathering for.

And that translates perfectly well to any country, any Thursday, any borrowed weekend where we can carve out space for what really matters: coming together, giving thanks, and making sure no one eats alone.

Your Turn: Thanksgiving Stories Welcome

I’d love to hear about your own Thanksgiving experiences and traditions:

For my fellow Americans: What part of Thanksgiving do you miss most when you’re away? Have you found ways to celebrate abroad? What family traditions do you carry with you?

For my British friends: Have you ever experienced an American Thanksgiving? What surprised you most about it? Does the tradition resonate with you at all?

For everyone: What holidays do you celebrate that bring people together over food and gratitude? What traditions have you adapted when living far from home?

Thanks for reading, and here’s to tables that groan under the weight of too much food, to friendships that cross borders, to traditions that adapt and endure, and to the beautiful simplicity of gathering together to give thanks.

What am I grateful for this year? I’m grateful for this little community we’ve built together here on Substack—for your comments, your emails, your likes, and your stories. Thank you for being part of this journey across cultures.

See you next Sunday,

Marianne

If this article reminded you of your own cherished traditions or helped you understand what makes Thanksgiving special, the best compliment would be sharing it with someone who’d appreciate the perspective. Or simply Restack it. Thank you!

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The chest pain started on a Tuesday afternoon, and within 15 minutes, my spouse and I were in the car heading to A&E.

I was scared for two very different reasons.

The first fear was obvious: chest pain, especially new chest pain, especially when you’ve been under massive stress, is not something you ignore.

Every health website, every bit of common sense, every cautionary tale you’ve ever heard says the same thing: get it checked immediately. So that fear was straightforward, universal, the kind any human being would feel regardless of which country they’re in.

But the second fear? That one was distinctly cultural.

I was terrified of going to A&E for the first time.

I’d heard the stories. The legendary wait times. The overwhelmed (but brilliant) staff. The chaos of weekend nights. I’d absorbed over three years’ worth of British conversations about the NHS—the fierce protective love mixed with genuine frustration, the political debates, the worried headlines. And now I was about to experience it myself, not as a curious observer writing an article, but as a patient who genuinely needed care and had no idea what to expect.

As we drove through the city center, I realized I was carrying the weight of cultural anxiety on top of medical anxiety. What if I didn’t know how to check in? What if I used the wrong terminology? What if they didn’t see me in time because I didn’t understand how the system worked?

I was scared of my chest pain. But I was also scared of not knowing how to handle emergency care in Britain.

The Vocabulary Minefield Begins

The first linguistic confusion starts before you even arrive: what do you call this place?

Americans say “ER” or “Emergency Room.” It’s straightforward, literal, and tells you exactly what you’re getting.

Brits say “A&E” (Accident & Emergency) or “Casualty,” and if you’re new here, you spend a moment wondering if those are the same thing (they are), and whether saying “ER” will immediately mark you as foreign (it will, but they’ll still know what you mean - most likely thanks to the long running hit show of the same name).

I’d been in the UK long enough to know to say “A&E,” but it still felt like speaking a second language, technically correct but not quite natural on my tongue.

We arrived at a city center A&E on a weekday afternoon, which, I would later learn, was probably the best possible timing. Weekend nights are apparently an entirely different beast involving alcohol-related injuries, longer waits, and a general chaos I was grateful to avoid.

Walking In: The Registration Non-Event

Here’s where my American brain started short-circuiting.

I walked up to the registration desk, gave my name and date of birth, and... that was it. No insurance cards. No forms asking about my employment. No one verifying my coverage or asking for a credit card “just in case.” No paperwork demanding to know my entire medical history before they’d consider helping me.

Just: “Have a seat, someone will call you shortly.”

I sat down, still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to chase me down with a clipboard demanding proof that I could pay for this.

It never happened.

A quick clarification: “free at point of service” doesn’t mean no one pays. As someone on a spouse visa, I pay for NHS services twice—through my National Insurance/tax contributions (like British citizens do) and also through the Immigration Health Surcharge on my visa (£1,035 per year), which I am more than happy to pay to contribute to the National Health Service. Even by paying into the system twice, it’s still considerably less than US insurance, without the deductibles, copays, or surprise bills.

The key difference isn’t that healthcare is free—it’s that payment happens separately from care. You’re never calculating costs while you’re scared.

For an American, this is both wonderful and deeply disorienting.

Triage: The Wait That Wasn’t Wasted

Within 10 to 15 minutes of registering, I was called by a nurse for the initial triage. Then, within another 15-20 minutes my name was called for an ECG (EKG to my US readers).

This was my first hint that the system works differently than I’d expected. They weren’t making me wait to see a doctor first—they were already assessing me, running tests, gathering information.

The ECG took maybe five minutes. Electrodes on my chest, printout of my heart rhythm, back to the waiting room.

Then blood work. Then further reviews. Then x-rays. Each time my name was called, I’d disappear for a test, then return to wait some more.

Here’s what I gradually understood: triage in the NHS isn’t just that initial moment when they ask how sick you are. It’s continuous, multi-layered, happening throughout your entire visit. They’re constantly assessing everyone, running tests, gathering data, and making decisions about who needs immediate intervention.

The two people who passed out or had episodes while we were waiting? They were taken back immediately, staff surrounding them within seconds. The system was watching. If you’re still in the waiting room after an hour, two hours, three hours, it means they’ve determined you’re stable enough to wait, while others who need more urgent care are often taken in and seen via ambulance without you even knowing —which is actually reassuring, once you understand that’s what’s happening.

If my ECG had shown something dangerous, I would have been rushed back immediately. The fact that I kept returning to the waiting room meant they were relatively confident I wasn’t dying, even as they continued investigating what was wrong.

This took about seven hours total.

Seven hours sounds like a long time, and it is. But scattered throughout those hours were actual care: tests, assessments, monitoring. It wasn’t seven hours of being ignored—it was seven hours of being triaged alongside dozens of other people, all of whom were being assessed, cared for, and monitored based on the severity of their needs.

The Waiting Room as Village Square

Something unexpected happened during those seven hours: the waiting room became its own small community.

Because people were in and out for blood work, x-rays, scans, and various assessments, we started to recognize each other. When the staff called someone’s name, those of us who’d been there a while would helpfully pipe up: “He’s in the bathroom,” or “She was just called back for x-rays.”

We became the unofficial waiting room information desk, tracking each other’s whereabouts like neighbors keeping an eye on the street.

Some people were clearly A&E veterans. They arrived with blankets, snacks, headphones, and multiple phone chargers, settling in like they were preparing for a long flight. It made me wonder how often they’d done this, whether they’d learned through experience or received this wisdom from other British people who’d been through it before.

There were beautiful moments of humanity scattered throughout the wait.

People shared food with strangers. Phone chargers were passed around freely. When someone’s device was dying and they looked anxious about losing contact with family, someone else would wordlessly hand over their charging cable.

An elderly gentleman and his care assistant began singing old jazz tunes together while they waited. Quietly at first, then with more confidence as he remembered the words. When they finished, those of us in the waiting room applauded. He beamed, gave a little bow, and for just a moment, the waiting room felt less like a place of anxiety and more like a community gathering.

And there were small moments of humor, like when we overheard a conversation between two women sitting next to each other:

“Excuse me, I’m just going to the toilet; would you mind letting them know if my name is called? My name is Karen Jones.”

“Of course, no problem. But let me write that down. I’m here with a concussion and I really don’t know if I’ll remember it.”

(Not her real name, obviously.)

At one point, a homeless man came in and started trying to sell various random items—pens, small trinkets, individual yoghurts (!), cans of pop and many other things from a black bag. Everyone he asked declined politely. Security approached him, but gently, speaking to him with respect, and asked him to leave. He did, without drama or harshness. It was a small moment, but it showed something about the NHS as a space—everyone can walk through these doors, and even when boundaries need to be maintained, it’s done with dignity.

The waiting room held people from many cultures. Not everyone spoke English as their first language. Translation apps appeared on phones. Hand gestures supplemented words. The staff accommodated, repeating instructions patiently and found ways to communicate effectively.

And there were people who were genuinely unwell—throwing up, visibly in pain, struggling. When someone needed to be sick, everyone else would immediately avert their eyes, give them space, and try to preserve whatever dignity could be maintained in that moment. It was instinctively British in the best way: acknowledging suffering while allowing privacy, helping without making a fuss about it.

Masks were available to those who wanted extra protection or needed to prevent the spread of illness. In the upcoming winter, when flu, COVID, and various other winter viruses could be present in the busy waiting room, many were masked up. People made their own choices, and no one commented either way.

The Prepared vs. The Unprepared

My spouse and I fell firmly into the “unprepared” category.

We’d rushed out of the house with just our phones and wallets and a bottle of water, not thinking to grab snacks or chargers. Around hour four, my phone was starting to die, and I was getting genuinely hungry, silently cursing my lack of foresight.

Meanwhile, the person across from us had clearly done this before. They’d brought:

• A proper blanket (not just a jacket)

• A bag with sandwiches

• A charging cable

• Headphones

• A book

• A small pillow

They were settled in like someone who understood that A&E operates on its own timeline, and comfort is something you bring with you rather than expect to find.

I made a mental note: if I ever have to do this again, I’m bringing supplies.

The Medical Care Itself

Between the waiting, the medical attention was thorough.

ECG within the first 20-30 minutes. Blood work to check for heart attack markers, blood clots and any other anomalies. Chest x-ray to rule out anything structural or chest infection.

Each time I was called back, the staff were professional, kind, and unhurried in their interactions with me. They explained what they were doing, why they were doing it, and what they were looking for. When I asked questions, they answered them fully.

The nurse who did my blood work noticed I was anxious and spent an extra minute just chatting with me about something completely unrelated, helping me breathe through the moment.

When the doctor finally sat down with me to go through the results, she was thorough. We talked about stress, about my medical history, and about what could cause chest pain that isn’t a heart attack. She didn’t rush. She made sure I understood everything before sending me home.

They ruled out all the scary things: heart attack, blood clots, structural problems. The chest pain was real, but not immediately dangerous. They gave me clear instructions about what to watch for, when to come back, and how to follow up with my GP.

The Vocabulary, Part Two: Inside the System

As the hours went by, I collected more vocabulary that marked me as linguistically foreign to this healthcare system.

“Junior doctor” doesn’t mean a young or inexperienced doctor—it refers to doctors still in training, but they might have years of experience. They’re “junior” relative to consultants (senior doctors), not relative to medical competence.

“Being admitted” means something specific and serious—actually being kept in the hospital overnight or longer. In the US, we use “admitted” more loosely, sometimes just to mean “taken back from the waiting room.”

The “queue” for care isn’t really a line—it’s a constantly shifting priority system based on medical need, which is why someone who arrived after you might be seen before you. This makes sense medically, but can feel confusing if you’re expecting first-come, first-served.

“Discharged” is what happens when they send you home; a letter explaining what was found is sent electronically to your GP.

I was learning the language of British healthcare in real-time, through immersion rather than study.

The Exit: The Surreal Non-Event

After seven hours, and discussing all the results and giving advice, the doctor said I was free to go.

I waited for more instructions. Paperwork to sign? A bill to review? A payment desk to visit?

Nothing.

“Just... go?” I asked.

“Yes, you’re all done. Follow up with your GP within the week. If the chest pain gets worse or you have trouble breathing, come straight back.”

And that was it.

Seven hours of care. An ECG, blood work (twice), chest x-rays, monitoring, and consultations with a doctor. And I just... walked out.

No marathon of discharge paperwork explaining my financial responsibility. No estimate of costs. No bill arriving six weeks later, demanding £3,000 and threatening to send me to collections if I didn’t pay within 30 days.

We walked back to the car in the dark, and I had this strange, floating feeling. Relief that my chest pain wasn’t a heart attack. Exhaustion from seven hours in a waiting room. But also this surreal feeling that we were just... done.

For an American, the absence of billing anxiety is its own kind of surreal. I’d been conditioned to expect the second trauma—the one that arrives in the mail weeks later. I once made the expensive mistake of going to an out-of-network ER back home, and that fear never fully leaves you.

This time, that trauma never came.

What I Learned About NHS Emergency Care

Here’s what I understand now that I didn’t understand before:

It isn’t perfect. Seven-hour waits aren’t ideal, and on a busy weekend night, those waits can be much longer. Staff are stretched thin. Resources are limited. People have legitimate frustrations with the system, and those frustrations are valid.

But.

The system is designed around a fundamentally different principle than American healthcare: everyone gets treated based on medical need, not ability to pay. I know there are nuances and exceptions I don’t fully understand, but the core principle holds.

When I walked through those doors with chest pain, no one asked if I could afford care. They asked what was wrong and immediately started assessing me. The triage system means you wait based on how sick you are, not on whether your insurance has been verified.

Is it efficient? Not always. Could it be better funded? Absolutely. Do British people have every right to criticize and demand improvements? Without question.

But there’s something profound about a system where the scared question is “How long will I wait?” rather than “Can I afford this?” Or wondering whether I’ve accidentally driven to the wrong hospital (in the US, going to an ER outside your insurance network can cost thousands more).

When my partner and I were in the US a few years ago, we were on a hike near my old home, a lady not far in front of us fell and immediately knew she’d broken her ankle. She had two kids with her. Neither my partner nor I was in a position to help move her. When we asked if we should call for an ambulance, the first thing the lady did was call her husband and ask if the insurance would cover it.

My partner was shocked. They work for the NHS and are a strong supporter of it, and that situation made them realise all the more how unbelievably lucky people in Britain are to have a ‘free at the point of care’ system for all.

The waiting room community—strangers tracking each other’s whereabouts, sharing chargers and food, applauding the elderly man singing jazz—revealed something beautiful about a shared system. We were all there together, all being cared for regardless of our income or employment status, all hoping our chest pain (or broken bone, or concussion) would turn out to be manageable.

The NHS isn’t perfect. But it’s built on the radical premise that healthcare is something everyone deserves, and that shows up in ways both big (no bill at checkout) and small (staff supplying masks without asking who can afford them).

The Emotional Aftermath

I’ve had time to reflect on that day.

The relief of knowing my chest wasn’t harboring anything immediately dangerous is the biggest feeling. Chest pain is scary, and being told “we’ve ruled out the scary things” is worth every minute of that seven-hour wait.

But I also feel this deep appreciation for having experienced the system firsthand. All those conversations I’d overheard about the NHS over the past three years suddenly made more sense. I understand now why British people talk about it with such complicated feelings—fierce protectiveness mixed with frustration, deep appreciation mixed with acknowledgment of its flaws.

And I feel grateful. Grateful that stress-induced chest pain didn’t come with the additional stress of medical bankruptcy. Grateful that I could walk in scared and walk out seven hours later with answers, without ever having to calculate whether I could afford to be there.

I don’t know what the future holds for the NHS. I know it faces enormous pressures, funding challenges, and legitimate criticism. I know the staff are working to their best ability, but are exhausted, morale is low, and the system is strained.

But I also know that when I needed it, it was there. Imperfect, slow at times, but ultimately thorough and kind. And I walked out without a bill, carrying further advice and the profound relief of knowing I was going to be okay.

For a scared American sitting in a busy city center waiting room, watching strangers applaud an elderly man singing jazz while we all waited our turn for care—that felt like something worth protecting.

A Note on Preparedness

If you’re ever heading to A&E and have time (or visiting someone there), here’s what I wish I’d known to bring:

• Phone charger

• Snacks (nothing too messy) - anything in the vending machines in A&E is super expensive

• Water bottle

• Something to read (phone battery won’t last)

• A bank card/cash - if you do need those vending machines for any reason

• A jumper or light blanket (it can get cold)

• Headphones (if you want to tune out - though make sure you can hear your name being called out)

• Any regular medications you take

The prepared people had the right idea. Learn from my mistakes.

Your Turn: Healthcare Stories Welcome

I’d love to hear about your own experiences with different healthcare systems:

For my British friends: What do you wish Americans understood about the NHS? Any A&E wisdom to share for those of us new to the system? Have you experienced the US Emergency Room?

For fellow Americans abroad: Have you experienced NHS care? What surprised you most? Do you miss anything about the US healthcare system?

Thanks for reading, and here’s to the relief of chest pain that isn’t a heart attack, to elderly gentlemen singing jazz in waiting rooms, and to the profound comfort of walking out of a hospital without a bill.

See you next Sunday,

Marianne

If this article resonated with you—whether it brought back your own medical anxiety memories or helped you understand a different healthcare system—the best compliment would be sharing it with someone who’d appreciate the perspective. Or simply Restack it. Thank you!

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Quick note: I missed last Sunday’s article because I was on a whale shark swimming holiday in Tanzania, which turned into an unexpected extended stay when civil unrest following their general election led to internet blackouts and cancelled flights. We were safe on Mafia Island, but very much stuck! We’re home now, and I’m delighted to be back with a new article for you.

A few years ago, we were walking through the park when I pointed excitedly at a tree with long, drooping branches sweeping dramatically toward the ground.

“Oh, is that a weeping willow?” I asked my spouse, genuinely pleased with myself for recognizing it.

They didn’t even hesitate. “No, that’s a whomping willow,” they said, completely straight-faced.

I stopped walking. “Like in Harry Potter? Is that really a thing then?”

They kept going for a few more steps before glancing back with that delighted grin that means they’ve got me good. “No, it is a weeping willow.”

I’d been had.

But here’s the thing: Britain already makes me feel like I’ve stepped into the pages of a storybook. There are castles everywhere—actual castles that people visit on weekends. Buildings that are older than my entire country. Cobblestone streets and stone walls that have been standing for centuries. The UK has a way of making everything feel vaguely enchanted just by existing.

So when I’m living somewhere that already feels like a fairy tale setting, how am I supposed to know what parts of Harry Potter were J.K. Rowling’s imagination and what parts were just... Tuesday in Britain?

Living here has taught me something delightful: while Harry Potter is obviously fiction, Rowling drew from so much real British culture that I—having zero context for British schools—had no idea what was world-building and what was just everyday life. She didn’t have to invent nearly as much as I thought. She just described Britain. With wands.

Even the Books Got Translated for Americans

Here’s something that should have tipped me off early: in the UK, the first book is called Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. In America, it became Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.

Publishers at Scholastic worried that American kids wouldn’t recognize the term “Philosopher’s Stone,” the legendary alchemical substance said to turn lead into gold and grant immortality, so they swapped it for a word that sounded more generically magical.

That single word change says everything: American readers didn’t just need Harry Potter translated from British English to American English, but from British culture to something we could understand without context. We were reading the books without any sense of which parts were real British life and which were fantasy.

And the translations didn’t stop at the title. The U.S. editions are full of small but telling adjustments, tiny bridges built to help American readers cross the Atlantic.

For example, the UK term ‘jumper’ was translated to ‘sweater’ for American readers, and ‘mum’ became ‘mom’ in the US edition (though that change was later reversed).

In one early passage, ‘crumpet’ was changed to ‘muffin’. Other common British words appear on the list of changes, ‘torch’ to ‘flashlight,’ ‘trainers’ to ‘sneakers,’ and ‘trolley’ (in the sense of a food cart) to ‘cart.’

These aren’t just spelling tweaks; they’re tiny cultural bridges built so American readers wouldn’t be tripped up by words that felt too British.

Even the spelling was adjusted: “colour” lost its “u,” “defence” gained an “s,” and “realise” became “realize.” Subtle but constant reminders that we weren’t reading the exact same book as British kids.

None of these changes altered the story, but they did something quietly profound: they smoothed out the Britishness that made the original so specific, so familiar to its home audience.

British Schools Really Do Have Houses

This was my first delightful discovery, and it completely reframed my understanding of the books.

I’d always assumed the Hogwarts house system was Rowling’s invention; a clever narrative device to create drama and give students identity and rivalry. Pure world-building.

Then I learned that British schools genuinely have house systems. Not all of them, but many do, especially older schools and boarding schools. And suddenly, Gryffindor and Slytherin made so much more sense.

Students are sorted into houses (thankfully without a talking hat), and these houses compete throughout the year in everything from sports to academics to music competitions.

The house names vary widely. Some schools go with colors like Red, Blue, Green, and Yellow. Others name houses after local landmarks, nearby lakes, or famous authors connected to the area. It’s delightfully practical and very British: no need for mythical founders when you can just name a house after the hill behind the school.

And the sorting? Often alphabetical, which means siblings end up in the same house. This makes handing down uniforms much easier for families.

Some schools have different colored ties or badges for each house. Some award house points for good behavior or academic achievement—actual points, tallied up, creating real competition. There are house captains. House assemblies. House pride that students carry with them years after graduation.

Some of my friends still remember which house they were in at school and can tell you exactly how many points their house won (or tragically lost) during sports day in Year 9.

Sports Day, by the way, is another thing I thought was invented for British children’s books. Nope. It’s real. It’s annual. It’s taken very seriously. Houses compete. Parents attend. There are ribbons and trophies.

My spouse patiently explained that no, Harry Potter didn’t invent any of this. This is just what British schools are like. I’m still processing.

Prefects Are Real (And So Are Head Boys and Head Girls)

This discovery completely changed how I read the Harry Potter books.

I’d assumed prefects were one of those charmingly old-fashioned British school things from the 1800s that Rowling included for atmosphere. A historical detail to make Hogwarts feel authentic.

But no. Prefects are still very much a thing.

Older students are selected (or sometimes elected) to become prefects, giving them authority over younger students. They monitor hallways, supervise younger kids, help maintain discipline, and generally act as a bridge between students and teachers. Some schools even have badges. Shiny prefect badges. Just like in the books.

And it doesn’t stop there. There are Head Boys and Head Girls—the top prefects, the ultimate student leadership position. They give speeches. They represent the school. They get their names engraved on plaques.

When I learned this, I immediately texted my brother: “PREFECTS ARE REAL. HEAD BOY IS A REAL POSITION.”

His response: “...are you okay?”

I was fine—just excited! Suddenly, Ron’s pride at becoming a prefect made so much more sense. It wasn’t just a quirky, magical school thing; it was a genuine British achievement that some students actually aspire to. Rowling was pulling from real school culture.

The American equivalent would be... student council? Hall monitor? But those don’t have the same weight, the same prestige, the same actual authority that British prefects seem to carry.

OWLs and NEWTs Are Just... British Exams With “Wizarding” Added

This one delighted me once I made the connection.

In the Harry Potter books, students take their OWLs (Ordinary Wizarding Levels) at age 15-16, and then their NEWTs (Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests) in their final years. I thought these were cleverly named magical exams—playful acronyms that Rowling invented.

Then I learned about the British education system.

British students take exams called O-Levels (Ordinary Levels) at age 16. Well, they used to—O-Levels were phased out in the 1980s and replaced by GCSEs, but Rowling would have taken O-Levels herself. And after that? A-Levels (Advanced Levels) in their final years of school.

Rowling literally just took the real exam names and added “Wizarding” to one and made the other into a cheeky acronym. OWLs = O-Levels with wizard flair. NEWTs = A-Levels with a more memorable name.

The structure, the timing, the importance placed on these exams, the way they determine your future career options—it’s all pulled directly from the British school system. Even the stress levels feel accurate, based on what my British friends tell me about their own exam experiences.

Americans don’t have a direct equivalent to this. We have the SATs and ACTs for university entrance, but not these comprehensive subject exams that determine what you can study next. Learning about O-Levels and A-Levels made me realize that the entire Hogwarts academic structure wasn’t fantastical world-building—it was just British secondary education with spell books instead of textbooks.

The Ministry of Magic Makes Perfect Sense

This realization came slowly, then all at once.

At some point over the last several years, I’d heard my spouse mention the “Ministry of Defence” in conversation, and something clicked in my brain. Ministry. Not Department. Ministry.

“Wait,” I said, interrupting whatever they were saying. “Do you call government departments ‘ministries’?”

They looked at me like I’d just asked if Britain had roads. “Yes? Ministry of Defence, Ministry of Justice.”

My mind was reeling. The Ministry of Magic wasn’t a clever magical parallel to the Muggle government. It was just what you’d naturally call a magical government department if you’re British, because that’s what Britain called government departments (although now there seems to be a bit of a mix of departments and ministries).

In America, we have the Department of Defense, the Department of Justice, and the Department of State. It genuinely never occurred to me that there was an alternative to ‘department’.

But Ministry has a different quality to it—more formal, more substantial. For British readers, it’s just the normal government term. For Americans, it gives the Ministry of Magic an extra layer of gravitas that ‘Department of Magic’ never could.

“Public School” Means the Opposite of What You Think

This linguistic trap should come with a warning label.

In America, “public school” refers to a school funded by the government, free to attend, where the vast majority of children go. “Private school” means you pay tuition.

In Britain? Reverse it. Mostly.

British “public schools” are actually elite, expensive, private institutions—places like Eton, Harrow, and Rugby with centuries of history, Latin mottos, and fees that make your eyes water. They’re called “public” because, historically, they were open to the public (if you could pay) rather than being private tutoring at home.

What Americans call “public schools,” Brits call “state schools”—schools funded by the government.

This took me a while to wrap my head around, and I definitely made some conversational missteps before I understood the distinction!

Common Rooms, Dormitories, and Other Surprising British Realities

The Gryffindor common room seemed like such wonderful world-building—a cozy gathering space for students to feel at home within their house.

Then I learned that boarding schools in Britain actually have house common rooms. Real ones. Where students from the same house genuinely gather, study, and socialize.

My spouse’s state school didn’t have house common rooms - but the ‘sixth formers’ had one, complete with lockers, vending machines, pool table and table football. And the ultimate luxury….a television!

There are dormitories—not apartments or dorm rooms in the American sense, but actual dormitories where multiple students sleep in the same room. There are house competitions that span the entire school year. There are house traditions passed down through generations of students.

British Place Names That Sound More Made-Up Than “Hogsmeade”

Here’s where Britain really commits to the bit.

Hogsmeade sounds whimsical and invented, right? A perfect name for a magical village.

But then you discover that Britain has real places called:

• Giggleswick

• Pity Me

• Scratchy Bottom

• Westward Ho! (the only place name in Britain with an exclamation mark)

• Ugley (with a Women’s Institute that brilliantly calls itself “The Ugley Women’s Institute”)

• Pratt’s Bottom

• Boggy Bottom

• Upper Slaughter and Lower Slaughter (disturbingly close to each other)

Honestly, “Hogsmeade” fits right in. It might even be too sensible.

The medieval streets of York, called The Shambles, are widely believed to have inspired the film version of Diagon Alley (though author J.K. Rowling has said she never visited York herself).

From photos and what friends have told me, the narrow, winding lanes with overhanging buildings look like they belong in a fantasy novel. It’s definitely on my must-visit list.

School Uniforms That Could Double as Wizard Robes

American schools that require uniforms typically go for polos and khakis. Neat. Practical. Boring.

British school uniforms are a whole different level. Blazers with embroidered crests. Ties in specific colors. V-neck jumpers (sweaters to Americans) in house or school colors. Some public schools even require straw boater hats in summer.

Older, more traditional schools have uniforms that genuinely look like you could throw on a black robe and a pointed hat and fit right into Hogwarts.

My spouse showed me their old school photos, and I genuinely said, “This looks like a Harry Potter cosplay.”

They were not amused.

But I stand by it. The blazer, the tie with house colors, the formal crest—it’s all there. British school uniforms were practically begging to be turned into wizard robes.

British Food Names That Sound Like Potions Ingredients

Let’s talk about food for a moment, because British cuisine has been leaning into the magical aesthetic for centuries without even trying.

Treacle tart is Harry Potter’s favorite dessert. It’s also a real, beloved British pudding (remember, “pudding” means dessert here, which is its own delightful confusion). Treacle sounds like something you’d add to a potion. It’s actually a thick, dark syrup similar to molasses, and treacle tart is sweet, sticky, and genuinely delicious.

Spotted dick is a traditional British pudding (there’s that word again) made with suet and dried fruit. Suet is a hard, crumbly fat from around the kidneys of beef or sheep, while lard is the softer, rendered fat from pigs. The name sounds like a curse or possibly a disease, but it’s just... dessert.

Toad in the hole is not actually a toad, but sausages baked in Yorkshire pudding batter. Back home, Toad in the hole refers to a slice of bread with a hole cut out, filled with an egg and then toasted on both sides.

Bangers and mash sounds like it could be a Weasley twins’ invention. It’s just sausages and mashed potatoes, but the name has that whimsical British energy that permeates everything from food to place names to government departments.

And then there’s Dandelion and Burdock, a British soft drink that sounds exactly like something you’d order at The Three Broomsticks, sitting right next to butterbeer.

When I first saw it on a menu, I asked, “Is this alcoholic?”

“No, it’s just a fizzy drink.”

“Made with actual dandelions?”

“Originally, yes.”

Britain, I cannot stress this enough, is just casually magical all the time.

The Things That Still Aren’t Real (I Think)

To be clear: I do know Harry Potter is fiction. But after living here and discovering how much of it was drawn from real British life, I’ve started to double-check things I once took for granted.

Moving staircases don’t exist—though in some of the older buildings and libraries I’ve visited, the hallways twist so unpredictably I’m not entirely sure they don’t move at night.

Paintings don’t talk, but many British schools have enormous portraits of past headmasters glaring down from the walls, which honestly feels close enough.

House ghosts aren’t real (I think), though every centuries-old building seems to have a resident phantom with a tragic backstory and a preferred corridor.

And while I’ve yet to meet a school matron capable of regrowing bones, I now know “matron” isn’t a magical word—it’s just what you call the school nurse.

So yes, there’s still a line between fantasy and reality.

It’s just... increasingly hard to see.

Learning Britain Backwards

Here’s what I’ve finally realized: J.K. Rowling didn’t create a magical Britain. She revealed one that already existed.

For Americans, Harry Potter wasn’t just a fantasy series—it was a crash course in British culture disguised as wizardry. We learned about school houses, prefects, ministries, and boarding traditions without realizing they were real. I wasn’t reading about an alternate world; I was being gently introduced to another country.

Now, when my British friends describe their school experiences, I can instantly translate them through Hogwarts logic.

“Oh, so you were basically a prefect?”

“Yes.”

“And your house won the cup?”

“Exactly.”

“See? This is just Harry Potter.”

“No,” they always say, amused. “Harry Potter is just Britain.”

That’s how I’ve ended up learning this country backwards—through stories first, then through life.

And maybe that’s why Britain feels so enchanting even on an ordinary Tuesday.

It’s a place where the line between the mundane and the magical has always been faint, where the names are whimsical, the traditions ancient, and the everyday life quietly charmed.

I live here now, in this wonderfully bewitched land of real prefects, questionable puddings, and willows—some weeping, some whomping.

And honestly? That’s part of the magic.

Your Turn: Magical Discoveries Welcome

I know I’ve only scratched the surface here, and there are probably dozens more Harry Potter parallels I haven’t even discovered yet.

I’d love to hear about your own experiences:

For my fellow Americans: What British cultural elements did you discover were woven into Harry Potter? What did you assume was Rowling’s imagination that turned out to be everyday British life? Have you been fooled by any “whomping willows”?

For my British friends: What parts of Harry Potter do you consider completely normal versus actually magical? Did you realize how strange your school system must seem to Americans? What aspects of the books feel most authentically British to you?

Whether you grew up with house points or learned about them through books, I’d love to hear your stories in the comments below.

Thanks for reading, and here’s to finding a little magic in the most ordinary corners of Britain.

See you next Sunday,
Marianne

If this article made you smile (or helped you see Harry Potter’s British cultural roots in a new light), the best compliment would be sharing it with someone who’d appreciate the discovery. Or simply Restack it. Thank you!

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Halloween is just days away, but I’ve been planning since September 1st - the unofficial start of Halloween season in my household.

Most of my British neighbors didn’t even begin thinking about October 31st until mid-October. But September 1st has always been sacred in my family - the day my siblings and I would start planning our costumes around the kitchen table.

Growing up in Utah, Halloween meant something specific: homemade costumes (store-bought was cheating), the very real possibility of trick-or-treating in snow, and a set of unwritten rules passed down like family heirlooms. You say “trick-or-treat.” You choose just one piece of candy. You always, always say thank you. And you accept that the dentist down the street will give you a toothbrush - and then offer to trade you cash for your candy haul afterwards.

But what made Halloween truly magical was how the adults participated. Some dressed up to answer the door. One woman on our street dressed as a witch every year, serving bubbling apple cider (cider is most often non-alcoholic in the US) from a black cauldron in her garage - complete with dry ice to make it smoke properly. She’d have homemade donuts too. Other houses transformed into walk-through haunted experiences, complete with jump scares and elaborate decorations.

My dad was one of those adults who went all out. Some years, we were definitely “that house” that maybe took things a bit far. One Halloween, he rented an actual coffin, dressed as a vampire, and lay inside it with the candy bowl resting on his stomach. Kids had to reach in to get their treats. The well-behaved ones he’d leave alone. The naughty ones? Let’s just say a few may have wet themselves. My siblings and I were genuinely a little scared by that one, and we knew it was coming.

Halloween was creative freedom, neighborhood adventure, and just enough spooky danger to make it thrilling. It was playing poker with my siblings the next day, using our candy as chips. It was Mom’s “Dinner in a Pumpkin” - an entire meal cooked inside a hollowed pumpkin - ensuring we ate something substantial before running wild through the neighborhood.

It was magic.

When I first wrote about autumn traditions in the UK vs. US, readers shared wonderful memories about Halloween and Bonfire Night in the comments - stories about penny for the Guy, bonfire toffee, and how Halloween simply didn’t exist as a celebration for many growing up in the ‘60s-’80s. It’s clear these autumn celebrations matter deeply to people on both sides of the Atlantic, so I wanted to explore Halloween more fully. Let me take you back to how this all started for me.

When I moved to the UK three years ago, I assumed I’d find the same Halloween enthusiasm. After all, the whole thing started here, didn’t it? Celtic Samhain, carved turnips to ward off spirits, ancient traditions going back centuries?

Instead, I found a country where Guy Fawkes Night had become the bigger autumn celebration.

Halloween’s British Roots (And How They Faded)

Here’s the irony: Halloween’s roots are deeply Irish and Scottish. The ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, marking the end of harvest and the beginning of winter, originated in these Gaelic-speaking regions. The tradition of carving scary faces into vegetables to ward off evil spirits? That was Irish and Scottish too - except they used turnips, not pumpkins.

My British friends remember carving turnips, which sounds both charming and absolutely brutal. Have you ever tried to carve a turnip? They’re dense, rock-hard root vegetables that fight back. Pumpkins are basically designed for carving - soft, spacious, cooperative.

Scotland, in particular, has incredibly strong Halloween roots. The practice of “guising” - dressing up in costume and going door-to-door to perform songs or tricks in exchange for treats - is distinctly Scottish, dating back centuries. This Scottish tradition of guising is what evolved into the American “trick-or-treating” we know today.

But somewhere along the way, Britain drifted away from Halloween. Guy Fawkes Night on November 5th became the bigger autumn celebration, with its bonfires and fireworks commemorating the failed Gunpowder Plot of 1605. Halloween got relegated to “something Americans do” or “a commercial import” - despite being born right here.

The evidence of this cultural gap shows up in unexpected ways. I was in M&S last week and noticed their Halloween decorations prominently displayed the date “October 31st” - as if it’s not common knowledge. In America, you’d never need to remind anyone when Halloween is. It’s as ingrained as Christmas on December 25th. But here? The date still needs to be spelled out for customers who might not have it memorized yet.

Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, Americans ran with it. We imported the traditions, swapped turnips for abundantly available pumpkins, added our enthusiasm for neighborhood festivities, and turned Halloween into a full-blown cultural phenomenon. By the time I was growing up in the ‘80s and early ‘90s, Halloween was second only to Christmas in terms of decorating, planning, and pure excitement.

Now I’m back in Halloween’s birthplace, introducing British friends to pumpkin carving—the tradition their ancestors would have recognized (if significantly easier to hollow out).

Trick-or-Treating: Two Countries, Very Different Rules

The first Halloween in my UK neighborhood, I went all out. Decorations covered the front of the house. I dressed up to answer the door. I had a huge bowl of candy - sorry, sweets - and those glow-in-the-dark eyeball bouncy balls ready as a non-sweet option.

Then I waited.

And waited.

A few brave groups of kids showed up, but nothing like the steady stream I’d expected. Some of them seemed surprised that I was dressed up. Several parents looked genuinely delighted but also slightly confused by the elaborate setup. One neighbor later told me they’d lived on the street for twenty years and had never seen anything like it.

The contemporary UK and US approaches to Halloween night are wonderfully different:

In America:

• Porch light on = we’re participating, come on up

• Decorations are a competition (some neighborhoods go WILD)

• You hit every house with a light on, sometimes covering multiple streets

• Trick-or-treating can last 2-3 hours

• Adults answering doors are often in costume too

• Full-size candy bars are the holy grail (rich neighborhoods become destinations)

• Some houses offer elaborate experiences - haunted garages, decorated walkways

• Parents do a safety check of all candy afterward, often claiming a “parent tax” of their favorite treats

In Britain (traditionally, though this is changing):

• You only go to houses you know, or houses clearly decorated

• Decorations were historically minimal (a carved pumpkin, maybe)

• The whole thing is over in 45 minutes to an hour

• Adults answering doors are usually not in costume

• The focus is smaller, more contained, less of a neighborhood-wide event

• Guy Fawkes Night a few days later often overshadowed it

But here’s what’s brilliant: my neighborhood has been shifting. Three years of enthusiastic Halloween displays, and now other houses have joined in. Our street has become one of the known destinations for families in the area. Kids genuinely get excited when they turn onto our road because they know the whole street participates.

We’ve accidentally created a little pocket of Halloween enthusiasm and I’m absolutely chuffed about it.

Guy Fawkes Night: Britain’s Other Autumn Celebration

Here’s something that surprised me when I moved to the UK: Halloween on October 31st is immediately followed by Guy Fawkes Night (also called Bonfire Night) on November 5th. Just five days apart, but they’re completely different celebrations with their own rich traditions.

Guy Fawkes Night commemorates the failed Gunpowder Plot of 1605, when Guy Fawkes and his co-conspirators attempted to blow up the Houses of Parliament and King James I. The plot was foiled, and ever since, Britain has celebrated with bonfires and fireworks - literally burning effigies of Guy Fawkes on massive community bonfires.

As an American, fireworks in November initially threw me off completely. Back home, fireworks mean July 4th, summer nights, Independence Day. But I quickly learned that in the UK, fireworks happen... whenever, really. Random Tuesday evenings, Diwali, New Year’s Eve, weddings - they’re not reserved for one specific national holiday. However, Bonfire Night is THE biggest fireworks event in the British calendar, the one night where the entire country lights up the November sky in spectacular fashion.

And if you want to see Bonfire Night done properly, Lewes in East Sussex is legendary. The town hosts one of the most elaborate celebrations in the country, with multiple bonfire societies, massive torch-lit processions through the streets, and fireworks displays that draw thousands of visitors. It’s Bonfire Night elevated to an art form.

The traditions are wonderfully specific: children used to make “Guys” (effigies stuffed with newspaper and old clothes) and wheel them around the neighborhood asking “penny for the Guy?” to collect money for fireworks. Community bonfires would light up the night sky, with families gathering around for warmth and spectacle. The evening comes with its own foods: toffee apples (what Americans call candy apples), treacle toffee, bonfire toffee, and parkin - a sticky ginger cake that’s perfect for cold November nights.

“Remember, remember the 5th of November” goes the old rhyme, and people really do remember. For many Brits, especially those who grew up in the ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s, Bonfire Night was the big autumn celebration - the one with fireworks, community gatherings, and genuine excitement. Halloween simply didn’t exist as a celebration back then. It was traditionally a more male-oriented celebration, with boys especially excited about the fireworks, though everyone loved the bonfires and treats.

There’s even a fun bit of history: St Peter’s School in York doesn’t celebrate Guy Fawkes Night because Guy Fawkes himself was an old boy of the school. You have to respect that kind of institutional loyalty.

I’ve heard some concerns that Halloween is encroaching on Guy Fawkes Night, and I understand that worry. When something new (or newly revived) arrives, it can feel like it’s competing with cherished traditions. But from my perspective, they’re beautifully complementary rather than competitive.

Halloween is about creativity, costumes, and kids going door-to-door for treats. It’s playful spookiness and carved pumpkins glowing on doorsteps. Guy Fawkes Night is about community, history, spectacular fireworks, and gathering around massive bonfires. One is intimate and neighborhood-focused; the other is communal and explosive (literally). One celebrates the end of October; the other marks early November.

They’re five days apart, serving completely different purposes. Halloween doesn’t take anything away from the drama of bonfire night or the thrill of fireworks lighting up the November sky. If anything, having two distinct autumn celebrations makes these weeks even more special - different kinds of joy, different traditions, different memories being made.

Both can thrive. Both are worth celebrating. And honestly? The UK is lucky to have both.

Pumpkin Carving: A Skill Worth Sharing

One of my favorite things has been teaching British adults how to carve pumpkins.

The first time I organized a pumpkin carving party, I realized that while my British friends had seen carved pumpkins, quite a few had never actually done it themselves. It wasn’t part of their childhood the way it was mine. For them, it was this relatively new tradition, imported from America, optional and unfamiliar.

I’ve hosted pumpkin carving contests at work. My spouse did the same at their workplace. We’ve taken groups of adults - just us, no kids - to pumpkin patches to pick our own pumpkins, wandering among families and definitely looking like tall children. We don’t care. It’s brilliant fun.

And I’ve discovered that Britain has embraced pumpkin patches in a wonderful way. You can go pick your own pumpkin right from the field, which makes me feel instantly at home. The patches often have food stalls, corn mazes, and that autumn atmosphere that makes everything feel properly seasonal.

Here’s my biggest pumpkin carving tip, which I share with everyone: use a canning jar lid to scrape the inside of your pumpkin. Forget the spoon. Forget those useless scoop tools that come in carving kits. A canning jar lid is the perfect size and shape, easy to hold and it works better than anything else. Trust me on this.

I’ve also adopted a British tradition that we never did in Utah: saving the pumpkin flesh to make soup. When you get a good-quality pumpkin from a proper pumpkin patch, the flesh is actually delicious. Roasted and blended with some stock and seasoning? Gorgeous autumn meal. We never thought to do this in America - the pumpkin was just the canvas for the carving. But I’ve learned to appreciate using the whole thing.

Halloween Traditions That Made the Journey (And New Ones I’ve Created)

Some Halloween traditions traveled with me across the Atlantic:

Dressing up to answer the door: I’m in full costume when I greet trick-or-treaters. Some British neighbors find this delightfully extra. I find it essential.

The extra-polite-kids reward: If kids are especially polite - proper “trick-or-treat,” nice “thank you,” good effort in their costume - they get to choose both a sweet AND a non-sweet option. Those glow-in-the-dark eyeball bouncy balls are always a massive hit.

The spooky dinner party: This has become my creative outlet and favorite tradition I’ve created here. Growing up, we made our costumes from scratch - store-bought felt like cheating. These days, I’ll admit I buy my costumes, but I channel all that creative energy into elaborate dinner parties with food that’s both delicious and genuinely horrifying.

Friends come over for meatloaf shaped like a mummy head. A dismembered foot (also meatloaf, but more disturbingly realistic). Red velvet cinnamon rolls arranged to look like intestines. Black bread bowl spiders filled with shakshuka that oozes out like spider innards when you cut into them. I’ve experimented with powdered charcoal, food coloring, and strategic presentation to make everything look properly horrifying while tasting amazing.

My British friends have absolutely embraced this. There’s something about the combination of genuinely good food and theatrical horror that appeals to the British sensibility. Plus, it’s an excuse to get creative in the kitchen and absolutely commit to a theme.

Some traditions didn’t make the journey:

Trunk-or-Treats: In rural Utah, where houses were spread far apart, we’d sometimes do “Trunk-or-Treats” - meet in a parking lot, decorate the backs of cars, and kids would go from trunk to trunk. Not really a thing here, and honestly not necessary in our walkable British neighborhood.

The dentist’s candy buyback: Our hometown dentist would give out toothbrushes on Halloween (we all groaned) and then offer to buy back your candy for cash the next day. Genius for dental health, though we always kept our favorites for the candy poker games with my siblings.

Snow on Halloween: I don’t miss trick-or-treating in Utah snow. British October weather has its rain, but at least costumes don’t require winter coats overtop.

September 1st: When Americans Lose Their Minds (And Brits Start Noticing)

The biggest cultural difference might be the timeline.

For Americans, Halloween season begins September 1st. Decorations go up. Costume planning starts. Pumpkin spice everything appears (though I’ll save that rant for another article). The entire autumn becomes Halloween-adjacent.

For Brits, Halloween maybe enters consciousness mid-October. Decorations go up October 28-30th. There’s no months-long buildup, no autumn-long celebration. It’s a single day, not a season.

Except that’s starting to change.

British supermarkets now have Halloween sections. Homeware shops sell decorations. More houses on our street put up displays each year. I’ve watched Halloween grow in the UK during just the three years I’ve been here, and it’s genuinely lovely to witness.

It’s not becoming American Halloween - it’s becoming British Halloween. Different, but recognizable. Less intense, but still enthusiastic. Respectful of Guy Fawkes Night (which I’ve learned to appreciate - bonfires and fireworks are brilliant), but claiming its own space.

The Joy of Halloween Shared

There’s something wonderfully circular about bringing Halloween enthusiasm back to the place it originated.

My neighbors have told me they look forward to our Halloween display every year. Kids apparently tell their friends about “that street” where everyone participates. Our British friends who join us for our annual spooky dinner & pumpkin carving night have told me it’s become their new favorite autumn tradition.

And honestly? That makes me ridiculously happy. Halloween is about community, creativity, and that perfect blend of spooky and joyful that makes autumn magical. It’s about the kid who’s carefully chosen their costume, the parent who’s clearly exhausted but delighted, the neighbor who put a little extra effort into their decorations.

It’s about carrying on traditions - whether that’s your turnip carving stories or my mom’s Dinner in a Pumpkin recipe (which I still make every Halloween, using a proper British pumpkin).

Three years in, and I’ve become the Halloween ambassador I never knew this neighborhood needed. Our street has become a destination. British friends now text me pumpkin carving questions. My spouse’s coworkers ask about this year’s spooky dinner theme.

Your Turn: Halloween and Bonfire Night Stories Welcome

I want to hear your autumn celebration stories - the brilliant, the bizarre, the distinctly American or delightfully British!

For fellow Americans in the UK: What Halloween traditions did you bring with you? What surprised you about British Halloween or Bonfire Night? Have you experienced Guy Fawkes Night yet, and what did you think? Have you convinced your neighbors to join in Halloween celebrations?

For British readers: Do you remember turnip carving? Do you have cherished Bonfire Night memories - penny for the Guy, bonfire toffee, parkin cake? Has Halloween grown in your area? Do you think Halloween and Guy Fawkes Night can happily coexist, or does one feel like it’s encroaching on the other?

For everyone: What’s your best Halloween or Bonfire Night memory? What’s your signature tradition for either celebration? Have you experienced both? And most importantly - what’s the most creative/horrifying thing you’ve served at a Halloween dinner party, or what’s the best Bonfire Night treat you’ve had?

Whether you’re team pumpkin or team turnip, team September 1st decorating or team October 30th last-minute scramble, team Halloween or team Bonfire Night (or happily team both!), I’d love to hear your stories.

May your pumpkins carve easily, your costumes be creative, and your trick-or-treaters be extra polite.

See you next Sunday,

Marianne

Quick heads up: Between work and life, I may not always be able to respond to every comment, but I do read them all. Your thoughtful, funny, and insightful contributions are genuinely the best part of writing these articles.

P.S. If you need any indication of just how deep my Halloween obsession actually goes: I design and sell non-traditional pumpkin carving stencils on Etsy, and I’ve recently created an entire pumpkin carving stencil book. The addiction is real, and I regret nothing. 🎃

I may earn a small commission if you click and make a purchase at no cost to you. Thanks for the support!

If this brought back your own Halloween memories, the best compliment would be sharing it with someone who’d appreciate the spooky nostalgia. Or simply Restack it. Thank you!

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I love browsing the candy section in any new country I visit, and living in the UK is no different. There’s something genuinely exciting about seeing all these sweets I don’t recognize—colorful packages with unfamiliar names, promising flavors and textures I’ve never experienced.

But then there are the ones where I do recognize the name, and that’s when things get truly confusing.

Like Smarties.

I see the name “Smarties” on a hexagonal tube, and my American brain thinks, “Oh, I know what those are!” Except I absolutely do not. Because British Smarties are colorful candy-coated chocolates, somewhat like M&Ms, but still different.

What Americans call Smarties—those chalky, compressed sugar tablets wrapped in cellophane—are apparently called something completely different here. Fizzers? Refreshers? I’m still not entirely sure what the British equivalent is, or if one even exists.

And it goes both ways. British people see American Smarties and have no idea what they’re looking at. “Why are these called Smarties?” they ask, holding the roll of sugar tablets with visible confusion. “These aren’t Smarties.”

Over three years in Britain, and I’m still discovering that sweets and candy represent completely different food universes on opposite sides of the Atlantic.

But the real revelation? The real game-changer that ruined everything I thought I knew about chocolate?

British Snickers bars.

They’re made with British chocolate. And once you’ve had a British Snickers, American Snickers are ruined forever. You can taste the difference immediately—the chocolate is richer, smoother, less tangy. It’s the same peanuts, the same caramel, the same nougat, but the chocolate coating makes it an entirely different experience.

I can’t go back to liking American Snickers.

The Great Rebranding: When British Sweets Became American Brands

For Brits of a certain age, there’s genuine grief around the sweet rebranding of the 1990s.

In 1990, Marathon bars vanished overnight, replaced by a new product called Snickers. Never mind that it was the exact same chocolate bar; the name change felt like cultural erasure. Marathon was British. Snickers was... everywhere else.

Then came 1998, when Opal Fruits became Starburst. And this one stung even more for some people, though the change was more about global branding than ingredients. Interestingly, UK Starburst remains vegetarian-friendly to this day (using no gelatin), while American Starburst contains animal gelatin. The rebranded Starburst kept the same vegetarian recipe in the UK, but the name change itself felt like losing something distinctly British to American corporate standardization.

I’ve listened to British friends reminisce about Marathon bars and Opal Fruits with the kind of wistful nostalgia usually reserved for lost loved ones. It wasn’t just about the names—it was about losing something distinctly British to global branding.

As an American, I had no idea this trauma existed. Snickers has always been Snickers. Starburst has always been Starburst. The idea that they used to be something else, something British, never crossed my mind.

The Sweets Americans Have Never Heard Of

Walk into any British newsagent or corner shop, and you’ll find an entire universe of sweets that simply don’t exist in American consciousness. I’m talking about sweets so fundamentally British that trying to explain them to Americans requires both patience and hand gestures.

Fruit Pastilles and Wine Gums occupy this chewy, intensely flavored category that has no American equivalent. Wine Gums don't actually contain any wine; apparently, the name was chosen to evoke a sense of sophistication. The chewy sweets do, however, have the names of alcoholic drinks such as ‘port’ or ‘sherry’ labelled on them. They’re just... chewy, fruity, and inexplicably beloved by British people of all ages.

Sherbet Fountains might be the most bewildering British sweet I’ve encountered, partly because “sherbet” means something completely different in America.

To Americans, sherbet (often mispronounced as “sherbert”) is a frozen dessert made with fruit juice and a small amount of milk or cream. To Brits, sherbet is a fizzy, sweet powder—similar to Fun Dip or Pixy Stix, but with an effervescent quality that tingles on your tongue like a gentler version of Pop Rocks.

So when I first encountered a Sherbet Fountain, a tube containing British sherbet with a liquorice stick that you dip into the fizzy powder, I was genuinely baffled.

Sherbet lemons (hard candies with fizzy centers) and Sherbet Dip Dabs (lollipops you dip into sherbet powder) only reinforced that British people have a completely different relationship with fizzy powder than Americans do.

Liquorice Allsorts are those colorful, layered sweets with coconut, liquorice, and fondant that look like something from a fever dream. Americans see these and genuinely don’t understand what they’re supposed to do with them. Eat them? All at once? One layer at a time? Why do some have coconut? Why is there so much happening in one sweet?

Turkish Delight is the sweet most Americans only know from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. We all assumed it must be absolutely incredible to justify Edmund’s betrayal. Then British friends shared some, and we discovered it’s... rose-flavored jelly covered in powdered sugar. It’s fine. It’s just not “betray your siblings to an ice witch” level delicious. But I guess it was set in World War II, when any sort of sweets would have been a luxury.

Then there are Chewits, those aggressively chewy fruit sweets that seem designed to test your dental work. Mars Bars, which technically exist in America but taste completely different (more on that later).

For Americans visiting Britain, these sweets represent a parallel candy universe we never knew existed. They’re not better or worse than American candy—they’re just completely different, with their own traditions, textures, and flavor profiles that reflect decades of British sweet-making culture.

Candy vs. Chocolate: Different Preferences

Here’s where the real cultural difference emerges, and it’s not subtle.

Americans love sweet, sour, chewy, and intense. We gravitate toward bright, fruity, aggressively flavored things like Mike and Ikes, Sour Patch Kids, Swedish Fish, Jolly Ranchers, and Twizzlers. We have entire supermarket aisles dedicated to gum. Walk into an American cinema, and people are just as likely to buy Skittles or sour gummy worms as chocolate.

Brits, on the other hand, are chocolate devotees. A British sweet shop is overwhelmingly dominated by chocolate bars: Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, Galaxy, Wispa, Aero, Double Decker, Boost, Crunchie, Flake. British people have strong opinions about chocolate bars. They have favorites. They have childhood loyalty to specific brands.

I’ve watched British colleagues have genuine debates about whether a Wispa is superior to an Aero. These are deeply held beliefs, not casual preferences.

Coming from America, where we certainly have our share of beloved chocolate bars—Twix, Snickers, Milky Way, 3 Musketeers, Butterfingers—the British chocolate devotion still feels different. It’s not that Americans don’t love chocolate, but we treat it as one category among many. Brits elevate chocolate to something almost sacred.

Lost in Translation: Candy Bars, Chocolate Bars, and Lollies

What we call these things reveals everything about how we think about them.

Candy bar vs. chocolate bar: Americans say “candy bar” for almost everything. A Snickers? Candy bar. Even a plain Hershey’s bar gets called a candy bar. To American ears, “candy bar” is universal. To us, it’s all candy, and chocolate is just one option.

Brits say “chocolate bar.” Full stop. A Mars bar is a chocolate bar. A Twix is a chocolate bar. The term “candy bar” sounds distinctly American and wrong to British ears. To Brits, chocolate deserves its own terminology and respect. You don’t insult a Cadbury’s Dairy Milk by calling it a “candy bar.”

After three years here, I code-switch depending on which country I’m in. In America, I say “candy bar” without thinking. In the UK, I carefully say “chocolate bar” to avoid the look of mild disappointment from my spouse.

Suckers vs. lollies: Americans call them “suckers” or “lollipops”—both work interchangeably. Brits call them “lollies,” which can also mean an ice lolly (what Americans call a popsicle), creating confusion about whether we’re talking about candy or frozen treats.

“Lollipop” is used in British English but may feel formal or outdated. “Lolly” is the everyday term. I’ve adapted to saying “lolly” in the UK, though it still feels slightly unnatural.

British Chocolate Bars Americans Are Missing Out On

These aren’t just variations on American chocolate bars—these are entirely unique creations that don’t exist in the States.

Starbars are my absolute favorite. Peanuts and caramel, covered in chocolate, create a perfect combination of salty, sweet, and crunchy. Every time I visit family in America, I bring Starbars in my suitcase. They’ve become one of the most requested items, and my family has learned to love them just as much as I do.

Lion Bars have a crispy wafer and caramel covered in chocolate. Double Deckers combine nougat and crispy cereal. Crunchies are all about that honeycomb crunch. Flakes have thin layers of crumbly Cadbury chocolate—you’ll often find them in soft-serve ice cream cones (a “99 Flake”). My dad absolutely loves Flakes.

Tunnock’s Caramel Wafers—these Scottish treats are layers of wafer and caramel covered in chocolate, wrapped in distinctive red and gold foil. They’ve been a UK staple since 1952, and Americans who try them are usually baffled that we don’t have anything like them back home.

Wispas have tiny bubbles throughout the chocolate, creating a light, aerated texture. Twirls are essentially Flakes covered in more chocolate, so they hold together better. Picnic bars are a chaotic mix of peanuts, caramel, wafer, puffed rice, and raisins all covered in chocolate—like someone couldn’t decide what they wanted and just threw everything together.

My family has gotten to the point where they all have their favorites. When I’m packing to visit home, I have to plan carefully to make sure I’ve brought enough of everyone’s preferred bars. British chocolate has completely spoiled them for American chocolate.

Why Chocolate Tastes Different on Each Side of the Atlantic

I’d been traveling internationally for quite a while before moving to the UK, so I knew there was better chocolate outside the US. But living here full-time has fundamentally changed my relationship with American chocolate in ways I didn’t expect. And this isn’t just a matter of preference; there’s actual chemistry involved.

Hershey’s, America’s most iconic chocolate brand, uses a milk treatment process that creates butyric acid as a byproduct. While Hershey’s doesn’t add butyric acid directly, their milk processing method, called lipolysis, breaks down fatty acids in the milk, which produces this compound. To Americans raised on Hershey’s, this tangy, slightly sour note is what chocolate tastes like. It’s normal. It’s familiar.

To British palates, however, Hershey’s tastes distinctly different and not in a good way. I’ve watched British friends try American chocolate, and the reaction is always the same: initial politeness, followed by visible confusion, followed by “Why does this taste... wrong?”

Here’s the science: Butyric acid is the same compound found in Parmesan cheese, rancid butter, and vomit. All chocolate contains some butyric acid because it’s present in milk, but it’s more perceptible in American chocolate due to how the milk is treated. The lipolysis process helps chocolate stay shelf-stable longer, which was crucial for distributing chocolate across America’s vast distances.

British chocolate typically uses fresh milk and has a higher cocoa content, resulting in a creamier, sweeter taste that melts differently.

I’ve experienced this transformation firsthand. In my first year here, I’d buy imported American candy when I felt homesick. Now? Hershey’s tastes different to me than it used to. Not bad, exactly, just not what my palate has come to expect anymore. I’ve adapted to British chocolate, and going back is jarring.

It’s not that one is better and one is worse; they’re just optimized for different expectations. Americans grew up with Hershey’s tangy profile and love it. Brits grew up with creamier, higher-cocoa chocolate and prefer that. Both are valid. Both bring joy to millions of people.

But I will say this: living in the UK has fundamentally changed how I experience chocolate, and there’s no going back.

What America Has That Britain Doesn’t (And Vice Versa)

There are sweets on both sides of the Atlantic that create genuine longing when you’re away from home.

Americans crave the aggressive sourness of Warheads, the artificial grape flavor of Laffy Taffy, the bizarre texture of Airheads, and the communal experience of sharing Sour Patch Kids at the movies. We long for absurdly large boxes of Junior Mints, unnecessarily enormous bags of peanut M&Ms, and candy corn at Halloween, even though almost nobody actually likes candy corn; it’s just ours.

Brits, when abroad, pine for Fruit Pastilles, proper Dairy Milk (not the American version made by Hershey’s under license), Curly Wurlys, Wine Gums, Jelly Babies, and the specific comfort of a Freddo on a bad day.

Sweets serve as edible time machines, taking us straight back to childhood with a single taste—no matter which side of the Atlantic we call home.

The Verdict (If There Is One)

Though I’ll admit, after three years in the UK, my taste buds have been thoroughly converted to British chocolate. I can’t claim it’s objectively better—taste is personal, after all—but the science behind why they taste different is fascinating, and I now understand why Brits are so passionate about their chocolate. American friends and family who try British chocolate often have the same revelation I did.

But here’s the beautiful thing: both countries have created sweet traditions that bring people joy. Whether it’s the comfort of a childhood favorite or the excitement of discovering something completely new, sweets connect us to memories, to people we love, and to the places we call home.

Your Turn: Sweet Experiences Welcome

I know I’ve only scratched the surface here; I haven't even mentioned traditional British sweet shops where you can choose sweets from glass jars lined on a shelf. There are probably dozens of sweets and candies I’ve missed, regional favorites I’ve never encountered, and terminology differences I haven’t even discovered yet. That’s the joy of exploring food culture across countries!

I’d love to hear about your own candy and sweet discoveries!

For my fellow Americans: What British sweets have you tried? What did you think of them? Have you experienced the Hershey’s revelation? What American candy do you miss most?

For my British friends: What’s your strongest opinion about British chocolate? Have you tried American candy? What did you think? Any American sweets you actually enjoy?

For everyone: What sweet or candy represents home to you? What’s the most confusing candy experience you’ve had in another country? Any sweet-related culture shocks to share?

Whether you’re team Smarties (British version) or team Smarties (American version), team Hershey’s or team Cadbury’s, I’d love to hear your stories in the comments below.

Quick heads up: Between work and life, I may not always be able to respond to every comment, but I do read them all. Your thoughtful, funny, and insightful contributions are genuinely the best part of writing these articles.

Thanks for reading!

See you next Sunday,

Marianne

If this sweet exploration made you smile, the best compliment would be sharing it with someone who’d appreciate the candy confusion. Or simply Restack it. Thank you.

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