For the first time since I became part of the News Shopper family of Bloggers, this Minnesota girl is writing from England.

While this is certainly not my first time here, it is the first time I have things to write about that are fresh in my memory of the land that will someday be my home.

As usual, I've found that things here are generally no different from the US. I can once again envision myself living here for good without any major problems. Well, except for my minor meltdown yesterday at the supermarket.

My plan was quite simple; in the States, I'm known far and wide (well, at least among my family and my sons' circle of friends) for making a mean lasagna. All I wanted to do was display some of my culinary skills for my husband-to-be on his home turf because, well, that's what you do when you're temporarily playing house. True, we agreed long ago that we'll be married sometime in the near future but to my way of thinking, this could only seal the deal.

I've always been well aware that some things are simply a bit different. I'm not talking about the obvious, such as what various things are called -my fiance has only recently stopped snickering whenever I refer to my jeans or slacks as "pants" - but how finding things commonly found at any neighborhood grocery store in the States requires a bit of deduction on what it could possibly be called here. Or what it will look like, for that matter.

I keep my lasagna recipe a closely-guarded secret but, since we're all friends here and I know you'll keep it to yourself, I'll discuss it - but just a little. First, let's talk about lasagna noodles. Ours are about a foot long, about three inches wide, and have rippled edges. This way, they fit into the standard 9x13 inch baking pan and "grip" each other during the baking process. We combed the pasta section for 15 minutes and all I could find were lasagna sheets that, to me, resembled a large slice of cheese. I'm not usually a stupid person but I couldn't even imagine how these would be laid out in a pan I'm used to.

Geometry, obviously, was never one of my strongest subjects.

On to the cheese. I needed shredded mozzerella. My fiance suggested we simply buy a block of it and grate it at home. I may be a cooking purist in many ways, but I draw the line at grating my own cheese; after I made a rude comment referring to living in the Middle Ages, my fiance calmly asked a store employee about bagged, pre-grated cheese and we were pointed in the right direction.

OK, a word about packaging. One thing I've noticed is that most things here are packaged smaller than in the US (which is probably why we are world leaders in obesity); for example, cans of Coke are smaller but beer cans here are enormous. My friends at work say that's only because the British have their priorities straight.

When I build my Masterpiece Lasagna, I usually buy a four-cup bag of shredded cheese. The biggest I could find was a bag that barely held one cup and I honestly couldn't justify spending about £5 on cheese alone. But I tossed them into the cart anyway.

Next on the list was tomato sauce. I specified to my ever-patient loved one that I didn't want crushed tomatoes, nor puree, nor stewed; just simple tomato sauce that I "dress up" with various Italian spices. When he assumed I meant ketchup (!) I felt the vein in my temple start to throb.

Granted, I was tired and lack of proper sleep can make my frustration threshold lower than the level of Bush's vocabulary skills. But in the US we have a saying: "Three strikes and you're out" -this was the third strike against my efforts and therefore the lasagna was out. I stormed off to put the cheese back and swore I would never be able to shop for food in this country without having a stroke before I left the store.

We settled on stir-fry instead.

This time next week, I'll be back home in Minnesota and it goes without saying that I'll be wishing I was here again, enjoying such simple things as going to shop for food with my fiance. Now, however, I'm like the Germans in that old episode of Fawlty Towers - but instead, my fiance will have to tell everyone who comes in contact with me "don't talk about lasagna."