Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Bitter Ender

There are only two books I have begun and failed to finish in my reading career so far: Thomas Friedman's Hot Flat and Crowded, and Al Gore's The End of Reason. I think the titles pretty much speak to why I didn't finish them. Generally I stay with whatever work I have begun. Right to the bitter end. This week, it paid off.

The Cure for Death by Lightning won a bunch of awards when it came out in the late 90s. I don't know why I didn't get to it sooner, but I picked it up in one of the two used book stores in Collingwood two weeks ago, and slogged through the typical Canadian morass of dysfunctional depressing family life on the prairies, the kind of book that tends to win the awards.

Twice I nearly gave up on it as not one good thing happened to anyone. Crops destroyed, madness, feuds, molestation, the whole gamut of unhappiness. I thought it was irredeemable, and if you haven't read it, I'm not going to spoil it, but I am going to recommend it. It won't ruin the reading if I tell you the whole story turns on a fifteen year old girl shouting, "Stop It! You're my father, for Christ's sake!"

The lead character had been put upon, bullied, beaten up, touched inappropriately, disappointed and assaulted at every turn by pretty much everyone she ever met, and finally said the above to her abusive dad.

And here's where novels can be instructive for 'real' life: what would happen if more of the bullied among us said something similar?

What if that woman on the bus in New York bullied by those four hideous young buggers had said, "Cut that language out, you're kids, fer chrissakes!"

What if someone had told the banks in the US, "You can't sell those asset-backed derivatives, it's unethical, fer crisssakes!"

What if the Greeks had been told, "You can't retire at 45 with a full pension and also pay no taxes; the numbers just don't work out, fer chrissakes!"

I'm not bitter, I'm just wondering.

Monday, June 25, 2012

Batty for Bunnies

There's a new critter living in my backyard today, but it doesn't move much.

I fell in love with a wee statue of a bunnyrabbit at a store I was in this weekend, and just couldn't go home without it. Now, it's not me who's obsessed with bunnies; it's my sweetheart, and it appears we're not alone.

I've been talking with a whole subset of people who slow down on Hume street near the hotel and dentist office, looking for the rabbits who have colonized the area. It's a regular Watership Down over there. Sweetie says he knows it's going to be a good day if he happens to see a bunny as he drives by.

But we must be drawing some of the luck our way, because our yard has now been colonized, too. There's a wee white tailed sweetie living among the dying poppy plants. I know it has a white tail because that's all I've ever seen of it as it scampers away.

I figured, since we're so enamoured of them, why not have a permanent bunny in amongst the plant life? I snuck the wee statue into the flowers and waited to see how long it would take Sweetie or the dog to find it.

Turns out, only about two shakes of a rabbit's tail.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

More Food for Thought

I use a lot of this space writing about food, mostly because I spend a fair amount of time thinking about what I eat.

I am the one who does the cooking in our family, but also, I got serious about getting and staying slim about 18 months ago. My plan started with a food journal, to figure out just what I was putting in my mouth each day. It was quite an eye-opener. Since then, every day, I keep track of what I consume with a little app called loseit! I've hit my weight goal and stayed there for nearly a year, but I plan to keep using the app, just to remain aware.

I've also spent a good deal of time in the last while reading about food and food production: Fast Food Nation, Eating Animals, Tomatoland, The Omnivore's Dilemma, The Dukan Diet, In Defence of Food, The End of Food, even a novel centred on food, The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake.

All of this explains why I'm so intrigued by the thought of a food cooperative in my neighbourhood. Of course, when I heard the words "food co-op", I thought of beans. Lots of beans. Beans in doughy salads being eaten by hairy-legged Birkenstock-wearing peacenik vegetarians. After all, those are the people who belonged to the co-op when I was in university and the one in my neighbourhood back in Toronto.

I'm pro Birkenstock by the way, and a big fan of hairy legs. Although I'm not ready to be a vegetarian.

If 150 people sign up for the co-op at $100 off the top and $60 a year, the venture can get started by this fall, with dry goods and some produce for sale to start with, and more selection after a while.

I'm seriously contemplating joining, putting my money where my mouth is, sorry for the pun. Judging from the large number of cheques being passed across the table last night, I'm not alone thinking this is a good idea.

My sweetie, though, is skeptical. He wonders why we would pay for the privilege of buying. I couldn't explain it very well, only to say that it's about knowing where the food comes from, which is important to me, and being part of something that might make a tangible difference for a small farmer trying to stay on the land.

Surely that's worth it, I thought after the meeting as I chowed down on dill pickle potato chips and some of my homemade rhubarb nectar. And doesn't that little vignette provide a perfect picture of the battles we all face these days when we eat? Oh, we want the good stuff: the homemade, the safe, the real, the local, but we also want the 'other' good stuff: high fat, empty-calorie nothing food that tastes so very fine as we mindlessly munch.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Clutter Busting Regret



I spent an unhappy hour rooting through a trunk this weekend, desperate to find a dress I thought I had thrown at the bottom of the heap, thinking it would never again fit me.

At the end of the mess, I realized again why I have so much junk cluttering my house and basement: nearly every time I do a clean sweep, I regret it, having dispatched items I later want.

The first time this happened was just a few weeks after my sweetie and I moved into our house. I was appalled by the sheer volume of crap I had moved, and I went on a big purge. At the bottom of one of the six bags of clothes, I had tossed the navy Italian leather pumps I had worn to my grade eight graduation. Yes, I already had size tens and a thing for shoes in grade eight.

I remember the shoes had been a big splurge at Beckers on the main street of Collingwood, $60 was a lot of money for a 13 year old girl's footwear in 1983, but they had classic lines and would last me forever, my mother justified.

They might have lasted me forever if I hadn't cleaned up that day. As it was, they were 21 when I let them go. The shoes had gone in and out of fashion twice, and the last time I'd worn them, a year previous, I'd blown out the side of one of them, and somehow, it hadn't dawned on me that I could get them fixed. Why I imagined anyone at the thrift store would want my 20-year-old, heavily damaged shoes, I can't say.

But that night, the very night I should have been proud of my clutter-busting tidiness, I was suddenly gripped by panic. Why, I could have repaired those shoes! Monday afternoon, I made my way to the store, but could find no evidence of the shoes in the stacks of stuff in there. Neither could I recognize the bag in which I'd stuffed them.

I've always regretted that little fit of tidying, and I think of the pang of regret every time my sweetie sighs over the disaster area we call a basement.

Every summer, I plan to do a big cleanup, especially when the weather gets really really hot. Where better to spend a crazy hot day than a cool basement? But then I'm gripped by the familiar panic - what if I throw out something I will need later?

I'm certain the latest item I've mistakenly given away is a lovely little dress that didn't fit last summer or the summer before, but would fit me this year, if I could find it. I worry my careful tidying today will be my regret tomorrow.

I think it's likely time to apply for the TV show, Hoarders. If things continue this way, in about a year, my house will be reality-ready.

Friday, June 15, 2012

Never Too Old to Graduate

As we head into graduation season, I'd like to think the commencement remarks made by an English teacher in Massachusetts mark a turning point in our attitudes toward our kids and indeed, toward ourselves.

More than a million people have now watched the speech given by David McCullough Junior at Wellsely High just outside Boston. It's been posted on Youtube, and unlike the cute kitten videos so many of us love to watch, it contains wisdom we would do well to take to heart.

Nine times in McCullough's speech, he told the kids, "You're not special." In a wealthy enclave in one of the wealthiest parts of the wealthiest country in the world, it just might have been the first time some of those kids heard such a sentiment expressed.

McCullough went on to tell the graduates they should climb mountains to see the view, not to be seen. They should do good works in foreign countries in order to do some good, rather than to feel good. They should go to Paris to be in Paris, not to cross Paris off their bucket list.

I've noticed in my conversations at parties and gatherings, more and more of us do stuff so we can tell others that we have done it. We tweet rather than talk, we post rather than partake.

McCullough also told the kids to savour achievement instead of accolades and remember that praise should be only a happy consequence, not the reason for action.

His advice is good stuff for all of us, even if it's been 25 or 40 years since you last wore a mortarboard.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Food Adventures


My own personal local food movement is seemingly eschewing the 100-mile diet in favour of a ten foot diet.

Rhubarb from my backyard has become the most lovely drink I have had in a long time. Usually, rhubarb becomes pie, but one of my girlfriends served me this very pink, sweet and tart drink the other day, and I was hooked. She was very secretive about the recipe, so off I went in search of my own, and before long, I had produced my first batch. The recipe I found calls it rhubarb nectar, my friend calls it juice. I call it surprisingly pink, since the rhubarb stalks I boiled and strained were mostly greenish. As of today, I have two jars preserved and stored away in the basement, ready for Christmas morning, and one ready for consumption in the 'fridge. I'm a bit worried about the ones in the basement, since this treat is so nice with a splash of vodka, they might not survive all the way to winter.

I'm turning into quite the pioneer lady, with only two jars left of last year's home-squeezed tomato juice sitting next to the rhubarb, which is next to the four jars of pickled asparagus I 'put up' today. I had pickled asparagus for the first time last year at an amazing dinner, rolled inside a sliver of home-hung proscuitto. There are simply no words to describe it.

And don't get me started on the strawberries. You-pick starts today. I can't wait!

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Helicopter Music


I can totally understand how people become the 'helicopter' parents so many people disparage these days.

If I could take the place of my two little piano students, brave the long walk down into the sanctuary at First Pres. today and play the songs from the Royal Conservatory Grade Two, I would do it in a heartbeat. I'd love to spare them the stress and ensure their success.

But of course, I can't do it for them, and I shouldn't. My job has been to inspire, cajole, advise and threaten them so they will do the work themselves, and for this year, my job as their teacher is over. Well, except for the post-test ice cream.

One of my wee students seems to be quite nervous about today while the other seems pretty sanguine about the whole thing. I know they're both completely capable of playing well enough to pass the test, but whether nerves will get the better of them is the question that cost me some sleep last night. Yes, I was so nervous about whether they'd be nervous, I lost sleep over it.

Right now, I'm kind of glad I don't have any children of my own. I'd be a complete wreck!

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

New, But Not Exactly Fresh

Most days, at the end of my workday, I'm in rather a rush to get home. Usually, I have a long list of chores I want to get done or a book I want to finish. Today, I don't want to go home at all.

My sweetie called me at about 7 o'clock this morning. He almost never calls me at work, and upon hearing his voice, I was instantly apprehensive. Sick mother? Accident? Can't find the coffee?

Well, it seems our dear darling dog made a new friend very early today. Emma is a pointer and she takes very seriously her self-appointed role of keeping our property free of birds and chipmunks and squirrels and other vermin. They seem to always return, but are generally chagrined for a few minutes after she's chased them across the lawn and through the flowerbeds.

This morning, Emma met a critter that didn't run, at least, not very far. Yup, a wee skunk ran from the crazed barking dog, found its way between the fence and the tub, and then let fly with the most awful, horrible, foul and nasty stench imaginable.

Sweetie says he managed to get the doggie away fairly quickly, but with a cloud of skunk spray rolling through the backyard, he's not sure whether she took a direct hit or if perhaps he did.

He says it's pretty bad, his nose so full of the stuff, it's like he's Pigpen from the Peanuts cartoon, with a cloud around him wherever he goes. But he had to escape to work and would I pick up some of that 'stuff' people use to clean up the dog and the house?

Does anyone want to join me for a long, long lunch date today? I don't wanna go home!

Update: It appears neither dog nor husband was badly hit by the skunk fumes. The hot tub, however, and the wall behind it may never be the same. The doggie is getting a bath regardless. Just to teach her a lesson.

Friday, June 1, 2012

Product Review: The Pipe

It was well worth the wait for my fabulous new little device, although I do feel a bit guilty for shopping online instead of locally.

But when the perfect item is simply unavailable this side of the border, much less in town, what's a gal to do?

The Skullcandy Pipe is a battery operated speaker set for iProducts like the iPod or iPhone. I've been looking for something like it for a while, but have had no luck at the stores around here. I sort of thought what I wanted didn't really exist until my friend brought hers along to our vacation in Mexico. I fell madly in love with it, but she flatly refused to let me play any Handel or Grammar Girl on it by the beach, so when I got home, I thought I'd look for my own.

After quite an online search, I finally found the same model in a different colour at an outdoor outfitter in Utah. Happily, it was on sale! While the shipping nearly doubled the price, it was still only 80 bucks and as a bonus, I got a few days of entertainment as I tracked its progress across the border and then across the country. Yesterday, the UPS man dropped it in my front porch. Maybe you heard squeal with delight.

It's just as great as I remember from the beach. About the size of a relay baton, there a wee indent in the middle for docking your iWhatever, and it puts out just enough sound to fill the area under a beach umbrella or to surround a backyard hammock or lounger.

With a hot summer on the way, you'll find me sans earbuds, drinking in my food podcasts from KTLA and Grammar Girl and frankly, anything else I want. Including Handel, and maybe even some bluegrass gospel. But no 80s allowed, no sirreee, not on my pipe.