For anyone who has sat on their bed on a sunny Tuesday and cried their eyes out for no good reason and felt like a loser and then felt nothing at all:
You don't have to tough it out.
You don't have to be strong or noble or right or anything else.
But you matter.
Just because you do.
You do!
and if you're thinking that maybe the world would be better off without you, it wouldn't
and if you're thinking that maybe you'd be happier if you weren't here, you wouldn't
and if you're thinking that you want to do something, something big, to make the pain go away, don't
Tell someone.
Call me!
It may be overwhelming but wait a little while, just please hang on.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Kitchen Adventure Review: Pretentious Burger
I think I might be sold on my pretentious veggie non-burgers.
They were a lot of work, what with the 17 ingredients, some of which needed to be roasted beforehand, but most new recipes are a lot of work the first time. One finds a rhythm and shortcuts in subsequent makings.
The New York Times Ultimate Veggie Burger lived up to is name with a satisfying meatiness that was different than beef, but excellent. There was a hint of falafel about them, even though there were no chickpeas involved.
The patties cooked on the barbecue five minutes a side. They were hot right through and I noticed that I had no concern about whether they were cooked enough. They took on grill marks just like a 'real' burger and held their shape. I see myself making them and putting them in the freezer for a quick-cooking meal in the winter, when my extracurriculars sometimes mean rushed mealtimes.
When I make them next time, I will make a few changes: I would divide this recipe into eight patties instead of six. I made five, thinking as I formed the patties that they they seemed small. It turns out they weren't small and they didn't shrink like hamburgers do when cooked, so they were huge and very filling once I got them on the table.
Also, if I'm choosing the veggie patty instead of a burger for the sake of calories rather than taste or ethics, I will switch out the cashews for some other nut. By my calculations, each of the five patties I made came in at a whopping 450 calories. Add the bun and your 'burger' is 570 calories - more than a Big Mac, although without the excess fat and salt and ethical issues involving underpaid foreign workers in slaughterhouses and fast food joints. Smaller patties and almonds instead of cashews should bring them in line, calories-wise.
Here's how I know I will make these again: I brought them to work for my breakfast, and I never, never do that with leftover beefburgers. That said, Sweetie didn't take any, and he always, always takes the leftover beefburgers. Hmmm.
They were a lot of work, what with the 17 ingredients, some of which needed to be roasted beforehand, but most new recipes are a lot of work the first time. One finds a rhythm and shortcuts in subsequent makings.
The New York Times Ultimate Veggie Burger lived up to is name with a satisfying meatiness that was different than beef, but excellent. There was a hint of falafel about them, even though there were no chickpeas involved.
The patties cooked on the barbecue five minutes a side. They were hot right through and I noticed that I had no concern about whether they were cooked enough. They took on grill marks just like a 'real' burger and held their shape. I see myself making them and putting them in the freezer for a quick-cooking meal in the winter, when my extracurriculars sometimes mean rushed mealtimes.
When I make them next time, I will make a few changes: I would divide this recipe into eight patties instead of six. I made five, thinking as I formed the patties that they they seemed small. It turns out they weren't small and they didn't shrink like hamburgers do when cooked, so they were huge and very filling once I got them on the table.
Also, if I'm choosing the veggie patty instead of a burger for the sake of calories rather than taste or ethics, I will switch out the cashews for some other nut. By my calculations, each of the five patties I made came in at a whopping 450 calories. Add the bun and your 'burger' is 570 calories - more than a Big Mac, although without the excess fat and salt and ethical issues involving underpaid foreign workers in slaughterhouses and fast food joints. Smaller patties and almonds instead of cashews should bring them in line, calories-wise.
Here's how I know I will make these again: I brought them to work for my breakfast, and I never, never do that with leftover beefburgers. That said, Sweetie didn't take any, and he always, always takes the leftover beefburgers. Hmmm.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Kitchen Adventure - The Pretentious Burger
Right off the top, let me say that I love me some meat.
(I'm not sure why I feel I have to put a caveat on it, but I do...) I have a freezer full of beef, pork, chicken, lamb, venison and even some moose to attest to my loving relationship with sinews and muscle, steak and sausage, oxtail and everything meaty in between.
In recent years though, I have had to spend more and more time reconciling the food I eat with the way it's produced.
On my farm, when I was a kid, we kept a series of cows in the barn to have milk for our family table. The rest of the cattle were on pasture in the summer and in winter, were given hay we grew and harvested on the farm. Our pigs ate the grain we grew and in their pens, the pigs played with a chain hanging from the ceiling so they'd have something to occupy them. It prevented fights. The sheep were on grass when they busy weren't escaping (stupid, stupid creatures!) and our chickens had the run of the barn until the dog died and the foxes moved in.
We cared for our animals, named them sometimes, showed them at the fair and eventually ate some of them. I didn't think much about it as a kid, but as an adult, I rest easy in the knowledge that the animals had a decent life before they met their end and we or someone else ate them. I was in the small abattoirs where the animals were killed and dismembered; their deaths were quick and merciful.
Now, though, the more I know about massive filthy feedlots, monocultures required to feed the animals therein and the treatment of the humans who work in the slaughterhouses, the more I'm re-thinking what goes into the grocery cart.
I buy beef from a farmer I know. My chickens, too, mostly, but maybe it's time for more of us to think about how much meat we eat. Sweetie and I plan our meals, and I try to slip one non-meat meal in there each week.
Which leads me to today's experiment.
On a whim one day about 20 years ago, I had a veggie burger at a restaurant in Toronto. It was terrific, and I have tried and failed many times to find one as good.
17 ingredients and two hours of roasting and mixing later, I will form and barbecue my own, homemade version of a veggie burger, from a recipe I read in the New York Times. I'm calling it the Pretentious Burger, because... New York Times.
Yup. SEVENTEEN ingredients, including some I had trouble finding in small-town Ontario, like tempeh, and others that are more pedestrian, like beets.
I'll let you know how it turns out, that is, IF I'm still alive tomorrow...
(I'm not sure why I feel I have to put a caveat on it, but I do...) I have a freezer full of beef, pork, chicken, lamb, venison and even some moose to attest to my loving relationship with sinews and muscle, steak and sausage, oxtail and everything meaty in between.
In recent years though, I have had to spend more and more time reconciling the food I eat with the way it's produced.
On my farm, when I was a kid, we kept a series of cows in the barn to have milk for our family table. The rest of the cattle were on pasture in the summer and in winter, were given hay we grew and harvested on the farm. Our pigs ate the grain we grew and in their pens, the pigs played with a chain hanging from the ceiling so they'd have something to occupy them. It prevented fights. The sheep were on grass when they busy weren't escaping (stupid, stupid creatures!) and our chickens had the run of the barn until the dog died and the foxes moved in.
We cared for our animals, named them sometimes, showed them at the fair and eventually ate some of them. I didn't think much about it as a kid, but as an adult, I rest easy in the knowledge that the animals had a decent life before they met their end and we or someone else ate them. I was in the small abattoirs where the animals were killed and dismembered; their deaths were quick and merciful.
Now, though, the more I know about massive filthy feedlots, monocultures required to feed the animals therein and the treatment of the humans who work in the slaughterhouses, the more I'm re-thinking what goes into the grocery cart.
I buy beef from a farmer I know. My chickens, too, mostly, but maybe it's time for more of us to think about how much meat we eat. Sweetie and I plan our meals, and I try to slip one non-meat meal in there each week.
Which leads me to today's experiment.
On a whim one day about 20 years ago, I had a veggie burger at a restaurant in Toronto. It was terrific, and I have tried and failed many times to find one as good.
17 ingredients and two hours of roasting and mixing later, I will form and barbecue my own, homemade version of a veggie burger, from a recipe I read in the New York Times. I'm calling it the Pretentious Burger, because... New York Times.
Yup. SEVENTEEN ingredients, including some I had trouble finding in small-town Ontario, like tempeh, and others that are more pedestrian, like beets.
I'll let you know how it turns out, that is, IF I'm still alive tomorrow...
Monday, July 28, 2014
The art of the shave
I am a little disturbed to admit how much I enjoyed watching my sweetheart wield a sharp blade across his own skin this weekend.
We were spending some time with friends and it was my job to pick up our takeaway dinner. Upon my return, I found my darling and his male buddy, soaking wet, wrapped in towels in the bathroom, Sweetie getting a lesson in the manly art of shaving, just like every 15 year old boy needs. Except he's not 15; he's rounding the corner toward fifty.
To put it kindly, these two guys are rather hirsute. Less gently, they're hairy. Really freaking hairy and it started early; you can tell from their baby pictures they were going to have five o'clock shadows for much of their lives. Both of them, at some unfortunate time in high school, sported a horrible scraggly moustache that screamed, "I have hair on my lip! Lookit me! I'm a MAN now!"
For reasons lost in the vapor of time, neither of them was ever taught the finer points of gentlemanly grooming. Like most North American men of their vintage, they learned to shave by trial and error or maybe from TV or more likely, from friends. Over the years, they've used cheapy blades from the drug store, whatever was on sale, and somewhere along the line, graduated to the new five, six, and seven blade machines which are quite pricey.
Now, thanks to the miracle of Youtube, Sweetie's friend has become a connoisseur of shaving the old-fashioned way: cup of soap, brush and a single, replaceable blade inside a safety razor. He has not yet graduated to the straightedge but his wife is concerned a strop may be his next purchase.
Last night, my discovery of the two hairy men in towels was Sweetie's introduction to this old-fashioned ritual of manhood, and it's a very involved ritual indeed: at least fifteen minutes of rinsing and soaking and soaping and scraping and alum and pomades and admittedly, some blood. Honestly, I really don't know what all they got up to in there.
Sweetie's not sure he's interested in all the fuss; it seemed to him the cost/benefit of time versus smooth skin might not work out in his favour, and he says his life is not so stressful that he requires a lot of grooming time to get 'centred' at the start of his day. I'll say, though, I've never felt his face any softer and I couldn't keep my sweet lips off it, so maybe that will tip the balance. The question is, which way?
We were spending some time with friends and it was my job to pick up our takeaway dinner. Upon my return, I found my darling and his male buddy, soaking wet, wrapped in towels in the bathroom, Sweetie getting a lesson in the manly art of shaving, just like every 15 year old boy needs. Except he's not 15; he's rounding the corner toward fifty.
To put it kindly, these two guys are rather hirsute. Less gently, they're hairy. Really freaking hairy and it started early; you can tell from their baby pictures they were going to have five o'clock shadows for much of their lives. Both of them, at some unfortunate time in high school, sported a horrible scraggly moustache that screamed, "I have hair on my lip! Lookit me! I'm a MAN now!"
For reasons lost in the vapor of time, neither of them was ever taught the finer points of gentlemanly grooming. Like most North American men of their vintage, they learned to shave by trial and error or maybe from TV or more likely, from friends. Over the years, they've used cheapy blades from the drug store, whatever was on sale, and somewhere along the line, graduated to the new five, six, and seven blade machines which are quite pricey.
Now, thanks to the miracle of Youtube, Sweetie's friend has become a connoisseur of shaving the old-fashioned way: cup of soap, brush and a single, replaceable blade inside a safety razor. He has not yet graduated to the straightedge but his wife is concerned a strop may be his next purchase.
Last night, my discovery of the two hairy men in towels was Sweetie's introduction to this old-fashioned ritual of manhood, and it's a very involved ritual indeed: at least fifteen minutes of rinsing and soaking and soaping and scraping and alum and pomades and admittedly, some blood. Honestly, I really don't know what all they got up to in there.
Sweetie's not sure he's interested in all the fuss; it seemed to him the cost/benefit of time versus smooth skin might not work out in his favour, and he says his life is not so stressful that he requires a lot of grooming time to get 'centred' at the start of his day. I'll say, though, I've never felt his face any softer and I couldn't keep my sweet lips off it, so maybe that will tip the balance. The question is, which way?
Monday, July 21, 2014
Homeward Bound
Maybe you were wondering what that sound was on Friday evening at about 5:30. It was a "Squeee!!!" from me.
Sweetie and I were dining with my mother when the 'phone rang and it was my seven year old niece calling from Brisbane. She wanted to talk to me, and wanted to know if I would run a 5K race with her on Labour Day. In Toronto. The 'squeeee' came when I figured out that my fractured family is reuniting!
My brilliant and amazing sister in law has a big fancy promotion, even bigger than the one that took she and her family to Brisbane two and a half years ago. Apparently, divisions within the corporation she works for have had to duke it out over her talents. The family will be home for the start of the Canadian school year, no doubt wearing toques and scarves after their time in the Australian sun.
One of the children is less happy about the return trip than the others; the one that's been thriving in an elite school, but a girl who earned her way into a State school on academics and athletics is likely to thrive anywhere. We'll just have to jolly her along until she finds her path here.
Until then, I'm looking for races and working on my times so I won't be so embarrassed by the children I finally get to run with again.
Did I mention, Squeeee!
Sweetie and I were dining with my mother when the 'phone rang and it was my seven year old niece calling from Brisbane. She wanted to talk to me, and wanted to know if I would run a 5K race with her on Labour Day. In Toronto. The 'squeeee' came when I figured out that my fractured family is reuniting!
My brilliant and amazing sister in law has a big fancy promotion, even bigger than the one that took she and her family to Brisbane two and a half years ago. Apparently, divisions within the corporation she works for have had to duke it out over her talents. The family will be home for the start of the Canadian school year, no doubt wearing toques and scarves after their time in the Australian sun.
One of the children is less happy about the return trip than the others; the one that's been thriving in an elite school, but a girl who earned her way into a State school on academics and athletics is likely to thrive anywhere. We'll just have to jolly her along until she finds her path here.
Until then, I'm looking for races and working on my times so I won't be so embarrassed by the children I finally get to run with again.
Did I mention, Squeeee!
Friday, June 27, 2014
best. day. ever.
Today is one of the best days of the entire year if you're a kid. OK, it's not Christmas, but it's still pretty good: it's the last day of school. If you're leaving elementary school, you get your report card and your classes for the first day of high school. If you're still in elementary school, you might find out who your teacher is next year, hopefully the 'good' one.
One of my colleagues spent some time with a group of young students this week, finding out what they were looking forward to in the long hot days of summer.
One of the wee ones said, 'I'm going to ride my bike....' and that was pretty much the sum total of her plans. She was planning to ride her bike.
It sounded... heavenly.
Remember the days when summer consisted of vast acres of time, riding your bike, maybe hanging out near a creek, maybe going to a midway?
Let's make a deal, you and me: instead of complaining about the heat and the air conditioning or the politicians or the bills, for the next two so very short months, let's go ride our bikes and see if maybe, just maybe, somewhere up the trail or across the street, we might catch a glimpse of our former, innocent and unjaded self, enjoying the freedom of a sunny summer day.
One of my colleagues spent some time with a group of young students this week, finding out what they were looking forward to in the long hot days of summer.
One of the wee ones said, 'I'm going to ride my bike....' and that was pretty much the sum total of her plans. She was planning to ride her bike.
It sounded... heavenly.
Remember the days when summer consisted of vast acres of time, riding your bike, maybe hanging out near a creek, maybe going to a midway?
Let's make a deal, you and me: instead of complaining about the heat and the air conditioning or the politicians or the bills, for the next two so very short months, let's go ride our bikes and see if maybe, just maybe, somewhere up the trail or across the street, we might catch a glimpse of our former, innocent and unjaded self, enjoying the freedom of a sunny summer day.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Closing the School
The elementary school I attended up to Grade Four will end its life as a school at the end of this month. I don't know what the plan is for building in Creemore that was first a high school, and later an elementary school, and was the first school I attended. There will still be an education offered to young people in Creemore, it's just that the "annex" is closing, and all classes are being consolidated into a newer building nearby. With its high ceilings and large windows, the old school would make an excellent set of condos. I was asked by the editor of the Creemore Echo to put together some of my memories of NCCS, and here's what I submitted.
There may have been a hierarchy at play when I was a student at the 'tall school' in Creemore. Kindergarten was in the basement, Grade Four on the top floor. Yellow shag carpeting dotted with red was no doubt designed to cover spilled paint, dirt and the occasional barf that rained down on it.
Two of the little boys in my Kindergarten were so shy, they would not come into the class. They stayed in the hall, terrified. For one of them, it may have been Christmas before he screwed up the courage to join the Birthday Circle. Miss Bambrick was very patient, and it may have been the lure of a chocolate treat to finally bring him in.
The first year I was in the split Grade One/Two class taught by Mrs. Davidson, I was assured at home that I was so smart, I was being paired up with the 'slow' kids from Grade Two. However, when I was on the Grade Two side of the split a year later, the story changed: I was so bright, I was being recruited to help those poor dummies in Grade One. When I was in a split class again in Grade Four, I noticed there was no one in my class whose surname started with B, F, or H. We were the Ms to Zs, and there were no dummies.
I got into trouble in Grade Two when Lisa Prime busted out a swear word I had taught her in the confines of our snow fort during lunch hour. The teacher didn't believe golden-haired little me had provided that piece of Lisa's education until I confirmed it and solemnly promised never to bring 'barn words' to school again. Two years later, in the middle of a geography lesson, I was engrossed in a Harlequin Romance stolen from under my mother's sewing table when I heard my name and looked up just in time to see a huge cloud of white chalk dust rising around Mrs. Marion Hawkins. I had been so immersed in my purloined love story, I didn't hear her call on me. She had finally lost her temper and slammed her hand onto the chalkboard in frustration.
I ran into Mrs. Davidson the other day, and no matter how many years have passed since I was in her classroom, I can't call her Audrey. I just can't. There was no question of she or Mrs. Hawkins, Mrs. Arnold, Mr. Bell or Mrs. McArthur being referred to by anything other than their honorific and heaven forbid any of those venerable ladies showed up to school in slacks!
I can't remember if we obeyed the stone-carved 'boys' and 'girls' entrances, although I do remember thinking it was pretty stupid to divide us, even while I practiced writing out my married name if I were to partner up with the only boy in my class taller than I. During cold winter recesses, we girls huddled around the front door, chanting, "Mis-ter-Bell, ring-the-bell!" to let us back into the warmth of the building. Once inside, there could be no sneaking around - the din from those squeaky old wooden stairs was so loud it would overwhelm even the laughing, screaming kids as they hustled up or down on their way to learn.
There may have been a hierarchy at play when I was a student at the 'tall school' in Creemore. Kindergarten was in the basement, Grade Four on the top floor. Yellow shag carpeting dotted with red was no doubt designed to cover spilled paint, dirt and the occasional barf that rained down on it.
Two of the little boys in my Kindergarten were so shy, they would not come into the class. They stayed in the hall, terrified. For one of them, it may have been Christmas before he screwed up the courage to join the Birthday Circle. Miss Bambrick was very patient, and it may have been the lure of a chocolate treat to finally bring him in.
The first year I was in the split Grade One/Two class taught by Mrs. Davidson, I was assured at home that I was so smart, I was being paired up with the 'slow' kids from Grade Two. However, when I was on the Grade Two side of the split a year later, the story changed: I was so bright, I was being recruited to help those poor dummies in Grade One. When I was in a split class again in Grade Four, I noticed there was no one in my class whose surname started with B, F, or H. We were the Ms to Zs, and there were no dummies.
I got into trouble in Grade Two when Lisa Prime busted out a swear word I had taught her in the confines of our snow fort during lunch hour. The teacher didn't believe golden-haired little me had provided that piece of Lisa's education until I confirmed it and solemnly promised never to bring 'barn words' to school again. Two years later, in the middle of a geography lesson, I was engrossed in a Harlequin Romance stolen from under my mother's sewing table when I heard my name and looked up just in time to see a huge cloud of white chalk dust rising around Mrs. Marion Hawkins. I had been so immersed in my purloined love story, I didn't hear her call on me. She had finally lost her temper and slammed her hand onto the chalkboard in frustration.
I ran into Mrs. Davidson the other day, and no matter how many years have passed since I was in her classroom, I can't call her Audrey. I just can't. There was no question of she or Mrs. Hawkins, Mrs. Arnold, Mr. Bell or Mrs. McArthur being referred to by anything other than their honorific and heaven forbid any of those venerable ladies showed up to school in slacks!
I can't remember if we obeyed the stone-carved 'boys' and 'girls' entrances, although I do remember thinking it was pretty stupid to divide us, even while I practiced writing out my married name if I were to partner up with the only boy in my class taller than I. During cold winter recesses, we girls huddled around the front door, chanting, "Mis-ter-Bell, ring-the-bell!" to let us back into the warmth of the building. Once inside, there could be no sneaking around - the din from those squeaky old wooden stairs was so loud it would overwhelm even the laughing, screaming kids as they hustled up or down on their way to learn.
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