I buy strange things each week at the grocery store, carefully store them in plastic bags and other containers, keep them in the refrigerator for a few weeks until they’re good and rotten and then throw 'em out. They’re called vegetables.
But there's more going on in my 'fridge than I thought. Recently, I tried to jam a small cabbage into the bottom shelf, but could not because the whole thing was full. But not with any actual food.
What follows is a by-no-means-comprehensive list of the non-food in my 'fridge today:
Tom Yum Soup paste
Anchovies in a tube
Anchovies in a tin
Green curry paste
Red curry paste
Soba noodles with no expiration date, but of whose purchase I have no recollection
Miso- see above
Stuff I thought was miso, but turned out to some other, unidentifiable thing, thanks to the Asian script I don't know how to read
Two kinds of horseradish, plus a jar of pre-mixed Wasabi
Three kinds of soy sauce- one for sushi, one for stir-frying, one reduced-sodium
Four varieties of mustard (five if you count French’s prepared and no-name prepared as two kinds)
Surprisingly, just one bottle of ketchup….
Sambal Oleck- crazy hot Asian sauce
Siraachi sauce- super crazy hot Asian sauce
Sauce for cold or springrolls
Container of lychees in syrup (for lychee martinis)
Maple syrup
Another jar of maple syrup
Hot banana peppers
Homemade pickled leeks
Homemade dill pickles
Storebought dill pickles
Hot mixed pickles
Roasted red peppers
Pesto
6 bottles of salad dressing
One bottle of leftover late harvest white wine. (yuk!)
Half-empty jar of Miracle Whip
Half empty can of tomato paste in a bag (moldy, natch)
Ginger paste
Garlic paste
Crushed garlic
Garlic jelly
Basket of assorted half-empty jams, all homemade by my mother or me. (peach/banana, raspberry, strawberry, blackcap (#1 at the fair!!!), and two chutneys.)
Red pepper spicy chutney
Seriously, I don’t need a beer fridge; I need a condiment fridge!
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
April 13, 2010- And don't call me Baby
With the recent furor over Simcoe Grey's Helena Guergis, one the comments I've heard a few times is why, in the year 2010, we still have a Minister of State for the Status of Women.
Here's an example, albeit a small one, of how women are not exactly at equality just yet:
The radio newsroom at which I work is connected to several other stations, in Owen Sound, Port Elgin, Goderich and soon, Orillia. We share resources and stories and sometimes a laugh or two.When the stories first started breaking about Helena Guergis, some of the newsies at the other stations titled the stories they were writing, 'Helena' rather than "Guergis".
Never when a story comes across my desk featuring a male politician does the slug line feature only the first name of the politician. I checked.
When Bill Murdoch was doing his sit in in the fall in protest of the HST, the stories were titled, 'Murdoch- Sit In' or 'Murdoch- Sit in Continues', not 'Bill- Sit in', or 'Bill- Sit in Continues'. When Jim Wilson makes pronouncements, it's 'Wilson', when Garfield Dunlop talks, the story is slugged 'Dunlop'. Ditto for Harper, Baird, Bernier and Obama. The argument might be made that Jim and Bill need the last name because their first names are so common. Maybe so, but I have yet to see a story slugged, 'Barak'. Since language is the cutting edge of thought, what does referring to a female politician in the diminutive reveal?
The very fact that I had to point this difference out to my male colleagues and request equal treatment for a woman in the news is a small, sad sign we haven't yet come all the way, baby.
Here's an example, albeit a small one, of how women are not exactly at equality just yet:
The radio newsroom at which I work is connected to several other stations, in Owen Sound, Port Elgin, Goderich and soon, Orillia. We share resources and stories and sometimes a laugh or two.When the stories first started breaking about Helena Guergis, some of the newsies at the other stations titled the stories they were writing, 'Helena' rather than "Guergis".
Never when a story comes across my desk featuring a male politician does the slug line feature only the first name of the politician. I checked.
When Bill Murdoch was doing his sit in in the fall in protest of the HST, the stories were titled, 'Murdoch- Sit In' or 'Murdoch- Sit in Continues', not 'Bill- Sit in', or 'Bill- Sit in Continues'. When Jim Wilson makes pronouncements, it's 'Wilson', when Garfield Dunlop talks, the story is slugged 'Dunlop'. Ditto for Harper, Baird, Bernier and Obama. The argument might be made that Jim and Bill need the last name because their first names are so common. Maybe so, but I have yet to see a story slugged, 'Barak'. Since language is the cutting edge of thought, what does referring to a female politician in the diminutive reveal?
The very fact that I had to point this difference out to my male colleagues and request equal treatment for a woman in the news is a small, sad sign we haven't yet come all the way, baby.
Monday, April 12, 2010
April 12, 2010- Guergis Mea Culpa
It's hard not to pay attention to the looooong list of revelations and allegations in this whole Helena Guergis affair, and I admit to being fairly consumed with the story for the past while. Frankly, it's fascinating to witness the national media going nuts over something that's happening in my backyard.
Until Friday, I was fairly certain Helena Guergis would survive these setbacks, and remain the candidate for the federal Conservatives in Simcoe Grey. This is such bedrock conservative country, I figured she could do pretty much anything and still get elected.
But then, the expense accounts sidebar to the saga came out.
Regardless of whatever it is the RCMP may or may not be investigating regarding Helena Guergis, and regardless of what the commons ethics committee finds,the expense accounts have done her in, in Simcoe Grey. One simply cannot ask taxpayers to fork out for a 250 dollar purse as an election expense and expect to keep your seat next time around.
Furthermore, the purse in question was bought at Winners, the discount store. It has not yet been approved or reimbursed, according to the accounts I've read, but she did indeed put in for it.
Most of her would-be supporters will think, if she were going to spend 250-dollars on a handbag, should it not be at a trendy boutique on one of the beleaguered main streets of her home riding? The rest, the biggest supporters (and by big, I mean moneyed), will drop her because now she's shown her true colours and they're not their colours; she's a (shudder of distaste...) discount shopper.
Until Friday, I was fairly certain Helena Guergis would survive these setbacks, and remain the candidate for the federal Conservatives in Simcoe Grey. This is such bedrock conservative country, I figured she could do pretty much anything and still get elected.
But then, the expense accounts sidebar to the saga came out.
Regardless of whatever it is the RCMP may or may not be investigating regarding Helena Guergis, and regardless of what the commons ethics committee finds,the expense accounts have done her in, in Simcoe Grey. One simply cannot ask taxpayers to fork out for a 250 dollar purse as an election expense and expect to keep your seat next time around.
Furthermore, the purse in question was bought at Winners, the discount store. It has not yet been approved or reimbursed, according to the accounts I've read, but she did indeed put in for it.
Most of her would-be supporters will think, if she were going to spend 250-dollars on a handbag, should it not be at a trendy boutique on one of the beleaguered main streets of her home riding? The rest, the biggest supporters (and by big, I mean moneyed), will drop her because now she's shown her true colours and they're not their colours; she's a (shudder of distaste...) discount shopper.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
April 3, 2010- Kitchen Adventure: the spatchcocked turkey
I woke up Saturday morning dreaming of smashing a turkey. November’s edition of Martha Stewart Living (don’t laugh!) has been holding me in thrall for months now, as I think about spatchcocking. Not just fun to say, but a time saver and apparently delicious, too, what's not to like?
Spatchcocking lets you cook a turkey dinner in an hour- none of this getting up early to stuff and get the bird into the oven, no tedious hours of basting, worrying and fussing. My sweetie and I were the cookers of the family Christmas turkey a few years ago, and while it was an honour, it was also a lot of work. Although cooking the bird this way means no stuffing or gravy, I was intrigued at the thought of a bird in an hour.
Finally, last night, I got my chance, and with seven us around the table, I did what you’re never supposed to do: try a new meal for a dinner party.
Spatchcocking is also known as butterflying, but it sounds more technical and somehow surgical, and there are lots of opportunities for making jokes with the word, which is why I quite love it, and used it all day long. “Six hours to spatchcock, honey!” "I wonder if this beer would taste beter spatchcocked..." Yes, juvenile and silly, but still kinda funny.
Sadly, when the time came for the big procedure, it was a teeny bit of a letdown, since it took only a few seconds. Coached by Sweetie, reading from Martha Stewart (certainly a first), I used my poultry shears to cut out the spine of the bird, flipped it over and pushed down really hard on first the left and then the right side of the breast, until I heard the snapping sound of the breaking breastbone. Voila- a flattened turkey.
450 degrees, one hour, according to the recipe.
After we took the fuse out of the smoke alarm, things went really well.
And sure enough, the bird was done in an hour, according to my thermometer, anyway. We had some worries about the donenees, since the leg didn’t separate from the thigh the way it usually does in a roasted bird. One of our guests assured us though, that since there’s so little time in the oven, the connective tissues don’t have time to break down the way they would in a three or four hour roast, and he was pretty sure we weren't setting ourselves up for food poisoning.
It was tasty, I must say, and the dinner was lively and entertaining. I’m totally ready to spatchcock again, if only for the giggle I get every time I say it.
My sweetie, however, is not convinced. He’s a gravy and stuffing man.
I woke up Saturday morning dreaming of smashing a turkey. November’s edition of Martha Stewart Living (don’t laugh!) has been holding me in thrall for months now, as I think about spatchcocking. Not just fun to say, but a time saver and apparently delicious, too, what's not to like?
Spatchcocking lets you cook a turkey dinner in an hour- none of this getting up early to stuff and get the bird into the oven, no tedious hours of basting, worrying and fussing. My sweetie and I were the cookers of the family Christmas turkey a few years ago, and while it was an honour, it was also a lot of work. Although cooking the bird this way means no stuffing or gravy, I was intrigued at the thought of a bird in an hour.
Finally, last night, I got my chance, and with seven us around the table, I did what you’re never supposed to do: try a new meal for a dinner party.
Spatchcocking is also known as butterflying, but it sounds more technical and somehow surgical, and there are lots of opportunities for making jokes with the word, which is why I quite love it, and used it all day long. “Six hours to spatchcock, honey!” "I wonder if this beer would taste beter spatchcocked..." Yes, juvenile and silly, but still kinda funny.
Sadly, when the time came for the big procedure, it was a teeny bit of a letdown, since it took only a few seconds. Coached by Sweetie, reading from Martha Stewart (certainly a first), I used my poultry shears to cut out the spine of the bird, flipped it over and pushed down really hard on first the left and then the right side of the breast, until I heard the snapping sound of the breaking breastbone. Voila- a flattened turkey.
450 degrees, one hour, according to the recipe.
After we took the fuse out of the smoke alarm, things went really well.
And sure enough, the bird was done in an hour, according to my thermometer, anyway. We had some worries about the donenees, since the leg didn’t separate from the thigh the way it usually does in a roasted bird. One of our guests assured us though, that since there’s so little time in the oven, the connective tissues don’t have time to break down the way they would in a three or four hour roast, and he was pretty sure we weren't setting ourselves up for food poisoning.
It was tasty, I must say, and the dinner was lively and entertaining. I’m totally ready to spatchcock again, if only for the giggle I get every time I say it.
My sweetie, however, is not convinced. He’s a gravy and stuffing man.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
April 1, 2010- Dear Editor
Now, I'm not the editor of a newspaper, but I still thought I should share this letter to the editor with you after it arrived in my email box:
Dear Editor,
My boss is really great, but some people seem to have forgotten it. I worry for my company because so many people have had nasty things to say about my boss.
Do those people really think they could do a better job? ha! Fat chance.
People who think my boss shouldn't have their job as my boss are just plain stupid and mean. Furthermore, people who disagree with anything my company does are stupid and mean and they take up valuable oxygen that could be used by other people, people who agree with us and what we're trying to do, which is make the world a better place for everyone who agrees with us.
In sum, my boss good, everyone who doesn't agree, bad.
Yours respectfully,
Cordelia Fitzgerald.
Dear Editor,
My boss is really great, but some people seem to have forgotten it. I worry for my company because so many people have had nasty things to say about my boss.
Do those people really think they could do a better job? ha! Fat chance.
People who think my boss shouldn't have their job as my boss are just plain stupid and mean. Furthermore, people who disagree with anything my company does are stupid and mean and they take up valuable oxygen that could be used by other people, people who agree with us and what we're trying to do, which is make the world a better place for everyone who agrees with us.
In sum, my boss good, everyone who doesn't agree, bad.
Yours respectfully,
Cordelia Fitzgerald.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
March 28, 2010- Lost Youth
I spent an extraordinary evening in Orangeville this weekend, at a classical music concert put on by one of my nephews, who's planning a career in music, and has been conditionally accepted at the University of Toronto. He plays the trumpet and the piano. His siblings also play piano and trumpet, and together, they put on a concert to raise funds for his tuition. This was not chopsticks, let me tell you, this was Debussy, and Rachmaninoff (why so angry, asks my husband...), and honestly, I don't know who all, but serious, fabulous music. There was no napping in the audience, especially as one of the brothers slyly inserted several bars of the Flintstones theme song into the Rhapsody in Blue. It totally worked.
The young man who's headed to school spoke between pieces, self-effacing and humble and unintentionally funny. The concert hall wasn't packed, but it was close to full, and at 15 bucks a head, he will do well enough to pay for at least some of his texts, should his high school marks be good enough to get him into the program.
As I watched this talented and hard-working young man up there, I thought, if I'd been prescient enough to fund raise for my education, what sort of programme could I have managed? I'm pretty sure no one would pay money to hear me complain about the patriarchy, a favourite theme of mine at the time. I doubt they would care to hear about the thrill I got from reading 'The Stones of Venice". Neither would many people pay to see my excellent work at daydreaming, journal writing, necking, movie-watching or vodka-and-OJ consumption at Junior Farmers' dances.
We spend a lot of time despairing over youth these days, but I'm thinking some of these youtes are all right.
The young man who's headed to school spoke between pieces, self-effacing and humble and unintentionally funny. The concert hall wasn't packed, but it was close to full, and at 15 bucks a head, he will do well enough to pay for at least some of his texts, should his high school marks be good enough to get him into the program.
As I watched this talented and hard-working young man up there, I thought, if I'd been prescient enough to fund raise for my education, what sort of programme could I have managed? I'm pretty sure no one would pay money to hear me complain about the patriarchy, a favourite theme of mine at the time. I doubt they would care to hear about the thrill I got from reading 'The Stones of Venice". Neither would many people pay to see my excellent work at daydreaming, journal writing, necking, movie-watching or vodka-and-OJ consumption at Junior Farmers' dances.
We spend a lot of time despairing over youth these days, but I'm thinking some of these youtes are all right.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
March 23, 2010- Spring Ahead Redux
Most people groan when they hear what time I need to get up to be at work on the radio each morning. And while my body has never truly adjusted to the early hours, there is definitely something worse than having an alarm go off at 3:50 am.
It's getting up when that alarm goes off, getting dressed, kissing my sweetheart goodbye and then, pulling lunch out of the fridge, noticing the clock on the microwave says it's not 4:05, but only 3:05. Same thing on the clock on the stove. And the clock on the coffee maker.
It's the sickly feeling of doom rumbling across the pit of my stomach as I realize that somehow, the 'regular' clock, the one upstairs by the bed, has been pushed ahead an hour. It only takes the accidental push of one button to make that change.
So, back upstairs, put back on the pyjamas, push the dog off the still-warm spot on the bed and crawl back under the covers, hoping my body won't notice it's already been awake, hoping to regain the nearly lost hour, and then lying awake, savouring the possibility of an nap this afternoon.
That's what's worse than getting out of bed at 3:50: it's waking up, dreaming about taking a nap.
It's getting up when that alarm goes off, getting dressed, kissing my sweetheart goodbye and then, pulling lunch out of the fridge, noticing the clock on the microwave says it's not 4:05, but only 3:05. Same thing on the clock on the stove. And the clock on the coffee maker.
It's the sickly feeling of doom rumbling across the pit of my stomach as I realize that somehow, the 'regular' clock, the one upstairs by the bed, has been pushed ahead an hour. It only takes the accidental push of one button to make that change.
So, back upstairs, put back on the pyjamas, push the dog off the still-warm spot on the bed and crawl back under the covers, hoping my body won't notice it's already been awake, hoping to regain the nearly lost hour, and then lying awake, savouring the possibility of an nap this afternoon.
That's what's worse than getting out of bed at 3:50: it's waking up, dreaming about taking a nap.
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