space

What a day.

Last Tuesday, I spent a regular old day in Ottawa for work. Did a shoot at CTV, had lunch in the Byward Market and sat in Chapter's reading a book about cupcakes. I flew back on Porter and took a cab home. Then I got up at three in the morning to look at an orange moon.

If anyone in North America, Greenland or Iceland got out of bed at 2:45 am ET like I did on December 21st, they should feel changed. Not the way you would feel if you survived an earthquake or won the lottery or fell off a cliff but...something. You witnessed some planetary alignment that doesn't happen all that often.

From the scribbled bits I can make out of the notes I took half asleep in the dark on my balcony, I recount the following:

If you were standing on the moon, you would see two sunsets.
It looked soft.
An orange glowy light.
Orion was in plain view.
Two shooting stars.
The cats went berserk.

You can see by the blurry, slightly Photoshopped, contrast enhanced shot just how tempted I was to take a photo with my little digital Canon. There are plenty of better pictures all over the internet of that rusty old moon. Namely NASA's website (nasa.gov), which will lead you to Mr. Eclipse (mreclipse.com) where you can learn all kinds of things.

Like how to take a better photo of a lunar eclipse for one. And, safety first...

"One of the great things about lunar eclipses is that they are completely safe to view with the naked eye. No special filters are required to protect your eyes like those used for solar eclipses. You don't even need a telescope to watch the eclipse although a good pair of binoculars will help," says Mr. Eclipse.

Fun for the whole family. And I can vouch for the binocs. Suggesting them is one of the better ideas I've had lately.

So mark your calendars for the next mid morning wake up call. According to Mr. Eclipse, North Americans will have their next opportunity to see a total lunar eclipse on April 15, 2014.

That is of course, if we don't all spill off the side of this planet on December 12, 2012. Space will then take on a whole new meaning.

It already means different things in different circumstances.

Wikipedia defines space - the disambiguation one - as: a three-dimensional framework in which we can sense direction and quantify distances between objects or points.

Personal. In this in between time during the holidays where things slow down, it's a pleasure to ride public transit. So much space! People are friendlier, traffic is lighter, there is less pushing and more parking spaces. Are we simply nicer because we're allowed to have a little more personal space?

There are computers and keyboards. My thumb is resting on the space bar as I type this.

If you're an editor and use Final Cut Pro, the space bar is an important key. It starts and stops your stories.

Music. Over the holidays, I've enjoyed being tucked away in my own space. Futzing and puttering, reading and writing, listening to music and doing puzzles. Turns out Fleetwood Mac's old song Tusk, would be a great soundtrack for an eclipse. Just the beat of it. An instrumental version. There is something base and simple and strong about its rhythm that makes you feel like you are somewhere else. Like how you might feel, for example, staring up at a clear starry sky while a full moon is covered in a shadow and appears to be the colour of sunset.

I'm more of a Battlestar Gallactica fan than a Trekkie and will be finishing up season 4.5 on New Year's. Sweet closure.

Art. Visual, photography, film, dance - all use negative space. I enjoy this. I am a minimalist and generally find things too crowded. I prefer things to be simple, clean, less. Perhaps it's my prairie roots. There is so much space out there you don't know what to do with half of it. The other half is being farmed.

As we approach a new year the days get longer and the earth continues to revolve, we go about our affairs in however much space we've got.

I'm not very scientifically minded but I sure did enjoy looking up at a carrot coloured moon.

What a night.

belonging

I am from a small town on the prairies and have lived in a handful of cities across Canada. I have moved from place to place in hopes of finding a place to belong. I have had breakfast at the Legion and attended black tie galas with famous people. The conversation has been as entertaining, educational and challenging in both arenas.

I know people who pack up their entire lives and relocate around the planet. Sometimes temporarily, sometimes permanently, sometime repeatedly. Why? Work, fear, love, loss, or in search of a sense of belonging.

My friend Michelle has Métis roots and has created an entire web project - Ota nda yanaan-We are here (www.otandayanaan.net) to contribute to the preservation, revitalization and accessibility of Michif, the language of the Métis of North America. The site involves a literal and figurative re-mapping of Métis communities in cyberspace and shows the stories and knowledge of people who belong to a community where Michif is still spoken in hopes of not losing a cultural legacy.

Dictionary.com defines belong as this: to be proper or due; be properly or appropriately placed, situated, etc.: Books belong in every home. This belongs on the shelf. He is a statesman who belongs among the great.

While walking down the bike path to the train the other morning, I saw a single knitting needle. Fallen out of someone's bag, it was lying there on the wet, cold pavement. What good is one knitting needle? It isn't. It belongs to a pair. As most of us aspire to do.

Pat Benetar sang about it. The lyrics to the chorus of We Belong are: "We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder. We belong to the sound of the words we've both fallen under. Whatever we deny or embrace for worse or for better, we belong, we belong...we belong together" I heard this on a recent flight tuned in to an 80's channel.

We don't belong on airplanes. It's the farthest thing from nature. Up to 36,000 feet away from anything natural. But technology has advanced so we are able to board and take off and land and arrive anywhere in the world we want to go. More often than not, safely. Like Ukraine for example, where storks build nests on the tops of street lights. I guess they think they belong there.

Years ago, I flew to Europe and wandered around for six months. To save money, I ended up living on a kibbutz in Israel for a while. The group of volunteers I belonged to was a bag of mixed nuts from Holland, Denmark, Sweden, South Africa, New Zealand, Papua New Guinea and England. There also was one American guy named Larry, and me. The bonding agent between us was that we were all foreigners in a foreign place. For the time we lived there, we belonged there. We lived peacefully in our shared guesthouses. Earned our keep by working various jobs - picking avocados, taking shifts at the barrel making factory, doing laundry, sorting eggs, prepping food. We ate wonderfully huge lunchtime meals in the communal dining room and shared stories around bonfires of where we came from.

We don't choose where we come from. Like it or not, we belong to a family. And it happens to be the time of year where we end up spending time with them. Here in Canada, we shuffle around in our wool and leather, through ice and snow and wind to show up at gatherings that have potential to be hectic, fussy and challenging. Ideally they will also contain joy, love and laughter.

So if you find yourself sipping mulled wine, listening to Boney M's 20 Greatest Christmas Songs, trying to figure out where you belong, it might be worthwhile to let the longing go, and just...be.

beware the evil snowman

In case my entry to the CBC literary awards flash fiction contest doesn't win, I've posted it below.

The rules:
250 words max.
Must start with "The snowman grinned malevolently as.."
Must end with with "...buried alive.

_______________



The snowman grinned malevolently as you walk past him to the change room. Festive blow up figures crowd the entrance. A polar bear and his sidekick, a penguin wearing a red hat, the evil snowman.

It is December 28th and you need a swim. Too much gorging on homemade truffles and Spanish coffees at the in-laws.

The water is warmer than normal because they offer physiotherapy classes here. You think it’s decadent. Your friends think it’s gross. You think you need new friends. There are three lanes — fast, slow and medium. In September you were fast. Today, medium. The water is like honey around your bloated body and you think about the New Year. You will volunteer more. You will exercise. You will not be so hard on yourself.

You do a flip at the end of the lane like a pro. Everything goes black. Your skull has cracked in half. Is there much blood? The pool will need to close for days. You are not a pro. You are a fool. You pull yourself up and cling to the edge.

There is no blood. The pretty young lifeguard gives you a bag of ice and makes you sit in the office. She suggests you go home.

You shower, change and put your toque on to hide the growing bump. The penguin, the bear and that smirking snowman all watch you leave. Soon enough, you think. You jokers will be removed, deflated and stuffed in a bin, buried alive.

they are right

Yesterday I got up and went to work like any other day. It was earlier than usual as I was filming an event at Microsoft's Mississauga office. After I had taped a shotgun microphone to a chair and placed the chair in front of the stage in hopes of getting some kind of usable audio record - that's how it goes some days - I listened to a surprisingly interesting talk about women and diversity. Microsoft’s Patti-Ann Marzocco, VP Original Equipment Manufacturers was the guest speaker at the ITAC/CWC Speaker Series Event. She told memorable, relevant stories about her personal and professional life. I will post the link to the talk when it goes up on ITAC's website next week. It's an hour long. But good. So pour a glass of wine or steep some tea and watch it. One thing Patti-Ann said about risk was there are two outcomes when you take one: you will either succeed or you will learn something.

Back at the office after a quick edit I set the video to compress and stepped out to get some lunch at the new sushi place on Lake Shore Ave.

For those of you not familiar with this Toronto neighbourhood, Lake Shore is a busy street one block down from where you can get on to the Gardiner Expressway. The area is comfy cozy with a bunch of new condos under construction, the Westin's convention centre, some office towers, the ACC, the ferry terminal and an expensive parking lot beside the Harbour Sixty Steakhouse. They've plunked a Second Cup on the corner of Bay and the Gardiner turn off Eastbound. An unlikely spot to have a cup of tea midday but I've done it and it works.

At the intersection of Bay and Harbour Street, which is sort of extends into Lake Shore - see photo - the light was red for me (crossing North) and green for the traffic (heading East). While I waited for the light to turn so I could cross Harbour Street, a car - one of those black airport limos - was coming down Lake Shore (read: Harbour Eastbound), going about 50 or 60 km, and was about 500 feet away from the intersection.

At the same time, at the same intersection a man begins to cross the street towards me. He does not look either way before crossing. I look at the limo. I look at the man. At the speeds they are both traveling, the car will hit the man. The man keeps walking. He walks straight towards me, but looks past me.

He is tall, old, 75 I would guess, grey hair, perfect posture, medium complexion - Algerian or Greek maybe. He wears an expensive black overcoat and carries a single shopping bag - the kind made of glossy black paper and has silky cords for handles - something from a high end jeweler or clothing store.

The limo is forced to slow down. The man is now two feet in front of me...and the car.

"You are crossing on a red light," I say.

He steps up to the curb.

The limo slows down even more and rolls down the window.

"You are an asshole!" the driver shouts.

The man looks at me and says, "They are right. They. Are. Right."

They are right.

This, could could refer to a number of things:
- the driver of the car thinking this man is an asshole
- the item in his bag being overpriced
- Second Cup deciding it was a good idea to put a new shop here
- Microsoft
- a city wide bedbug infestation
- whoever he spoke to last and their political affiliation
- the CBC
- the item in his bag being fairly priced
- his parents
- the forces of the universe

No matter what his statement meant to him - or me - several absolutes happened right there on the street.

The man crossed the street.
The car did not collide with the man.
The light turned green and I looked both ways before crossing.

Later that afternoon, a man in Toronto's East end killed his father with a cross bow in a library.

The son took a risk.
He succeeded in murdering his father.
We learned something is not right.

time is of the essence

This is what 5:45 p.m. E.D.T looked like after we switched the clocks. It's darker now. So much for saving the daylight.

It's a month before Christmas and people are starting to panic, scurry, and deny that it is already this time of year. How time flies! It seems like only yesterday... Where does the time go?

It's time. It passes. We think we've got all the time in the world. We don't.

I'm reading God is Not Great by Christopher Hitchens for bookclub.

He writes:

"The history of the cosmos begins, if we use the word "time" to mean anything at all, about twelve billion years ago. (If we use the word "time" wrongly, we shall end up with the infantile computation of the celebrated Archbishop James Ussher of Armagh, who calculated that the earth -"the earth", alone, mind you, not the cosmos- had its birthday on Saturday, October 22, in 4004 BC, at six in the afternoon...

...As a species on earth, according to many sanguine experts, we do not have many more eons ahead of us.

If you've got time, you could read the book yourself. Unless you think it would be a waste of time.

I am with Ursula K. Le Guin, 80, and her take on spare time. In her blog [http://www.ursulakleguin.com/Blog2010.html] she said it best when filling out an anonymous questionnaire for the sixtieth reunion of Harvard.

Ursula writes:

"...to the Questioners of Harvard my lifework has been a “Creative Activity,” a hobby, something you do to fill up spare time. Perhaps if they knew I’d made a living out of it they’d move it to a more respectable category; but I rather doubt it....

In my case I still don’t know what spare time is because all my time is occupied. It always has been and it is now. It’s occupied by living...

What is Harvard thinking of? I am going to be eighty-one tomorrow. I have no time to spare."

My friend's six year old daughter has a particularly good opinion about sexy time. The conversation went something like this:

"Mom, do you have sexy time with dad?"
My friend pauses - it's finally time for the talk.
"Yes."
"Thought so."
"What do you think sexy time is?"
"Oh, you get in your underwear together. Sometimes dance around."
My friend smiles.
"Mom?"
"Yes."
"Did you have sexy time with boys before dad?"

Overtime. Theoretically spare time. Ideally not interfering with sexy time. At least you are being rewarded with cash.

Many songs have used time as a theme: Time in a Bottle, Working 9 to 5, Time is on My Side, Time After Time. Of course the famous line from Kenny Rogers The Gambler "...there'll be time enough for countin', when the dealin's done". And if you don't know when that is, perhaps you shouldn't be wasting your time, gambling.

"Just another five minutes." No. Neither right nor wrong, it always takes longer than you think, whatever it is. The laundry, dinner preparations, the drive home, writing this blog, your commute, sex!, editing a book, doing a workout, being on hold with a customer service representative, cleaning the back yard, shucking oysters at home, vacuuming, groceries, movie line ups, lunch, savouring that lofty, rich, expensive wine.

Time outs. In addition to disciplining children and pets, let's hope the Saskatchewan Roughriders keep strategy and due diligence top of mind with their time outs next weekend during the Grey Cup.

Once upon a time, I worked on a CBC TV show about lifestyle and culture. The executive producer told me about a story he tried to get. He was to film the caribou migration in the Yukon. They spent a week in the area filming everything but caribou.

At the beginning of each day when the light was good he would ask the Chief, do you think the caribou will run today? To which the Chief did not reply immediately. He stood. He looked. He breathed deeply. Three minutes passed. He stood. He watched. He turned and faced the east. Another minute. He turned the other way. One more minute.

Not today, he said and turned and went inside.
____________________________________

From the Lord of the Rings, 'The Shadow of the Past', Gandalf says it best,

"All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."


I could go on but I'm out of time.

sir neil diamond

This is one of the rare photos of Neil sleeping. He does sleep. But with one eye open. Sometimes both. A year ago November 6th, we brought this little guy home after signing the papers from the Toronto Cat Rescue. http://www.TorontoCatRescue.ca

We thought it would be a good idea for Eighteen (the three year old stray we brought in) to have a pal.

Well.

After much hissing and growling and running and paw batting and a temporary hunger strike from Eighteen, the two have come to an understanding. Just like the vet and the woman from Toronto Cat Rescue said they would.

They understand they do not care much for each other.

However there are brief moments of affection. Followed by longer moments of aggravation, frustration, anticipation, trepidation, fascination, obsession, justification, fixation, suspicion, and some good old fashioned loathing.

Cats do things on their terms, their way, in their time. As a Leo, these are traits I admire, envy and aspire to.

In the year he has been with us, Neil's behaviour has altered - dramatically. He greets us at the door. He chases shadows. His favourite toys are rolled up bits of paper. He knows which drawer they're in. He sits in the tub. He likes pickle juice and yogurt. He let's us rub his belly. He won't let us trim his claws. He is obsessed with the toilet flushing. He meows faintly and only when necessary. And he smacks Eighteen in the bum every chance he gets.

Eighteen could have happily gone on without this hyper alert, odd, goofy cartoon-like roommate, but she has no choice. And behind closed doors, who knows what they get up to? Perhaps he massages her temples, fluffs her litter, steeps her tea, sprinkles catnip on the rug for her and fetches her string?

I have witnessed their 'game on' chase that has recently come into play. Make no mistake, the lady is in charge. The chase route takes it course from couch to chair. Behind the plants and up to the windowsills. Truce point is when we get to clean up the dirt that's been spilled from potted plants. We gather up the newspapers torn apart that litter the living room in disarray. I've even had to pick up cushions from the floor that were used as a launch pad.

He is still skittish and the feral may never go away but the clumsy cuddler has started to sneak up on our laps in the evening. He follows my husband around like a little black shadow. He goes back to bed to snuggle with us. Until he flips out and transforms into a battle cat on red alert.

Why the name? He came with it. Originally they thought he was a female so it was Nella. Turns out she was a he. So, Neil. We added the Diamond. And the Sir. I mean, look at him. There is a small white square on his chest and a white patch on his belly. Someone told me once the white bits are features in black cats "to let the evil out".

It's a tiny gesture in the grand scheme of things.
It's a purring calm from a creature who trusts you.
It's a good day when you can give a home to something that needs it...one cat at a time.

gewürz-galerie

Last March I had very improperly labeled, in fact not at all, baggies of spice and used cumin instead of cardamom in a ginger cake. It turned out fine but the ladies at the health food store laughed at me.

I vowed to get a better spice rack.

All set for a trip to Canadian Tire to use up some well earned CT money I found a box in our storage room containing the spice rack pictured above.

My husband has had this piece he got in Germany for about ten years but never never used it. So we dusted it off and nailed it to the wall in the kitchen. Gewürz-Galerie translated is "spice galerie". The names of the little bottles are in German so my cooking now doubles as a language lesson.

It's got the essentials. Pfeffer, paprika, knoblach (garlic). I fill the dill jar with rock salt and the marjoram with cinnamon. I grated some whole muskat (nutmeg) for a pumpkin loaf I made this weekend.

I still don't have a solution for my cumin and cardamom dilemma. Those women at the health food store can continue their schadenfreude at the expense of my mix up. I still have those baggies on the bottom shelf of the pantry.

Keeps me guessing. Keeps the spice in my life...varied.

Wunderbar.

stuff

We have too much stuff.

By 'we' I mean me. Us. North Americans, Europeans, Aussies and middle to upper class members of any other first world nation.

A friend recently moved back to Montreal from L.A. She managed to fit her life into six boxes. The essentials, she said.

The only good thing about moving is the purge. I plan one of gigantic proportions the next time around.

I grew up in a house where everything was saved. Every yogurt container, every plastic bag, every art class painting, Christmas card and macaroni cardboard statue. Every notebook, elastic band and used birthday candle.

My parents' basement is still filled with stuff. There are boxes of unused Avon products under the pool table, pennants from family vacations, transistor radios, a filing cabinet (full of papers, maps, and research), a guitar, cupboards full of board games, a lot of paperbacks, an old stereo, a few coffee tables, old winter coats, puzzles mounted with glue on plywood, spare chairs, extra pillows, a bar with shooter glasses, ashtrays and a jar full of bottle caps. There are spare blankets, old laundry baskets, too many towels, and five kinds of shampoo in the guest shower. Their freezer could very well have bags of perogies and raspberries in hiding from the 1980's. It's too full to tell.

The garage is also full of stuff. Fishing rods, tools, tennis rackets, cross country skies, pails, lids, bits of wood, scrap metal, bikes, golf clubs, a minivan, two cat beds, tackle boxes, baseball bats, badminton rackets, a barbeque, lawn chairs, a fridge, boxes of old blankets for the Humane Society, a tarp for the boat that was sold ten years ago, a tent, spare tires, flower pots, and a bunch of gardening tools.

Behind the garage sits a camper van, a rain barrel, garbage cans, chicken wire, containers and a few buckets.

And there's a shed out back in the far corner of the garden that houses various rakes, a fence, more lawn chairs, a pair of crutches, a garden hose, floor mats, rubber boots, oars, some carpet, a watering can, a spare gas can, another hose, a lawn bowling set, and some iron stakes.

It's how things go. It adds up over time.

I don't want a big house because I lose enough crap in the small two bedroom apartment I currently live in. Why? Because there is too much of it.

A trend is upon us where thrifty, green folk are opting to live in smaller spaces. I mean 600 sq' places. Google “tiny homes” and you’ll see what I mean.

It is our obsession with stuff that allows shows like A&E’s Hoarders get produced. It’s how companies like 1-800-GOT-JUNK exist. It has allowed Value Village to have a 54 year history and they continue to evolve. It’s why Toronto ships its garbage to Michigan.

Nineteen years ago I went to Europe with a backpack. It too, was filled with too much stuff. I took a detour and ended up living on a kibbutz in Israel for a while. From there I went to Egypt for three weeks and took only my day pack, leaving my large bag in storage. The small pack filled with very few items of clothing and sunscreen. It was enough. Granted it was March in the desert, but still.

I’ve read that a woman only needs a few essentials in her closet. The list runs anywhere from six to twelve things that could include the following: a good suit, a crisp white shirt, jeans, tee shirts in black, white and one “fun” colour, a leather jacket, a trench coat (neutral in colour), a little black dress (LBD), boots, black pumps, ballet flats, jewelry, and a medium sized handbag.

I've got a lot more than twelve items in my closet. But I have also been doing a test. Since February I've stopped buying clothes. I don’t need anything more. I caved and bought a top at a second hand shop and in July I bought two pairs of sandals. (A change in job description meant I needed some functional, comfortable shoes.) I still have too many boots. I just bought a new pair ⎯ flat, functional yet stylish ⎯ because I just gave my flat functional yet stylish black boots (along with a second pair) to Value Village. I also bought two pairs of pants at Value Village while looking for a Halloween costume ⎯which I never ended up getting.

So my test failed. But I bought a lot fewer clothes than last year.

You don't realize how many cars are being produced until you end up doing a video shoot on a factory line at a GM plant. This was a few years ago. I'm sure they've slowed down, and it's about time.

How much do we really need?

We need food, shelter, clean water and clothing.
We need love, warmth, light and purpose.
We need health and laughter and kind words.
We need peace, understanding, compassion and education.
We don't need more cars.

But we do like our stuff. Our collections, souvenirs, decorations and electronics. Our gadgets and doodads and chuchkas and lucky charms.

We like our stuff and we are conditioned to want more. We think we never have enough.

And then we hear about people like Allen and Violet Large. http://www.cbc.ca/canada/nova-scotia/story/2010/11/04/ns-allen-violet-large-lottery-winning.html.

The world stops in shock to stare at them because they won over $11 million and gave all but 2% of it away. They didn’t buy a new car, take a trip or get a microwave. They have everything they need.

They have enough.

What it comes down to is this:

All that stuff you have…is stuff you can't take with you.

boo yeah

I love going places I've never been.

This Halloween my husband and I dressed up in last year's costumes and walked to our local video store to return a movie - Sleepy Hollow. The bustle was just beginning. After dark, after we lit our own jack 'o lanterns, changed costumes and took another walk.

Here is what we found.

A new place. The same street we see everyday was now alive with spirit, wonder, and imagination. The neighbourhood had exploded into a fantasy world. Gangs of superheroes, ghosts and goblins, princesses and pirates and a guy that was half eaten walking around in the mouth of a shark. Hundreds of kids, parents and dogs were wandering around interacting with each other.

Interacting. With. Each. Other.

In Toronto.

It was an inspiring sight to see so many people so involved . One house (pictured) had a giant eyeball stuck in the tree and a blow up cat whose head followed you as you walked by. Two live cats were also skulking around the lawn. Another house had battery operated dummies lying on the ground scratching at the pavement and moaning. A headless farmer was perched on a hay bale, and plastic hands stuck out of the ground beside overgrown headstones. They had the most elaborate pumpkins on display - one was even carved into the face of Chucky, another was the Corpse Bride. Further up the street, a ring of ghosts hung from a tree branch and circled around a spinning wheel while Thriller played through the outdoor speakers.

Then we came home, enlightened, lit all the candles, pigged out on the candy we'd kept for ourselves, watched The Shining and put the costume bag away for another year.

Shouldn't we do this more often?

Boo!
Yeah.

snacks on a plane

I carry a baggie of nuts, seed and dried fruit with me at all times. You never know where your next meal is coming from. And if I get stuck on a job, a bus, an edit or an airport, I want to be prepared. If I don't eat enough, I get a bit wrangy, irritable, and plain old stupid.

Today my baggie contains almonds, walnuts, pumpkin seeds, dried blueberries, sour cherries and gooseberries.

Of course, if you do get stuck at an airport, and it happens to be the Island Airport, you can fill up on ginger cookies or shortbread or toasted almonds to your heart's delight. Porter recently celebrated (with cupcakes, see photo) four years of business. Flying refined. I'll say. Breakfast, lunch, and a glass of wine or a tall can of Steam Whistle that's complimentary? Hip hip hooray. I will do anything to avoid a trip to Pearson.

If I have to go to Ottawa for the day (which happens maybe twice or three times a year) I can ride my bike to the Island Airport, lock it up, hop on a state-of-the-art Bombardier Q400, do my business, then do the reverse to get home. No need to dip into my emergency nut sack.

Then there's is flying privately.

Well.

Disclaimer: This has happened only once.

I was hired to shoot the ground breaking ceremony for new gold mine near Timmins. A brisk September morning after making the 90 second ferry ride over to the terminal, the gang (16 of us) walked straight past the pleasant, navy clad Porter employee down the special steps on the right.

Outside, a few hundred feet to the end of the building, we rounded the corner where the pilot met us in the private terminal. Washrooms, leather chairs and that morning's Globe and Mail there for the taking. Eight people per plane were to board each of the two King Air 200's awaiting us. Lovely little aircraft. Extra smooth flight to the airstrip outside Timmins, then another hour's drive through the winding forested rocky road to the mine near Metachawan.

Only on the return flight did I learn that my colleague was afraid to fly. I suppose that's why he dipped in the portable cooler of canned Canadians first. We passed a basket of chips and peanuts around and enjoyed happy hour. It was Friday, 3:00 pm.

I'm not going to lie to you. I hate line ups and would prefer a private flight any day.

That said, Porter is indeed, flying refined.

october dusk haiku

today on the path
october dusk is not cold
light on still water

stop

We are so small.

Think about that for a moment. We are alive on an orbit that is revolving in a universe which is a tiny part of a thing that is a size we (any of us) cannot perceive.

The term is "mind boggling".

Things happen around us constantly. But don't confuse fate with coincidence.

When you are not looking, when you are not searching for answers, or trying to stay awake, or wanting to get to sleep, or struggling to get things done, when you least expect it, here is short list of what you might find:

- a ten dollar bill in your winter jacket pocket
- two extra containers of apple sauce at the back of the pantry cupboard
- an idea
- a coin on the street...maybe even a whole dollar
- a dinosaur hiding in the trees on the bike path
- the love of your life
- a cat -a little creature, who becomes your little pal, part of the family. Now it's a thing you can't live without. Something you cherish because this animal is your safe place. It brings you joy.
- laughter
- a photo exhibit in a mall where an image of a giraffe lying in a dried up riverbed moves you to tears.
- a new friend
- a good deal on laundry detergent
- some small sense of stability
- a little old lady who can't get her bank card to work. Help her.

Full stop.

Vote Crack Back

I enjoy being somewhere I've never been before. A different bike route home, getting groceries at a new grocery store, an ethnic restaurant on the other side of town. Sometimes my work takes me to these places. Cities like Paris (France), Santa Monica (California), or Alexandria (Ontario).

I have an affinity for small towns because it is where I come from. I know what they are. They are a unit, a community, an entity. A small town is a solid place to be from. But growing up in a small town on the prairies I left me thinking, there must be more to it than this.

There is.

There is plenty to see, to do, to feel, to eat, to touch, to hear out there. Wherever there is. The world is your oyster. That's what being from a small town teaches you. It teaches you that you can go anywhere and talk to anyone. Or maybe that was just my dad. That's what he does. I love him dearly and marvel at his skill. He will talk to anyone. At length. Anytime. About anything.

But the thing is...where you are, is where you're at.

So now I live in the city that Canada loves to hate. It's busy and congested and smelly and it has a lot of great restaurants. And on an evening of an election for our new mayor, I wish I were in a smaller place. A simpler place. I really don't need that much.

But I voted. Where I live. In Toronto. I did my civic duty. Will it make a difference?

What struck me in Alexandria were the simple, bilingual signs: "Re-elect Grant Crack for Mayor"

I have no doubt if I were to dig deeper into this community I would find a cast of characters rich enough to complete a hearty collection of short stories, an anthology of plays, a film crammed with local, admirable wonders.

Fargo (North Dakota). I vacationed there as a teen.

Enough said.

About Alexandria:

North Glengarry is a township in eastern Ontario, Canada, in the United Counties of Stormont, Dundas and Glengarry. It is a 69% rural area located between Ottawa-Hull, Montreal and Cornwall-Massena. The current township of North Glengarry was created on January 1, 1998 by amalgamating the former townships of Kenyon and Lochiel with the villages of Maxville and Alexandria.

The township comprises the urban community of Alexandria (population 3,287) and the rural communities of Apple Hill, Athol, Baltics Corners, Breadalbane, Brodie, Dalkeith, Dominionville, Dornie, Dunvegan, Fairview, Fassifern, Fiskes Corners, Glen Robertson, Glen Sandfield, Greenfield, Guaytown, Kirkhill, Laggan, Lochiel, Lochinvar, Lorne, Maxville, McCormick, McCrimmon, Pine Grove, St. Elmo and Stewarts Glen.

Alexandria is served five or six times a day by the Montreal-Ottawa VIA Rail trains which almost all stop there, in each direction.

Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_Glengarry,_Ontario

fall

We fall because we rise. We arrive at a place and now have somewhere to fall from. A place of risk, change, opportunity.

Fall. Autumn. The season where everything is red and gold. Leaves, light, apple pie. The glimmer in your eye when you wink at me. Bottle it up. Can a few jars to get you through the frosty grey days ahead.

A plane falls out of the sky and collides with the sea killing everyone on board. Innocent, guilty, and the undecided. They are gone, never to fall again.

She falls in love. He does not. She falls apart.

Freefall. Terminal velocity clocks in at 195 km/hr. A speed where existence is clean and sharp and precise. Different rules apply. One move is like a thousand. It is clear and present. Danger? Calculated risk.

They fall on their knees and pray. To a God of their choice. They fall to the ground and ask for forgiveness, peace, understanding. They give thanks for the blessings and beg the curses to go away.

Jack fell down and broke his crown. Jill came tumbling after.

We fall into the arms of our lovers. We lean heavily there. Breathing into their chest against warm skin to soothe our tired minds. We tremble, we break. They hold steady. Our soft place to fall.

Hair falls to the floor in the salon. Strands of silver, black, yellow, white. Collected in piles, it is swept up and tossed away. Once part of a living thing it is dust. Trash.

At the end of every day the sun falls behind the earth. It is that one thing to count on.

The price of fertilizer does the opposite of fall. It rises. Mother Nature had a bad spring and wept deeply. Corn crops failed. Sustainability is reaching its peak. Beware the great fall.

A tear falls down the cheek of an audience member at the ballet. He searches the spectacle for answers. Clues to help him make a decision, feel more, cry less.

The ballet dancer has fallen arches. She moves like water, masking the pain. She is conditioned. Mind over it does not matter. She has a duty, a purpose, a goal.

Niagara Falls.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. Irreparable damage. The lesson? Eggs have no business sitting on walls.

California falls into the ocean. Thousands die. A planet is in shock, horrified. No one saw it coming.

Fall forward, spring back. The clocks change. Time is manipulated. We are given an extra hour. What will you do with it?

I fall asleep. Finally, after shifting and wrestling with fragments of thought and sound. I need it to stop. I need the black. I need rest.

Tiger falls from grace and so does the stock price of name brand sports items he represents. Led into temptation, unable to resist, weak. A fallen hero.

The elderly fall and break their bones. Fragile from age, they cannot heal. Angry and suffering they are waiting to die. Let them scream. Leave them be.

A late fall snowfall leaves bits of fluff atop one another. Flakes land on runny noses of laughing children. Enough to build a man. Their wooly mittens are soaked through from the work. A corn cob pipe and a button nose. But it is difficult too see through coal. He melts the next day and falls away.

We fall because we rise. If we don't fall, we won't learn, evolve, change, grow.

At some point, we all fall down.

Safe travels.

thankfulness

This is what High Park looked like today.







Below is a list of some things I am thankful for:

tastebuds
the sun
love
lions
sensibility
saturday morning coffee
the word 'sparkle'
kissing
raspberries
vision
the colour orange
backgammon
garlic
canoes
butterscotch ripple ice cream

sarah selecky and ronnie burkett

It's important to be inspired by things we see, hear and read.

If you can, read Sarah Selecky's book, This Cake is For the Party.
http://www.amazon.ca/exec/obidos/ASIN/0887625258/sarasele-20

Sarah is my writing teacher and the book has been shortlisted for the Giller Prize.

Then see Ronnie Burkett's play, BILLY TWINKLE Requiem for a Golden Boy.
http://www.factorytheatre.ca/1011season.htm

It's been extended until October 31.

In a world where we need a month dedicated to child abuse prevention, where there are too many orphaned cats and dogs that will ever be adopted, where justice and law don't always add up, we must find ways to cope, continue and carry on.

At the talk back Q&A after the show I saw on Tuesday Ronnie said, "I don't understand us. So I make little versions of us and make us talk to each and move around and maybe I'll figure it out."

place

The sea. Under the sun I can almost make them out. I call out to the pod of them, all lined up, then they dive. When, moments ago, we wandered the beach to the chalet, we were silent. The seals honk at us, "You are on our shore!". We don't leave. I turn around, you follow.

Cape Breton is the piney fresh air that an air freshener is not. Sea soaked sandpipers skitter for clams. The crunch and brown of forgotten gravel roads take you to ancient gravestones. Stone structures proud, tall, Scottish. The Island is your cousin you don't often see but when you do the times are laughable because you both 'get it'. Windy. Witty and charming.

We wander aimlessly along the beach. Our feet our solid, our breath even. We listen absently. Heads bob in the sea as they squawk, the waves lapping carefully upon the Eastern shore. I can hear their cries, out in the bay, along the backs of their bodies. And those that are not there are coming. The tortoise, the sunfish, expanding as it moves, like a balloon, gliding under water along the sharp edge of the surface. You slow down, clear your throat, stand erect, turn around. Yes, you whisper aloud, they are part of who we are, they are here.

Rice, Rice Baby!

The video part is what I get paid to do. Shoot, edit, upload...all in a day's work.

Click on the link below:

Rice, Rice Baby!

moments

96.3 FM is Toronto's New Classical. Their tagline: "Beautiful music in a crazy world". I've turned to this because I need more calm in my world. I am searching for balance. And I do enjoy classical music. It's lengthy saga of notes, pitter patter quickness, drawn out violin cries, concertos, arias and sonatas. Yo Yo Ma.

Then they play an Lexus ad.

Which spurs me to write this because all the ad says is: Moments. Moments. Something else. Moments. This is the moment for a Lexus. And another finishing sentence on how a Lexus will better your existence.

Life is a series of moments.
But most of them do not involve a Lexus.

They involve things like:

At a 50th anniversary during a retrospective video, you see the man reach around his wife's neck, embracing her as they watch images of their life on screen, he squeezes her shoulder, leans his head against hers. She leans back and runs a hand along his forearm, holding on.

Football movies that bring you to tears where the underdogs come out on top, winning the game because they tried real hard and it paid off.

Pink clouds.

Sarah Palin's voice on the radio that makes your skin crawl.

The shiver of shock that happens when you hear about the death of someone you know. The aftershocks and feelings of emptiness, helplessness, and quiet that follow. You rethink your life. We only get one shot. What are you doing? What is the point? What will you change? You rethink your death. Who will you leave behind? Are you afraid? We are fragile and small and weak.

Yoga breathing.

Watching a meteor shower. Getting perspective on our place in the solar system. Being overwhelmed by what that actually means.

Stroking your lover's hand, reassuring them everything will be okay.

"You either live in the past or you live in the future. Where is the moment?"
- Ricky Roma, Glengarry Glen Ross

Brockton Writer Series

Below is the first two paragraphs of what I'm reading next week at the Brockton Writer Series:

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=logo#!/event.php?eid=145742252111513

Jane slides off the examining table and reaches for her underwear. The room is severe. All metal and white with its sharp edged seriousness. The used paper sheet lies crinkled and lifeless behind her. It smells like alcohol and old paint. Her stomach turns and she steadies herself with one hand on the counter. Playing doctor as a kid was silly and exaggerated. Far from this calculated, sensible reality. She takes her jeans off the chair. Routine. She shuts her eyes and squeezes. Lavender foam bath, a crackling log fire, freshly baked bread.

Outside, the nausea from before creeps up inside her like a lizard. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. It’s been six months. They just wanted to be sure because the test results were irregular. Other things that are irregular; verbs, galaxies, geometrical shapes. On the sidewalk beside the busy street she stares at the traffic. The smell out here is worse than inside. A combination of diesel, garbage and panic.

the big picture

Four and a half hours North East of Toronto is a town called Calebogie. Winding roads lined with grey and rust coloured slate of the Canadian Shield, clean lakes, rivers full of bass. Also in Calebogie is a fancy racetrack at the Calebogie Motorsports Park where I was hired to shoot some video last week. If you've got eight thousand dollars to spare you can rent it for the day. Or for three hundred bucks you can get "the Mustang Experience" - a lesson on how to drive a stock car followed by a ride a on the track with a pro who will drive as fast as you can stomach it.

The pace of the town does not match that of the track. The general store just closed. Talk of the town. It was next to the LCBO so now you can get beer, but not water or milk. Locals say the woman who runs the pizza place is going to pick up the slack and start selling duct tape, toothbrushes and bottled water.

On my drive out there I picked up a curried chicken sandwich in Bancroft. I ate half of it in the loaner car the client provided while I checked my email. Half and hour later ate the rest of my lunch.

I pulled over at a boat launch where a guy in a wheelchair was casting a fishing line into the lake. He didn't notice me. I stood for a while and listened. The midday sun was high. A couple of cars passed over the bridge. Birds glided by, water rippled, a breeze swept through.

Being somewhere else helps to see the big picture. Being somewhere where there is no need to speak. No reason to discuss and analyze and question and debate and argue. No planning, guessing, dressing, worrying, pondering, wondering. No purpose to go fast or slow, to be on time or late or organized or funny or professional. No responsibilities to uphold, no people to impress, or disappoint or rely on.

Of course you do need to get back into it.

The guy in the wheelchair turned around when I started my engine.
He extended his arm out and waved in my direction.
I did the same.

creatures of habit

Everyday on my way home from work on the bike path, I pass an elderly woman sitting by the lake. She sits in the same spot near a fork in the path where it curves around by some trees. She is leaning rather. Leaning against her walker with one foot up on the guardrail looking out at the lake. She wears a white cotton hat, loose fitting pants and a comfortable top and a light jacket on cool afternoons. She is petite, her skin wrinkled but cared for. She is calm, her profile still and classy. I pass by her quickly because I'm always trying to get somewhere in a hurry - a tennis game, the farmer's market, a workout, the library, a writing class, home.

She is not in a hurry. She let's the world happen around her. Behind her the hectic city bustles - traffic, cyclists, hospitals, festivals, landscapers, financial transactions, art openings, daycare, yoga classes, restaurants. In front of her the water is stretched out - kayaks, fishing boats, sail boats, planes, geese, the steeples of Stelco in the distance on a clear day.

A lot of life has happened to her. This is her chance to rest, reflect, and remember. I don't know what she sees in the water. Maybe the memory of a lost love, a loyal pet, a failed career, a good book, a bad haircut, a car accident, a successful career, a questionable choice, a perfect meal, a hot pink sunset.

Perhaps she's thinking about how she made it here today one more time to look at the lake. And she's contemplating how long it will take her to get back to the seniors residence beside St. Joseph's hospital where she lives. The hike she has to make over the Jameson bridge. How she has to be mindful of her steps because of fragile bones. The dust and clammor she has to contend with because of all the damn construction. How those cyclists ride too fast.

Maybe she's thinking about the dragon boat races she was involved in on this very water years ago. The grade six social studies class she taught. The camping trip to Algonquin Park. Last night's mushy grey dinner. A honeymoon in Alaska. The birth of her first grandchild. The death of her husband. The tea she'll have for breakfast tomorrow. How she survived a battle against breast cancer. The scar on her leg she got from falling off a horse. How she never got to Africa. The peace she finds in being alone with her thoughts.

I think what she sees in the water are moments.

But she wasn't there today.

sparkle

Yesterday, I came home to the "pop" of a bottle of sparkling wine being opened. Cuvée Catharine Rosé Brut by Henry of Pelham to be exact. In addition to the cork pop, my husband had prepared a bouquet of 32 white roses with little purple flowers intertwined. There was a blueberry pie on the table, a DVD of Chocolat wrapped in tissue, a large gift bag that contained: a card from him, a card from the cats, two books wrapped in silver, star studded paper. One was a recipe book entirely about quinoa and Terry O'Reily's book, The Age of Persuasion.

We ate a dinner of the Lake Erie walleye he caught a couple weeks ago with a topping of the little Roma tomatoes from our garden, bacon and challots. Then...a chocolate cake with buttercream icing lit with 39 candles.

He thought I might be upset by seeing 39 candles.
It was sparkling, illuminating and very nice to look at.
Just like him.

You bet I made a wish.
Here's hoping...

favourites

It's my birthday and below is a list of my favourite things to eat, do and see:

EAT
figs
oysters
mangoes
dark chocolate
cheese
cake

DO
read
laugh
jump
share
cook
bath

SEE
David
the ocean
clouds
coloured glass
peace
cats

our patio garden

We've got about 100 tomatoes hanging off one of the plants. They look like mini Romas. Not round, long, maybe an inch. And delicious! Little bursts of tangy sweet pulp, seed and flesh that floats around your mouth. You don't want it to end. The skins are thicker than the ones you buy in the store. Tough like the consistency you would expect from the leaf of a tulip plant.

Other things of notable mention that live on our patio are:
- a green pepper plant; two fruits harvested so far. Four more on the way and more to follow. Slow going but bountiful
- a prosperous basil plant that I made three containers of pesto from last weekend and new growth is already creeping out
- lavender that's flowered. I am thinking infused honey, tea and sachets in the future.
- a mojito mint plant from which I've frozen two baggies for the winter. Thick, chewy leaves that double as breath freshener
- Italian parsley. Harvested one thick, forest green bunch that I cooked up in my fish stew earlier this week. Looks like we'll get another batch there too
- strawberries that the cat has adopted as her litter box. FAIL. We've had those plants for two years. Bad kitty!
- dill that was used to season broiled trout, it's now gone to seed
- a wee bunch of chives that are tucked in the corner in an old recycling bin. Good for dressings.
- a thriving, twisted ficus tree we stole from the garbage of our last apartment
- a large hibiscus plant that pops out clown nose coloured flowers every few weeks. Once there were FIVE in one day. (also from the garbage...thank you lazy wasters!)
- two other varieties of tomatoes that are yielding a beefier veg than the baby Romas
- various flowers that liven up the place, including a few marigolds tucked into the tomatoes to keep the bugs away

There's also a patio lantern. It got knocked over in a storm once so now it faces the wall. It gives off a light yellow glow in the evenings when we find time to sit and watch the night fall deeper into darkness.

It's my husband who is responsible for all this. He is the gardener. I prune, learn, harvest, cook.

Patio gardening is all the rage in the city I hear. I just like knowing where my food comes from.

Paris; a food diary

I spent the first week of June in Paris, France on business.

The French have a few things I admire.

1. A direct way of communicating. Some call it rude, I call it effective.
2. Bakeries. The smell of warm butter wraps around you like a fuzzy blanket upon entering these magical sweet spaces. A welcome change from the stink of smoke, piss and diesel on the streets. The boulangeries are packed with stacks of pain au chocolat and croissant, trays of flan, meringues the size of cantaloupes, piles of baguette sandwiches, cakes, tarts, mousse, pies and biscuits.
3. Wine.
4. An excellent transit system. The Paris Metro is very well thought out with plenty of arrows, signs and logically planned routes. As a directionally challenged person, I can't say enough good things about how easy it was for me to get around the city.
5. Mustard. So many flavours, so little time.
6. Meals. The French take their eating seriously. Quality is king.

In addition to seeing Bastille, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Élysée and the Eiffel Tower, below is a list of what I ate:

DAY 1
AirFrance in flight meal:
Glass of Heidsieck Monopole Blue Top champagne
Chicken fricasse with egg and cream supreme sauce, wild rice medley, carrot and yellow zucchini julienne
Cheese
Baguette
Fruit compote
Cranberry-orange cake
Glass of Vins de Pay d'Oc Vermentina 2009 Coleurs du Sud

DAY 1 (cont'd)
BREAKFAST:
Pain au chocolat
Cafe creme
(NOTE: this is the modern way to say 'cafe au lait' as the energetic waiter told me I was in the wrong century when I ordered a cafe au lait)
LUNCH:
Baguette with tomato, goat cheese, proscuitto, lettuce and mayonnaise
DINNER:
Can of Heiniken from the minibar
Filet of salmon with a cream pepper sauce, green beans
Glass of Cote du Rhone

DAY 2
BREAKFAST:
Red berry fruit blend smoothie
Croissant
Cafe creme and a small pain au chocolat
Apple juice
LUNCH:
Traditional "Train Bleu" lobster bisque
Sauteed lamb with pistachio and almond sauce served with dried apricot polenta
Fresh fruit with raspberry sorbet
Glass of Vin du Pays d'Oc Viognier
Glass of Cotes de Castillon Chateau Moulin de Bouty
SNACK:
Bottle of Orangina
DINNER:
Can of Heiniken from the minibar
Avocado shrimp cocktail
Marinated mussels and frites
Glass of Beaujoulais

DAY 3
BREAKFAST:
Vanilla maple yogurt drink
Mango passionfruit fruit blend smoothie
LUNCH:
"Amuse bouche" - a small glass of chopped cucumber, tomato and corn with oregano and chiles
Salade Parisienne
Glass of white wine
DINNER:
Can of Kronenberg from a corner store
Martini Rosso
Goat cheese pizza with fresh tomotoes, tomato sauce, mozzarella, oregano, arugula
Glass of red wine
Chocolat mousse

DAY 4
BREAKFAST:
Pain au chocolat
Cafe creme
LUNCH:
Kiwi pineapple fruit blend smoothie
DINNER:
AirFrance in flight meal:
Glass of Jacquart Brut Mosaique champagne
Chicken with blanquette cream sauce, rice and carrots
Camembert cheese
Chocolate mousse
Berry tartlet
Baguette
Glass of Vins de Pays d'Oc 2008 Coleurs du Sud

A tasty trip but the highlight above all was watching a couple water hens with their five red headed baby chicks float around in a small pond at the Jardin des Plantes.
Magique.

Here is the work I did.
http://smr.newswire.ca/en/ryerson-university/theres-an-app-for-that-canadian-technology-assists

It's nice to go away...but nicer to come home.
Especially with a couple of bottles of Lanson champagne in tow from the duty free shop.

terroni

Dining at Terroni tonight and I have two hopes:

#1 - the line up isn't too too long
#2 - the Li Pecuri pizza is still on the menu

http://www.terroni.ca/

pfeffer kuchen

Loosely translated from German, this could be "Pepper Cake". However, the recipe contains no pepper. Cloves and cinnamon so maybe spice cake might be a better translation. Last Sunday after a morning of substituting the grams and ml for cups and teaspoons, I had my mother in law's recipe ready to go. The cake calls for 300g of rueban kraut (sugar-beet syrup) or honey. Or a combination of the two. Or some maple syrup if you need to substitute/sub in an ingredient. I used 1:3 rueban kraut:honey just to use the stuff up. Also subbed in kamut and whole wheat pastry flour for the spelt that she likes to use. The cake? A hit. A colleague said it reminded him of his Dutch grandparents. And it's even better frozen, thawed and eaten when you need a sweet treat during a hectic day. Ya.

To buy your own sugar-beet syrup go to:
http://www.denningers.com
For over 50 years, Denninger’s has been producing the best in European-style sausages, meats, cold-cuts, salads and prepared foods. You will find: fine cheeses, chocolates, marzipan, candies, jams and marmalades, cookies, baked goods, coffees and teas, and marinated and smoked fish to name but a few categories of items.

PS: I recommend the pickled asparagus. A lovely, sour product of Canada.

home made is hit and miss

If you don't make something yourself, beware of the 'home made' claim made by many food producers. And I'm not one to complain about food service or quality. Which is why I end up at the same places all the time or only go on referrals from trusted sources. Saturday morning we bought a pie from The Pie Place at Maple Produce on Roncesvalles Avenue. A lovely looking peach pie that was ripe with expectations. It looked so promising, and to be the perfect companion with our mid morning coffee. Unfortunately after 45 minutes in the oven as it stated on the box "for a fresh baked taste" it turned out to be a flavourless gooey mess of what I can only guess was an artificial corn based filler and maybe three slices of actual peach (from where??) in the entire pie. Epic FAIL. I wrote them a note expressing my disappointment to no response. And 4 grams of trans fat per 1/6 of a pie slice? Good grief. I wouldn't feed this to my cats. Or give it to a homeless shelter. It left a stone in our stomachs the rest of the afternoon. Booo. Shame on The Pie Place for trying to pass off such a product as food.

chip addiction

No that's not a new punk band name. Well it might be for all I know. Chip addiction is a real thing. I know it because I have it. I haven't done any research, apart from eaten a lot of chips and know plenty of people who also love the crisp, crunchy yumminess of the darn things. You know who you are. A guy I used to work with posted on his Facebook status "I ate a whole bag of Doritos last night watching TV. Gross.. Hello gym!" Uh huh.

But chips are amidst a revolution if you haven't noticed. They're getting healthier. Sure they are. I've tired the olive oil ones, the baked not fried, the sweet potato, brown rice and veggie options. The thing is...they are still chips. So allow yourself the pleasure. In this short and fleeting life we must hang on to things we love and need. Whether that's a spouse, a pet, or the need for nice shower curtain...enjoy it. It will make you a better person.

My tip top ten chip list:

#10 Old Dutch Rip-L Original - I'm from Saskatchewan so I remember the chip dip too in my parents rumpus room
#9 Food Should Taste Good's Multiigrain - flax, sunflower and sesame seeds, LOTS of variety like sweet potato, cinnamon, blue corn
#8 Dirty's Original All Natural Sea Salted (regular) - they're pretty good but mostly on the list because I like the name
#7 LAY's Dill Pickle - a small bag will do you
#6 TOSTITOS® Multigrain Tortilla Chips - nice with my homemade guacamole
#5 Good Health Natural Products Olive Oil Potato Chips (Solea's Sea Salt version) - hard to find, best to order online
#4 Riceworks Salsa Fresca Brown Rice Crisps - they're available at Shopper's Drug Mart
#3 Kettle New York Cheddar - the yellow bag, now with more cheddar
#2 Terra's Red Bliss® Potato Chips - they're that good
#1 Terra's Red Bliss® Potato Chips - Porter serves a small mixed vegetable bag on their flights

Bet you can't eat just one...

I like Milestones

Some days you simply need take out. And when your husband ends up with a job in Milestones parking lot at 6:30 p.m. it may as well be just that. I like Milestones. I don't care if it's a chain. He suggested the seafood salad: grilled tiger shrimp, wild West Coast salmon, marinated shrimp, fresh avocado, papaya, roasted Italian tomatoes, crisp noodles, lemon-chardonnay vinaigrette. The only issue with it last time I had it in the restaurant was the ice berg lettuce was a bit bland. It was December.

We accidentally had date night there a few weeks ago after we did the last haul from the move. I was exhausted and ravenous and can't remember what I ordered. I know ate too much. He had a steak with a huge dollop of mashed potatoes. Ok I just looked on the site and here's what we shared:
APP: milestones’ famous hot spinach and artichoke dip. Creamy spinach dip with artichoke hearts and imported Italian cheeses. Served with sour cream, fresh-cut salsa and warm red tortilla chips.
MAINS:
HE: certified angus beef® top sirloin With trio of signature steak sauces – House-made Worcestershire, Kobe mustard, Gaucho sauce.
ME: california spring salad. Baby greens, mild goat cheese, fresh sliced strawberries, red onion, spicy-glazed pecans with your choice of grilled chicken breast or fire-grilled garlic shrimp skewer. I had the shrimp.
DESSERT: THE cookie
Freshly pressed and baked daily, this double dark chocolate is laced with white chocolate chunks. Served warm and topped with premium vanilla gelato and covered with house-made chocolate and caramel sauces. It. Was. Ridiculous. We ate it all.

We've also been there for brunch and must recommend the STRAWBERRY FRENCH TOAST. A light baguette dipped in our cinnamon vanilla egg batter, then lightly griddled. Topped with fresh strawberries paoched in agave syrup. Mango cream garnish. It's really really good.

http://www.milestonesrestaurants.com/

PS: In the time it's taken me to write this the seafood arrived. He also brought with him an unbaked bocconcini garlic bread that's now in the oven. I married the right man.

all about a button

I found the perfect button to sew on to my husband's spring jacket. It was the bottom one. An older jacket that's got nothing wrong with it, except for the missing bottom button. Dark blue canvas type material with light brown collar and cuffs. Brown buttons with swirly bits of cream colour in them. For years, my sorry excuse for a sewing kit has been a white plastic bag which I recently transferred to a soft grey Biotherm nylon case that was once upon a time a 'gift with purchase'. The kit contains: spare buttons from shirts, pants, jackets, a collection of needles of varying size, those teeny little scissors that fall apart but I keep them anyway, mini mending kits from hotels with six different colours of thread, a black spool of thread, a white spool of thread, a spool of cream colour thicker thread that is stronger than the previous cotton spools. On the button search for the spring jacket I found a dark brown button - too big, a navy blue one - right size but would look wrong, a brown one that might have worked but it didn't have holes - it had a hook on the back. Then I saw it. At first it looked too small. But when I matched it up against a button already on the jacket it was like finding the right foot for that glass slipper. I knotted up the black thread like my mother showed me years ago, doubled it up so it would be a more reinforced hold and stitched the little guy back on. Hoping it was in the right place, when he put the jacket on a did up every button...you'd never know it was a patch job if I hadn't told the story. Perspective is everything. And sometimes it's all about a button.

I'm packing

Oh I'm packing alright. A lunch that is. Breakfast too. Whether my colleagues are used to me stirring up my tupperware full of surprise every morning I'm not sure, but they've stopped asking, "What's that??" Today, had a been asked, my answer would have been this: plain yogurt, fresh blackberries, frozen raspberries, a banana, some ground golden flax, chia seeds and a bit of psyllium (pron. SILL-ee-um) husk. I eat this almost everyday. The fruit varies and I often use strawberries, pineapple, blueberries, cranberries, mango, or kiwi. On weekends I get variation of the same in a shake format made my my husband. When we first met, he had me at the shake. And he's right, you don't get sick of them. The shakes include protein powder, milk (or chocolate milk), POM juice and and a handful of vitamins, of which I normally take in the pill form B, C, D, milk thistle and evening primrose oil.

PS: RE: avocado toast
Tony Horton on Avocados: The Poor Man's Butter, By Tony Horton (Newsletter Issue #023 04/07/10)

Every time I mention that I eat four to six avocados a week, I hear all this gobbledygook about how fattening they are. I want to clear up this avocado debate right now. The fat in avocados is monounsaturated. This good fat is part of a healthy diet. It actually helps lower cholesterol. Avocados are rich in vitamins C and E, folic acid, and potassium. They also help your body absorb beta-carotene from other foods. Half an avocado is only 150 calories, and makes a perfect topping on a salad or some of your favorite whole-grain toast. Plus the pit is a giant seed that grows into a gorgeous plant.
http://www.beachbody.com/product/p90x-online/newsletters/p90xnl_023.do?code=P90XNEWS_023_V1_ARTICLE1#article1

avocado toast

All in all the new apartment is a win. The cats are happier and I have my own bathroom.
Sunday morning among the cookbooks in my galley kitchen I made one of my favourite breakfasts of all time. Avocado slices on toast with a squeeze of lime, pinch of rock salt and fresh pepper. Learned this recipe in Israel years ago where I lived on kibbutz for a couple of months and picked avocados. Simple, classy, tasty. Other good news is that the Price Chopper across the street is better than the Loblaws further up the street. Avocados for 89 cents! And they have a halal meat section and they carry the New Zealand lamb chops we like. After the upheaval, things are looking up.

bye bye Barbara

Been MIA lately due to a move. Next move will be a contents sale listing on Craisglist. Moving blows. Especially when it's not by choice. Long story short: condo we were living in was getting sold, we didn't want it, found new condo, new condo is better.
Life is change. Sometimes it's upheaval, rebirth and renewal. It's Easter weekend and a warm weather front has come and gone so change is everywhere you look, touch, smell. And now Barbara Budd is leaving As It Happens, one my very favourite CBC radio shows. Below is the note I wrote to her the night I heard the announcement.


Dear Barbara,

Even before you announced your departure from AIH last night, I called it. She's leaving. It was in your tone. The tone that I have followed for many years.

I stopped unpacking the rubbermaid bin, stood still in my new kitchen and listened to you announce your last day April 30th. I moved into a new condo yesterday in downtown Toronto.

My routine for the last while has been coming home from work, working out, spending time with my cats, pouring a glass of wine and preparing dinner or doing some writing. All the while listening to you. You are very good at what you do. You will be missed.

I have worked as a video producer at for the past six years. Prior to that I was a food reporter, freelance producer/writer/director, ESL teacher and actor. I have a growing collection of short stories, have written stage and screenplays, a novel on the go and a blog: http://starfishandkoffie.blogspot.com/

I often interview people at my job. Sometimes about subjects of which I know very little. Listening to you and Carol on As It Happens has taught me many things. My writing teacher sometimes makes us write lists to warm up.

What follows is a list of things you have demonstrated over the airwaves:

- honesty
- intelligence
- humility
- compassion
- grace
- sincerity
- inspiration
- change
- calmness
- how to be brave
- how to be direct
- fearlessness
- appreciation
- humour
- personality
- relaxation
- surprise
- tact
- how to listen
- peace
- the meaning of a silent pause
- sadness
- pride
- strength
- concern
- fairness

Photos of me and my loved ones (all fans) are attached. Our wedding in Pelham County at the Comfort Maple, a beach on Cape Breton (Whale Cove), our cats at feeding time (that is a Lucien Freud print in the background) and a shot of me over Lake Erie (I am a novice skydiver).

Life is change.
I wish you all the best Barbara.

Sincerely,
Lily

chocolate diamonds

I'm not a real blonde. Dirty blonde maybe but I think that just means light brown. I took the opportunity of a fundraising event at the Aveda Institute today to get my highlights done. While the foils cooked, I flipped through the March edition of Harper's Bizarre. Well isn't there a two page spread about chocolate diamonds. Guess what? They're brown. The colour of the diamond darkens due to the earth's pressure at the depth where the diamonds are buried. They're less expensive from their clear, white cousins and they're apparently found in Africa, Russian and the biggest mine being the Argyle Mine in northwestern Australia. A fun fact from ehow.com "The term "Chocolate Diamonds" is actually a trademarked brand of the famed Le Vian jewelry purveyor." That was the ad in Harper's. AnyHOW, back to the chocolate chocolate. I picked up a lemon chocolate bar, the other day - A 70% Organic Dark Lemon number from Vivani - product of Germany. A bit disappointing but kind of lemony thanks to a "hint of lemon essential oil". Next time I'm at the Market I'll get a bar of quinoa & melon (please start pronouncing it KEEN-wah and not kwin-OH-wah). Can't remember where it's from or why they would even make it. But they've got me thinking. The diamonds au chocolat...will have to wait.

food in wonderland

The only thing Alice eats in the recent Tim Burton rendition of Alice in Wonderland is a bite of carrot cake (or so it appeared) with white icing. The one that makes her grow to be a giant. The other food featured in the movie are the cakes and sweets at the tea party where the guests include the Mad Hatter, the March Hare and Dormouse. The party reminded me of the high tea they serve in Scotland. I visited parts of the country with my Uncle and Aunt in the late 80's. We had tea at a cafe in a little town and they served the loveliest little sweets. A three tray layered serving platter that included coconut cakes, vanilla cream sweets, and miniature cold pancakes with cold butter to spread on them. It felt like something out of a movie. And I'm not a big tea lover. At least I wasn't then. Times have changed. I now love my Nighty NIght or Lemon Zinger or Ginger tea before bed. I've heard the Hilton in Montreal serves a high tea similar the UK style. And of course there is The Red Tea Box on Queen West in Toronto. Toronto Life says this: "With its tiers of little cakes painted in lilac-, pistachio-, and indigo-coloured icing, this Queen Street tea room is a culinary fantasyland. There’s a bewildering array of desserts and teas, such as maple–brown sugar meringue cake, pandan coconut custard cake and chocolate crumble cardamom tart. Unlicensed." They also serve Asian style Bento boxes for lunch $25–$27. Lastly, speaking of tarts and back to the movie, there is the bit where the Red Queen freaks at her frog servant guards because someone stole her tart. She finds a tiny bit of purple jelly on the corner of the frog's mouth. He admits it. "Off with his head!" She is overreacting of course. But I'd be pissed too if someone at my tart without asking. However she has a tendancy to be a bit...overdramatic, greedy, selfish. Not into sharing. And food is a thing to be shared.

grilled cheese granny boots

Little did I know Wednesday nights at the Gladstone Hotel is home to Granny Boots, a cabaret featuring burlesque, female impersonators, strip teases and more. I met some friends for food and drink and we thought we'd be gone by the time the show started. We weren't. I shared toasted banana bread ice cream sandwich with my husband and watched a young Asian man strip from a marching band uniform. The performance finished with him covering his privates with a trombone (which he could play). We ordered one more pint of Steam Whistle to see Dainty Box do her burlesque act. Cute pasties. The fella hosting is a heck of a singer and paid tribute to big black men, of which, he is one. One who happened to be wearing purple velvet tights and a black sparkly top with fringe. My grilled cheese with apple slices on walnut bread is a good idea in theory but the cheese was only half melted (kind of the most important part of the grilled part of the sandwich). The cup of butternut squash and carrot soup was fine but I like the way I do it with orange and ginger. I'd go back. I like the place. But maybe not on a Wednesday.

do the chocolate walk

A man walks on the boardwalk with an open chocolate bar in his hand. He is strolling not walking. Dark glasses, bald, a black trench coat covers his suit. He breaks off another piece of the bar and doesn't notice me pass him. It's 1:15 on a Tuesday. Too sunny for early March afternoon. I am not close enough to see the type of chocolate he is indulging in but for him, it's working. The ducks are out on Lake Ontario, planes land regularly on the Island Airport's runway. The trench coat's chocolate stroll is inspires me. I pick up a handful of dark chocolate coated orange peels from Chocolates and Creams in Queen's Quay Terminal. Yummy expensive imported treats sold there along with a wall stacked with a wide variety of jelly beans and a decent gelato selection. My mission was Sobey's - to pick up fruit and something for dinner. I do. A ripe mango from Mexico, a couple of heavy tangelo oranges and two Maple Leaf chicken breasts. I am pleased I get to use my 50 cent coupon. $0.15 of that goes to Toonies for Tummies. Today's good deed done. This leaves room for a direct, firm and confident conversation that I prepare for after I hear the phone message. The real estate agent in charge of selling the townhouse in which I currently rent (soon to vacate) implies I am making his life difficult by not letting agents in to see the townhouse. If he were able to explain why I should rearrange my life to show my landlord's townhouse for her (and him) I would happily comply. Instead I leave her a message, tattling on him and they have postponed all showings until after we leave. Chocolate -1, Greedy Real Estate Guy - 0. I pick up a bar of Lindt's Fleur de sel because, as you know, I like salt. This salty chocolate blend is lovely. Only one of their many wonderful varieties that include: 70% Cacao, 85% Cacao, NEW! 90% Cacao, 99% Cacao, Peru 80%, Ecuador 75%, Madagascar 65%, Orange Intense, Intense Mint, Chili, Fleur de Sel, Extra Creamy, Crunchy Caramel. Warning: If you're not used to it, anything over 80% is going to taste like dirt. I think it's fun. Lindt''s site (http://www.discoverlindt.com/en/tasting.php) also has some great tips on how taste chocolate, including my favourite? "Chocolate is best tasted in a calm atmosphere so that you are able to concentrate on your senses." I will write about chocolate again.

oscar snacks: giant olives

I am in the middle of moving. Fun. Currently I am in possession of two apartments. I have four bathrooms, two parking spots, a laundry room, a laundry closet, a balcony, two dishwashers, a microwave, a walk out patio, access to a gym room, party room and no cable. Don't be impressed, all total it's pushing 2000' sq. Do the math. So invited myself to a friend's place to watch the Oscars. Did you know in additional to the Chinese year of the Tiger, 2010 is year of the dirty martini? Now you know. My friend makes a mean one, a recipe he got from Gweneth Paltrow. Good for Gweneth posting recipes for dirty drinks on her blog. I may follow suit. She's been having babies and doing the odd film since her Oscar win over a decade ago. Shakespeare in Love. You know the speech. Last night, while sipping our drinks we all sat in shock as Sandra Bullock made her way to the stage. Standing at the podium, statue in hand, thanking the moms that take in babies that don't belong to them. On the eve of International Woman's day I would also like to raise my dirty martini glass to Kathryn Bigelow, the first female director in Oscar history. Tip: use giant, vermouth soaked tipsy olives. It's a snack in a glass. Ladies, enjoy. It's about time.

the importance of labels

I need to label my spices better. A few weeks ago I made a ginger cake that called for cardamom and I used cumin instead. The women at the health food store laughed at me when I told them, but the cake was fine. Today, a similar dilemma. Flipping through Anna Olson's book, Sugar, I find a cardamom sugar cookie recipe. Rifling through my sorry excuse for a spice rack I find two baggies. One is cumin, one is cardamom. I think. Before my husband goes out to get groceries I sneak the following on to the list: "check if cardamom is brown or grey". He does. It's grey. The cookies turn out very well. Luckily we are moving to an apartment with limited kitchen space. The joys of city living. To celebrate that joy, I am going to treat myself to new spice containers. A friend of mine has is figured out. $20 at Canadian Tire gets you a 6-can magnetic canister set. Mounts to the wall, easy to fill, sleek/unique design. I might even get two.

march fourth

Yesterday. The only date that is also a command. Today I attended an early morning video shoot that included breakfast. Breakfast with the Media. Breakfast was: Activia yogurt sitting atop bowls of ice, coffee/tea, a variety of bagels and a variety of cream cheese to put on said bagels. Cream cheese varieties = strawberry, chives, plain. The bagels were fine. Fresh but not Montreal style. They never are unless you are IN Montreal. Maybe the 'style' part of 'Montreal style' is what allows them to trick people into believing the things are from Montreal. But they're not. Even the ones that someone told me once were shipped in from St. Urbain and are sold somewhere up on Bathurst Street North. I don't buy it. If you're not physically standing in a an actual bagel shop in Montreal i.e. Fairmount, St. Viateur, St. Urbain, REAL Bagels then they can't be from Montreal. Well they can be, but they'd be stale. And who wants a stale bagel?

my not so secret salad bar

Instead of packing, once in a while I treat myself to the salad bar for lunch. There is a Longo's in the underground food court near my workplace. Today was one of those days. It's per weight so brussel sprouts are not advised even though I enjoy them. The food is fresh and includes much variety including (but not limited to) asparagus (no rapinni today), pasta salads with smoked salmon (the full fish, not the thinly sliced stuff), a wheatberry/raisin/pepper melange, bits of sharp cheese wrapped in sundried tomatoes held together by tooth picks, large cooked shrimp!, fresh broccoli, cucubmer and pepper strips, bean salad, boccancini and tomato salad, greek salad, couscous salad with cranberry, cheese cubes - swiss and cheddar, enormous strawberries (genetically modified I suspect) and chunks of pineapple and a selection of grapes are positioned near the end of the line next to the scoopable cottage cheese and afterthought toppings of croutons, sunflower seeds and granola. There is a variety of oils, dressings and spice to personalize your plastic container. $12 well spent.