The Poet Tree

It's UP!

Yes, I am posing by an empty frame, attached to a tree.  Said frame was my $90 birthday gift to my 45 year old self.  

Side note:  how in the fuck can I be 45?  

It was constructed by Gord Harrison, woodshopman extraordinaire, purveyor of little lending libraries and swap boxes.

Let me provide you with some context.  In 2000, I was working as a Public  Librarian.  I wanted to share my love of poetry with library patrons - big and small - so I set up a rotating poetry exhibit at the circulation desk.  It sounds much grander than it actually was - the "exhibit" was a freestanding eight-and-a-half by eleven plexiglass display board.

The inaugural poem was November by Thomas Hood:

November 

No sun - no moon! 
No morn - no noon - 
No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day. 
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, 
No comfortable feel in any member - 
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, 
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! - 
November! 

I changed up the poems bi-weekly; the weather, holidays and current events dictated my choices.  Many patrons commented on the poems; they LOVED the poetry display.  It wasn't highbrow - there was no T.S. Eliot, people.  I deliberately chose accessible poems that would amuse and delight, and put a spring in one's step.  The library folk couldn't get enough... the poetry was better than SEX or CHOCOLATE or SQUEEZING A REALLY BIG ZIT.  Okay, it wasn't actually better than any of those things, but you get the picture.

I gave birth to my son in 2003 and my full-time stint at the library came to a screeching halt.  The poetry died.  A collective sigh was heard in the vicinity of Byron.

At this time, I was residing in the Blackfriars neighbourhood and that's when I had the idea of mounting a poetry frame on the Maple tree in my front yard.

I would bring poetry to the people through the magical Poet Tree.  And the world would smile upon the Poet Tree and it would be a better place.  And rainbows and unicorns and lollipops would fall from heaven, and poetry would rain down into the people's brains...  

But.

I had a hungry beast attached to my nipple for the better part of the next two years, and then I became pregnant again, and then I forgot about poetry because I was completely fucking insane from my parasites / children.

Jump ahead eleven years to 2014.

The idea of the Poet Tree was still percolating.  It was time.  The city of London was poised for the power of poetry.  The denizens of the Willage needed poetry; I would bring it to them  :-)

The first poem to grace the Poet Tree was Headache by Shel Silverstein:

Remembrance Day was three days later, so naturally, I put up In Flanders Field.  My third (and last, unbeknownst to me at the time) was Spike Milligan's A Silly Poem.  

One week and 6 days after the frame had been installed, I was pulling into my driveway when I saw that the poetry box was empty.  I was perplexed.  Had someone stolen the poetry?  I can understand them stealing my scooter, but my poetry???

I found the poem jammed into my mailbox with a card and some chickenscratch scrawled across it.

I called Andy Beaton (Supervisor II - Forestry) and learned that a neighbour had complained.  I also learned that the City of London's Boulevard Tree Protection By-law (section 3.5) stipulates that "no person shall attach any object or thing to a tree upon a boulevard without written permission from the General Manager".  

The poet tree was being axed!

I called the paper and the Freeps came out the same day to do a story.  Here I am, making my best "mad face" at the urging of the newspaperman:

The poet tree and I made the front page!  And I'm currently the banner photo at LFP.com with 132 comments:  Poet Tree Stands Empty.  I guess this is my 15 minutes.

I don't know what else to say about the idiocy of some individuals.  The tree will not die from the two screws that affix the frame to the tree.  I have planted more than half a million trees in my time (treeplanter in Northern ON and BC for five years) and I know the tree can withstand the frame.  My neighbour sums it up nicely:

I think the sadder part of this story is the neighbour who reported the poet-tree. He must be a very angry and pathetic individual - a far greater threat to society and the earth itself than a couple of screw holes in a tree. Most of us have much better and more progressive things to do with our days: like loving poetry and sharing it with any old passer-by! What a way to cheer up a winter dog walk or a hurried school-run!

It seems that while I have a lot of support for the tree, there are also many individuals who do not approve.  A few of my favourite choice remarks:

Poetry should be banned in London - along with self-promoting librarians.
My rebuttal:  Yes, I am promoting literacy and culture. So shoot me.

Ohh the drama! A neighbour who doesn't like me called the city, now the big bad forestry supervisor wants me to take my poetry box down, ruining it for everyone! Why should I have to follow the rules! Whaaa! Put an easel on your lawn with the box attached to it!
This just makes me laugh.

The tree is not yours Christine. It belongs to the commons. You damaged it. It's untenable. Does not give me joy to see trees damaged, but angers me. Stand out there and recite the poetry if you're so enthusiastic about sharing your joy.
I am picturing myself standing on the sidewalk with a bullhorn.


So the Poet Tree frame must come down next week, midweek, or Andy Beaton will come and remove it himself.  Bah.

And last night someone opened the box and scrawled the word "DOUCHES" across A Silly Poem.  I wasn't impressed.

Our solution (thanks to Miss Guinevere for the illustrations):

We will continue to spread literary love here on Bruce Street.  The word on the street :-) is that the box is here to stay.  It might not be attached to the tree in the future, but it will still be the Poet Tree.

The Battle Of Life

"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat."

                                                                                                        Theodore Roosevelt

Addendum

Part Two of the story:  Poet Tree, Part Two

Any Fin is Possible!

Apologies in advance for apundance of bad jokes.

I will eat pretty much anything.  Let me rephrase that.  I AM a food snob (not ashamed) and so I won't ever knowingly ingest things like canned meat, cheese whiz, packaged soup or frozen convenience foods; however, there is little in the way of unprocessed food that I won't mow down, except for the ubiquitous banana.  EEEEEYYYYUUUUUUWWWWWW.

I'm not sure whether I was force fed a banana at a young age, like I was with a tomato, but I can't abide nature's "perfect food".  I did get over my deep loathing of tomatoes when I was in my early twenties, and now I eat them daily - in salads, sandwiches, soups and the dishes that I make for my family's dinner.  But I digress, that is a story for another day.

Look at these nasty bananas:

Ick - gagging here.  They should be illegal.

You, sir, are disgusting...

image courtesy of http://www.vh1.com/celebrity/2011-04-26/these-carvings-are-bananas/

Poor bananas.  They really have no idea how I peel about them.

Every couple of months, I try a (revolting) bite of banana and I involuntarily gag.  I can eat bananas in smoothies (very nice mixed with berries, yogurt and juice), and I bake two-dozen banana-chocolate-chip muffins at least once a month (which I scarf down like a beggarwoman), but I can't eat a banana in its natural state.  It's all about the texture.  

I can't eat lox either.  I am o-fish-ally disgusted by it; it's reel-y clammy and reel-y slimy.
Many years ago, I was invited to a friend's for brunch.  The menu was lovely - toasted Montreal style bagels with cream cheese and lox (oh my cod!), and strawberries sprinkled with a bit of sugar.

It all looked very colourful and stylish, and completely delicious.   I ate it all, except for the salmon.  To be polite, I did sample the tiniest, thinnest sliver of fish, but the texture made me recoil in disgust.  The hostess was not impressed with my antics; her pained expression made me think that I was giving her a haddock.  I was actually ashamed of myself.  I can't stand it when people can't or won't try to get over their childhood (childish?) food issues.

Over the years I have tried smoked salmon many times, but the very melt-in-your-mouth texture that others crave leaves me shuddering.

Yes, I am carping on.    

One Saturday morning last winter,  I had cabin fever and so I dragged the family to the Western Fair Farmer's Market.  Trawling for goodies, my son spotted a vendor handing out samples of smoked salmon and trout - big chunks, actually.  I am tenacious and so I tentatively took a piece of fish, popped it in my maw and prepared to gag.  Holy mackerel! The strangest thing happened... I did not retch and the fish was completely delectable - it didn't taste crappie at all.  I was ecstatic.  We bought an eighteen dollar piece of fish, most of which disappeared on the car ride home.  It was truly delicious.  We returned the following week and bought more.  And then more the next.  Our yen for fish was getting expensive; it was a pain in the bass.   

I told the hubby how my Dad used to smoke his fish in a big blue and white striped Union Carbide barrel in our garage.  An avid fisherman, he always had fish to smoke.  What I wouldn't give for a taste of my Dad's fish today.  Big sigh.

Richard told me that it might be possible to borrow an electric smoker from one of his colleagues - Bill - another diehard fisherman.  Here's a shot of the "Big Chief":

After Richard's first batch of salmon, we were hooked.  Bill eventually gave us the Big Chief after borrowing it many times.  He was probably sick of us bugging him for it.  He said that he never used it, it took up room in his garage, yada, yada, yada, so he told us not to bring it back.  SCORE!
The ridiculous part of this story is that, after tasting Richard's salmon, Bill took the smoker back!  He came and got it one day and we were very sad.
Oh-ho.  I just reel-ized something.  Bill was being an Indian giver.  I'm laughing as I type this... okay so I'm not politically correct but the smoker's called a "Big Chief" for cod's sake!
Oh come on people, lighten up.
Floundering here... I really hope I don't get any hate mail, but seeing as this is the very first inappropriate comment that I've made in my blog - chuckling away - I'm sure salmon will say something.

Soooooo... moving along... the salmon that my husband makes is usually devoured by the 10 year old fishpig, aka Nathanimal, in a matter of seconds.  The remaining pieces are individually wrapped in plastic film, and popped into the freezer.  They stow it someplaice sneaky, a place that is not obvious to me.  It's hardly fair.

So buoys and gills, I have decided that it is time for me to smoke my own fish, which I will then wrap and hide in a remote corner of the downstairs freezer (heh heh - like in a box of frozen burgers, which would never get eaten in this house), shellfishly hogging it all (and becoming a fishpig myself).  I am reveling in my cleverness here.  :-)

Here is my $56 worth of salmon, purchased from Costco, one bag of "wild" and one of "farmed":

I read that the salmon can be brined either wet or dry, so just for the halibut, I did half and half.  If you're dry brining, you can use frozen fish (I brined it for 5.5 hrs in a sea salt and brown sugar mixture).  The brine extracts the liquid from the fish and replaces it with flavour and seasoning (i.e. the ingredients in your brine).  

Packets of wild salmon:

Here's the fish resting in the sugar and salt dry brine:

Here it is again, after 5 hours.  The moisture in the fish has reduced the brine to a thick, honeylike substance:

Here's my wet brine recipe. If you can't read my crappie writing, I have also added another recipe farther down the page which also promises stellar results.

This brine recipe is from the Examiner.com:

1/2 C. Salt

1 C. Brown Sugar
1/4 tsp Garlic Powder
1/4 tsp Liquid smoke-your preferred flavor
1/4 tsp Lowry's seasoned salt
4 Tbsp Molasses
Juice of one fresh lime
1 Qt Water

Here's the farmed salmon soaking in the brine; it has been defrosted before being added.  I'm about to pop it in the fridge overnight.  The floaty yellowish bits are fresh ginger:  

I'm just happy that the devildog didn't get it.  Django steals everything:  whole chickens, raw meat of all kinds, and yes, even $30 of salmon fillets.  

After removing the salmon from the brine, be sure to rinse and pat it dry with a paper towel so that the pellicle will form.  Here's some more information about that, also from the Examiner:  

The pellicle is a dried coating of proteins and ingredients in your brine that seal the surface of the fish... resulting in a more moist and flavorful product. First, remove the fish from the brine and rinse lightly under cold water then pat dry with a paper towel. Lay the fish on a rack, skin down, so that air may circulate. If the outside temperature is relatively cool you can set it in the shade for two hours.  Many people refrigerate the salmon to form the pellicle.  

My pellicle has formed (after a couple of hours in the fridge) and it's ready for the smoker:

Time to preheat the smoker.  I put my mixture of alder and maple chips in the pan on the bottom and plugged it in.   After fifteen minutes, the fish goes in:

The smoke smelt amazing!

Richard, brain sturgeon that he is, told me that it would take at least 5 hours for the fish to be done.

It did not.

In fact, it took less than three and so I overcooked some of it because of this.  The fish is still delish and so I am not too put out.  I am thinking that it was quite cool outside when Richard last used the smoker and so his fish may have taken longer.  He didn't use the barbecue cover as an insulator either:

Here's the finished product:

Looks cod awful, but tastes delicious.  The white goo on top of some of the pieces is fish fat.  It is fine to eat, but people try to avoid it because it looks a bit unappetizing (I don't have an issue with it).  I read that this can be controlled by smoking your fish at a cooler temperature, but seeing as my smoker doesn't have a temperature gauge, I'm not sure how to proceed.  

I should also note here that I prefer the fish that has been wet-brined.  The dry brined fish is a different texture - a little drier - although that could also be because I overcooked it and the pieces are thinner.   I will buy another bag of the wild salmon and try it with a wet brine and see what happens.

My verdict:  not so bad, but I cod dolphinitely do better.  

Oh and if you can think of some batter fish puns, be sure to let minnow.  nyuk nyuk.  

Musical accompaniment is Fish Heads by Barnes and Barnes (1979):

Snow Way! It's Another Snow Day!

Fresh on the heels of my late night Grammy watching, I rose this morning to hear the deejay confirm what I hoped not to hear:  "all school buses in London Middlesex are canceled".  Ai!  Kids would be stoked; me not so much.  I let them sleep in because really, why WOULD I wake them?  I am definitely CUCKABONGA, but not THAT CUCKABONGA.

It is 10:21 am and I have decided to blog about the day.
Kids are homeschooling (each other - hahahaahahha!) at the kitchen table and Gwen just whined and bitched at her brother, who presumably hit or kicked her.  Can you tell that I am concerned?  I should be, actually.  A week ago, Gwenzilla gave Nathanimal a "Level 10" smackdown that saw us hanging at The Children's Hospital for two hours, while N received 3 stitches above his right ear.

But for now, I'll let them fight in peace.  :-)

My grand plans for the day, before I learned all buses were canceled, were to finish two short stories, go to the gym, grocery shop, make some soup, do some laundry, and shovel some snow.  Now I've got the kiddos to help me with all this.  And so, I have decided to chronicle our day, for fun.  And because I know that whatever we do, it will be awesome and EVERYONE needs to hear about it.  Heh heh. This is what I've accomplished so far, after rising at 6:15:

• put in a load of laundry - so fun, cleaned my bedroom floor (last night, while I watched Beyonce dirty dance with Jay-Z, Gwen laid out 8 fashionista outfits from my closet at the foot of my bed for me to choose from this morning. grrrrrrr.  Here's a pic of some of the ensembles.  Love that purple orange combo, G!)

• ate breakfast (coffee, rye toast with cinnamon honey and apple), read newspaper, checked email and Farcebook.  I know.  SO INTERESTING.  
• cleaned up breakfast dishes, worked on short story for very brief period, finished cutting out quilt templates and selected fabrics.  This is what I'm making, btw:

This is a modern version of a clamshell quilt that I am in love with.  I want to marry it!  The clamshell is a traditional pattern and can look very fussy, depending one one's choice of fabrics.  The tone-on-tone tans and funky pops of colour definitely make this version very fresh and modern.  I will be making my own version with greys, purples and pale greens.   I have posted a pic of some of my fabrics below.
image from craftsy.com

Looks quite ugly now, but trust me, it will be magnifique.  I am rethinking that pink and grey in the lower right though. 

In case you are wondering how I am managing to blog, it's currently "recess" :-).  Now let me continue that list:

• kids got up, they got dressed and fed themselves.   I oversaw their efforts while tidying up the kitchen and dining room tables so that I could put them to work. 
• dumped another load of laundry on bed, hand washed lingerie (For those of you rolling your eyes at me, I am not trying to sound "all Martha", btw.  I really did do this.  It took 5 mins, tops.  I put my linge in to soak earlier in the morning, and then all I had to do was swish it around, give it a bit of a scrub, rinse, wring and hang to dry).  Snap.
• forced children to "work" at table (they both have books with math and English lessons). 

• Nathaniel helped Gwen with reading.  I decided that we would bake bread as part of our snow day.  Again, if you are thinking that I am some uberorganized hausfrau, I can assure you that I am not.  Can you hear me swear as I take this picture?

• yelled at children to FOCUS.  HOCUS POCUS FOCUS!!!!! while I looked for bread recipe.  Found it!

• made bread dough with N's assistance. Yes, we washed our hands. Yes, I am going to attempt to bake a baguette.  Yes, I am really am loco.  

• Kids each kneaded dough for 6 minutes.  They seemed to like this.  I did not like flour all over my floor and counter, but I bit my tongue and sucked it up.  

doesn't this look delightful?

bread before first rise

• Cleaned up floor and counter.  Complained loudly while doing so.  
• at 9:54am, I decided to write this blog and wrote down all the shit that I'd already done 
• handwashed silk blouse that has been sitting in laundry room waiting to be washed since New Year's Eve.  Lamented vomit stain.  KIDDING.  Just wanted a reaction.  As if I would vomit on NY's eve.   As if I would EVER vomit on myself.  

It is now 10:49.  I am giving myself (the rest of recess) another 10 - 15 mins to blog.  

12:31pm - more of list.

• made lunch for evil offspring - Montreal style bagels with cream cheese and apples.  Kids tried to sneak down to basement to veg in front of screens while I was in the loo.  I screamed mightily when they came up.  
• forced children into snow pants.  Went outside and shoveled, and entertained self and dog.

Nathanimal and Django.  Nath had to "take him down" after he let him off-leash in spite of repeated warnings from me not to do so.

One of Django's tricks that I hate.  It's called "HUG".  Nath taught him this wretched trick, which basically amounts to the overlarge 80 pound poodle jumping on people.  He knows better to try this with me or most adults, but if you're a kid, look out!


And still more of my list:  

• shaped loaves and got them ready to go into oven

wow, they almost look like an adult, as opposed to a toddler, made them

• you are supposed to spray the loaves every 5 minutes with water so that they get a hard crust. 

• Seriously?  And so that's what I did, after making myself a cup of chai.  
• Sighed.
• I also learned that because French bread has no oil in it (oil is a preservative), that is why your baguette is stale the next day.  Who knew?
• And then I cheered, because this is what they looked like, after all that spraying and baking:

Oh mon dieu!  C'est parfait!!!!

I can't wait to try these! I think they're my best effort to date.  Yay, me!

Okay, I'm done with my list, let's face it, no one wants to hear more and it's time for me to veg.  Have a great rest of snow day, peeps!


Music Pairing:  Bob Marley, Stir It Up

Make Soup When the Snow Falls

You know when you use Crest Whitestrips and you fall asleep with them on and you accidentally strip ninety percent of the enamel off your teeth and then they hurt like hell?  Well that's how my chompers felt when I ventured outside earlier today - exceedingly sensitive to the bitter cold.  Incidentally, I haven't ever used any of the tooth whitening products.  I prefer the "natural" look of red wine and coffee-stained teeth.

Chattering aside, I am not sure that today and yesterday's spate of cold weather necessitated a cancellation of school.  As one of my FB friends lamented, "Is it just me or are we in London having a collective case of hysteria? Yes, it is cold and we should be very concerned for our homeless population.  But closing down schools, colleges and universities?  We are all a little less Canadian today."  

I was mulling over the school closures this morning, while tuned into the CBC, and I heard that people didn't know how to dress for the weather.  Seriously?  All the information in the world at our fingertips and we don't know enough to throw on a pair of long-johns?  Okay, I guess we really are becoming collectively dumber:  http://www.cbc.ca/q/blog/2013/10/23/qs-first-debate-show-tackles-internets-effect-on-intellects  

What I do know is that I need my children to return to their normal lives so that I can get on with mine.  

In my last post (HNY), I wrote about my personal goals for 2014.  One of them was to write more frequently.  As a stay-at-home Mum, I have jobs to do.  My list (like yours) includes but is not limited to:  cooking (I don't care if you hate stew.  We are not having Pringles and oranges for dinner); cleaning (who spat food behind the couch?); laundry (you want clean socks? wash your own clothes!); house maintenance (yes honey, I would be happy to plunge the toilet); arranging the children's extracurriculars (I want to do gymnastics, basketball, soccer, skiing, cheerleading and choir, Mumma); buying everything everyone needs to survive (yes, I'll go to the liquor store today); making and taking everyone to all appointments (my wart grew, Mumma); paying bills (how much did we spend at the LCBO this month?????); planning social activities (they are never staying here again; he drank every last drop of scotch!) et cetera.  

Now before all you full-timers bitch at me about having to work FT on top of the above duties, let me just say that the husband has two jobs and all tasks that I have listed are mine alone (except when I go completely crazy and scream my head off and threaten to strike).  In other words, I don't want to hear about your problems -- this is MY blog.  :-)

I guess what I'm really trying to say is that it is hard to change jobs.

Let me put it this way, could you show up at work and announce "I am done with stripping; I think I"ll work the bar instead".  No, you could not.  My current job is here at home and there are people who like what I do.  I am not one of them :-)

My solution is to get the hell out of my house.  Twice a week, I will be writing from a mystery location in London.  I am hoping that this will help with my productivity.  Today was a total bust -- I had the kids here and I just couldn't concentrate with all the distractions -- yelling, fighting, tv, music, board game hysteria, rangy dog-play et cetera.  I was supposed to begin my writing career in earnest yesterday, but there was a snow day.  Today, more of the same.  Tomorrow... my children will attend school even if I have to pay someone to educate them.  

This blog entry is all that I could manage today.  That and the pot of soup below.  I made this recipe up.  Let's call it Souper Duper.  If you are cold and crusty, I urge you to make soup.  I subsist on soup in the wintertime.  

Heat up some olive oil and butter in a pot.  Add:  diced celery, shallots, carrots, parsnips and onions.  Cook, stirring frequently until onions are translucent (around 7 - 10 mins).  You could also add some leeks if you're so inclined.  If you are a fan of garlic, add that for the last couple of mins.  You don't want it to brown or it tastes bitter.  

(A note on garlic and my nose:  I love garlic.  Love it, love it, love it.  The problem is that I am a super-smeller:  the smell of fresh garlic - YES!  The cooked garlic smell emanating from one's pores - NO!
I cannot abide that smell.  Because of my over-sensitive nose, I have stopped using garlic entirely.  I must be partially vampiric).

Diatribe against garlic over.

~  

After the veggies are soft, throw in a pair of ham hocks (pig's feet); a cup of barley; 

two litres of chicken broth (I used Campbell's); around a litre of crushed / stewed tomatoes / tomato sauce --

(---see, I can't even write this damn blog -- I have three little girls who are demanding hot cocoa... brb)--

a bay leaf, some oregano / Italian seasoning and a can of black beans (you can use any type of bean you like, I almost used chick peas but my family doesn't really like them).  Simmer, covered, for 90 minutes over very low heat so the soup doesn't stick to the bottom of the pot like mine did.  

After 90 mins., you will want to remove the ham hocks.  

They look disgusting, but all that slimy, greasy ooze means flavour.  Make sure you discard all the fatty bits.  And don't ever call ham hocks, "pork hocks".  I once erroneously said this phrase to a repairman at Midas when I was dropping off the car:

Me:  (reaching in the backseat of the car for my grocery bag) "I have to get my pork hocks".

Repairman:  "Your what?"  looks at me amusedly

Me:  "My pork hocks."  ohhhhhhhh... that sounds baddddddd.  "I'm making soup".  turning red; laughing uncomfortably.  

Repairman:  "Sure you are."  hahahahahhaha.  

~

So wait for the hocks to cool and then remove the meat from the bones.  Chop it up and put it back in the pot.   At this point, your soup might be thick.  Add some more broth if it is.  Or some tomato juice.  If you like a more tomato-y flavour, now would be the time to add more sauce.  I added some frozen corn.  After adding more broth and corn, my soup was no longer hot, so I brought it back to a boil.  If you like, you can also add some chopped Italian parsley for colour.  Add salt and freshly ground pepper to taste.

Ta-da!

And while I'm on the subject of cooking, here's how to make perfect oven-roasted vegetables, which I have been eating like crazy.  Put your cookie sheet / shallow roasting pan in the oven and heat your oven to 450 degrees.  You want a nice hot cookie sheet to dump your veggies on.  Chop up any combination of red onion, parsnips, carrots, peppers, sweet potatoes, mini potatoes, turnip, and brussels sprouts.  You could probably use other crucifers too (broccoli and cauliflower) but I stick to what I've mentioned above.  Try to cut them the same thickness so that they roast evenly.  Put the veggies in a bowl and drizzle them with olive oil - you don't need a ton, just enough so that everything is coated.  Toss with salt and pepper or Montreal Steak spice.  

When your oven is hot, open it up and quickly dump the veggies onto the hot pan.  Enjoy the sizzle and give the pan a quick shake. You want the veggies to be spread out on the pan - no crowding; you don't want them piled in a heap.  Roast for 20 minutes.  Eat your veggies happily, revelling in your easy dish and your cleverness.

You can also drizzle the cooked veggies with a delicious dressing:  a couple of tbsp of olive oil, 1 tbsp of red wine vinegar, 1 tbsp maple syrup, freshly grated ginger and some minced garlic (for those of you who aren't supersmellers like me).  These measurements should be okay, I just eyeball the amounts and it always tastes good.

Well that's it for today.  I need to rest up for tomorrow by drinking a mondo glass of vino so that I can write like the wind.


Musical pairing:  Oh Marie by Louis Prima

Aphpy Wen Eary!

I have been given a 671-page tome as an afterthought Christmas gift (The 4-Hour CHEF:  The Simple Path to Cooking Like a Pro, Learning Anything, and Living the Good Life by Tim Ferriss):

I know better than to judge a book by its cover and so I decided to delve into the table of contents to see what was up.  I was captivated by the chapter names:  Sexy-Time Steak, The Turbacon:  Sin Against Nature or Meat-Glue Masterpiece? and How to Gut and Cook Tree Rat.  I have just realized that I make the book sound like a primer on carne, which it is absolutely not.  In fact, what I like most about this book is its scope:

• How to memorize a deck of cards (I know that this will come in handy during games of Crazy 8's and Go Fish)
• How to chop wine:  hyper decanting in 20 seconds (because I always decant my wine)
• How to make olive oil gummy bears (have I written a blog entry about my hatred of all things gummy?  I might try to make these for G though, because she's a GB enthusiast)
• How to make the perfect MLBJ (meatloaf blow job) "I know how to keep my man happy, and keep him, period: meatloaf and blow jobs. That's it." Ayako N.)
• How to read 300% faster in twenty minutes (useful for readers of this blog).  

While traveling to Welland recently to visit extended family, I had a chance to claw my way through the Lobstercide chapter.  I love lobster but I have issues (click here if you're curious).  There are two approved methods of lobster slaughter:  boil it alive or stab it in the head.  I might leave the lobster murder to others.
The subsequent chapter illustrates the Mexican Towel Snap method of killing chickens:  pick up the chicken by the head and swing it by your side violently for 10-20 seconds "as if winding up a towel to snap someone in the ass".  I can't see myself doing this.  For some reason, the MTS makes me think of cat videos that I've seen on YouTube:  a feline's claws cling to the blades of an oscillating ceiling fan (set on high) and the poor creature spins around and around wildly until it flies off like a missile, hitting a wall.  I shouldn't laugh, but I am.  And No!, I do not look these things up.  I have a ten-year old, remember?

In this same chapter, I read that Mark Zuckerberg (founder of FB for those of you living under a rock) sets yearly personal goals (e.g. learning Chinese, wearing a tie every day of the year).  In 2011, he wrote, "I think that many people forget that a living being has to die for you to eat meat, so my goal revolves around not letting myself forget that... the only meat I'm eating is from animals I've killed myself."
Whoa.
Mr. Zuckerberg began with lobster and worked his way up the food chain, all the way to (shooting) bison.  I think what he did was admirable, but I am not about to start killing my dinner, once again proving that I am a hypocrite. What I can do for myself, à la Mr. Zuckerberg, is to come up with two of my own personal challenges for 2014:

1)  Boring but Necessary Challenge
Write for a minimum of 90 minutes for 5 out of 7 days of the week.  No more excuses; I need to shift my priorities:  housework, kiddie extra-curriculars, social life, medical appointments, and dinner be damned!
Blogging counts, but I am going to limit myself to one or two entries a month.  I hope that writing will become habit rather than hobby.  When I told my husband about my goal, he told me that it wasn't really a goal, that my goal should be to produce something.  I am pretty sure that if I write for a minimum of one hour per day, I will produce something.  It might not be any good, but it will be something.  Like Woody Allen says, "eighty percent of success is showing up".

2)  Fun and Exciting Challenge - Cruciverbalism
Craft a crossword puzzle and get it published in the New York Times. Word.
I have always been a puzzler:  I have made word puzzles (Jumbles when I was a kid) for loved ones and when I discovered Games Magazine and Will Shortz at my orthodontist's office (brace-face!), I never looked back.  I became a crossword junky.

Here's a Jumble that I made for my Grandma 32-33 years ago:

Thank you, Grandma for keeping my Scrapbook; I love that I have a puzzle that I made when I was a kid.

Today, Will Shortz is the crossword puzzle editor of the New York times - what an awesome job he has.  All NYT crossword submissions go directly to Mr. Shortz for a decision and so when I create my crossword (without using crossword software- yikes), he will be the one to solve it!  Geeking out here.  
Also on the subject of Will Shortz, there is an amazing documentary called Wordplay (2006), which is available at the London Public Library.  From the IMDB (not the best write-up; where is the passion?):

A documentary that focuses on the world of crossword puzzles: those that construct them, those that love to solve them, those that compete in the annual Crossword competition in Stamford and also on Will Shortz, the editor of the New York Times crossword since the early 1990s.

In shortz, it is fascinating viewing.  :-)  Get thee to the library. Or find it online.

And so at the end of this rather lengthy and tiresome blog entry, I am so ready for 2014!  Thaw si oruy lagenlech?  Thaw liwl keam ouy cikt ni 2014?



Musical pairing: The Puzzle Song by Shirley Ellis.

Regrowth

Here's the (creative non-fiction) piece that I wrote for the 2013 Canada Writes competition.  It was long-listed, but didn't quite make it to the shortlist.  To make myself feel better, I will repeat the following sentence ad nauseam whenever that negative little voice inside my head pipes up:  "your story was selected from more than several thousand submissions... congratulations on this great achievement".

Some history.  My Dad died on his way to work in May of 1990.  His truck was crushed by a crane that fell off a flatbed; the accident happened about a half kilometre from our house.  It was a shitty day.

Twenty-three years later, I can talk about it without tearing up, but there is part of me that will never recover.  I'm still sad.  I really miss my Dad, especially when Nathaniel tries his hand at fishing or I hear Fleetwood Mac.

Here's my story.

********************

Regrowth

          

    I yank back on the muck-laden handle, hard and fast, and hear a loud slurp as I expose a gash of wet earth.  My hand rummages in the deep pouch on my right.  When my planting bags are full, it is sometimes difficult to grab just a single seedling.  The rubber gloves I wear to protect my hands from pesticides and pine needles don't help. 

    Got it.  My fingers find a tree and stuff it into the ground, whisking in the roots.  I gently pull up on the tree by its tip until it is perfectly straight.  I stomp once, packing the earth at the base of the tree, chuffing out air. 

    Next.

    My eyes scan the rough terrain for a decent microsite and seeing one, I lunge to the left.  I screef furiously with my shovel, rapidly clearing away the duff and barky bits.  I drive the shovel into the earth, opening up another pocket of rich soil.  I grab a tree, whisk it in, stomp and move on.  I repeat these movements several thousand times a day. 

    Some days I plant like an automaton.  I thrust my shovel into the ground with all the strength that I can muster.  I'm reckless; I know that if I hit a rock, the reverb will injure my humerus, but I don't care.  The pain is welcome.  I can't stop.  I won't stop.  Poverty is a great motivator for those who are paid by the tree.

    I continue my jagged, freeform bush-dance.  In the distance, in the slash – the coarse, woody detritus of the logging operation - I see a blood-red splotch of cloth weaving back and forth but definitely moving toward me.  It's Greg, my foreman.  I hope he's not coming to bitch at me about my quality.  I had to replant a few days ago because my spacing was off.  You never want to replant; you're not making any money. You plant the tree once, and do it right the first time. 

    He won't meet my eyes. 

    “Hey.  You have to come with me. It's your Dad.” 

    I don't answer.  I am trying to process the information.  It's difficult.  I can feel sweat rolling down my back and into the waistband of my spandex.  Odd to sweat like this, when the rain pours down. 

    It must be his kidney stones.

    I push away other darker thoughts.   

    I focus on Greg's back and follow him to the stash, which is where we bag up.  We walk in silence, listening to the rain patter on the earth. 

    There's not a soul in sight on the barren road.  I grab my pack and climb into the front seat of the truck.  Greg says nothing; his eyes focus on the muddy ruts. The dull landscape is starkly beautiful: the slash a jam of broken wood stacked haphazardly, trees riven to ragged javelins.  We pass a prescribed burn - scorched wood and burnt earth, ash and dust, dots of new growth here and there.  The bits of green look electric in this dead field.   

    I am nauseated. My clothes are stuck to me. I watch the wipers swish back and forth and try not to vomit. 

*****

     

    Even thought it's the middle of the morning, the bar is dark.  The shades at the windows are drawn and it feels like evening.  It smells like smoke, beer and small town desperation.     

    I'm shown the payphone and Greg plunks in some change.  There's no answer when I call home.  I dial the operator and ask to be connected to the hospital.  I'm shaking.  When I ask to speak to my Dad, I'm transferred three times and I speak to three different people, all of whom put me on hold.   The last nurse I speak with tells me to call home:  “there's been an accident... I'm sorry... ”  Her voice trails. 

    I thought he was still alive.

*****

   

    When I run out of the bar, into the street, I sound inhuman.  I wail at an incredible volume.  The street is empty save for three Natives, who are walking towards me.  They look worried.  I smack a concrete wall and hurt my hand, and then I cling to a post, sobbing.  The Natives are concerned for my welfare.  The eldest of the three tries to peel me off the signpost and I push her away.  I know that I'm being unkind but I don't care.  I don't want to share my grief.  It's mine; I won't explain.

*****

   

    After the flight home, I light up a smoke, right in the living room.  I haven't smoked in the house before, in fact, until this moment Joanne doesn't know that I smoke.   Wisely, she says nothing.  We are waiting for my brother to get changed into his new suit so that we can go to the Funeral Home to see my Dad. 

    The funeral director is pale and bespectacled; his hair is weathered teak.  It's plastered to his head with grease.  I want to send him an anonymous letter, tell him to change his hair. 

    He smiles a smile that is reserved for families like us.  He greets us, murmurs apologies and leads us down the hall.  As we're walking, he casually mentions that my Dad doesn't really look like he normally does. 

    We stop.  This is news.

    “His head might look a bit swollen”.  He walks on.  

    He leads us into the room, and I can see the coffin, a body inside.  Is that really my Dad?  As we approach, and I get a better view I am speechless, initially.

    My father's head is indeed swollen; it is gigantic.  It's the size of a medicine ball.  His features have stretched to accommodate his new head and the result is horrific.  He's like a prop from a B movie – waxen and otherworldly - and I can see that the undertaker has used coverup to hide some cuts on one of his hands.  The colour is unnatural; it's a bit on the orange side.  I can't look, but I can't look away.  I have never seen anything so sad, so wrong.      

    What was my grandmother thinking?  And the funeral directors?  Are they completely insane?  How could anyone think that an open casket was a good idea after seeing this head?

    I can't get over the size of it.

    “That's not my father,” I sputter, bolting from the room.

    No one follows me.

*****

   

    A few weeks after the funeral, I receive a package postmarked from Timmins – it's the last of my things from up north - my tent, a sleeping bag and some clothing.  There's an envelope addressed to me and the handwriting is my Dad's.  I open it tentatively.  Inside is a phone bill, and a letter from the university.  Attached to it is a sticky note with the words “Luv ya!” scrawled across it.  I wonder if he would have said more had he known that he wouldn't be here a few days later. 

    My heart breaks, again. 

*****

    This morning, I wake up to the sound of a chainsaw roaring.  I throw off the bedclothes and peer into the yard.  I see two workmen in hardhats.  One of the men is using a sawzall and the other  holds a massive chainsaw.  There is a truck with a wood chipper parked on the road beside the grass. 

    I grab clothes, run outside. 

    I'm heaving; I can't breathe.  My body is on fire and then I'm sobbing, bent over in pain.

    They look at me, stunned.  One of them approaches me.  He considers my appearance, my behaviour. 

    He gestures at an erratic crack down one side of the trunk. 

    “It won't live.  It's damaged.”            

    Lightening struck the tree two summers ago.  It's a Blue Spruce.  My Dad staked it and we hoped for the best.  It is our favourite tree. The one that he adorns with lights at Christmastime.  

    Today, they are chopping it down. 

    He's not here to see it.  We buried him three weeks ago.

    I can't watch.

*****

    I return to the bush the following year, thinner and hard-hearted.  I listen to a lot of Ella and Louis.  It's hardly planting music, but it calms me.  I'm numb but the smell of the earth is rich and I inhale it deeply. It is springtime and things are waking up.