run down

If Mondays didn't already give me a reason to hate them, it's gone an added another. On my way home today, I almost got run over.

Don't know what, exactly, was wrong with me but I calmly knocked on the driver's window, told him he had to look both ways, then walked away.

That's it. No screaming, no obscene hand gestures, no knocking all over the car with my rings -- yes, I have done that a few times before.

When I finally arrived home, I rewarded myself with an ice cream.

So there, Monday. I win. I'm still sweet.

pho sho

You know the food is good when you're willing to make a public transit trek that requires at least three transfers.

Went for pho today at a little place in the west end that's loved by the locals and even local celebrity chefs. I was hungry well before arrival, but probably worked up a bigger appetite wandering around the neighbourhood trying to kill time before meeting my behind-schedule lunch buddies.

I ducked in an out of furniture shops looking at beautiful Scandinavian pieces, designer accessories and some vintage items but, really, my mind was elsewhere.

Pho on the brain. There are worse things, sure. I just don't know what they are...

good day

Any day that begins and ends with champagne is a good day.

The sun was out, there was a Spanish guitar-playing guy on my subway this morning, I had a bottle of champagne with my brunch, the food came fast and hot, my seats to a show at the theatre were upgraded to the next section, there was no wait in the lineup at the cafe afterwards, we got a window seat, jazz played all afternoon, we ran amok in the neighbourhood candy store...

Then I came home to a sumptuous dinner of roast beef tenderloin with green beans, asparagus and salad, more champagne, then cheese and grapes. And more champagne.

It was a very good day.

If only life was like this all the time.

an evening with

Oh, Anthony. You make me a little ashamed of documenting my food bliss... But only a little.

I haven't always been that way -- documenting everything I eat. In fact, it seems mostly to be an affectation of travelling and only lately of the dinners I've been assembling for Mr. Man. It was not always this way. Really.

No, when I'm truly in the moment I don't stop to pull out the camera. No. No, no, no. But that's how you make your living, so I'm happy to hear you realize the hypocrisy of judging those of us that do.

I still love you.

I indulged in brains, tongue, marrow and other sweetbreads for you. And I'd do it again.

No reservations...

medium raw

Going to see God tonight... Anthony Bourdain.

I. Can. Hardly. Contain. Myself.

He's here flogging his new book, Medium Raw: A Bloody Valentine to the World of Food and the People Who Cook.

I've been watching and reading him for years and fear one of two things this evening, should I get the chance to actually speak with the man. I will either be dumbstruck or be stricken with a case of verbally diarrhea.

blah blah blah blah, blah BLAH blah...

Lord, help me.

Details soon

warm and fuzzy

I've joked before (and maybe a little too seriously) about drowning my stress in alcohol. It isn't for the purpose of trying to forget or distracting myself from the real problem, but it can take the edge off.

Nothing wrong with wanting to feel a little warm and fuzzy every once in a while, right?

Well instead of consuming large amounts of alcohol during times of need, I've taken to enjoying an overpriced cuppa with a dear friend. It's time spent in good company. It doesn't involve having tiered trays of sandwiches with the crusts cut off, just large pots of tea and a little cookie for good measure.

We sit in the window, discuss whatever is on our minds, watch passersby run between buildings under colourful umbrellas, see a bride and groom stroll around the corner after the rain has passed.

Warm and fuzzy, sans alcool. Lovely.

keep calm

Paddle on...

Went on a 20-kilometre canoe trip last weekend. Haven't found peace like that in a long while, yet it was fun too. Need to do more of those.

It was 4.5 hours of cruising down the Grand observing feathered friends (Canada geese, blue herons and peregrine falcons), long wisps of kelp and finding various ways to stretch without interrupting our flow.

Throughout, we also spent time foraging for food from the bottom of our backpacks. Don't know what possessed us but we packed as if we were trekking across land: granola bars, trail mix and bottles of brightly-coloured drinks filled with electrolites. Never had those before. Thought they tasted salty. Is it just me?

Broke for lunch when the sun became ridiculously hot and we were in desperate need of both shade and a bathroom break. We found a place to disembark and inhale our pasta salads, although entirely without shade but with just enough strategic cover for, you know. B - R - U - S - H. That's how we spell relief.

Time seemed to pass quickly once we arrived at our destination. Never would have thought I'd be keen on paddling an entire day away but I would love to do it again. And again and again and again.

Nothing quite beats the quiet and calm of floating down a river in a vessel made for two.

breakfast of champions

Once in a while we like to have a big breakfast, one that we would really only ever have if we were travelling but that we occasionally manage at home to satisfy the gluttons in us. Today was just such a day.

Why? No particular reason except that it's a long weekend and why the hell not?

I made pancakes (clearly miscalculated on the volume, oh well) and Mr. Man made the bacon. There were also some scrambled eggs but they didn't look very pretty (because, yes, that matters) and they wouldn't fit after I already plated everything else, along with a garnish of fruit.

It was delicious and filling and, as expected, we didn't finish everything but that's okay. We'll have the leftovers during the week -- although it's not the same as when it comes steaming from the griddle right onto your plate. What's that? You say you can hear your arteries clogging as we speak? Oh well, again.

Having another big breakfast like this probably won't come for a while. They say it's the most important meal of the day, yet it's the one which we often neglect or that we only execute half-heartedly. I try. I'm usually a yogurt, banana and granola girl but we all have our moments of weakness.

Sometimes... sometimes... submission is good.

upset stomach

My stomach is acting up again. Not the way it was last week. This is different.

For hours now, we've been watching coverage of the riots surrounding the G20. What started as peaceful protest has turned into violence and chaos. Bricks are being thrown through windows, cars are being set on fire and, for the first time in our city, police are using tear gas.

Watching what's happening angers and upsets me, and I'm looking forward to it ending soon. I don't have an appetite for destruction.

rumblings

Today we had a baby shower for a colleague and filled ourselves with two kinds of lasagna (meat and veg), coleslaw, macaroni salad, garlic bread, strawberries, melon, cantaloupe and pineapple. We were stuffed.

And I don't know where the expectant mother would have put all her food as the present occupant takes up the majority of her belly.

Well, it wasn't long after our little party that we all experienced some major rumbling. At first, I thought someone was moving large furniture around. Then the floor began moving and my chair started to bounce, my desk was shaking and my computer screen was vibrating.

Any more movement and I would have to get myself a thesaurus.

With these prolonged rumblings, I finally just yelled out to my colleagues and asked if anyone else was shaking. Yes! was the cry from the chorus. It wasn't, as someone joked to mama-to-be, premature labour or indigestion.

What's worse, though? Thinking your building is about to collapse or the idea of recalling the lunch you just ate and competing for a stall in the bathroom?

reservations

Yesterday evening was an exercise in reserve.

Mr. Man and I attended a party for a friend who had just completed his PhD. It was at a couple's pied-a-terre... in a luxury neighbourhood... where people have their own financial advisors... and architects...

My stomach had been acting up all day and it's difficult to play the game of interest and amusement when your body won't cooperate. What a beautiful home you have [sigh], is that an Eileen Gray [wince], champagne would be lovely [gag].

There were some interesting people, the guest of honour was funny and articulate, and the drinks and conversation ever flowing. Discussion ranged from business (I'm working on my second career and want to start my own interior design company) to travel (the wife and I wanted to go somewhere different but aren't sure now, what with that whole flotilla incident), to G20 environmentalism (they uprooted saplings because they might be used as weapons, can you imagine) and FIFA World Cup football (I see a Germany-Brazil final, it would be spectacular, a phenomenal acrobatic ballet).

The food was delicious. Hors d'oeuvres of smoked salmon and cream cheese crostini and a roasted red pepper, cream cheese and tapenade on baguette; arugula salad with strawberries and candied walnuts; halibut with lemon caper sauce, green beans, grape tomatoes and new potatoes; and a scrumptious strawberry short cake. And, of course, lots and lots of wine.

It was a lovely evening, actually. Although, a little like waking up in the middle of a Woody Allen film.

There are worse things. But, at least, nothing that can't be cured with Prozac and a mallet.

it's official

I'm old.

Okay, so I may look about 20 years younger than I actually am and I haven't quite hit middle age, but the old lady in me is showing.

I look forward to getting that bundle of weekly flyers and delight in pouring over the deals. I'm not talking about half-price markdowns on designer fashions; I'm talking about 40 rolls of double-ply toilet paper for $5.99. Did you hear me? Five ninety-nine! That's 15 cents a roll! Vitamins are 2 for 1, my favourite Yali pears are on sale and yogurt is $2.99 for a 16-pack. That's right, 19 cents each! I can hardly contain my excitement. I am making a list as I go...

So I call my brother and share the news. Just the other day he texted me in the middle of the afternoon to say:

Yep. We old. Who cares? Frankly, I would have been more upset if he hadn't told me and I found out later that I could have been washing twice as many loads for the usual price.

And when I come home with enough toilet paper to wipe the entire neighbourhood's behinds, Mr. Man just grins at me. He's heard the explanation many many times. If we need this stuff anyway, we might as well take advantage of it whenever we can. And, yes, that also applies to the sale on ice cream.

Mom would be so proud.

note to self

You and Mr. Man have issues with iron.
Eat more red meat. Or legumes.

Wha? That's like comparing apples to oranges. That's too many food groups to consider.

My doc has told me before that my haemoglobin levels are low, and today Mr. Man's doc told him the same thing.  Mr. Man's brain involuntarily performs quick math:

            more iron = (steak + veal) x burger

Any reason is a good reason for Mr. Man to eat more meat, but I'd rather have fish, shrimp or Moroccan turkey burgers.

Whenever we do have steak, it's because Mr. Man makes it. I have steakophobia and can't [read: won't] cook it. An impressive cut of meat requires an equally impressive cook. If steak is supposed to come out a perfect shade of medium rare pink, juicy and melting in your mouth, it isn't going to happen under my direction. The meat won't submit to me. It senses my reluctance. It knows.

It's psychological, yes. The meat is winning, yes. That's okay. Mr. Man can continue to be the steak whisperer at our house. I will just work on building a better chili pot.

late for dinner

Yesterday was the first big storm of the year and the snowflakes were feisty. That's right, feisty.

They were barbed, I swear. Like tiny forks tenderizing my face. It hurt. They encrusted themselves to my chic cashmere toque, like a frozen plate of armour. Even my eyelashes had snowflake crusties. It wasn't pretty. And it was tiring walking through this mini blizzard.

By the time I got home, my face was devoid of feeling. You'd think I would have taken advantage of my already frozen state and gone out to shovel the drive right away.


Well...  I:

1) made myself some chai
2) watched some Olympics
3) answered my emails
4) thought about having a proper dinner, but
5) snacked on party mix instead
6) advised my friend on how to avoid a poorly set up blind date

It was around 9 pm that I thought: I should probably shovel.

So out I went, with a belly full of spiced tea and baked-not-fried party mix. Not a good combination, I might add. I cleared what I could, threw down some environmentally-friendly snow melter and was back inside in 45 minutes. Too late to eat a real dinner now, I thought, so I finished some leftover coleslaw. Talk about bad combinations. I paid for my poor menu choices today. Ugh.

So what did I learn from all this? Nothing, except that shovelling is no party. But I already knew that.

pan handling

Okay, so nobody really likes to clean but the deal at my house is that if one of us does the cooking, the other does the cleaning.

I suppose in a household full of nerds, we should have defined "cooking" and "cleaning" before making this deal. Foolishly, I believed that cooking actually meant busting out the pots and pans, involved some slicing and dicing, maybe some simmering, baking or poaching, and most definitely meant managing a balance of flavour, temperature and timing. Cleaning meant taking those newly crusted pots and pans, soaking, scrubbing and rinsing them, and wiping down the counters and other cooking surfaces, as well as putting away anything that was used during prep and cook time.

Taking a pre-prepared meal out of a cardboard box and inserting it into the oven is not cooking. Dropping plates and utensils into the dishwasher, squeezing liquid detergent into the moulded pocket and turning the dial is not cleaning.

But knowing there's a sliding scale means I can claim the same cooking and cleaning activity on those days when I'm just too tired, or annoyed for that matter, to exert real effort. I, too, can heat a pizza stone, drop a pie on it and cut our dinner into 8 equally-sized thin crust wedges 15 to 19 minutes later.

And the bonus? No dish pan hands on those days.