If this is Christmas Eve, I can't WAIT for Christmas!

Y’all know how much I love Christmas. And if you’re one of Les filles Hingston you’ll not only know, you’ll understand. (Hola Lyn!) I’ve had Christmas music playing since…well, before there was snow on the ground. And given the fall we had, that’s saying something!

I love buying Christmas gifts. Getting them is nice too, but the planning and plotting behind getting them is what I truly love. And if – as I did this year– I’ve done something particularly clever (The Girl thinks I failed with finding her a ticket for a concert in March; I have TWO in my hot little hands, waiting to be wrapped…and then unwrapped) then it’s even better.

I have a hard time keeping secrets, so it's even ok that most of my Christmas shopping is done after all the baking is paid for. If I bought things any earlier, I'd be telling people.

Even being at work is a good thing. I was going to be off today, in fact, I worked all of last Friday (my day off) to ensure that I would be able to to stay home without using vacation leave. Still, stuff happened so here I am at work.

Why is that good? Because we close at one today, so I can leave at lunch and not come back. And yet get paid for a full day! So if I were home, I would have worked eight hours last week to have four hours off today. Very bad math indeed.

This way I have lots of time to do fun things like laundry and shopping and yet have a whole day squirreled away for use in the depths of January. Because I think a night at the spa in Moose Jaw would suit me just fine. I may even buy myself a gift card with the Christmas money my dad sent. (Thanks dad! ) A night at the spa without kids and without dogs. Woot! (Does this mean I’m giving up on going somewhere hot at some point? No, no sir, it does not. But let’s be realistic a night in The Jaw is more likely than a week at the beach).

So why is my Christmas eve already out of control? Because despite the hour (not even 8:30 at the time of writing), this is my day so far:

I was making bread for the deli this morning and I knocked over the bag of flour. This meant several things: first, no more bread for the oven means less bread for my pocket. Less bread baked is less bread to deliver, which will make the buyers sad. Given how many I did make, it was NOT worth getting up in the night to bake bread before going to work. Being overly tired is ok when there is a decent pay-out. Not so nice when there isn't.

Since I didn’t have a third batch of bread to bake, I was finished much earlier than planned. Which means I had time this morning between baking work and work-work. I did get three loads of laundry done but if, when I get to the Laundromat I find that it’s closed I will have three bags of clean frozen clothes and no dryer, and three bags of dirty clothes still needing to be done.

The final problem is that flour is really hard to clean. Yes, it sweeps up and all but every time I thought I had every last bit I’d slip in a few grains I’d missed. So, the tragedy of the flour is Act I of my Christmas eve morning.

Act II was the slippery walk way. Not the stairs that I’ve cart wheeled down before. Those The Boy took care of last night (something I didn’t notice until this morning, when I saw that someone had hacked all the built up ice and snow off of the front steps). No, this time it was the driveway. I slipped, saved and fell. The slip was the ice, the save was NOT dropping the tortiere or the fudge*, the fall was because my brain decided saving myself was not as important as saving the baking. Which is actually kinda true. ‘Cept I slipped and my shins hit the car as I slid under it. Not completely under the car, just I was facing the car when my feet went shooting out in front of me, dinging my shins and sliding under the car. So yeah for the baking, boo for the falling.

*As I lay on the driveway flat out on my back I looked in awe at the STILL BALANCED pie in my left hand and the STILL STACKED trays of fudge in my right. I have no idea how I managed that.

I put the pie and the fudge down, brushed myself off and opened the trunk. At which point, in my own driveway, by an inanimate object no less - I was stabbed. Slashed would be the better word, actually. A combination of cold and the usual strangeness that is my life meant that when the trunk popped open the metal bar thing that makes it pop open (and keeps it open) snapped like a twig and slashed me on its way out. That thing must have been under some serious tension.

I have no idea how to fix this, if it is even fixable. I suspect this is NOT a duct-tapeable situation! Welding? Soldering? Magic? I don’t need fixing, thank heavens (well, not as far as this morning’s disasters go), but I suspect I’ll have a bruise or ten to deal with tomorrow. And really…I’m more or less used to various and sundry bumps, cuts and bruises. I think a bruise from being stabbed by my own car would fall into the “sundry” category. So there, Act III and the end of the morning.

Drat – should never have said that. It is now 8:45, and I just got an email from a customer who got their baking yesterday. They ordered tarts, in their words “one half dozen of each”. I checked, that is what they said. What they meant, apparently, was one AND a half dozen of each kind. And they want to know if I’ll be baking next week, and willing to make a dozen mince tarts and a dozen butter tarts. Sigh. It’s hard to get enthusiastic about baking tarts when I’ve made so many this past week. However…the babies will be going to their dad’s for Christmas later in the week, so I suppose I could my customers happy and make more tarts. And The Boy will be pleased if there is a butter tart or ten to spare when I'm done. (He made fairly short work of the dozen that I had left over earlier in the week. I ate one, The Girl doesn't like them and didn't have any, and yet somehow there is only one left).

The Stats Of It All.

I’m a firm believer in "anything can happen". I’m a firm believer in if it can, and it’s weird and unexpected it very likely will happen. Although…if it’s likely, then it’s no longer unexpected. Would that mess up the math of it all?

There is a next-to-nothing chance that I will win the lottery. I can’t legitimately say no chance as I am in on the office pool of lottery ticket buying. I WILL NOT be the only person left behind if the office lottery pool wins millions! I rarely buy my own tickets, though, and I am aware that it is statistically unlikely that I’ll retire early on a lottery win.

I also know that it is not likely (although more likely than a lottery win or just finding a sack of money) that I’ll win any of the 27+ contests I entered. All but a handful of which, by the way, are for travel. Travel somewhere that I won’t be needing mitts, hat, coat, long johns, under armour and a hardy pioneer toughness.

You know what IS likely to happen though? Winning a trip…and not being able to go because I don’t have a passport. That would be so absolutely typical. And something I would grieve the remainder of my life, I think. And the teasing…I’d never live it down. Can you imagine? Actually winning a trip to Italy and not being able to go due to lack of paperwork? I would deserve every single snide comment if that happened.

I have now rebalanced the universe and returned to things to "very unlikely" that I’ll win a trip. I am passported. So to speak. At least in 8 to 10 business days I will be. I should have had it by now but despite the basic process I managed to have to go to the Passport office three times.

The first time I thought I had everything I needed. I had the forms filled out, had my guarantor, had my witnesses and the official pictures. Pictures that I had taken at Wal-Mart. Mainly because I was there, no one else was waiting and it would save me a trip.

I had several pictures taken, the photographer and The Girl picked one, and it got printed. And then photographer laughed a little and showed my picture to The Girl. They both agreed it was something unusable. Not sure what the problem was (she tore it up), but I guess it was so awful that they didn't even want me to see it. So we started again. And I got my little pictures; put the little folder in the inside zipped pocket and the next day went to the Passport Office. Only to find that I had no pictures. Which made absolutely no sense. I remember putting the pictures in that pocket. The only other thing in there is a two dollar bill. Not like I could miss seeing the photos if they were there. So. I left.

Got more pictures, went back. But (and this is totally my fault, I didn’t read things carefully, and it’s been 16 years since I had a passport so I forgot all the rules) the pictures hadn’t been signed by my guarantor. So. I left.

Went back today, assuming that everything was perfect. Everything was NOT perfect, but at least I didn’t have to leave. First of all, I said I was born in Toronto. But the birth certificate says East York. Lucky for me between the time I was born and today the two had amalgamated. Off the hook for that one.

The next issue was my name. I write out what my first name really is as one word. It is two on my birth certificate, two on my driver’s license. And on the other ID I was using (and everything else, because she wanted to check) it was the name I actually use and sign everything with. This did NOT make the powers that be happy. So giant red pen slash through the name to make it into two names. Also giant red pen slash on so many other things I was starting to get worried. I forgot little things – the city of one of my references, my own postal code, and – by far the worst – I signed the first page incorrectly. If your signature ends up in the grey area of the signature box the whole thing fails. She said that if the sticker they have covers it all, then I can sign again. If not…then a new front page and I’d have to start again. Which would mean leaving. Again.

The point is, though, not that I’m likely to be winning one of those contests but that if I do I won’t have to turn it down. So there. Also means when I visit family on Vancouver Island I can go to Seattle if I want to. And if…as it seems to be heading that way…I have a weather break down and run away from home some time this winter, I can run somewhere warm.

but...they bothered me

So, 'member how upset The Girl was when I trimmed my own bangs with pinking shears? Turns out that was nothing compared to what the dentist had to say when I told him I cut out stitches with a pair of office scissors.

In my defense, they were driving me crazy (the stitches, not the scissors!) And it was a good thing I went to him to see what the deal was with the ones I couldn't reach. Turns out that dissolving stiches should disappear in five days, seven at the most. I was three days shy of four weeks when I grabbed the scissors and went to town. Needless to say - after a lecture or three - they took the rest of them out. In what they liked to refer to as "the proper way".

Ha! I win!

So last weekend the committee and I had two battles royal. The committee won the first, I won the second. The plus side of this is that...I think I've found the autowin for a LOT of the arguments the committee and I have.

Autowins are things you can use to win certain arguments all the time. Small phrases like "97 percent", "she chose YOU", "seven hours", "-45 C" and "Twas Brillig". They're terribly useful phrases, saving you hours of heated debate. No doubt your autowins are different than mine but that's ok. I beg your pardon for the digression. So:

I noticed, during the second argument, that The Committee was speaking on behalf of others. Not on the committee's behalf, about issues I struggle with, but trying to convince me they knew what others would say, given the chance.

And that's when I found the weakness of it all: given the chance. My friends and family don't need - nor likely want! - the committee to speak for them. They all have voices, and they are all able to use them, and to use them in the assurance that of course they can voices those opinions.

So...trying to convince me to NOT ask a favour of someone (by convincing me that said favour is just too weird/unexpected/un-doable/enormous) is silly. I can't think of anyone I know - that I could ask a favour of - who wouldn't be ok with a simple yes if they can and no if they can't. A no that wouldn't hurt my feelings, and a yes that wouldn't make their lives too difficult.

So what all the rambling boils down to is this: all I have to think about is "they have the chance", and I remember that I don't need an imaginary group of naysayers telling me what others would or would not say/think/do. So there, committee, autowin!

An Apple a day. A modern day fairy tale.

Disclaimer:
Here are a couple of stories for you. A story about a man, and a story about a woman. Not all men, not all women, ok? I don’t need any lectures on how the problem with creating sweeping generalizations, or the evils inherent in reinforcing gender stereotypes. I have lived my life, and sometimes things are what they are. So there. They're just stories.



Once upon a time a woman gave a man an apple. “Thank you” he said. And he ate it. The End.

Once upon a time – a different time – a man gave a woman an apple. And she thought:

"An apple? Is this an apple? I mean, it looks like an apple, so it probably is. But maybe it’s a fake apple, an apple candle or something. Why is he giving me an apple? What does it mean? Is there some Adam and Eve message in this that I’m supposed to get? Something to do with sin? Have I done something that he sees as sinful, and this is his way of telling me? Why can’t he just TELL ME? What’s wrong with him? Or…is it something wrong with me? What’s wrong with me that he has to tell me this way?

Or maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with Adam and Eve. Maybe it’s a Snow White thing. Is he trying to poison me? No, that makes no sense. Maybe it’s a student teacher thing? Does he want to try some naughty student-teacher game? Or does he think I’m turning into a teacher? Is THAT it? Is he trying to say I’m BOSSY? How dare he? I’m totally not bossy. Well, I don’t think I am. Maybe I am, and everyone knows it but me. And they’re all laughing about it. Laughing at me. Because I'm bossy and unaware of my own bossiness.

No, wait, this is getting silly. Maybe it’s an apple because he likes apples. So what does he want me to do with it? Am I supposed to cook something for him? Is this a hint to buy apples and make him an apple pie or something? Who does he think I am? I’m not his mother or his cook, if he wants apple pie he can make his own damn pie. Or maybe…maybe someone else is making him pie, and he’s trying to save the marriage, by having me make pie too. That’s it, he’s seeing someone else, and she’s thinner and prettier than I am AND she makes pies and and and”

The woman bursts into tears, and leaves the room, heartbroken but confidant that the man will fix everything because of course he knows exactly why she left in the first place. The End.

I guess it would have been better than hunting. Maybe.

As previously discussed, I dream well. Well in a few meanings of the word:
- in a good or satisfactory manner
- thoroughly
- commendably, meritoriously, or excellently
- to a considerable extent or degree

And for reasons I don't care to discuss, I had some high hopes for some good dreaming last night. However.... I did not dream in a satisfactory manner. Oh, I dreamt, don’t get me wrong. I dreamt about high school (not so bad) my much-missed brother (sad, but nice to see him, so to speak) and…Sarah Palin.

Yup, you read that correctly. I dreamt about Sarah Palin. And man, was she irritating. We were on vacation together. Yeah, like that would happen. In the midst of the one winter I’m not coping very well with I’m most likely to vacation further north. With Sarah Palin. Although… in my current effort to learn to suffer fools kindly, if not gladly, she could be homework or something. Anyway!

I was trying to work out some whale watching. I’m in Alaska, seemed like a good plan. What did she want? To go sky diving, over open water. Because she was “pretty sure” someone would fish us out of the water before we got too cold. One of those Televisions boats. From Deadliest Catch. Her words, not mine. Although as it was my dream I suppose all of the words were mine. Still. Palin. Why? Am I being punished for something?

This also meant that I was up and out of bed WAY too early this morning. 4:55. am if you must know. Why? Because there was no way on God’s green earth I was going to risk going back into that dream. That never happens with good dreams but nightmares are another story. My theory on why that is is that fear holds onto our minds with a far tighter grip than pleasure. Just a theory.

On the plus side…I did get a load of laundry done this morning. And the dishwasher unloaded and loaded up again. And the kitchen counters cleaned. And had a Latin dance work out* with enough time left over to read a book in the bath and still not be late for work. Most of which is good. All except the work out part. I’m a morning person, but my hips are not used to that much action that early in the day. (There will be NO COMMENTS on that line. NONE WHATSOEVER. Just let it go, ok?)

I didn’t even get to do any dream-world whale watching, because we got lost. In Alaska, on a ski-do. See what I mean about not worth risking a return?

*I’ve started doing the Zumba thing. My review of what I think about it later today or sometime next week.

Woman on the Verge of a Cold Weather Break Down.

Here are some of the things I've thought about doing today. Seriously thought about.

Is there anything legal....or legal-ish that I can do to get enough money to go somewhere hot for a few days? Starting Saturday?

How much would it actually cost (not just in money, which is in short supply -thanks, car repair -but in time and effort as well) to go to Moose Jaw and stay at the spa? To float about in the hot water and pretend I'm somewhere else? And stay there until tomorrow?

What about a spa here? Something in a hotel, so I can have a massage and then just toddle off to bed, instead of going back outside.

Would BC be enough of a warm break to help? (no, no it wouldn't).

Would it make any difference to the day if I ran outside to the parking lot and started screaming at mother nature?

Why? Why, after all the years in this place, why is this winter the one that is killing me?

Don't worry. I won't actually be robbing a bank today. Or any day. The only thing that is going to happen today is me taking a book out for supper. Maybe somewhere that feels like it could be some place that isn't actually here. Which is an awkward sentence, but I'm not re-writing it. I'm too cold to.

No rival to the Colonel.

There are things in the kitchen – and the back yard – that I fear that I hope some day to be able to face with bold equanimity. There are things I fear that I intend to continue to fear because it is meet and right so to do.

I won't use a pressure cooker, ever. Or an electric knife. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one that wouldn't want to see me using an electric knife, but I digress.

I am afraid of gas ranges and gas barbeques and deep fryers. I don’t like that I am, and it would be nice to cook at my sister’s house without almost biting through my lip every time I turn a burner on.

I was quite happy over the past summer using a briquette burning bbq, but I know from reading as well as things friends have said that having something with better control over temperature would increase the range of grilling possibilities.

I still think that all I really need is some gas bbq savvy guy. Person. I don’t know if The Girl has the the same issue I do. Namely the issue of living with the certainty that it is only a matter of time until the propane tank explodes, taking friends and family with it in a screaming fiery inferno. Maybe she doesn’t; that sort of sounds like something only I think about.

The Boy is savvy, and grills at his dad's a lot, so perhaps this year we’ll fill the propane tank up and get the show on the road. By which I mean he will fill the tank up and I will go stand in our neighbours yard, when he puts it all together and lights the thing. Pace in the neighbour’s yard, actually, twisting my hands and waiting for the explosion that means that my view of death by propane (as opposed to The Boy’s view of “really, mom?”) was the correct view.

Cooking with a pressure cooker ain’t never gonna happen. Ever. So it saves time or adds tenderness or some such nonsense. I don’t care. Things under pressure explode. Everyone knows that.

Deep frying, though…I thought perhaps I could give that a try. I have no idea why I felt I needed to get over my fear of litres of boiling fat in the kitchen. I don’t even like fried food. And fear of frying is not like fear of flying. It wasn’t changing my life at all, for better or worse. Although…a case could be made that it was making my life better.

If I mastered deep frying, I might take a liking to fried foods. Cutting sugar out of my diet was hard, but cutting fat and salt was easy, given that I don’t like fries, or potato chips, or any salty fried thing. If I got to like fried things as much as I used to like sweet things….I don’t know if I would have had the strength to give them both up.

As it turns out (and here is where we have Tuesday-cooking-post-on-a-Wednesday) that I needn’t have worried. I tried making fried chicken last night. Tried and quite decidedly failed. The first batch was raw on the inside. The Girl ended up having a bite of chicken skin and biscuit sandwiches for supper. She did grab an orange on her way out, so I suppose it wasn’t the worst meal she’s ever had. But still.

The batch I made when she was gone was not raw. Not even the littlest bit. It was, I can safely say, thoroughly done. Very thoroughly done. Filling the kitchen with smoke and making the smoke detector shriek kind of done. It tasted about like you would expect it to taste. Horrible.

Yes, I tried it. What kind of mother would I be if I let The Girl be the only one who had to face an unappealing mess of my own creation? A mean one. Smart, maybe, but mean.

So the deep fryer will be returned to the neighbours, I am confident that I will not suddenly start craving fried food and – big bonus – although there was a minor accident (hello? Remember whose blog this is?) it didn’t involve burning. It was more of a slipping in oil and bashing my head kind of deal. I had more trouble getting the puppies out of the way so I could mop than I did with said slipping. Actually, the worst bit of it all was the mopping; it’s incredibly difficult to mop up oil. Even a smallish amount of spilled cooking oil has this weird supernatural ability to remain un-mopped. Creepy. I'm going back to being afraid of deep frying.

Trying not to complain, but...

I don't want to turn into a writer that does nothing but complain about how awful people are. Really I don't. But...is society in general no longer able to recognize visual clues, like body language? And how about verbal directions? When you tell someone something, and they appear to hear and understand, and then continue on as though they neither heard nor understood is that not a problem?

Perhaps we really have become a nation of sheep. Perhaps we have reached a point where people need exact, specific instructions regarding polite behaviour. Regarding anything, in fact. Anything and everything?

What's got me on this particular hobby horse today is the number of people who talk to you when you're trying to read. This isn't new, of course. Today I chose to take my lunch break in my own office.

I have the best office in the building. Big windows, a small corner that couldn't be used that I made into a lounge (one comfy chair, one bookcase and one table with a lamp), and given that I cranked the heat WAY up today it is about the only place in the building that isn't cold, bordering on freezing. Those aren't the reasons that I ate here instead of the lunch room, though. I did so in order to read in peace and quiet. I've been busy, I needed the break. People talk to/at you in the lunch room.

So there I was, folded up in my chair having lunch and reading. Someone walking by stopped to ask why I was there, not the lunch room. And - deciding to be blunt about it - I said "because I really need to be on my own and reading today. It's been a tough day". He agreed. And then proceeded to tell me - for almost ten minutes of my thirty minute lunch break - about his day.

So my complaint is two-fold: how, or why did he think my desire to be alone didn't include him? Also...where on earth did I leave my spine? I mean, yes, I hate hurting peoples feelings, but I didn't have to say "that includes you, idjit", I could have simply said something like "I'm sorry, but I have a short break and I really do just want to read for a bit". But I didn't. I just did some spectacular silent seething and ended up finishing lunch about as ready for a break when I started it.

Work should NOT be a part of one's dream life!

Great. Just great. Now the irritating client of yesterday is invading my dream life. And not for the better! All I can say is thank heavens the first dream of the night was incredible: time/space travel, warm climes, good food. As a matter of fact, the first dream had almost all of my most favourite things in it. Throw in an elephant, a giraffe a few tigers and the ability to breathe under water (and dive safely to great depths without gear) and we might have had a perfect all-inclusive bit of fantasticalness.(I was about to apologize for making up a word…but according to spell check, fantasticalness is a real word*. Who knew?)

The second dream, though…completely different story. In that bit of terribleness, the client I told you about yesterday came out to see me. And she had the court order we’d been asking for. A court order that said, amongst other things, that I had to speak in French (ok, I can do that), do her research (not going to do that) and sing “Under the Boardwalk” (What?) Other than the non-surprising revelation that I feel I’m being asked to do things that are her job, not mine, I have no idea what to do with that trio of things. I can’t sing…and there is no Boardwalk here, let alone one that is down by the sea.

I've had dreams about work before, but it's always been along the lines of being late, or having to give a presentation that I haven't prepared for. Singing...that's never appeared in a work dream. I was kinda glad that the alarm went off before I had to perform like a trained monkey.

*Hmmm. Microsoft Word says it is a real word, blogspot spell check says it isn't. I KNEW microsoft was messing with my head. How many other words am I using that don't really exist????

And I'm a nice person.

I am dealing with someone as kindly as I can. A someone - a work client - who is making me crazy. No, wait, not crazy. Angry. And I'm a nice person, with a very long fuse and a great deal of patience. I've managed - so far - to not respond to her inane questions with "look, lady..." or even "how are you not getting this?" But it's been a close call.

Today's issue is the meaning of lists. Or perhaps the point of lists. She gave me a list, several hundred items long. I was quite impressed with the column that stated which things were priority one and which were priority two. No one else has done that without me asking them to. She seemed to understand that with hundreds of things to find, knowing which ones matter the most is an excellent thing to know.

What she doesn't seem to understand is....don't make single items priority one....AND priority two. This just means that I have to go through the list of p.2. things and cross out everything I've already dealt with. Which is turning out to be many many things.

As a further irritation, she is worried about how long this is taking. A job that involves a mountain of work has been made far more complicated by the various things she's done that I've had to re-do or undo. And she's complaining about the time it is taking!

I'm about one nerve away from answering my phone with a very unprofessional mad-house toned high volume "WHAT???"

And this is Monday. Just Monday.

Learn something new every day. Or seven somethings.

Things I learned in the course of a single morning:

1) It’s always worth getting off the couch and going to bed when you’re super tired. Thinking that you’re too tired to move at any particular moment and yet awake enough to get to bed at some point is not logical.

Getting off the couch and into bed is even more important if any (ar all) of the following are certainties:

You move around in your sleep and you’ll roll off the couch. More than once even. And yet manage, bizarrely, to get back on the couch instead of making the apparently impossible effort of stumbling down the hall to your actual bed.

Big puppy will eventually worm her way onto the couch whilst you’re sleeping. Heaven forbid that you remain unguarded in the apparently dangerous living room.

Small puppy, determined to NOT miss out on anything that big puppy is into will also sleep on the couch. ‘Cept he’ll walk on you on his way to the top of the back of the couch. The back of the couch being a spot that at some point, naturally, he will fall from. That point being the point at which you are so soundly asleep that it is likely that you’ll wake up flailing arms and screaming.

Screaming blue bloody murder in the middle of the night is no guarantee that anyone will come to your rescue. At the most you’ll get irritated glares from two dogs. Don’t tell me dogs don’t glare, they totally do.

2) If three different things (your clothes, your friends and the scales) all say you’ve lost weight, but looking in the mirror makes you feel ginormous, don’t look in the mirror. Duh.


3) Preserves made in January for delivery in December should be labeled in, oh, I don’t know, January? NOT the morning of delivery in December.

4) Doing something drastic to your hair (shaving your head, streaking it blue, trimming it with pinking shears) when you’re upset may be your way of coping with stress. But…doing it the day before you may be going out for lunch is just asking for trouble.

5) Being up early means you can take your time getting ready. Which should be taken to mean…have a bath. Do your hair. Put some make-up on? It does NOT mean change your hair entirely, bake something for the office, and decide to make a supper that involves peeling, chopping, browning, sauce making and a slow cooker. Because at some point you’ll realize that you’re behind time, not ahead of it.

6) Don’t wear underpinnings so complex they’ll make you late for work.


7) Stupid people aren’t any smarter first thing in the morning. Au contraire – it’s entirely possible that they’re even stupider than usual in the cold light of dawn. I’m not saying they'll get smarter as the day goes on, of course. I’m just saying that if you’re hoping they’ll be more on top of things at eight in the morning than they were at four in the afternoon the day before...that’s just wishful thinking.

Regina Restaurant Review. Hickory Smokehouse and Grill

The Girl and I went out for lunch today. Always nice spending time with her, and I thought I'd check out a new restaurant, see if it would be worth writing about. I never used to think about restaurant reviews. Mainly because I rarely went anywhere. But due to unforseen - and totally delightful - circumstances that is no longer the case. So, off to lunch.

I'm going to start with the ending, and then support said conclusion. Love having no one to answer to as far as the "proper" way to write a review! The conclusion was....I won't be going there again. Was it the food? The waitress? The ambience? Nope, none of those.

The problem was purple sweater lady, who was - I'm guessing, but given the lack of uniform and her general air it seems likely - the manager. Or a manager. We ordered our meals, with water for drinks. Water which didn't come for twenty minutes or so, at which point I was thirsty enough to flag our waitress down and ask where it was. She apologized, and it was clear that she thought someone else was bringing it. Maybe they have a water boy or something. Anyway - no biggie, so we had to wait for water. I dont' mind that...too much. Clearly I do a little bit, or I wouldn't have mentioned it.

The Girl ordered ribs, with Whiskey bbq sauce. I ordered the prime rib sandwich. It came with stuff I didn't want, and when she suggested I have soup, I said sure. Just pack it up and I'll take it with me for lunch another day. I mean, I'm paying the full meal price, right? She thought that seemed reasonable. But, as it turns out, they had no way for me to take it with me. Other containers, yes, soup no. Maybe if you order soup it is unlikely that you won't be able to finish it and will be looking for a doggy bowl? Whatever, I knew the sandwich would be enough. (Some places would make a deduction on the bill for not having any of the extras, some wouldn't. Hickory falls into the latter category).

The Girl liked her ribs....sort of. Her mini-review was that they were tender, but not very meaty and the sauce was barely there. Almost like a last minute brush on. So, ok but not the best ribs she's had, and given that it's a smokehouse she thought they would be better than ok.

My sandwich was also just ok. I couldn't eat the top bun, but that wasn't the kitchen's fault. Again, purple sweater lady makes an appearance in the review.

So, what was the deal with P.S.L.? When our meals came up (and we had mentioned being short on time) our waitress was....somewhere. Probably somewhere totally legitimate, as she was a decent waitress. But when she did appear, instead of quickly grabbing our meals and then going to a different table that was looking to pay she went to the paying table first. Which would have been fine, but for no reason we could figure out it was the longest payment in Christendom. Our meals sat under the heat lamp for eight and half minutes. Hence the inedibly dry sandwich bun. Not to mention luke warm meals.

P.S.L. walked by the waiting meals many times. Many many times. She walked past them and chatted to people in the kitchen. She walked past them and went to the back (an office, perhaps?) She walked past them, looked at them and stood around. So no excuse that she didn't know they'd been sitting there for quite a while. I mean, they were the only two dishes up there for most of those eight minutes.

As manager I get that your job isn't to wait tables. But perhaps it is your job to make sure things happen in - as every irritating office procedure memo I've read puts it - a timely manner. Would it have killed her to pick them up and bring them over? I suppose the same could be said for me, I could have gone over and grabbed my meal. I almost did, in fact, but The Girl said she would find that embarassing. And she's at that age where that is probably true. And it was meant to be a nice lunch out together, so I stayed where I was.

Perhaps that isn't enough reason to not go. And it wouldn't be, if the food was awesome, but the food was just average. Oh, and if you have issues with smoke, be careful. I was ok, but I think had I been there for supper and a more extended time it might have been a different story.

Oh mow I didn't.

Actually, oh yes I did. I don't know how many of you - most, I suspect - are aware of/participating in Mowvember. Basically, grow a mustache and raise money for prostate cancer research. It's a great thing. I know lots of people that are doing this.

You know what isn't great? Commenting - to a client at work - on a person's ugly/cheesy/hilarious fund-raising mustache. Only to find out they have no idea what Mowvember is, and that they're very fond of their mustache thank you very much.

Stupid unruly mouth - will I never learn?

Coulda been Better

What would have been better was the filling. Shoulda been apple, or pumpkin. What, you ask, am I talking about? There is a web site called Serious Eats. And yesterday, from Cake Spy, they had this:
http://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2010/11/cinnamon-rolls-stuffed-with-pie-thanksgiving-leftovers-recipe.html

If you don't want to read it, the gist is there needs to be a solution to leftover pie. Which strikes me as about as important as what to do about too much sex. However, I take it there are people who have a problem with the former. Probably people that worry about the latter, too, but I like to pretend they don't exist.

Their solution is to buy unbaked cinnamon rolls (yes, you could make your own but what a waste), and take apart your leftover pie. Then you spread pie filling on the Cinnamon rolls, which you have very carefully unwound. I bought Pillsbury Grands, five to a pack. I baked my own pie, but I cheated by using a pre-made crust. No way on earth at the end of a working day am I going to make pastry just to wreck it.

Once you've re-rolled your buns (Les Filles Hingston may proceed to making butt cracks. Ha! I made one!) and put them in a pan you take the top of the pie pieces that you've scooped the filling out of and dice them up. Then you sprinkle them on the buns and make the whole mess. My favourite line from the recipe comes next:

"Once golden on the tops and edges, remove from the oven. Pause and reflect if it would be simply too much to add frosting; decide that no, it would not be, and liberally douse your cinnamon rolls with the frosting of your choice".

So the pie I made was blueberry. Because The Girl asked nicely. Both kids were thrilled with our once weekly dessert being pie. All that really mattered was that there were leftovers this morning. So I did the whole unrolling, filling, re-rolling, dicing, sprinkling bit. And the result? My finger nails are purple. Because blueberries - even when baked in a pie and cooled - are slippery little buggers. And taste-wise...blueberry was not a good combination. Don't get me wrong, the buns got eaten. By four guys and a pregnant woman, though, so it's not really fair to go by that.

If I were to do this again - and I'm not saying no, but really the pain in the ass factor was pretty high - I'd do it with pumpkin. Or apple. Or, as a co-worker suggested, sour cream raisin. I thought raisin would just be like raisins in cinnamon buns, no big deal. But sour cream raisin might work.

Hey - I did a Tuesday cooking post on a Tuesday. Yeah me!

LIfe,

Sometimes life just sucks. Rarely, I think. At least rarely for me. I know, finances are always tight, I worry too much, the house is falling down around me but the real things, the important things are good. And even some of the not so important things are really excellent, so I really shouldn't complain. My three questions by which I measure my life are all still nos.

Is anyone I know dead or dying?
Am I dying?
Are my babies hurting, really, grievously hurting?

No to all three? Then life is good.

But...there are some not so good times. This morning I got blindsided. Stabbed in the heart, metaphorically speaking. I was so hurt, and then so angry. And then - and here's where I stopped being a baby and pulled myself together - I found myself thinking "how dare they? How dare they make me feel this way?"

Big time slap in the face, that line. "Make me feel"? No one can make me feel. Yes, people can do things that can push you to a certain place, but they can't make you choose to react one way or another. You'd think I would have this lesson down pat. For years I had a Viktor Frankl quote on my desk at work:

“The one thing you can’t take away from me is the way I choose to respond to what you do to me. The last of one’s freedoms is to choose ones attitude in any given circumstance.”

I can't even remember what made me put it there in the first place (he was a holocaust survivor, by the way, so he knew about things being taken away), but I had it memorized I read it so often. I think of it every now and then, when someone is trying to push my buttons just to get me angry or upset. And yet...there I was, once again, trying to blame someone else for my hurt feelings. Over something that not only wasn't meant to hurt, but something that most people wouldn't even care about.

So I chose. I chose to head out for my day-long date with The Girl, and not ruin it by holding on to pointless hurt. Not only because she deserved to have a day unmarked with bitterness, but because I did. And it was a good day.

Tuesday Cooking Post

On a Thursday. Because it's my blog and I'm still the boss of me. Anyway - from Fine Cooking Annual volume two or three we had Burnished Chicken Thighs with Sweet Potatoes, Parsnips and Shallots. This makes the second time I've cooked parsnips and eaten them. And don't think it's because of the kids that parsnips might be a problem - they love them, I'm the fussy veggie eater in the house.

The recipe did explain the use of the word "burnished". I thought it meant polished somehow, but they meant cooked to a rich dark brown colour. And yes, the glaze was a bit shiny so I guess polished wasn't too far off the mark. I was a bit obsessive about the marinade, but The Boy (who is not a big fan of chicken) at every scrap and said the craziness with the marinade was worth it.

The marinade itself was pretty simple. The problem was it wasn't a liquid sauce that the thighs could float in all day, it was closer to the consistency of tapioca pudding. So...I brought it to work. Why not? We have a full sized fridge for 7 staff members so it's not like there wasn't any room. And it meant that I could turn the chicken every couple of hours.

Took it home and baked it. The chicken on one half of a foil lined baking sheet, the veggies tossed in oil, salt and pepper on the other. Next time I'll do the chopping and peeling of the vegetables in the morning have them in a container in the fridge ready to go. The prep work was the only delay. Not a lot of work, but still...when you're hungry every minute seems a lifetime.

Speaking of the vegetables - the shallots were peeled, and cut in half to the base, only the tops trimmed. That worked really well. They kept their shape and they not only tasted great on their own but tossing them with the parsnips and sweet potatoes added a nice flavour to them all. Part of the recipe - an unnecessary part to my mind, but both kids liked it - was cooking a few strips of nitrite free bacon to crispyness, crumbling it into chopped parsley and then tossing the mix with the veggies when they were out of the oven. I did like the splash of colour, and the added texture was nice, I just don't think the recipe would be bad or disappointing without it.

Tis the Season

I will be interested to see how enjoyable this year’s office Christmas party is. Every year since I’ve been here (and when I started I didn’t have any children, and The Boy is now in university) we’ve had some sort of after hours party with spouses/partners. One year kids were invited too.

And the parties have included things like pool, beer and chicken wings to wine, steak and the hotel Saskatchewan. Always well attended, and usually a great deal of fun, inasmuch as an office group is able to have fun. There is always that sort of weird awkwardness of people socializing not from choice but because they all work in the same place.

I don’t think this year’s party will work. Because the recipe they’re using for this is not a good one. Take a bunch of people whose only thing in common is that they work in the same place, cancel the evening Christmas party, move it to a business day, set it in the boardroom and tell your staff that they are being given time off to attend the party. Finish off with an email that says “please note that as the party is being held during office hours if you do not plan on attending you will be expected to work”. Yeah, this should be fun.

I'm guessing never.

There are some things I wish I would hurry up and grow out of. F'rinstance, someone from the unit here that I used to work in was in our office today. She came over and said "so, I hear some nice looking guy was here last week and you went to lunch"

Ok, first of all - and this doesn't upset me, it's actually kinda funny - "some guy"? Doesn't that sound like some unfortunate guy (albeit nice looking) just happened to be here last week and asked the room in general if anyone would care to join him for lunch? And that I said yes? Because that's what it sounded like to me. And it wasn't anything like that. Ok, yes it was a guy. And yes, as it happens a nice looking one (yeah me!) and yes, lunch was involved. But it was planned. We'd arranged to go for lunch together. It wasn't just "some guy". Back to the story.

The problem is, the very next thing she said was "are you blushing? You've gone all pink!". And she was right. Blushing like some nervous Nelly. At my age. I found myself getting pinker in embarrassment over being pink. I thought there would be a time when this would no longer be a concern*. I'm guessing that time will be when I'm dead. Or never. I sort of assumed the dead don't blush, but what do I know?

*as a further embarrassment, it makes it really hard to lie, because it happens then too. Can't get away with anything. In truth I'd be a terrible con man. Woman. Person.

Enough. Seriously, Mother Nature, just enough.

I started work early today. I did so with every intention of leaving early. But I can’t. Because I didn’t do work stuff, I did personal stuff. Why? Because it’s -30 out there. In NOVEMBER. So I entered a few contests. Just a few. For trips.

Some of them are trips for two that I’ll take someone, some are trips for two that I’ll pay for a third ticket and take the kids and some are trips for four, so kids and one of les filles Hingston for some added fun. Destinations for said contests? Here’s the list:

Las Vegas (at least three different contests)
Arizona (twice)
Tuscany
Disney Land
Mexico (so often I don’t remember specific locations)
Vienna
Dominican Republic
Gran Bahia Principe, Jamaica (counting on this one, the name feels lucky)
Japan (how awesome would that be?)
Vancouver
Toronto
Sandals Jamaica
Turks and Caicos
British Virgin Islands

In fact, if there weren’t a project that had to be done for Thursday, I’d think about going to Victoria. Today. Right now. But they too have snow, so maybe not. Because it is no longer good enough to get away from -30. I need MORE than that. I have needs people.

Apparently, it was ugly

Dental surgery is done. It went well, despite one assistant having to leave...to puke. Which is better than some other time he did this procedure. That time one assistant fainted and the other one ran into the lamp thing that dentists use and then the wall before she fainted. All because this is a fairly messy and icky looking procedure. I think you'll find the term icky in the dentist handbook.

I, on the other hand, didn't care. Scrape out all the bone you want. Cut open as much jaw as you need to. And filling the space in the bone with some poly plastic something or other? Go right ahead. Just...do it quickly, because the giant metal thing you're using to keep my mouth open and cheek back is killing me. And, I think, from what I can tell over the local, it's also tearing my mouth.

The plus side is that it's done. I'll get the use of my mouth back. I need my mouth. You know, for eating or spitting out brilliantly cutting remarks at the right moment to the deserving, or gawking in amazment at people when they do stupid things (yes, that is a necessity. I love the look of embarrasement people get you when you give them that look. The dawning realization that despite being fifty they're acting like they're five)

So at some point* I'll be able to chew on that side of my mouth again. Also a plus, my deeply embedded aversion to mirrors means that it hasn't been difficult avoiding having to see my puffy face. Half puffy. Or half face. Whichever means half my face is completely puffy. The weird thing is - or at least it seems weird to me - it is worse this morning (Monday) than it was right after the surgery (which was Friday). I thought I'd be all better by now. Partially plastic, but all better.

*That point isn't now. And given that the second dentist I saw (my dentist wanted confirmation that the surgery was necessary) pointed out the problem on the other side of my mouth. What? Some other problem? Turns out that the fake tooth I had cemented in 20+ years ago needs to be replaced. I knew there was something wrong-ish going on - floss was catching on something, and eating things like apples I had to avoid that side- but didn't realize it would entail more than a minute to fix it. So still no apples for me. I haven't had an apple since September. Hard to, when you have to bite carefully on one side of your mouth and not at all on the other.

To sleep, perchance to dream

I didn't quote the rest of that because as far as I'm concerned there is no downside to dreaming. And I dreamt so particularly well last night that I'm going to blog about dreaming. Oh, and I skipped blogging about food on Tuesday because the meal was only half successful; steak tips in red wine butter sauce. Sauce was awesome, steak sucked. Figures - I have a terrible track record for steak cooking. Anyway, back to today's entry:

I’ve been through some tough things in my life (divorce) some really tough things (death and dismemberment. Ok, not the latter but it’s been close a couple of times) some odd things (falling down a mud well at a Haitian construction site) and some pretty cool stuff (everything else).

You’d think the divorce would be the worst thing, or possibly the second worse thing, to have happen. You’d be wrong. Shortly after the whole break up I went through – suffered through – two dreamless weeks. Yes, it is likely that I did dream, but simply didn't remember them. But as far as I’m concerned the former without the latter is pointless.

The thing is, I’d been married 8 years when it ended. And yes, it ended in a particularly bad way, but I’d lived twenty something years without being married so going back to that wasn’t terrible, it just took time. And I had one of the best childhoods you can imagine, and my family was wonderful so recovering from the break-up took time, but I did get over it. I’ve no idea where people who grew up in horrible circumstances find the wherewithal to get over a horrible marriage. Man, I’m lucky.

Dreaming, though, that’s a different story. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t dream, and dream well. I have lucid dreams (where you know you’re dreaming, and can even occasionally direct the dream) hallucinatory dreams (sane people having hallucinations is not that unusual; normally happens when you’re under intense stress or fatigue) and once – sort of – a prophetic dream*.

For years I wrote down my dreams, which helps with being able to instigate lucid dreaming, by the way. I’ve had one dream that is a long drawn out story dreamt over a number of years. I haven’t dreamt the next chapter yet (it’s been a year, at least) but I’m sure it will come along some time. I’ve thought about writing a book based on those dreams, but when you read through them you can tell what books I’d been reading and what movies I’d been watching. I’d be in court for plagiarism a dozen times. Great dream sequence, though, I loved it. Yes, I typed them out and saved them electronically. I want to be able to go over them when I’m old and grey.

So you can see how important dreams are to me. When they disappeared for those two weeks, I had no idea if it was a permanent change. And the thought that it might be almost killed me. No more saving the world dreams? No more time travel dreams? No more epic Lord of the Rings like dreams? What kind of life is that? And the break-up of a marriage is a not-good thing but losing an entire life of adventure and travel…not to be born. Suffice it to say that when the dreams returned I knew that life would eventually get back on track, and all was well with the world.

*In retrospect, it was merely a case of knowing deep down that something was not right in my world, and that worry coming out in a dream. When my world did fall apart two weeks after a nightmare of impending disaster I thought “Wow - a dream that saw the future!” Nope, turns out I just had a better idea of what was going on than I’d thought.

How to Please a Man

Totally safe post. Not going to tell you how to please all men, or tell you something that would please your man, I'm just telling a story. A baking story.

I was a bit out of sorts this morning. I hadn't slept well, thanks to the side I normally sleep on being injured. I would start out on my back, or on my stomach but would inevitably find myself on my right side, in agony and wide awake. So, tired this morning, and cranky. Ok, not so cranky. I'm not very good at cranky.

The solution to being tired (or angry, sad, bored, delusional, frustrated) for me is baking. So I made chocolate chip cookies, with raspberry chocolate chips instead of the usual giant milk chocolate chips I normally use.

The only problem, of course, is this means cookies are available for eating. And The Boy isn't at the house this week, so I'd be eating them, and maybe The Girl would eat some. No no no. That is a BAD thing. So - I did what any right thinking person would do and I brought them to the office.

It was a good day to do that, as I had meetings at the branch I used to work at. They occasionally complain that they miss having fresh baked goods since I changed locations. So I got rid of the cookies and they got some baking. Yummy baking if I may be so bold as to say.

The best part is how they smelled; chocolate, raspberry, butter and sugar. Heaven in a basket. And tempting. Truly. How do I know this? I got onto the elevator, along with some random guy. Who turned to me with enormous eyes wide open in delight and asked what was in the basket (and I wasn't even wearing a red hood). So I told him. And then offered him some. (Some cookies, ok? Just cookies).

He looked at the basket, looked at me, said "really?" and took one. But the way he said "really", people. Just amazing. Like he was six, and I'd offered him a puppy. He bit into it, warm melty chocolate and all, and moaned. Ok, the moan wasn't very six year old-ish. But still. Clearly one single cookie had given him a moment of heaven. And he took one for the road, so I got rid of two before I even made it to the meeting. Good for me, good for him. And that's how to please a man.

Only in Saskatchewan

I decided to get a hot milky drink from Timmies on the weekend. I think this is perhaps the second time I've done that. Mainly because when I feel like a hot drink I'm usually at home in bed, and have no desire to put clothes on and go out in the cold. Much better to make my own drink. Not to mention that as far as I know they don't have Kahlua as an option for add-ons to cocoa. But I digress.

Getting into the parking lot was difficult. Why? Because there was a stuck vehicle. You might think that that's no big deal. Happens all the time, almost anywhere in Canada. And yes, it probably does.

The thing that made it very Saskatchewan was that it was a stretch SUV. With Rider flags on the windows AND the antenna. And it was being pushed by toque sporting members of a small town hockey team. Who were also wearing jackets, and fleece pajama pants. I seriously have to start carrying a camera around with me.

The Committee takes six days

I've talked before - I think on my previous blog - about the committee in your head. But for those of you who didn't read it or don't remember here's the story:

You have a committee in your head. Yes, yes you do. Everyone does. The committee is not exactly the same for everyone, but it's close. The committee is made up of voices from your past. The first person to stand you up. The teacher who said you didn't do anything right. The kid that didn't invite you to a birthday party even though you thought you were friends. That person who cheated on you, that co-worker who lied...you get the picture.

The committee gets active when you're feeling a little bit uncertain. Job interview, new business venture, first date jitters, starting on a new hobby or skill. They all start talking. Telling you you're crazy to think whatever you're doing or have done is a good plan. Don't tell me you don't hear those voices, I don't believe you.

What I discovered this week is that my committee has a definite schedule. Six days. Six days after I've done something or started thinking about trying something new, they decide to chip in. And let me tell you, they're mean:

"Pink cashmere and faux fur? What are you, six?"

"New brochure? Why bother? People just want cookies for Christmas. They could come from the grocery store for all that it matters"

"Date? How about pity date? That sounds about right"

"You should try wearing make up. Seriously you're, like, ancient. But learn how to do it right, you looked like a clown that Saturday out"

"Yeah, you've lost weight. But is there really a difference between pudgy and plain and less pudgy but just as plain?"

"A Novel? Are you KIDDING me? You couldn't write your way out of a wet paper bag"

I am going to search for the anti-committee voices. Because they must be in there somewhere. And no, I'm not searching for reassurance. I told the committee to back off. I just hate that they're there in the first place.

Invisible Service

The first thing you need to know is that I've been without a house phone for weeks. On Monday, arrangements were made for a service person go come to the house today. Perfect - I was off Thursday and had already asked for today as vacation leave. So I'd be here. I was told to be home between one and three. Perfect.

One...no one here. Two, nothing. At two ten, the phone rings. The house phone. It is Sasktel. Just checking that the work that is being done even as we speak is going well. Well enough, I say, since she's calling on that phone. At which point this conversation goes down:

"He shouldn't be there much longer"
"There is no one here"
"Yes there is"
"uh...no there isn't, unless he's outside"
"he's there, right now, fixing your phone. The line still has static, but we'll get that straightened out too"
"but I don't even see a truck"
"he's in your house, right now"
"Right. Well thanks for calling"

I put on boots and walked all the way around the house. No guy, no truck no footprints in the snow. But hey, my phone works. So I don't care whose house the guy was in. Unless he is here, and invisible. I really can't afford to have invisible people wandering around my house. It'll entirely change my preferred lounge wear. Not to mention things like singing out loud and talking to the puppies like they're people.

The phone is fine, but there is a message on it. A welcome to Sask-tel message, asking me to follow certain steps to set up the new account. None of this is making sense to me, but at least we're connected to the world again, with something other than magnets.

Slip sliding away

With The Boy in university, I hardly ever see him. Suppers, movies and the odd event out. And that’s ok – he’s 18, that’s how it is supposed to be. The Girl has a busy social life, so you’d think I’d be on my own quite a bit, but that isn’t the case.

There is a lot of driving to do with the girl, and I have lots of things on my plate, so when she’s out I seem to have lots to get done, and by the time I’m done and ready for a few minutes to myself she’s back. Not complaining – as evidenced by many entries in the blog, I’ve been blessed with pretty good kids. But still, it’s nice when a night comes along where it’s just me.

Like last night, for instance. The Girl was in Saskatoon at a concert, and when it was done she went to her dad’s (he was the chauffeur) so as not to wake me up. So I had an evening all to myself. Woot!

There are SO many things you can do when it’s just you. You can:

Have a drink in the bath before you make any decision about whether or not you can be bothered to make anything for supper. Maybe the drink is enough?

Practice for dance class for your workout, and wear your coin belt the whole time. Dancing when you know no one else is around is an exercise in abandonment. Delicious.

Sing out loud when you’re doing the dishes.

Skip the dishes, and just sing.

Spend the evening wearing an oversized sweater, undies and over-the-knee pirate boots.

Work on a jig-saw puzzle watching a BBC show no one else likes.

Sit at the computer and play games and send email because no one else needs the computer.

What you CAN’T do is race outside in previously mentioned outfit to grab a book from the car. Ok, yes, you can. You just shouldn’t. Not when it’s dark, and snowing and icy. And your next door neighbour is a co-worker. And the boots have no grip (which is crazy; surely you’d need treads for slippery decks?), but lots of heel (for climbing the rigging?) and you’re not the most heel-savvy person. You really shouldn’t.

Which reminds me, I have a question for you married folks: if something were to happen where you ended up scraping the back of your thigh at the top, given that going to the doctor is out of the question (because you KNOW the only two doctors at the walk-in clinic will be older lecturing doctor or young handsome laughing doctor that sorted things out when a plate broke your nose), do you get your spouse to make sure all the splinters and grit are gone, or do you just shower it off and hope for the best?

One single sentence.

There are times when one single sentence can change everything. Even short sentences. I'm sorry. I love you. You're getting a refund. Glibby glub gloopy. Yes, I'm serious about that last one.

I had one of those sentences yesterday. It won't thrill most of you, but to my friends from home, who don't quite believe the lack of access to basic necessities out here, it will be an AWESOME sentence.

The Girl - who was in Saskatoon but is home safe and sound through the snow storm - sent me this text last night:

"Mom, they have top-cut hot dog buns here, I can bring you some if you want".

So not only do I have a local source for nitrite free hot dogs, but I have an almost-local source for the only kind of buns you should ever use to eat them with. And a girl who even in the excitement of going to an out-of-town concert on a school night, thought to text me and let me know what she'd discovered a possible solution to the lack of proper bunnery.

Insert Thai-tle pun here

Thai one on? Thaime for supper? I was going to put something clever in the title, but I'm too cold. And a little too tired. Anyway:

There are going to be a few entries today. Yes, my life is that exciting! No, wait, it isn’t. I’ve just been that busy.

YesterdayI worked most of the day without a break to get a project done, so the cooking entry didn’t happen. I’m sure I would have blogged something brilliant, but whatever it was has gone.

I can tell you, though, from Monday night’s supper with The Boy - balsamic marinated mushrooms (store bought), lemon and pistachio rice and sweet chili glazed salmon- that what I’d heard was true; sweet Thai chili sauce adds heat, but balanced with enough sweetness that it’s about the flavour, not the boasting of how hot something you ate was.

The recipe was quite easy, too. You cook the salmon, and then add the glaze after, turning the salmon a couple of times to coat. The glaze was fish sauce, sweet chili sauce, cornstarch and…I don’t remember. But then I don’t remember the portions anyway, so it’s not like I’ve messed up a recipe for you. If you like salmon and want to try the recipe, send a message via comments and I’ll forward it to you.

Choose, but choose well.

I'm sure you've all done something that was totally out of character. Something that people who know you wouldn't believe, that you yourself have a hard time believing.

When this happens you have, I believe, two choices. Regret or acceptance. Regret doesn't seem to serve any purpose. Unless, I suppose, what you've done that is out of character is something like robbing a bank, or driving your car off a bridge. Regret in those circumstances might save you from a repeat performance with more permanent consequences. But when it's something essentially harmless, why spend all that emotional energy wishing it had never happened? Why not just accept that it was not the usual you and go with "no harm no foul".

If, for instance, you bought a dress (which I did) that was more expensive than just about any other dress you've ever bought (which it was), and there was no need for it (there isn't) but it looks awesome (it does) then...enjoy it. An event will come along sometime that you can wear it to. And with Christmas and New Years around the corner the chances of having somewhere to wear it increase.

So that's my advice for the day; so you did something you wouldn't normally do. It isn't bad to just enjoy yourself you know. The police aren't going to appear at your door just because you stepped out of your comfort zone. So I hope y'all had as good a weekend as I did. No regrets. Not even for the equally unnecessary shoes that I got at the same time. What can I say? Regina has a Betty Page store. See if you can go and not want to leave with something.

Christmas is here

Actually, if you ask either Lyn or myself, there are 12 months in the year when it is ok to listen to Christmas music. But that's just us. For the rest of you, well, I'm guessing not until December which makes this a wee bit early but TOO BAD. The song is so lovely, and we have already had some snow so give it a listen. Me, I already have it on my ipod. With a bunch of other Christmas songs. Yes, I'm crazy about Christmas.

So, give this a listen/watch:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RKscYJAksPs

The side was no joke

Goodness Tuesday seems to roll around quickly. Unless, of course, you're wanting time to pass quickly in which case....really? Tuesday? We're only on Tuesday? Drat. Wait a sec, this was a cooking entry and now I'm distrac look a squirrel!

So, cooking. Tried two new things yesterday. Supper was porc tenderloin with port and cherries, potato thingys and creamed corn. No, the corn wasn't new. The corn was because I seem to be unable to eat porc without corn. This isn't a Quebec thing, it's a family thing, I think. I should totally put that on a list of things the next time I have to write some sort of "about me" list: "Loves reading, dancing, bakes a little too often, too many drawers of drawers, more teapots than one person could ever use and must have corn with porc". Where was I again? Stupid squirrel. Oh yeah:

The entree was bland , which was a disappointment, if not a surprise. The meat was seasoned lightly, then seared and cooked in what was essentially stock and port with cherries and a sprig of rosemary. The sauce cooked down nicely but the meat was just cooked meat sitting in sauce.

The potatoes, now, there's a recipe and a half! They need some sort of name, I think the recipe just called them crisp Parmesan potatoes. Very simple and tasty enough that we're having them again tonight. Why not? The Girl and I are trying out a recipe for flank steak with carrots and parsnips. The potatoes will be a perfect side.

Yes, I'm going to tell you how to make them. Take some baby red potatoes. I just counted out how many I wanted, I think the original recipe called for a pound. Pierce them with a fork, toss them with two tablespoons oil (recipe called for vegetable oil, I used Olive because I was out of the former), salt, pepper and two cloves of diced garlic. I cheated and used a spoonful of prepared garlic from a jar. Something you occasionally do making supper on a work day, when even chopping things seems tiring after a day's work. ANYWAY

Microwave the potatoes, six to eight minutes in total. Stir them around half way through. Preheat your oven to 500. Yes that high. Put a cookie tray in the oven to preheat with it. I put parchment on my sheet just to be sure of getting the potato cakes off without breaking. It did get awfully dark but nothing burned.

Take those precooked potatoes and put them on the preheated tray. Smash them down with the bottom of a glass, just until they burst open. Kinda flat, but not pressed all the way down. I made sure the leftover oil and garlic got onto them at this point. When they're squished, grate some Parmesan cheese over each little cake. Bake them until they're golden and crisp. Keep an eye on them so they don't burn. Happens quickly at 500.

If they turn out the way they did for us last night they'll be flavourful, crispy on the outside and creamy on the inside. Between these and last week's discovery that ricing potatoes is worth the effort, I think I may be the potato queen again. Not that there's a point to being potato queen without Ky in town, but still....these are some good 'taters!

The banks are safe

I didn't rob any banks this weekend. So all the banks are safe. Bar mine, of course, because I went shopping. Yes, I hate shopping but...there were some things at La Senza that I almost got on the gift card go round but didn't. And hey it's still cheaper than buying a ridiculous number of shoes, and WAY better than robbing a bank, yes? Did some of the laundry and all of the baking but things sort of went downhill from there.

My recent lack of sleep (most of which was my fault) and wacky weather (for which I can't be blamed) combined into a perfect storm of a migraine. Ick. But even that had some sweet things to it. Not the migraine itself, of course, but the babies.

When it became obvious that I needed help, I was beyond driving (everything was foggy, and weirdly double. So yeah, not up to driving), so the boy took me to the clinic. And then the drugstore. And then home. And when we got home, he took the laundry bags in and made my bed up - which I'd stripped that morning prior to doing all the laundry - so all I had to do was take my meds and lie down. Then he quietly let himself out the door, assuring me that he'd take care of the rest of the afternoon.

Which he did. Picked up his sister at five, brought her back here. She made her own supper and stayed in, checking up on me every now and again. And without her help - she correctly interpreted "oh bugger not again" as "oh no I'm going to be sick I need a bowl" - things would have been a lot messier. So yeah, it was not great losing time over the weekend, but man I've got me some good kids!

So, not the weekend I'd planned, but not completely a loss either!

The Problem with Routine

The weekend approaches. What are your plans? Mine are laundry. And cooking. And housework. A very typical weekend as it happens. And, generally, there's nothing wrong with routine.

Until the routine-iness of it builds up and up and up until you realize you're on the verge of doing something seriously crazy. Ok, not seriously crazy. I have no intention of ending up in jail, however tempting robbing a bank may be.

Crazy enough to run away, though, that's a possibility. Which is a terrible idea. Christmas is coming, which is wonderful, but expensive. And I don't know if I can take another Saskatchewan winter that isn't broken up by a trip to somewhere hot and beachy, also wonderful and expensive. Yes, I do often break up the winter with a trip to BC, but that's not the kind of break I need. And I suspect I'll want to run to the sun far more in the depths of January than I do today. So I guess I'm staying here. Probably. Maybe.

Choices, choices

Here we are on Tuesday, so I should be posting some sort of baking thing. But really, I think (and it's MY blog) that as long as it is kitchen related it'll do. And this is a kitchen related entry, so my blogging on Tuesday promise has been kept.

I've been happy - and surprised - with the results of the liquor making I've tried so far. Perhaps not the unfortunately coloured creme de menthe, but certainly the oft-repeated vanilla cordial and the solo batch of Milk Liqueur. Christmas is coming, and I think I'd like to make something else. For keeping, giving away or possibly cooking with. I'm undecided on the why front.

I'm also undecided on the what. Two things that interest me are Galliano liquour and Colada cordial. The former because I love licorice and for some reason I like the thought of stuffing roots and berries into a bottle of alcohol and letting it perk away in some dark cupboard corner. Maybe if it works I'll try brewing a love potion or some sort of house repair magic. House cleaning magic? I keep waiting for elves to clean my house overnight whislt I sleep. Hasn't happened yet, but perhaps I'm heading in the right direction.

The colada one appeals because pineapple-coconut anything makes me think of beaches. And all the lovely s words that go with it; sand, sun, sail, sex, surf, seafood, salsa. Sangria? Not sure about that last one, I've never tried it. But seeing as we had the first snow of the season today (a not so nice s word!) day dreaming about swimming in tropical waters is the best idea I've had all morning.

What say you? Suggestions, anyone?

Money SHOULD grow on trees

I get email from Victoria's Secret (yeah, no surprise there, eh?). Which is ok. Most of the time. When isn't it? When I'm paying off a vet bill and braces and VS is sending stuff about a sale...on pink polka dotted things. Polka dots people! My favourite. Argh.

Where are you heading?

What are you aiming for in weight loss? Assuming that you are trying to lose weight, as I’m beginning to think the entire continent is, even those size twos out there. What are they thinking? That if size two is good, size zero is better? Trust me, the only time a size zero is a good idea is if you’re in a coffin.

Anyway, I’m not really asking you about what you’re aiming for, it’s just that I’ve found myself wondering what I’m aiming for. Not entirely a specific weight to get to, although I suppose since I had a specific number of pounds that I wanted to lose, and I know what I weighed when I started then in a sense there is a specific weight. But it isn’t the main thing. If I don’t get there, I don’t get there and that’s ok.

It’s also not really about a specific dress size, although I have to say having more and more things fit that haven’t for years has been like getting a new wardrobe for free Again, though, there isn’t a size in my head that has me thinking “That size. When I’m size _____, then I’ll have reached my goal”. So it isn’t about size. Although, should I reach size ________ I am buying two things: button fly Levi’s and that dress from the Betty Page store. But that’s more like a reward for a significant accomplishment than aiming for a specific size.

I think what I personally am aiming for is something inside. Feeling “yeah, I can do that” more often than feeling “I’ll never be able to do that”. Camping holidays where I look forward to the hiking part as much as the relaxing in front of the campfire part. Kayaking in the ocean, not Wascana Lake. Saying yes when The Boy suggests a bike ride, without wondering how far or how fast we may be going.

Death be not proud

Or at the very least be not on my window.

A bird died flying into one of my office windows. Suicide? Maybe. Not likely murder, as I can't imagine what some other bird with evil intent could make it fly with such force into a window. Because my goodness, there was a lot of force. The thing left a mark.

I'm sure you're thinking "big baby, so it left a smudge on your window". You're not getting the picture. It was, actually, almost a picture instead of a mere smudge. The greasy outlines of not just body, but outspread wings. You could even see a beak mark on the head bit. This dude - birdman - must have hit it at a pretty high speed. Drunk flying?

Due to a week of frustration, when the sun today cast a bird shaped shadow onto my desk I lost my mind. Or my ability to cope with things, at any rate. Wierd orange cleaner in one hand and non-absorbent paper towels in the other (you know the kind, the ones they're always putting in bathroom paper towel dispensers that never actually dry anything) I went out and washed it off myself. Should have done it last week, but what can I say? I kept hoping someone else would do it. It was all just a little creepy.

You know what I'm not doing? Removing the carcass. The weird thing is, to me at least. lawn-mowing guy was here on Monday and he didn't do anything either. He cut the grass, of course, and with a leave blower made sure there wasn't a speck of cut grass or dried leaf anywhere on the lawn. I guess bloated rotting bird carcass is ok as decoration, 'cause he left it right where it was.

Petit dejeuner, mademoiselle?

You know what makes a day start out really well? A lot of things would, now that I think about it, but I’m talking about something that is more or less obtainable. And that works for me. Because I’m willing to admit that what made my morning start well may not work for everyone.

Why not? Because not everyone loves making breakfast as much as I do, right? I think it may even be my favourite meal of the day to prepare. Perhaps breakfast making is a tie with bread making. They both have the same sort of dreamy quality to them, they both fall firmly into the comfort food category and they both make the house smell delicious. I discovered long ago that a great way to get kids up in the morning was to bake cinnamon buns. Granted, they would appear in the kitchen like pajama-ed zombies (if zombies wanted buns, not brains) but still, they’d be up.

Don’t get alarmed here; breakfast is frequently cold, out of a box, and seriously you have legs get up and get it yourself. But eventually my burning need to make breakfast for someone gets the better of me and things get baked.

I think the longest breakfast making break I ever took was when I made raisin scones, and when I took one to The Boy he asked if it was fresh, or a leftover from the day before. Yeah, that was my reaction too. Cold cereal or a whole lot of nothing was the breakfast menu for months after that!

Today was going to be Madeleine’s.

But they really don’t look very shell like if they don’t chill for a decent amount of time. And I was already up, and wanting to bake. If I’d thought of it the night before I would have been up earlier, but I didn’t. Then I thought about langue du chats,

but really they’re more of an afternoon tea and coffee thing. I thought that I should get some sort of fruit into whatever I was making. Not that fruit makes anything healthy, but it would make me feel less guilty about not whipping up an egg white omelette or hemp and fruit smoothie.

In the end I went for raisin scones. Until I remembered that The Girl doesn’t like raisins. Aha! She does, however, love cherries. And scrabbling in the tub of add-ins (raisins, chocolate, fruit, nuts, nut paste etc) I found dried Bing cherries. Perfect! So cherry scones it would be. I did think about using coconut milk or cream instead of yogurt or buttermilk, but if I did that I’d probably add toasted coconut too, and then things would quickly get out of hand. So I stuck to nutmeg and cherries.

I also made tea. The Girl bought so much tea on a vacation that we’re drowning in it. That would never happen if it was black tea – a weakness of mine – but the majority of it is herbal, and what isn’t is flavoured black tea. Sacrilege! If I wanted my tea to taste like chocolate, I’d dip a chocolate bar into hot black tea. Which is yummy, but the way but I digress. Since there was tea, and hot scones I decided that the whole thing deserved a tray, with tea cup and saucer and matching plate. Had there been any flowers left in the garden, I would have put a vase on the tray too. Sigh. I love breakfast! And the rest of the scones, what happened to them, you ask? I brought them to the office, of course, on a pretty tray. With some butter on the side. Ooh, I wish I had an espresso machine. I would have made coffee too. Oh well, no big deal, people were pretty happy with just the pastry. It didn’t hurt that there was a meeting going on when I arrived. All meetings go better with baking.

The scone recipe I use is one that has sold well for me (the scones, not the recipe!). It has even been shall we say…appropriated?...by a local coffee shop. Ah well, perhaps that is as famous as I’ll ever get.

Has all this scone discussion made you think about making some scones? If you’re interested in trying it out, I’m including it. In the original form, with raisins.

Raisin Scones

Preheat oven to 375

2 cups flour
2 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp baking soda
2 tablespoons sugar
1 cup of raisins
½ cup butter
½ tsp nutmeg (I use fresh ground, and I don’t measure. Half a teaspoon, whole teaspoon doesn’t really matter. I like the taste. Keep in mind that fresh is more intense than store bought ground)
¾ cup buttermilk or plain yogurt
2 eggs (separate them. The yolks go in the dough, the whites are for the topping)
extra sugar for sprinkling on top

Mix the dry ingredients together. Cut in the butter with a pastry cutter until it looks like peas in flour. Toss the raisins with the flour. Whisk the buttermilk together with the egg yolks. Stir into the flour-butter-raisin mixture. Knead gently, just until it comes together. Over working it will make them tough. Divide in half. Roll into two six inch circles. Cut each circle into quarters. Bake 10-12 minutes.

Things I changed: I used the cherries instead of raisins, as mentioned. I also patted the dough into a rectangle and used a pretty little wavy-edge biscuit cutter to make small rectangular scones. Mainly because I had been wanting to use the cutter for ages, but also because small scones means that more people are likely to try one. When they’re big triangles they’re great for selling, or for a more filling snack, but if you work with weight conscious people small bites are better. They don’t really need butter but don’t hold back if you do!

Not Naive. Literal.

When I was a kid, I heard can remember listening to the song "Happy Together". The Nylons version, not The Turtles (I'm not THAT old!). If you know the song at all, you may recall that the first line of the chorus (as sung by the Nylons, that is) is "I can't see me loving nobody but you for all of my life".

So how did I interpret that? Well, logically, of course. He knows he loves her, but doesn't see himself loving just her. Not for his whole life, at least. There'll be others, right?

Sigh. At least it wasn't because I was a jaded kid. I just took things exactly as stated. So there.

Tuesday Baking

I know, I missed again. But to be fair to me, the only thing I consumed on Tuesday was cough medicine. And I figured there was nothing interesting in that, so I didn't post. Next week, then, ok?

Please remain calm

This may not seem like the biggest thing to you, but this is hugely exciting for me. Tomorrow night, for supper, I am having...a cheese dog! There is, finally, a local (Saskatchewan) source of nitrite/nitrate free hot dogs. And other things, too. I am incredibly happy. Over a dog!

Clear Creek Organics, located in Pangman, Saskatchewan, are now offering more than just their delicious organic beef. According to the pamphlet, they now have:
Speciality House Smokies
Speciality House Smokies with cheese
Spicy Beef Sticks
All Beef Spiced Franks
Speciality All Beef Jerky
Breakfast and Dinner Sausages
Farmer Sausages

I had a taste (and then bought some) of the spiced hot dogs, or Franks as the case may be. Delish! I asked about the cheese smokies. They'll be in tomorrow. And so will I. My only decision is do I buy them all, and freeze them, or leave some for other people?

No ham, and it looks like they have no plans for ham in the near future. So I may still have to bring some stuff back from BC. But not as much! So go buy stuff. And tell them I sent you. Because I want them to keep making hot dogs, for as long as I feel I need them.

It's just for halloween. Honest.

Halloween is coming and consequently The Girl wants to take extra time to look at costumes in any store we happen to be in that carries them. Shopper’s Drug Mart, Wal-Mart, anywhere. So I was not surprised when she wanted to detour into a store that was nothing but Halloween stuff.

What did surprise me was that is was more like a store for bedroom role-play. Don’t get me wrong, if that’s what you’re into, fine. I don’t want to hear about it but fine. At least I know where to go if I want to buy scarlet Mary Jane’s with six inch heels and a platform sole. Which I might just do, actually.

The thing is, along with all the mummy costumes and skeleton costume and wigs and holiday paraphernalia (and things like furry hand-cuffs) they had a wide array of naughty___________ costumes. Why the blank? Because you could fill in the blank with just about anything. Some of the things I saw waiting for the girl to try on a dinosaur outfit were naughty:
Nurse
Doctor
Flight attendant
Pilot
Co-pilot
Cop
Milk-maid
Catholic school girl
Almost every fantasy creature you’d want, including blue Avatar costumes (elf, sprite, pixie, fairy, brownie, gnome)
Assorted super heroes
Movie characters
Disney characters (really? You honestly want to dress up as a tarty Snow White? Isn’t that a contraction in terms?)
Teacher
Fire fighter
EMS tech
Many different styles of slutty witches
Harem girl (ok, maybe that outfit kinda has to be naughty)
Cheerleader (yeah, same as above I’m thinking. Is there such thing as an overly clad cheerleader?)
An amazing array of pirate costumes. Because there is, in costume land, a big difference between being a Corsair-tart and a Barbary-tart
Baker
Very possible a butcher and a candlestick maker too, but I didn’t see any
Butterfly
Geisha
Marie Antoinette (who would likely be exceedingly surprised to see her likeness in a micro-mini and fishnets.)
Nun
Various “historical” costumes. Any one of which would have you arrested in a flash if you thought you could use them when time traveling.

Such was the overwhelming feeling of the store that when we left and I said I’d be blogging about it, The Girl said “you mean how everything was designed for hookers?” Yes, that’s what I mean. ‘Cept the shoes. They were kinda awesome.

Chicken with Orange and Scallions

The journey to improving my cooking skills is still in its first steps, but already I feel that I’ve made great strides. Strides that are taking me away from the rut of cooking the same twenty things over and over again. We’ve had some hits and some misses but we’re eating better – balance wise – than we used to, and with fresher ingredients. I find myself going to the grocery store more often, but it isn’t such a chore when you’re just picking up one or two fresh ingredients for a new dish you’re trying out.

Last night was one of the hits. We made Orange Chicken with Scallions from Fine Cooking's third annual. Very simple dish, with only one complaint from the diners. And even then the problem that caused the complaint would be a simple fix; there wasn’t enough sauce to go on the rice. The chicken itself was the best stir-fry chicken I’ve ever had, let alone made; tender, flavourful and really juicy without being underdone.

Turns out there is a simple secret to this. Figures! Prior to stir frying, the chicken – skinless breast meat, cut into one inch cubes – was tossed in a cornstarch batter. Not really a batter, they way we think of it, it was actually more of a bath. Two egg whites, a pinch of salt and 1/3 of a cup of cornstarch mixed together. I used my Magic Bullet, so it was really well mixed. Toss the chicken in this, and then using tongs put the pieces into the wok to stir fry.

We cooked half the chicken in one batch and put it aside, and then we did the other half and took it out too. Orange peel from a navel orange – cut in wide strips - cooked in the wok for about 30 seconds. Then the sauce went in (juice from the orange, 1 tablespoon soy sauce, same of rice vinegar, two teaspoons brown sugar and a pinch of chili flakes) for ten seconds before returning the chicken to the pan along with the white part of four to six green onions (save the greens for garnish).

Cook until the chicken is cooked through, which turned out to be two minutes for us. Serve over rice, garnish with slices of the green part of the onions or scallions, whichever you happen to be using. We don't get scallions here so I always use spring onions. There's more of a shape difference between the two than a taste difference anyway!

That’s the actual recipe. We’re having it again, but next time…twice the sauce. At least!

Both Sides of the Story

If someone told you that on Tuesday morning they were highly entertained by some woman with cartwheeling arms falling in the middle of the Broad Street and Victoria Avenue intersection - a woman who eventually gave up trying to keep both shoes on and hopping like some lunatic took both shoes off, holding up traffic until she succeeded in walking barefoot out of the way - you can now safely say that you happen to know who that woman is.

Slo-mo

I have a parcel on its way to me. And in these days of electronic tracking I can watch it wend its way to me. I was hoping, since it is coming from Vancouver and not Toronto like the previous parcel, that the time it takes to get here would be a few days.

I'm wrong. Given that it apparently left Vancouver on the 21st of the month and only managed - in nine days - to get as far as Richmond BC, I'll be lucky if it gets here by Thanksgiving. Christmas?

I can see clearly now

Remember this? Well, the vanilla is still sitting in a dark cupboard getting darker and richer waiting for the day I'll combine it with the sugar syrup but the Portuguese Milk Liqueur is done.

It worked! Actually, it more than worked; I did it because I couldn't believe that a liqueur made with milk could be clear. Didn't even think about whether it would be tasty or not, I was more interested in the science of it all. Turns out that yes, it ends up clear. But even more amazing is that it tasted amazing. Truly it does. Pretty strong, so more of a drink you'd have at the end of an evening, like ice wine or port. Very lemon-y but much tastier - to my palate - than Limoncello. There is a nice chocolate after taste too. Very yummy!

The down side was the PIA factor. So much straining. I think, should I ever choose to do it again, I'd use paper coffee filters for all three strainings. The recipe said to do it once, but a reviewer I read did it three times and I think that's the better call. It was still cloudy after the first filter. I also think that the fact that I used a little one cup coffee filter made it all harder than it should have been. What can I say? I'm a tea drinker and I don't have anything other than a little one cup thingy for visitors to use.

So....don't believe me that it turned out clear? I took pictures, just to show you. Ha!

ps: this is the post that should have been here yesterday, but I was at a conference. Sometimes promises like "I'll kitchen blog every Tuesday" get broken by the real world pushing in.