Thin Ice

barely there: new ice

In November, my biking plans are tenuous. In addition to the usual kid logistics (who needs an after-school ride where?), questions of cold weather and personal toughness (usually nil) must now be considered. What predictions have the shaman meteorologists offered? Has any actual precipitation materialized? Is the trail wet enough to leave mud spatters on my back? On arrival, will my fingers be numb, my clothes soaked, my nose running? It's a judgement call, usually made at the last minute.

Let's be clear: I'm no hard-core cyclist, far from it. I won't be joining the admirable waterproofed warriors in their technical layers, riding through Canadian winters come what may, but I might be edging just slightly in their direction. Last weekend, when Tim was putting the bikes in storage for the season, I asked him to leave mine out. We could still have good biking weather, I said. And yesterday, we did. So I seized the brilliant day--4 degrees C (39 F), windy, sunshine, snow patches in the grass, new ice cross-hatching the surface of ponds and ditches--and landed at work happy.  

The thing about biking is, it makes you feel twelve again. And unhooked from the schedule long enough to stop and take a picture.

Faster Smile Improvement

Today my youngest hit a milestone he wasn't too excited about: orthodontia.

That's okay; I'm not excited either. Three out of four children in this family have needed dental realignment. Reminded of this, our dentist shrugged. "They owe you a car," she said. "It's a car you didn't buy."

Funny, but wrong. She must not know about our habit of driving cars until they drive no more. Somewhere I have a photo of a 15-year old van in the wrecker's parking lot, where it died after eking out one last trip for us. We had to push it toward the violent commotion coming from the yard behind the office, where someone paid us $200 for salvage.

Anyway, I don't subscribe to the opportunity-cost school of parental accounting, because where would that end? With me owing my parents five cars, that's where. Or maybe even ten, depending on the scope of the audit and the make of the car. The point is, everyone concerned knows that zero automobiles will be paid back.

My boy was stoic through the metallica installation and the brush&floss briefing afterward. At home, he flashed the braces on command but didn't get much sympathy from resident siblings. With my phone I sent a snapchat pic of his teeth to his sister in Halifax, and she obliged by snapping herself horrified--"The Scream" face--which would have made him laugh if I could have shown it to him before the image disappeared. Ten seconds of connection is all you get before your message self-destructs.

That's the essence of this strange snapchat app: repetitive disappearance. There's an adrenaline rush of captioning and sending, followed by emptiness. Supposedly you can save screenshots, but I haven't figured out how yet. My daughter gave me a snapchat tutorial this week (over Skype--extended meta moment as we faced one another virtually, worked our phones, showed each other the phone screens on the computer screens, finally got the app to work for me, became distracted by news...) and still, the appeal of digital charades escapes me. 

What we do not need, at this moment of our history, is faster-and-lighter communication. I'm down to my last nerve here, my attention span sliced and diced. And consider our lecture halls, where hundreds of snaps per hour will now zap around the room: quick pics of a slide with too many words/a fly crawling across the wall/a student sleeping/a teacher talking, across which will be scrawled, "Time-suck!" and it will always be true.     

You know what is genuinely faster and better these days? Orthodontic technology. When I was young, it was the full train tracks for two whole years of high school. My brother's treatment went on even longer. On the cusp of joining the Army, he had to threaten to rip the bands out of his mouth himself before the orthodontist reluctantly agreed to do it. Today's braces are lighter, stronger, and much less visible. They come off in a year or so. There are fun coloured elastics and customized retainers to choose from, even camo patterns--more than a few options to raise the excitement factor for my (latest) kid with braces.       

(re)visiting New York

It seems I took a long vacation from this space. Don't worry, it was an unpaid vacation, full of busy business. Post-blur, a few choice events stand out as worth revisiting in the coming days. Let's hear it for time travel--and what else is reading, anyway? 

The best blogs feature selected shorts, quick hits of significance. That brevity is precisely what I find hard to achieve on this blog, my labor of love. I have to remind myself that the LOG in BLOG signifies crisp daily entries. Like a ship's log, which I've never had occasion to keep, darn it. Or how about an annotated timeline of Toronto Mayor Rob Ford's dealings with petty criminals? That would make a great search-engine-optimized hunk of writing--Oh wait, it already exists, thanks to the judge who released hundreds of pages of police findings (*unproven allegations*) on October 31st and today ordered that more information should be made public. Cheers for him! By the way, anyone wishing to buy a limited-edition Rob Ford bobblehead, you are too late. CBC Radio reported this afternoon that, after finally admitting he purchased illegal drugs, the Mayor spent five hours (!) outside signing the wobbly effigies. No shame. And I noticed something while stuck in the car with the radio playing fresh Ford allegations: the CBC used the term "sex workers", while our small-city local station preferred "prostitutes". That cultural shift is not yet a done deal throughout the land. Perhaps the word prostitute will eventually disappear like other pejoratives we once hurled freely but now frown upon. I do hope, however, that a usage will be retained for those senators and others holding high public office who simultaneously sit on corporate boards. Until the Senate expense scandal hit, I didn't even know that was allowed. Why is it allowed?

Behold a digression of Fordian proportions. Sorry, but everyone is fixated on political scandal here in the true north strong and free.

Back to the recent past we go, to my trip to New York in early September to attend a writing conference (weird and wonderful) and visit my brother in his natural habitat. It's his birthday today, so what better time? Also, these photos, all taken in Brooklyn, suggest the higher calling that public service can be.    

Borough Hall

Borough Hall, a massive municipal building, anchors a long stretch of parkland. I wish I'd taken this picture when the steps and plaza were filled with screaming, sign-holding Bill DeBlasio fans rallying for the Democratic mayoral primary race (runup to the general election on November 5th, which DeBlasio won, of course). The same weekend, I passed a Christine Quinn rally (smaller) in Manhattan and saw Anthony Weiner on TV trying to defend himself--but look, at least he doesn't smoke crack. 

This bronze bust of Robert F. Kennedy sits atop a granite pedestal. On each side of the base, an RFK quotation is inscribed. Here are two of them:

FEW WILL HAVE THE GREATNESS TO / BEND HISTORY ITSELF, BUT EACH OF US / CAN WORK TO CHANGE A SMALL PORTION OF EVENTS, AND IN THE TOTAL OF ALL THOSE ACTS WILL / BE WRITTEN THE HISTORY OF THIS GENERATION.

WHAT WE REQUIRE IS NOT THE SELF- / INDULGENCE OF RESIGNATION FROM THE / WORLD BUT THE HARD EFFORT TO WORK OUT / NEW WAYS OF FULFILLING OUR PERSONAL CONCERN / AND OUR PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY

Here stands Christopher Columbus in marble, created by sculptor Emma Stebbins in Rome in the 1860s, donated to the city but not displayed until the 1930s, and then moved to the newly named Columbus Park in 1971. The city's blurb mentions an emphasis in public lore on CC's "discovery of the Americas, as opposed to colonization of the area"...speaking of cultural shifts.

Henry Ward Beecher

This bronze grouping, dedicated in 1891, honors the charismatic and controversial 19th-century preacher, abolitionist and supporter of women's suffrage Henry Ward Beecher. His sister, Harriet Beecher Stowe, wrote Uncle Tom's Cabin. 

One park blends into another, this one dedicated to that poet and celebrant of the common man, Walt Whitman. Interestingly, there are no statues here, only a large, circular plaza with Whitman quotations carved into the stone--sprinkled by a hidden fountain? There were puddles near some of the quotations, but it hadn't rained the day I was there. And why close at 1 am? Does someone actually come around and lock gates in the middle of the night?

lines from To the States: "resist much, obey little"

lines from Crossing Brooklyn Ferry: "slow-wheeling circles and the gradual edging toward the south", which is about seagulls but also reminds me of my walk that day

applefall

Here's what's up this weekend:

I know, exciting. Other people are going to parties or out to dinner. We're peeling apples.

This tidy haul represents less than half the bounty from three small backyard trees, which were planted a few years ago and until now only produced a handful of fruit. Apparently this is a good year for apples. I feel like I've been peeling and cutting for weeks--sometimes with helpers, sometimes not, often late at night--but actually the work happens in fits and starts, when time permits. It should be done by now. So far we've made pies, tarts, apple cake (twice, trying to cut excess sugar in an older recipe), and applesauce (both canned and frozen). I'm planning to dry apples in the oven and perhaps try this cider recipe from Chef Brian Henry's blog. And then hard cider? Yes, I think so.

One of our younger cooks yelped and left the kitchen when she discovered a worm: supple and wriggling, curious about life beyond its snow-white habitat. She's done. Most of the apples are relatively unblemished, however--tart and crisp, if not perfectly shaped as in the supermarket.

But now the pressure's on. It wasn't possible to deal with all this fruit before our trip, so we stashed two big buckets in the fridge and two more in the cool basement, hoping they'd keep. Which they mostly did. And then more buckets arrived.

applefall--n., 1. a sub-season of fall; 2. sudden, unearned abundance; 3. a state of panic induced by rotting fruit; also v., to swoon while stirring a large, boiling pot.

May

August

Now

How to Expect What You're Not Expecting

The books are finally here! Real books, lovingly designed objects with heft and that new-print smell of paper and ink--yes, I inhaled them, so what? It was quite the thrill. And if you like your books more ephemeral, an e-version is available.

So much experience is contained in this collection of essays about hard subjects, with a beautiful foreword by Kim Jernigan. I'm proud to have had a small part in this project, the joint brainstorm of co-editors Lisa Martin-DeMoor and Jessica Hiemstra. Tribute must be paid to the heart, skill and insight they brought to the editing process. More than that, I can't wait to meet them *IRL*, because although ours was a virtual collaboration, after many months it feels like friendship. I have the sense that I already know some of the other contributors--totally wrong, of course, but that's the power of an essay.

I can't describe the book better than Lisa does on her Writer in Residence website--check it out. Note also that a Toronto launch will be held October 10th at Type Books (they of the wondrous videos) on Queen Street West, with events in other cities to come.
 
You can order How to Expect What You're Not Expecting directly from the publisher (TouchWood Editions) here, or from your favourite local bookstore or Amazon or Chapters.  

* Is In Real Life's moment already over? I hope not. There's a new film out with that title, so I embrace IRL for now, whatever real may mean when we're all done tossing it around.*

The Long Goodbye Tour

Tomorrow marks two weeks since we left our daughter in a distant city to begin university, and I'm still not used to her absence.

Here she is.

School started for the younger kids the day after our return, providing much busywork to distract me from the missing person problem. And then there was scurrying related to my return to work and our eldest settling into the local university after being in Toronto for two years. Then last weekend: New York! Writing conference! (more on that soon), so there hasn't been time to grapple with our shifting family math.

Close readers will have realized that since one daughter left and one returned, the household actually has experienced zero net change in the #kH calculation (kids living at home), but it doesn't feel that way. Unsettled is how it feels. Transient. We have no routines established for this strange new configuration of people.

The thing is, I'm used to our old numbers--counting one-two-three-four heads at the beach when the children were small, routinely fudging hotel reservations because no one accepts six in a room, six bodies nearly filling the van. I need time to adjust.

So after the drop-off in Halifax we're back in the car (a little roomier without Sarah and her possessions, which made some passengers happy, but I wasn't one of them), headed home. Deep into New Brunswick we stopped at an odious fast-food joint (starts with M) packed with people. Labour Day weekend, everyone on the road to somewhere, and bonus, the world's slowest service. Customers massed five-deep waiting for orders. A guy in a tank top rifled bags on the counter, checking other people's meals. His naked armpit hovered over our partially-filled bags, which was, frankly, distressing.

When I picked up our order, I had a little fit--it was incomplete, and would take forever to fix given the crowd. I told the teenager behind the counter that an error had been made--we needed six meals, not five. She (reasonably) asked what was missing, but I couldn't tell her. I tried to match family members to items and kept messing it up. She remained pleasant, considering how busy they were--unfailingly polite, as we went back and forth repeating the same lines. Eventually, one of my kids sidled up to whisper, "Mom, Sarah's not here." Oh. Facts already known finally landed. Not their mistake, mine. I apologized, of course, and pretended all was well. At least I provided some entertainment. The kids shrieked with laughter for miles and miles, every time I wailed "Only five!" A text or two may have been sent to the absent one.

Our travel plan was to have a little holiday before the separation. We took the long way, spending a few nights in PEI (in a lighthouse! Okay, faux lighthouse, kind of sketchy but clean) with a final detour to Cape Breton Island before circling back to Halifax. While I can't recommend an extended drive with dorm-room furnishings--we were jammed--I can recommend my kids as traveling companions, should you be in need of some. Good travelers, they are. Gems.

A final note: since surrendering our girl to Dalhousie, I've sent her a pair of rubber boots, exchanged messages, talked on the phone and booked her flights for the holidays. Absence isn't what it used to be.

Hopewell Rocks, Bay of Fundy

 

Travelers

Homemade Ricotta

The course I was teaching ended last week, and my final marks have been submitted. Let summer begin--all three weeks that are left. Already, nights are chilly and a few orange-tinged maples have appeared. Time is short, using it well my challenge.

First, sleep replacement therapy is in order. Then, getting the kids ready for back-to-school, the fifth season of the year. Our most recent high school graduate must be transported far, far away to university in Halifax. We're making a family holiday of it, exploring the Atlantic provinces and a bit of Quebec en route. I've been throwing provincial tourism guides and maps at the kids, trying to get them to pick sightseeing stops and help plan a route, but no luck so far. They're resisting my stealth geography lessons. Unless we make a few reservations soon, we'll be sleeping, all six of us, in the van. Which is more togetherness than anyone can take.

Meanwhile, since Peak Produce (nothing like Peak Oil) coincides with my freer schedule, it's time to re-energize the Unprocessed Project. We've maintained some good habits (tomato sauce, granola and most baked goods made at home from scratch, weekly) and abandoned others (bagels! They take forever to make and the results vary wildly). With a few batches of jam successfully "put up", my next trick will be to preserve pesto, salsa, tomatoes, plums and peaches. I've purchased Bernardin jars and have relied, so far, on recipes from their website.

Canning still feels like a time-warp to me--a routine homemaking chore for my grandmother, whom I watched preserve fruits and vegetables many times--and something I never wanted to do myself: so boring. I imagine the folks at Bernardin sadly charting the canning supply sales slump over the years, watching their clientele die off, and then suddenly . . . locavore/hipster revival. The marketing department, all two of them, scratch their heads: didn't see THAT coming. I wonder how long it will last. Canning is satisfying, but a hell of a lot of work.  

So, reboot. As I type, bread dough is rising, chocolate-chip granola bars are cooling, and fresh ricotta is resting in the fridge, soon to be used in baked ziti. (Incidentally, both the bread and the granola bar recipes come from author Carrie Snyder's blog. I've made a lot of different breads, and this one is unfailing. The granola bars mix up quickly. They don't last long around here.)

ricotta draining and, at left, the whey

DIY ricotta has been a pleasant discovery in the Unprocessed process. It's simple to make fresh, delicious ricotta at home with just a few steps. I found recipes online and ended up using this one from Epicurious but they all call for varying proportions of whole milk, heavy cream, salt and an acid such as lemon juice or vinegar. Simply boil the milk, cream and salt; add lemon juice and lower heat; stir until the mixture curdles (a few minutes); and drain in a colander lined with cheesecloth. That's how ricotta happens.

The first time I made this, the kids were mystified and disgusted by the glop of slop draining in white mesh, which I didn't realize they had never seen before. What IS this, they said, fingering the gauzy fabric. Didn't I feel like a pioneer, explaining cheesecloth to them. Gather around, my children, and imbibe a little Home Ec history with your wholesome unprocessed food. Cheesecloth: you can still get it in the grocery store, so someone must be using it for something.

The recipe says to discard the tangy whey, but it has nutritional value, so why waste it? I found online articles detailing several uses for whey, including in breadmaking. Today I substituted whey for half the water in my bread-in-progress. Was that a wise decision? We'll see.

boiling milk, cream and salt

curds form

okay, eww--make ricotta when there are no witnesses around

finished ricotta mixed with herbs--a filling for stuffed shells or lasagna