Five Things About...a Week at the Cottage

Beach Bum (okay, just a bum)
We’ve been at my Aunt’s cottage on Bruce Beach since last Tuesday, and I’m suffering from a complete lack of motivation to do anything other than eat, read and drink a lot of coffee. Having two active kidlets with me the whole time has put the kibosh on engaging in any of these activities for more than ten minute intervals, but lemme tell you, there hasn’t been much writing, facebooking, laundry, bed making or even hair styling or underwear-wearing going on. It must be something to do with the constant rush of waves in the background. Maybe it’s the way the aspen trees whisper their secrets to one another all day. Or the feel of soft grass and warm sand on my toes. Possibly it’s the lazy drone of bumblebees, the chorus of cardinals and robins and chickadees, the rhythmic, tiny buzz-saw of cicada songs. Whatever it is, I do not want to do anything that even remotely resembles work, unless it involves eating or opening a bottle of wine. And that’s fine with me.

Good Eats
There’s something to be said for cooking in a kitchen that is not your own. You have to hunt for utensils (where IS the cheese grater, anyway?), discover which pot goes where (wow, my aunt stacks her pans together with almost architectural flair) and figure out what ingredients you have on hand before you can decide what to make. It’s fun, because cooking rarely feels like work to me, and I’m enjoying the whole scavenger hunt aspect as well. Plus the lake air gives me a huge appetite, so planning and executing supper every evening is a pleasure. Some of my favourite dishes so far:
- baby zucchinis, stuffed with onion, garlic, salty breadcrumbs and cheese, then barbecued to perfection
- walnut pesto with basil picked from the neighbour’s garden (with their permission, of course)
- vegetable ribbons with a sweet, creamy peanut sauce
- slabs of salmon glazed with maple syrup
- hot dogs and hamburgers scorched just right on the barbecue, served with thick slices of fresh tomato and sweet onion
- my friend Ruthie’s Greek salad, made with chunks of crisp, garden-grown cucumbers and juicy tomatoes
- the best ever banana muffins, thanks to the perfectly squishy bananas my aunt left behind (and the fact that I did not bring any whole wheat flour or bran to healthify them)
- a sour cream peach pie, made with slurpy Niagara peaches and my mother-in-law’s secret recipe
The only problem? Cooking = dishes, which counts as work. Which I clearly have no motivation whatsoever to do. Thank goodness for the dishwasher. And D.

Sleep, or lack thereof
Normally when I come to the cottage, I sleep like a satisfied baby. But weirdly, this year I haven’t been sleeping well at all. I chalk that up mostly to Dylan’s refusal to go to bed at a decent hour, or stay in his own bed once he does fall asleep. That kid is has become a menace after 9 p.m.. You’d think hours of sun and sand and running amok in the water would turn him into a zombie once the sun goes down, but it hasn’t. Jade, on the other hand, has built herself a nest of every spare pillow and blanket in the cottage. She staggers into her room at the end of each day, burrows into the pile and pretty much conks out until morning. Meanwhile, her brother either falls into an inconvenient coma around 6 p.m. and wakes up around 3 a.m. looking to party, or simply refuses to go to bed at all. Last night D decided he’d had enough, and physically blockaded the door to Dylan’s room. Dylan sobbed, begged, howled and finally fell asleep on the floor beside his bed. But he stayed there, miraculously, until about seven this morning. Which meant that for the first time in a week, I had a full, glorious night’s sleep. I woke up feeling sparkly and sunshiny, with enough energy to go for a long walk on the beach. A holiday at the cottage just isn’t complete without a good night’s sleep, so at least I had at least one...

Sunset and Moonrise
There are two things I’m either too sleepy or too busy to appreciate very often back at Someday: sunsets and moonrises. At the cottage, however, it’s an unspoken ritual for cottagers to come out and watch the sun melt into the horizon. We’ve had the good luck this week to have the moon waxing full, so our friend Luna appears to shine over our left shoulders as we say goodnight to the sun. Best of all, Jade and I have been taking sunset kayak rides each night, which I absolutely love. She trails her little fingers in the water, and we have conversations about this and that while I paddle, like whether we prefer the sun or the moon, and whether God is in charge of the world, and why pink really is the best colour in all of the universe. Dylan runs away every time I suggest a kayak ride; I wonder if he’s telepathically intercepted my occasional desire to dump him in the lake as payback for keeping me awake all week. No matter. It’s a special time for Jady and me, and I’m content to bid goodnight to the sun with her each night amidst the peace and stillness of the lake while Dylan regards us suspiciously from the shore.

Summer’s Almost Over...again
I can hear it in the increased volume of cricket songs at night. I can see it when the poplar leaves flip up and show me their pale underbellies. I can sense it in the sand that is cool under my feet at night instead of warm from a day’s heat. As much as I hate to admit it, summer is almost over. There is a wistfulness stirring inside me during our last few days at the cottage; even as the kids and I run and laugh until we’re breathless from playing sprinkler tag, even as we build and decorate sandcastles, even as I help them paint rocks, I know that this is the last summer we’ll be so carefree. Jady starts school in the fall; Dylan is changing and growing before my eyes; I may be going back to work before long. We’ll hopefully have more summers at the cottage together, but my kidlets won’t ever be this little, or this untroubled by responsibility again. With every leaf that swirls down and lands on the deck, and every degree the temperature drops each night, I’m reminded of how we can have enough of everything except time. This week has been fun, and tiring, and full of activity and so very precious to me. I supposed the only way to hold on to these memories is to let them happen, then let them go, knowing I can return to them whenever I need to steady myself in the whirlwind of autumn days to come.

Sleepless at Someday: Baba Pickles edition

I've written about being sleepless at Someday before, but last night was an epic no-sleeper. And I can't blame the stuff that used to keep me awake, like bad dreams or anxiety or heartburn or false labour. Nope, last night was my own damned fault: I allowed myself to fall asleep in Dylan's bed and though D (allegedly) tried to rouse me a couple of times, I didn't stumble out of the kids' room until 11:30 p.m. And then I was wide. Frigging. Awake. Argh.

D tried to coax me to come to bed, but I knew it would be hopeless. I pointedly took a bottle of wine and a pint of blueberries out of the fridge, which is when he gave up and went to bed and fell asleep in thirty seconds flat, like he always does.

I drank a small glass of wine and ate the wine-soaked blueberries at the bottom of the glass. Then I played online scrabble for a while. Then I did what any country woman would do when faced with a long night of wakeful alone-ness: I made pickles.

These pickles are just like the ones my Russian grandma, my Baba, used to make, with cold water and cold vinegar and kosher salt and about a dump truck full of garlic. Instead of boiling them, you just tighten the lids, give them a shake and leave them alone for four or five days to ferment themselves into fizzy, crispy goodness. The cucumbers and garlic and dill are from local Mennonite farmers, which Baba would approve of. She always admired the "Mennoniteskies," as she called them. She probably wouldn't have been horrified to learn that I made them at 1 in the morning either, as we sometimes caught her outside raking her lawn in the middle of the night when she was having one of those sleepless spells that afflicted her occasionally.

I'm so tired today that all I can offer you is a photo essay of my Baba pickles. I hope you like them. I think they're rather beautiful. But maybe that's just the sleep deprivation talking.

Random acts of do-good

Ever see that movie Pay it Forward? The one where Kevin Spacey sports a grotesque scar, Helen Hunt gets beat up by Bon Jovi and the kid from The Sixth Sense attempts to look tough by wearing sleeveless shirts? Gawdawful movie. Seriously, I detest films that try too hard to make you feel a certain way. But as horrid as the movie was, it (and the book it was based on) did spark an interesting do-gooder movement back in 2000.

The concept of paying it forward is simple: someone does something nice for you, so you do something nice for someone else in the hopes that they'll do something nice for someone else...and so on, and so forth. Kind of like Faberge shampoo, but with good deeds. You know, like paying for the guy behind you at the Tim Horton's drive through, or offering to take a stranger's empty cart at the grocery store so they don't have to tramp across the parking lot to return it. I think the author called it "spontaneous acts of kindness." The idea is to change the world, one nicey-nicey at a time.

Back when I lived in Waterloo, in my pre-D and pre-kid life, I loved volunteering. I stage managed plays at my church, helped organize my department's morale committee, wrote the newsletter and assisted at the drop spot for the local CSA. But after my divorce, I plunged into a very self-absorbed state where I just didn't have the heart to get out and do anything for anyone else. Then I met D, got swept into our wonderful tornado of a romance, and had a wonderful year of focusing on just us. Add a move and two young children to the mix, and I became someone who could barely make time to shower regularly, let alone spend a few hours volunteering.

I know I'll get back out there some day; right now I'm focusing on the kids and my writing and our gardens and keeping the house from falling down around our ears. But by inserting a few little acts of kindness into my day, I think I can make life a little more bearable for folks, even if it's just for a minute or two. And it makes life a little more lovely for me, too.

I think a lot of us tend to get sucked into the whirlpool of "busy." Aren't we all stretched to our limits in terms of finding time for our careers, friends and families, let alone ourselves? It's not a contest about who's busier than who; it's a matter of how we spend our time. I like to tell D that Gandhi had the same 24 hours in a day that we have (I don't remember where I heard that, but it really annoys D when I say it) so we don't have much of an excuse to whine. What if we stopped focusing on how busy we are and focused instead on trying to be kinder to others and ourselves? I want to model that behaviour to my kids, young as they are, so here are some of the things I've tried in order to add a little kindness to my life.

Visit
Simple, huh? But dropping in to see someone who either doesn't get a lot of guests, or isn't able to get out much on their own, can make a huge difference to them. It can be an afternoon, or just a half-hour. The point is that you knocked on their door and made contact. I've watched my mother-in-law, who seems like quite a shy person in my eyes, reach out to neighbours who are ill or who have lost someone close to them. She takes them something to eat and stays for a chat. Even if small talk isn't your thing (it sure isn't mine), if you learn how to direct a conversation, it's easy to get people to talk about themselves. Such moments are like hidden treasures: you discover incredible stories, common interests, local history. Or you talk about the weather - it doesn't matter. Just so long as you reach out to another person, in person.

Donate to the Food Bank
Money's tight, I know. But I also know that a lot of us could be just a few paycheques away from using the food bank ourselves. Eventually, I'd love to help out in person, but until then, I donate as much healthy food as I can afford each week. It's pretty easy to do, and when I get the kids involved, it's kind of fun. During our weekly trip to the grocery store, we pick out $10 worth of food, usually whatever is on sale so we can get the most bang for our buck. It sparks all sorts of conversations with Jade, from why we probably shouldn't donate $10 worth of Dora gummy snacks to why anyone would want to eat barley since it looks like tiny pebbles. Even Dylan understands how to put the food in the Food Bank box, even though he may not yet understand why we do it. One time when I explained to a cashier that the pasta was for the food bank so she didn't have to pack it, she got tears in her eyes and said, "Bless you honey. I never thought I'd have to use the food bank, but last year when I wasn't working I used it a lot." Then we both got choked up and probably would have hugged each other if the stupid counter hadn't been in the way.

Don't Drive Like an Ass
Seriously, people. This is an easy one. And it is voluntary, so I'm counting it as volunteer work. Please don't drive up my rear bumper with your oversized truck when I'm doing the speed limit. Please don't pass me doing 80 km/h on the lower shore road, which is now posted at 40 km/h. Please don't drive like a maniac down my road because you're late for work or rage at slow-moving farm equipment. Take a deep breath, turn on your radio, and think pleasant thoughts. We'll all be better off for it. (And yes, I'm including myself in this lecture)

Write a Letter
Okay, if you HAVE to send an email, that's okay too. There's just nothing like getting ACTUAL MAIL that isn't a bill or solicitation for money. Even if it's just four lines on a goofy postcard, trust me, it will make the recipient grin like a fool. A well-written email can do the trick too; a random thank-you to someone who has inspired you, a note reminiscing about time spent together, a photo with a caption. It's all good. It's proof that someone is thinking of them - what's kinder than that?

Be a Drive Thru Fairy
I had never tried it before, but I'd heard about people who paid for the coffees of the people behind them in the drive-thru. So one day I did it. The cashier grinned at me as she handed me my order, and I tried to drive away quickly because I felt sheepish and triumphant and sneaky and silly, but the person behind me caught up to me at the traffic light. She rolled down her window and yelled, "HEY, DO I KNOW YOU?" I shook my head. She held up her hands with an expression of confusion on her face. I just shrugged and smiled. "OKAY, WELL, THANKS!!" she shouted as the light turned green and I rolled away. Honestly, it was just a $1.50 coffee, but I felt giddy about it for a good hour afterwards. D thinks I'm a lunatic, but I keep doing it anyway.

Give a Stranger a Compliment
This takes a little bit of guts, especially if you're not an extrovert. But the next time you see someone doing something worth complimenting, even if it's something small, take a breath and tell them they rock. The first time someone complimented me on how well behaved Jade and Dylan were out in public was in the Bulk Barn, a place I don't usually take my kids because all that food in containers at their eye level is just too much temptation. For whatever reason, they were mellow that day, and a fellow shopper said some kind words about how calm and sweet they were and how I was doing a great job with them. I knew that on any given day, my kids could very well be the ones rolling down the aisle with fistfuls of gummy bears, but, flushed with the compliment, I thanked the lady anyway. Just a few words from a complete stranger made me remember that I'm not half-bad as a mom. So now, whenever I see a parent with kids who happen to be acting civilized, I make a point of complimenting them, because every parent should feel a surge of pride in their parenting skills, even if it's really just good timing.

Anyway, this is my version of Paying it Forward. No Haley Joel Osmont, no bad Helen Hunt accents. You're welcome.

'Twas the Night of Oscar...

...and there I was, decked out in my finest frilly dress, champagne clutched firmly in hand, ready to nosh and giggle and eye-roll my way through the ceremony for yet another year. Little did I know it would mean wearing my primrose pink three inch heels and thin cocktail gown for THREE FREAKING HOURS!!! Yowzah.



My Oscar date this year was a non-plussed D, who fell asleep somewhere around the announcement for best actor. He's never been much for Oscar night, apart from appreciative gawks when I come downstairs all dressed up. I stuck it out though. It's my February tradition, and I'll be darned if I'm going to let a weirdly-charming-but-completely-tasteless host or long-winded speeches or a horrific appearance by Barbara Streisand throw me off my Oscar game.

Plus, it was good to finally feel well enough to drink bubbly alcohol, eat roasted garlic, stay up late and feel kinda sexy. I mean, I got to wear the dress I wore on the day D realized he was in love with me (or so the story goes). I haven't fit into that sucker in a few years, and when I found it buried in the back of my closet, I gingerly plucked it off the hanger and slid it over my head thinking No way in hell this is gonna fit, but not only did it fit, it felt great. Which meant I had to dig out the aforementioned pink heels, bought on a complete whim in Halifax while I was there on business eons ago. Those shoes have seen a lot of Ripley arena and wedding hall dance floors; the soles are practically worn off. A woman walks a certain way when she wears heels. You have to have confidence and a sort of nonchalance to pull it off, and I was out of practice, but after a few clicks up and down the hallway, it all came back to me.

I couldn't help but feel a little stab of joy as I peeked in the mirror to fasten the emerald necklace D gave me for Christmas a few years ago. Gone was the gaunt, hollow-eyed waif with the limp hair and stooped shoulders. Back was ME - the real me, the recovering me, the sexy me. Thank God. And thank Oscar, too. He gives me a reason to flounce around in a fancy outfit at least once a year.

5 Memorable moments from Dylan's "it's not a party" birthday party

1. The fact that the little man was in fine humour the ENTIRE TIME. It was a birthday miracle. He was absolutely beyond miserable at the Fall Fair yesterday, so I didn't have high hopes for today's festivities. Mr. Dylan hates crowds. He dislikes being the centre of attention, and we recently discovered that "Happy Birthday" makes him cry. He's such a Lowry. But today, he took it all in stride and had a fine old time. In fact, he laughed for most of the day, gobbled up his lunch and cake, and charmed every woman in the room. Sometimes your kids surprise you in a good way.

2. D went to the field and dug up potatoes, put them through his new french fry slicer, and fried them in my dad's deep fryer to make some seriously wicked good french fries. When I asked him repeatedly why he was bothering to go through the whole rigamarole at the last minute, he replied, "Because my boy loves french fries. And it's his birthday." Can't argue with that.

3. In a misguided attempt to dye the cake icing monarch-butterfly-orange, I ended up making this frightening, nuclear orange coloured icing instead. Thankfully I used my mom's old cream cheese recipe (with a giant shot of Grand Marnier) so at least it tasted better than it looked.

4. 3 tractors, 2 fire trucks and 3 combines = excellent birthday loot.

5. No bouncy castle mishaps resulting in emergency room visits. Nothing caught on fire. No meltdowns that could not be contained. No broken wine glasses or china. And I even got to finish my piece of cake, drink a giant glass of wine and have a luxurious nap with D after the guests left. Now that, my friends, is the sign of a successful party.

Whatcha cookin'?

Now that I am a full-fledged housefrau, I have a little more time to concoct edible delights. You know, move past the jell-o-with-whipped-cream phase into more of a home-made-brownies-with-bailey's phase of cooking.

Lately, I've been pretending that I own a little bistro. Please note that I do not aspire to actually owning a bistro. I could think of nothing more horrifying than making people pay me to eat my sometimes dubious cooking. But when I'm in the kitchen, I day dream a lot, and one of my fantasies is that I'm the owner of a funky restaurant in Kinkytown and I'm being interviewed by some idiot on the Food network about my fascinating menu.

It often goes something like this:

Idiot from Food Network: So tell us about today's exciting features!
Funky Bistro Owner (aka Me): Well, in the summer we make both a hot soup and a cold soup -
Idiot: Uh Huh! Wow! Cold soup!
FBO: - and a choice of two daily salads that change every day -
Idiot: Wow! Cuz people really love salads!
FBO: (shoots Idiot a look of annoyance) - Yes. Right. So, we have favourites that stay on the menu permanently, like our chili, and we always offer a few gluten-free options -
Idiot: Oh yeah, my sister's totally into the gluten free movement, that's becoming very popular!
FBO: (fingering a sharp skewer) It's not a movement. People have gluten intolerances that make them sick.
Idiot: True, true, but it's a great way to lose weight, isn't it! I love these foodie trends!
FBO (skewers Idiot through heart, hides him in compost pile)

Ahem.

For some reason, having these imaginary interviews and restaurant fantasies inspires me to make different stuff for dinner. I picture myself in the bistro, deciding that today's special will be Thai-inspired, so I'll take the leftover BBQ'd meat from last night, slice it up and roll the meaty goodness inside delicate rice-paper wraps, along with whatever wilty vegetables I can find in the crisper. I'll whip up some peanut sauce (which is different almost every time I make it because I can't remember the real recipe, which came from my vegetarian pal who never writes his recipes down anyway), fry up some tofu, and there we go. Or I'll do a running commentary as I blend two recipes together for a batch of soup, throwing in spices that seem to fit, running out to the garden for a handful of dill or chives and pretending it's part of the organic meadow that magically grows behind the bistro. It's weird, but it works.

Yesterday, I made the "daily salad" specials: wild rice with apple, old cheddar, celery, onion and pumpkin seeds in a honey-dijon dressing, and an improvised raw broccoli/cauliflower salad with shredded carrot, marble cheese, green onion and bacon. Tonight I'm going to make curried summer squash soup, sourced from local farmers, which will be served cold or warm and comes with a side of toasted pita bread for $2.99 a cup or $4.99 a bow- um, oops.

Jade has caught me muttering to myself on more than one occasion in the kitchen; she doesn't say anything, just looks around to see who I'm talking to, and flounces out again when there's nobody interesting in sight. I've heard her having dozens of conversations with imaginary characters

- including the infamous "Mr. Ant" - so perhaps the apple doesn't fall far from the quirky tree.

And so far, I have not skewered anyone in real life.

Garlified

I come from a long line of garlic lovers. My Babushka lived to be 96, and I'm convinced it was due to her daily consumption of garlic. She grew it herself, threw it into almost every dish she cooked, and even put it in her ear during one well-intentioned but unfortunate ear-ache incident (apparently it works, but it's preferable to stick a whole clove in your ear rather than chopping it up and shoving it into your ear canal).

My father's favourite appetizer is a slice of raw garlic on top of a slice of summer sausage on top of a cracker. My sister and I tend to avoid kissing him goodbye after visits involving this snack. My mother was another famous garlic-lover; she's the one who taught me the sacred trick of mashing a clove all around the bowl before you make caeser salad dressing, and jamming little slices of it into your roast before you cook it. One of our favourite things to eat was artichokes - she'd chop up raw garlic and douse it in melted butter, and we'd swish the artichoke leaves in the golden liquid and run them through our teeth. My sister and I used to challenge each other to drink a glass of milk afterwards; milk never tastes as foul as after a spoonful or two of garlic butter.

As for myself, I used to be addicted to roasted garlic smeared over crusty bread when I was just out of university and learning to enjoy food that didn't come in a can. It was all the rage in restaurants in the 90's. And I started getting spoiled: the great dried lumps of Chinese store garlic paled in comparison to my Baba's sweeter, smaller version; I would beg some from her whenever I'd visit and go home with my precious cargo. It was almost too good to share.

If you haven't grown up with it, garlic can be something of an oddity. I can remember being shocked when making spaghetti sauce at a friend's place; when I asked him for garlic, he handed me garlic powder. He'd never even seen a bulb of garlic before. After my shock wore off, I gave him a lecture and sent him to the grocery store; I credit myself for creating a life-long love of the stuff after that first meal.

Sadly, D has a love/hate relationship with the stinky bulbs of goodness. He is of the garlic-powder generation, and while he enjoys all my garlic-infused sauces, marinades and roasts, his body can't seem to process the stuff. It oozes out of his pores, no matter how long the garlic's simmered in a pot of pasta sauce or soaked in a beef stew. God forbid I ever serve it to him raw; I think his head would explode.

So, for the sake of marital harmony, I rarely make anything with raw garlic these days. Until last night.

Last night I was glancing through my mother's old cookbooks for inspiration. I had one eye on Jade as she devoured her grape/crackers/cheese snack while watching Toopy and Binou, and one eye on Mom's tattered, splattered pasta cookbook when a recipe for pesto lept out at me. I checked the ingredient list: I had pine nuts. A bunch of basil. A hunk of parmesan. And of course I had garlic. Tally ho!

After a quick rummage through the fridge, and a brief tussle with the Magic Bullet, I had my pesto. I sauteed mushrooms in wine and butter, threw in some steamed asparagus and chopped up leftover chicken breast. I gooped all the pesto on top and stirred it in. I tossed the sauce, which smelled like happiness, with some spagettini, topped it with fresh parmesan, and JOY!!! Supper was served.

While my daughter ate plain noodles, asparagus and chicken and eyed me warily ("Why you eating grass, Mama?"), I tucked in to my masterpiece. The first bowl was heavenly. The basil and parsley tasted of spring, the olive oil mingled richly with the fresh parmesan. And the garlic....it had bite and spice and flavour galore. Why didn't I use raw garlic more often? I could live to be 96 too! I was going to make a caeser salad tomorrow for breakfast!

Halfway through the second bowl, I began to feel that slightly queasy, sweaty, self-loathing feeling I like to refer to as garlified. My body hadn't had raw garlic in quite some time; now it was waking up and telling me so. I drank two glasses of water and packed away the leftovers unceremoniously in the fridge.

Strangely, my husband ate his garlicky pasta without a word of complaint. Then again he did top it with more chicken and a handful of the salad I'd made; perhaps this downplayed the effects. At any rate, I brushed, flossed and even mouthwashed that night to no avail. Every exhalation turned into a cloud of noxious nastiness that seemed to hang over my head. After a fitful sleep, I woke up feeling like our septic tank had leaked into my mouth. Even hanging my mouth open in the shower didn't help much.

So the pesto was delicious, but the aftermath - the garlic hangover - is too gross to repeat anytime soon. And the irony that my husband is suffering no ill effects at all is just plain annoying.

I'm sure that somewhere in the afterlife, my mother is rolling her eyes Baba is shaking her head at her daft granddaughter. And somewhere, a garlic bulb is laughing.

Things I do out of politeness

1) Eat roast beef that looks and tastes like boiled leather.

2) Host: What do you take in your coffee?
Me: Cream and sugar, if you have it.
Host: How about skim and sweetener?
Me: Ummmm....sure...

3) Allow myself to be kissed on the lips by people who aren't family.

4) Share my chapstick/lipbalm/lipstick.

5) Act grateful when someone presents me with a Tim Horton's gift certificate or product.

Dear Mother Nature...it's MARCH, not AUGUST!

Spring was just stretching and yawning when Summer hip-checked her aside and flopped down on Someday Farm, grining a big, satisfied smile.

Humph.

I won't go into a diatribe about climate change or the springs I used to remember as a kid. But COME ON! It should NOT be 24 degrees in MARCH.

The warm weather does make me feel frisky...for greens, people. GREENS! Nice, fresh lettuce and spinach and herbs. Which, of course, means only one thing: salad is on the menu again at Someday.

When I volunteered as a newsletter writer for the CSA in Waterloo, I had to come up with new and wonderful ways to eat greens, because we got a LOT of them in our food boxes in the spring. So I started inventing weird and wonderful salads. I used to think salad was boring-o, but it turns out you can be as funky and decorative with salad ingredients as you can with soup.

So here you go...one of my latest faves.

Asian Beef n'Greens
Marinade
- 1 clove garlic, smashed
- 2 tbsp sesame oil
- 1/4 cup soy sauce
- 3 tbsp rice vinegar
- 5 thin slices fresh ginger
- dash of five spice powder if you have it

Dressing
1/8 cup rice vinegar
1/4 cup olive oil
1 tbsp honey
2 tbsp soy sauce
1 tbsp sesame oil
squeeze of lime
1 clove garlic, minced
1 slice ginger, minced
salt to taste

Other ingredients
1 medium chunk flank steak
4 cups greens of your choice (I like using a combo of iceburg lettuce, baby bok choy and spinach b/c they can hold up to the temperature and weight of the beef)
1 carrot, sliced diagonally
2 stalks celery, sliced diagonally
1 handful snow peas, ends trimmed & cut in half
2 green onions, sliced diagonally
2 handfuls bean sprouts
10 basil leaves, torn
1/8 cup sesame seeds, toasted in a frying pan over low heat until fragrant
2 cups cooked rice noodles (optional)

1. Whisk up the marinade & pour into a big leak-proof bag. Throw in the flank steak and marinate up to 12 hours in the fridge.
2. Grill your steak over medium heat on the BBQ for 10 minutes on each side. Do not overcook! Make sure it's still a bit pinkish in the middle, or you'll be sorry. Let it rest on a cutting board for 5 minutes. Slice thinly against the grain.
3. If you're using the noodles, lay them out like a nice bird's nest on a platter. Then assemble your veggies on top: greens first, carrots & celery & snow peas next, then sprouts and onions.
4. Lay your slices of delightfully pink steak in any artful way you wish on top of the salad. Sprinkle with the sesame seeds and basil leaves.
5. Serve the dressing separately so each person can decide how much they want, or forget about the whole platter thing, chuck all the ingredients in a bowl with the dressing and serve it like a piece of abstract salad art. It still tastes delicious.

In praise of...Crashing at Tanzi's

My work from home arrangement dictates that I must grace the "real" office (and by that, I mean the one where I can't show up braless wearing ratty track pants with paint splotches) every three weeks. It's a sweet deal. What makes it even sweeter is that my monthly trips to the city give me a great excuse to catch up with friends, and crash with my sister Tanzi.

Her latest pad is in a quaint part of Kitchener behind St. Mary's hospital. There are all sorts of old wartime "doll houses" and quiet, tree-lined streets. Although Tanzi's old place in Waterloo was beautiful and had easy access to all the down-town goodness, it didn't have an extra bedroom, so I didn't stay over. At her new place, I not only have my own giant bedroom, where Tanzi's naughty allergenic kitty Gatsby is forbidden to enter, I also have my own bathroom. Yeeha!

Hanging with Tanzi is always a treat. We often cozy up in her living room to share the news in between bites of take-out sushi. Or we go out for Thai. Or wings. If it's too late for supper, we drink wine and eat chips, sometimes in her big bed. That's the beauty of hanging out with my sister: we share similar vices.


After our evening excesses, I love how Tanz always tries to make me a healthy breakfast in the morning. She drinks these vile smoothies with spirulina or wheat grass or chlorophyll or some other gawdawful stuff that's supposed to be good for you, but they give me the chills. She doesn't know this, but the first one she ever made me got poured down the toilet after she left for work. Lord, it was nasty! Even Gatsby wouldn't touch it, and that cat rarely turns down an edible offering. Thankfully, my sister always has a bottle of Bailey's and buys decent coffee, so that makes up for her attempts at smoothie poisoning.


Can't wait to hit the city again soon and hang with my sistah, drink her wine and baileys and have some laughs.

Hullo again, Oscar

Chris Rock presented, Sheila E percussed, J-Lo nipplegated, Clooney kissed Crystal, French dudes kissed each other, James Earl Jones smiled, Tina Fey glamourpussed...now THAT was a good show.

Yup, it's that time again. MY time. My goofy, long-awaited, eagerly anticipated, make-D-shake-his-head-but-admire-my-legs night: the OSCARS!

I didn't have time to run out to the store to buy anything fancy for my hors d'ouevres this year, so I had to make do with what I had in the fridge. So the menu was as follows:
- roasted sugared almonds & walnuts
- roasted garlic and apple wrapped in hungarian salami
- cheese & grapes
- olives
- veggies and baba ganouj
- chinese dumplings and sesame chicken
- teeny tiny leftover valentine's cookies

And of course the requisite champers, sipped (okay glugged) from my hand-painted Perrier-Jouet glasses. Not an overly fancy spread, but delicious all the same. I'd include a recipe, but it's all pretty easy stuff. Except the cookies but they're a family secret. Although I do highly recommend Canadian garlic if you're going to bother roasting any - the sweetness is leagues above the imported Chinese stuff.

Best of all, I had an excuse to wear the new silk coat D brought me from San Francisco Chinatown. It's so glamourous - shot silk, blue in one light, green in another, embroidered with tiny rosebuds. Paired with my old black dress, it made me wish for a red carpet.

Another Oscars, another night of silly fun.

The 5 Virtues of Solo Parenting

I love D dearly. I don't believe in that soulmate crap, but we are all kinds of awesome together. He's a great friend, a superb lover and a rockin' daddy to our kids. What more could I ask for in a husband?

We're not joined at the hip like some couples; we've got our own interests outside our nest of domestic bliss - I do tai chi and yoga, he does hockey and farming - and we spend time apart each week. In fact, my dear D has been in California all week with his Dad on a farm show tour, which means I've been a solo parent for 6 days.

Which means.....

1) I can leave the windows open at night when I sleep. D HATES it when I leave windows open in the winter; he claims he can physically see dollar bills floating out the cracks and chides me for being an environmental hypocrite. I'm green at heart, but I need fresh air, and not just during the warm lazy nights of summer. It's not like I let snow come in and pile up on the floor - I just need the window open a crack. So right now, every window upstairs is open and the mild winter breezes are a-flowin'. Chilly goodness!

2) I can use obnoxious amounts of cinnamon in my french toast, pancakes, muffins and fruit salad. D abhores cinnamon almost as much as he claims to hate garlic; the difference is that while I can easily hide garlic in my dishes, cinnamon's flavour creeps out and attacks D's tongue no matter what.

3) Bedtime is negotiable. I'm a night owl by habit, and I'm currently hooked on the Game of Thrones books, plus I'm trying to catch up on my Oscar movies before the big night. So I haven't been to sleep before 1 a.m. since D left! D and I don't always necessarily go to bed at the same time, but I don't like to read too long beside him because the light keeps him awake. But with no D beside me, I can read into the wee hours to my heart's content. (Oh, and to eat popcorn in bed without someone complaining of kernels getting wedged in his butt.)

4) The kids go to bed early. Or on time, at least. D works long hours, has a 40 minute commute both ways and picks up and drops off the kids at daycare. This means we don't eat supper until 6:30 or 7. Then he and the kids like to have some time to play together, so I don't have the heart to send Dyl and Jady upstairs before 8 o'clock. But since it's just me, and I'm done work at 5, they've been in bed at 7:30 every night - leaving me a glorious evening free to catch up on laundry, cooking, email and movies. Huzzah!

5) Our suppers have been lazy, decidedly non-gourmet affairs. Coldcuts and avocado slices, french toast and fruit, cereal and frozen veggies. I did make salmon one night, and a big pot of tuscan soup for my lunches, but apart from that, our meals are simple, and eaten wherever we feel like it. I'm not saying this is smart, or an example of exemplary parenting. It's just how I've chosen to roll this week. And I like it for a change.

I can't wait to see D tonight and wrap my arms around him. I can't wait to see his creased smile when the kids attack him. It's been a weird week - a funny combo of lazy and busy - and a good week, mostly, but it will be even better having my man back home to complete our family circle. Solo parenting is fun for a while, but I wouldn't want to do it this way forever.

My hot Oscar date

Another Oscar night has come and gone, but this year I actually had myself a hot date (see photo)!

Yeah, my little man doesn't like to go to bed too early, so he and I watched the gala event together for the first few hours. He seemed to take my gown and heels in stride, and was obligingly quiet during the important awards. He didn't make fun of me for dressing up, didn't tsk tsk me for drinking three glasses of champers and best of all, he didn't mooch any appetizers. Best. Date. Ever!

I know it's a little silly to get all dolled up just to watch a bunch of Hollywooders fawn all over each other, but I don't care. We all need a little silly in our lives now and then. And I am so thankful to be feeling healthy enough to WANT to put on a dress and have a drink that Oscar night this year was extra giddy, and extra special.

Cheers!

A day of simple pleasures

Ahhhh, Saturday. Misty, rainy, lazy Saturday. And my last lazy Saturday for a while, methinks, considering baby Lowry version 2.0 is due on Wednesday. Yowzah!

So I took advantage of a day with no real schedule and did a whole lot of nothing. Jade slept in until 8am - usually she's a 7-7:30am kind of girl - so we had a leisurely breakfast while Daddy got a rare chance to snooze.

Then I left Jady with Daddy and headed off for a massage. I can't say enough about the rub-down arts; I recommend massage to anyone and everyone. Even if you don't think you have aches and pains or knots and tight spots, trust me: a good massage therapist will find 'em and fix 'em. I felt like a new woman after my session today.

After my rub-down, I meandered over to the farmer's market that pops up with ten or twelve stalls every saturday by the pavilion. It's nothing like the St. Jacob's market I used to frequent in my Waterloo days, a sprawling venture that's become more commercial every year. The Kink farmer's market is more like a little community that mushrooms up every week. It's a great place to buy locally grown veggies, not to mention baked goods and seasonal stuff. For example, today I loaded up on decorative gourds - 5 for a buck, way cheaper than the grocery store's offerings - late-season raspberries, green beans, perfect little red peppers and the most gorgeous, heavy, sweet Mennonite doughnuts...all while sipping an organic coffee from a real china cup. The Ark's stall encourages you to buy a cup of their delicious coffee and enjoy it while you shop, provided you return their cup before you leave.

I devoured my doughnut in the car, then headed back to Someday for lunch with D and Jade. (Yes, I saved a doughnut for D.) I made a simple pasta with the peppers and heirloom tomatoes I'd bought at market, along with some garlic-flavoured olive oil, onion, feta and olives. We ate it together and after lunch, D took turns feeding Jade and I the last of our Kawartha Dairies vanilla ice cream. No more until next summer!

D walked Jade up to Grandma's for the afternoon, which afforded me the chance to have a luxurious nap. I fell asleep listening to the rain trickle off the maple trees outside our bedroom window and woke up just in time to meet everyone at Grandma Lowry's for supper. On our way home, Jade and I drove down to the shore to revel in the peach-and-melon coloured sunset.

Really, a day of simple pleasures often beats a day of excitement. Especially when it contains Mennonite doughnuts!

Just whistle while I work...

Whew, it's been a couple of weeks since I've been on here. But I have excellent excuses: Jade's official birthday party was the last weekend in May, and I started work on the following Monday. Zoinks!

Since I only have to work for 5 weeks - from home! - to fulfill my EI requirements for the second maternity leave, I have nothing to complain about. At all. Really. Except...

a) I keep dozing off in front of the computer.
b) My little make-shift home office ranges in temperature from wilting, suffocating heat to icy, foot-numbing cold. And the windows don't open.
c) I get twinges of wistfulness when I hear Jade and her Auntie shrieking with laughter on the other side of the wall.

After being away from work for over a year, I thought I'd have trouble adjusting. But apart from the occasional computer-induced doziness, it feels as though I'd never left. Email, databases, toggling, internet sites, documentation strategies, meeting invites - nothing feels the least bit foreign. It's as though someone flicked my "insurance industry" switch back on and I'm plugged into the matrix again. My fingers tap across the keyboard like they could do it all on their own. Which is a good thing, because parts of my brain seem to have dissolved during the course of my maternity leave. We'll see what kind of quality of work I leave behind after 5 weeks.

At the very least, my co-workers seem glad to have me back and I'm happy for a little social interaction, albeit through email and our messaging system. We're having a big Italian lunch in the 'Loo next week so it should be a nice, goofy reunion where I can catch up on the office gossip and get hugs all around. I'm so very lucky to have excellent people to work with. Even if it's just for a month!

Jade's party was a blast. I concocted a chocolate banana bundt cake that was a hit with the adults, although my girl wasn't keen on it (D's horrified comment as I pulled it out of the oven: "Is that all there is???" But it was so rich and heavy we only needed slivers, so there was plenty to go around). Jade had been busy stuffing herself with raspberries and cheese all afternoon, so I wasn't offended when she had a tiny taste of cake and then majestically raised a hand to signal, "No more, thank you very much."

Doesn't she look darling in her birthday dress? D's cousin's personal care worker made it by hand when Jade was born and she grew into it just in time for her party.


We are making her a time capsule to open on her 10th (or 16th) birthday. All the guests contributed a small item; something to represent either themselves, or the year 2010. It should be good fun opening it up when the time comes, although I have to admit that it's KILLING me to not know what everything is! I'm one of those people who loves surprises, but secretly wants to know what's under the tree at Christmas. And yeah, I often read the last page of a book first.

One week of work down; four to go. Wish us luck!

The mean mummy

I am caught between a grin and a cringe as I type this: Jade turned 1 on May 16th. ONE!!! My baby girl is a year old. *sniff sniff* And all this time I thought the expression "time flies" was a tired old cliche. Turns out it's shockingly true.

My doctor warned me not to give her any egg whites before she'd had her last set of shots, which are scheduled for May 20th, in order to avoid an allergic reaction. Which meant that for Jade's birthday treat, I had to come up with an eggless cake recipe that didn't taste like sawdust and wouldn't draw the scorn of my brother-in-law.

I didn't realize what a challenge it would be to have an anti-refined sugar/food philosophy when raising baby Jade. I mean, there is freaking refined sugar in EVERYTHING, from a humble loaf of bread to so-called "healthy" baby food. I've always been one of those annoying, obsessive label-readers, but it comes in handy when you're trying not to stuff your kid full of sugar and crap before her first birthday.

It's not that I'm anti-sugar. Believe me, I lurrrrve a good chockie cake, a fizzy glass of coke, velvety ice cream or as many cookies as I can cram down my gullet. I'm just anti-sugar for wee kiddies with developing palates. I figure she's got a whole lifetime to eat crap, so why not feed her the good stuff before she a) knows the difference and b) gets vocally proficient enough to complain?

A few of my in-laws routinely accuse me (semi-jokingly) of being a "mean mommy" when we're over there for meals. My hubby's neice is a year older than Jady and eats whatever she wants on holidays and special occasions, which is mainly cake, ice cream and chocolate. Which is completely fine...for her. I'm not into the whole "your parenting skills are wrong and mine are right" judging extravaganza. But it doesn't mean my girl needs to eat Jell-O at six months, ice cream at eight months or cheap Easter chocolate before she's a year old.

So I quietly feed her broccoli, meat, tofu, salmon, Greek yogurt, beans, avocado and the like while my in-laws and various friends tsk tsk and say, "Pooooor Jade." Sometimes it gets tiring, but I've learned to trust my instincts and go with what feels right for us, mean mummy comments be damned. She's a pretty good little eater, and that's all the incentive I need to keep feeding her healthy stuff with minimal sugary snacks.

I hunted up a vegan mango cupcake recipe for Jady's first birthday treat, since mango is her all-time favourite fruit, and I whipped up a pretty tasty buttercream icing to go on top so no one who tasted them would gag. I think they turned out pretty well, although they were heavy little suckers on account of no egg. I figured I could throw them at anyone who made one "mean mummy" comment too many!

They looked like this:

And she seemed to enjoy them, which is all that really counts. Happy birthday, Jady Lady! May you live a long and healthy life and enjoy all the good things...sugary or not.

The Sunday Drive: Saugeen Bluffs Maple Syrup Festival

If there's one thing I get antsy for around this time of year, it's fresh, dark, sticky, delicious maple syrup. Having grown up in a small town where one could see tapped trees on one's bus ride to school, and where annual visits to the sugar bush were a given, I can't help but have an instinct for sugaring-off time. Warm days, slightly frozen nights, and the blood in my veins starts flowing in a decidedly spring-like fashion right along with the sap.

I have a friend in BC who may actually rival me in the maple mania department. In a recent email, he confessed to loving all things maple: maple ice cream, maple cookies, maple candies, maple perogies. Okay, I'm making up the perogies, but I KNOW he'd eat them if they existed. If he lived closer, I'd have invited him along on our Sunday drive a few weekends ago to the "Maple Madness" festival (disappointingly renamed this year as "Old Thyme Maple Syrup Festival") that takes place near Paisley.

Taking Jade there was something I'd been looking forward to all winter. There are all sorts of displays, lots of folks dressed up in costumes from pioneer days, live music, and several opportunities to watch sap being collected, boiled and turned into precious, precious syrup. And hey - there's a petting zoo! At the very least, Jade enjoyed her encounters with live chickens, sheep, llamas and goats. It was probably a welcome change from Mummy acting them out at home.

It's a good opportunity to get some fresh air, take in the forest surroundings, and eat copious amounts of locally made sausage and hotcakes smothered in that year's first syrup crop. Oh, how I love eating outdoors...

Anyway, that was our latest Sunday drive. I came home pleasantly weary from all the walking and with a very satisfied tummy from all the pancakes. What more can you ask from a Sunday drive?

A cheezee-tastrophe

Of late, I've been trying to avoid eating crap with artificial flavouring and colouring and preservatives. It's my newest health kick. It's shocking to see all the stuff that has fake colour and flavour in it, and I figure what goes into me goes into Jade - for a few more months, at least - so I'm just trying to be a bit smarter and read labels a bit more closely.

One of the biggest culprits is the junk food I so adore. My favourite - Cheetos Crunchy (think cheesies with all the air sucked out of them)- is chock-full of fake stuff. I know what you're thinking: "Well, duh, Kimberlee. That colour of orange just doesn't exist in nature." Yeah, I know. But while I was pregnant, I kept telling myself they were okay to eat because they contained folic acid, so important for pregnant moms! But that doesn't cancel out the MSG, fake flavour and Yellow 6 dye they're saturated with.

I was half-heartedly looking for an alternative in the grocery store, when what to my wondering eyes appeared but a bag simply called "Hawkins Cheezies." It was smaller than my usual bag of crap, plus the label proudly proclaimed "No preservatives!" "Made with real cheese!" and "Made in Canada!"

Well, I wasted no time in grabbing that sucker and popping it in the grocery cart. I couldn't wait to get home, rip into it and savour what would likely be a turning point in my junk food scarfing experience.

Strangely enough, I forgot all about the magical bag of Hawkins Cheezies until this afternoon, when I was trolling the cupboards during Jade's nap time for something to nosh on. I poured myself a little bowl and went to my favourite relaxing place on the couch. I sniffed the bowl in sweet anticipation. They smelled....cheesy. Closing my eyes, I plucked one from its orange little nest and popped it in my mouth.

WORST. CHEESIE. EVER.

My heavens, they were bad. They tasted like styrofoam dipped in salt, rolled in chicken soup mix and then more salt, then spray-painted orange. UGH! Then...I ate another one. (Well, I had to make sure the first one wasn't a fluke) Okay, I ate about 7 of them, just to be sure. And the 8th one tasted just as horrific as the first one, so I poured them in the garbage and said, "That's what I get for trying to eat healthy junk food."

But that wasn't the end of it, ohhhh no.

About three hours later, my tummy started rumbling. Dangerously. Like a broken septic system about to spew. I dumped Jade in her playpen and ran for the bathroom - and here I'll spare you the gory orange details. The damned things made me violently ill!!! I am so going back to Cheetos Crunchees. They may be fake, they may be bad for me, but at least my body doesn't reject them.

In praise of: Valentine's day

Last year I wrote a rather heated entry in defense of good ol' V-Day. But I don't feel the need to go all vitriolic on you V-day haters this year. I've mellowed. Okay, I'm just really tired, but still, I don't feel the urge to get on my V-day bandwagon again. I think it's because I've heard so many nice, simple stories from friends and family about how they've spent their 2010 Valentine's Day that my heart is satisfied. Some couples went to the pancake breakfast in Ripley (and so did we), some went skating at the outdoor rink at McGregor Point, some hung out and watched sappy movies. To me, it's all good.

D spent the weekend doing chores so his brother C could play in a hockey tourney (that was not the heartwarming part) and spend the weekend with his girlfriend (that was the heartwarming part). It meant late suppers for both of us and less help with Jady lady in the evenings, but I figured it was for a good cause. We still managed to spend time together in front of the fire, enjoy a really kick-arse lasagne and our traditional dessert of chocolate-covered strawberries. AND D bought me the most gorgeous bouqet of tulips, which are even now making the house feel like spring.

Instead of cards, this year we exchanged our favourite memories of each other, which was kinda fun. Jade and I made D a card; she mostly smeared the purple and pink hearts I drew and tried unsuccessfully to taste each marker, but the card turned out to be pretty cute. Jade received cards from her cousin and both sets of grandparents so I still got my mailbox thrills vicariously. Plus it was fun to dress her up in red and pink; D even got Jade her very own flower.

All in all, I just like Valentine's day and the cool stuff it represents. Here's hoping yours was rosy, fun and full of warm fuzzies.

In praise of: making your own baby food

You're probably thinking that this is a pretty weird "In praise of" topic, huh? The truth is, I've become addicted to making Jade's baby food. Seriously, hardly a day goes by that I don't have my nose buried in the baby food cookbook (The Baby's Table), the Magic Bullet a-whirring or the steamer steaming. Cooking for me and D has always been rewarding and fun, but cooking for baby Jade is fulfilling on a whole different level. (Okay, except for the part where she spits out a recipe or does her whole fake-gag act. But that's only happened with parsnips and plums.)

Not only is it rewarding to see your tiny offspring gobble down meals of your own making, you have complete control over what goes into her food. It's a bit horrifying to read some of the ingredients on baby cereals, snacks and other pre-packaged baby foods. Check this one out: RICE FLOUR, DRY SKIM MILK, PALM OLEIN, POTATO MALTODEXTRIN, CANOLA OIL, COCONUT OIL, PREBIOTICS (OLIGOFRUCTOSE, INULIN), SUNFLOWER OIL, MINERAL AND VITAMINS (FERROUS FUMARATE, NICOTINAMIDE, THIAMINE MONONITRATE, RIBOFLAVIN), BIFIDOBACTERIUM LACTIS CULTURES. I'm sorry, but what the what are Palm Olein and Potato Maltodextrin and Coconut Oil doing in my 8 month old's food? Ugh.

I'm thankful that Jady Lady is a good little eater, and likes everything except the aforementioned P words. It's so much fun to see what foods she favours (avocado, tofu, broccoli, melon) and which she eats with less gusto (peach, egg yolk, papaya). I'm loving all the funky recipes in her baby cookbook, especially now that we've moved beyond the steam&puree-the-crap-out-of-veg&fruits stage. My latest favourite recipe? Baby Ratatouille. It's delicious, nutritious and best of all, Jady, Mummy and Daddy all enjoy it. So, dear reader, in praise of making my own baby food, I will share my version of the recipe with you. Even if you don't have a wee one to feed, this stuff is veggie gold for adults too. And you don't even have to wear a bib.

Baby Ratatouille
1 cup broccoli florets
2 small zucchini, chopped
1 can tomatoes with juice
1 red pepper, peeled and chopped
1 potato, cubed (peeling is optional)
1/2 onion, chopped (optional)
1 clove garlic, minced (optional)
1 cup no-salt vegetable broth or water
1 cup cheddar cheese, grated
handful fresh basil (optional)

Chuck it all in a pot and bring to a boil; simmer covered 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove the lid and simmer another 10 minutes uncovered. It should look like a thick stew when it's done. Serve hot over egg noodles or orzo, sprinkled with copious amounts of cheese and basil. Soooo good on a cold winter day.