About Oscar...

My favourite event of the entire frigid, non-holiday season has come and gone: THE OSCARS! If you read this blog with any regularity, you'll know I have a slight predilection for lunacy on Oscar night, which includes dressing up real fancy and serving yummy nibbles with a bottle of something bubbly. I've been meaning to post this for over a week but I think I had an Oscar hangover. Am I getting too old for my annual, stay-up-till-the-bitter-end-and-drink-2/3-of-a-bottle-of-champagne-by-myself ritual? Egads.

The Prep
After nearly eight years of marriage, D has accepted my Oscar-related eccentricities, although he continues to look bewildered when I flounce down the stairs in my gown and heels. He never dresses up, but he never drinks my champagne either. Plus he could care less about movie stars so he barely talks during the show. He's a perfect date.

One thing he finds especially bemusing is my insistence on making rich, indigestible hors d'ouvres to eat during the show. "Whatcha making tonight?" he asked as he got ready to go to the farm and help with chores. "Let me guess. Olives and eye of newt." I ignored him and continued to stuff mushrooms with parmesan-infused cream cheese. D had promised to be back in time to let me watch the opening number unhindered by children; he was welcome to his sarcasm provided he kept up his end of the deal.

Miraculously, I made the hors d'ouevres, fed the kids, and tucked them into bed and donned my Oscar finery just as D stomped through the door at 8:24 p.m. I think this was due in part to the fact that I treated myself to an extra-special dirty martini while the kids ate supper, but he doesn't have to know that.

Tipsy Toodles
The kids had experimented with all my ice cubes during the most recent stormy day, so after I measured the gin, opened the jar of olives and found the ice cube tray tragically bereft of ice, I was forced to think faster than an Oscar host after a winner drops an F-bomb. The only thing worse than a luke-warm martini was no martini. Then I remembered the smug hipsters giggling in snowbanks in an old Baileys TV commercial:

Screw you, ice cubes! Icicle martinis from now on! (Well, in the winter, at least.) At least the Prosecco was cold.

Nibbles
For some reason unknown to me, nearly all my hors d'ouvres were cheese-based this year. Maybe all these years of living within a 2km radius of my dairy farming in-laws is warping my taste buds.

Similar to the Oscar broadcast, my nibbles weren't anything spectacular, just some tried and true recipes from the Alisa Feick school of entertaining, along with a few of my own creations. I even made extra in case Carman showed up, which he didn't, because he still remembers the time I yelled at him for eating the Nacho Dip right off the serving plate. It was the one and only time Carman ever tried to watch the Oscars with me. I guess getting yelled at in his own living room by a crazy lady wearing an evening gown wasn't his cup of tea. Oh well. Nacho dip is always good for breakfast.

Who are you Wearing?
It's been a very happy winter for me for a change, which means I am also fatter than usual. When I'm unhappy or ill, I tend to look like a skeleton, all bones and angles. The better I feel though, the plumper I get. Squishy and happy or skinny and miserable? Hmmm…I think I'll take squishy. There's a treadmill around here somewhere, right? Anyway, being happy and squishy means my wardrobe choices were somewhat limited this year. I allowed the children to have a say in my choice and did a fashion show for them, which ended up, as it usually does, with both of them naked nudie and clomping around in my high heels. I went for a classier look this year, donning my silk jacket from San Francisco Chinatown and my favourite black pants. I finished the look with my mother's antique jet beads and tarted my face up considerably with more makeup than I wear at Hallowe'en. Jade was impressed; Dylan looked scared.

I know. I'm a bit silly. But couldn't everyone's life benefit from a little more silly? Oh, and I cut all my hair off. JUST LIKE J-LAW! It's totally going to get me in People magazine. Or at least the Kincardine News.

The Flicks
I managed to see several Oscar movies this year, and I'm glad that Dallas Buyer's Club was honoured appropriately, and that Sandra did NOT get best actress for Gravity. The movie itself rocked, but ugh to her performance, which was pretty much just heavy breathing and whimpers. And what's up with perfect waxing jobs in space, anyhow? Nebraska was a lovely, quiet little film and it deserved to get something just for being so hilarious and heartbreaking in such a non-explosive way. And June Squibb made me howl. With Nebraska, Alexander Payne created a handful of meaty roles for actors of a certain age, something I didn't see in any of the other films, and I'm glad he did.

Oh yeah, the Actual Show
What can I say? It was a rather mellow affair this year. Ellen was her usual pleasant and benign self. She's like the labrador retriever of hosts: kinda goofy and eager to please, hoping to get asked to sit on someone's lap. Like Douglas Adams might say, mostly harmless. I don't dislike her - how can you hate that face? - but I wasn't thrilled by her either. I suppose she's the middle ground between Billy Crystal's ancient schtick and Seth MacFarlane's acidic barbs. I just thank the Oscar gods that Anne and James will never, ever, ever be asked back.

Well friends, another year, another Oscars. See you in March 2015! Hopefully I can fit into a fancier gown by then.

PS: For a hilarious, spot-on review of the show, including fab photos and witty commentary, check out Hick Chic: http://hickchic.blogspot.ca/2014/03/2014-oscar-blog-report.html

Hurray hurray, it's V-DAY!!!!!!

Say what you want, Valentine's Day is a happy little holiday in my books. I can't wait till the kids fall asleep so I can creep downstairs to make the kitchen table especially special. We've managed to decorate almost every room in the house so far, but I want to surprise Jade and Dylan with silly heart plates, my special red juice glasses that Jade not-so-secretly covets and heart-shaped pancakes in the morning. I blame my mother for spoiling us rotten with Valentine treats every year; even if you don't have kids or a significant other, there's gotta be SOMEONE in your school or work or life that's worthy of a little extra love on the 14th.

Here's an old post, which made me giggle a bit. As my dear old Babushka used to say, Happy Valenschtines!

Siren Song

Sometimes (usually in the middle of the night after my son has crawled into my bed and is snoring two centimetres away from my ear), I think about all the freedom I had before I became a parent. I remember the glorious mornings of sleeping in, the nights full of pillow talk with D; going for motorbike rides or spur-of-the-moment ski trips; salsa dancing at the club till the wee hours; eating wine and popcorn for supper and to hell with dishes. And random naps. Oh, how I miss random naps. It's pretty wild to think about how much life has changed in nine short years.

As I made the kids' beds this morning, bleary-eyed from yet another night of broken sleep, I surveyed the happy wreckage of their room. I uncovered a layer of toy tractors under my son Dylan's comforter, and fought to find my daughter's pillows beneath a landslide of stuffed animals. A princess crown, a pair of flippers, sixteen stray blocks and a kaleidoscope were stuffed under Dylan's bed. Under Jade's I found her precious pink piñata from her birthday party last May and three pairs of crumpled pyjamas. Sitting on the edge of my daughter's bed to untangle the inside-out arms and legs from her PJs, it struck me just how empty my life would be without her and her brother in it. Which, considering I never wanted children for most of my adult life, is saying something.

In my experience, life with two kids under the age of five vacillates wildly between predictable routine and utter chaos. Most days, it's all about the cuddles and giggles and teachable moments. And then there are the days I want to run screaming down the lane and beg the first motorist to please give me a ride to ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE. I don't know if that's typical for most parents, but it's my normal. My kids are bright, hilarious, challenging, willful creatures who teach me every day how to be a mum, in good times and in bad.

I'm lucky, because thanks to school and day care and Grandma Lowry, I get lots of me-time every week to do the typical hausfrau stuff and write a bit, which preserves my sometimes tenuous hold on sanity. I'm aware that this is not typical, as most parents don't get the type of breaks from parenting that I do, let alone the opportunity to take a two-week break to an exotic locale sans children.

A few ladies from my Mom's Group got together last night for supper at the local Chinese place. We were celebrating an early Chinese New Year (aka making up an excuse to get out of the house and drink wine), and our conversation bubbled and swirled around a whirlpool of topics, punctuated with splashes of laughter. The stream of talk came to rest, briefly, on the subject of my younger sister, Tanzi. She's teaching at an international school in Bali for the next year, living in a glorious house with marble floors and a pool, learning to drive a motorbike and having supper at the beach every night. It's not all paradise, but it's a lot more exotic an experience than life in the Bruce is for any of us Moms.

"You should totally go!" one friend said, eyebrows raised.

"Of course you should!" chimed in another. "What a perfect opportunity to travel!"

"Well, I couldn't really take the kids," I began.

"Duh, of course not," said the first friend. "Go by yourself! They have an awesome Grandma to take care of them, they'll be fine." (Clearly, my mother-in-law's reputation is well-known.)

"But I'd have to go at least two weeks," I explained. "It's a 24 hour trip just to get there. I couldn't leave the kids for two weeks."

"Oh, yes you could," they assured me. One girl stabbed her finger on the page of the magazine another Mom had brought featuring our Chinese horoscopes, which we'd been reading aloud to each other. "Look, it says right here in your horoscope: 'World Travel.' You have to go!"

There are lots of people who travel with their kids to other countries outside of North America. Several of the women in my Mom's group have done it. I see photos on Facebook of parents in amazing locations with their kids and marvel at the sheer courage and fortitude it takes to pack and load up children, sit with them for hours on a plane, then have adventures together without the comfort of home and familiarity of routine. I applaud folks who do it - I think travel is magical for adults and kids alike. And I applaud equally loudly for the parents who leave their kids in someone else's capable hands and go on a vacation unencumbered by diapers and strollers. For a few days, maybe a week, it would be heaven.

But two weeks? Overseas?

Without a career ladder to climb, or even a regular job to clock into, my main focus when the kids are home is being Mummy. And I like it. On the days when I'm not writing (or trying to write) or volunteering at the school or being a hausfrau, and my children are at home, I don't try to pay the bills or blog or do anything that requires a lot of my attention. Those days are theirs, and as much as possible, they have my undivided attention to play, read, build, paint, bake, bathe, have dance parties, frolic in the snow, whatever. As much as my 25 year old self would recoil in horror, I often feel that I'm at my best when I'm with Jady and Dyl. I'm getting pretty good at this mothering thing, most of the time, even when I'm doing the not-so-fun stuff like wiping bums and getting barfed on at 3 a.m. It's more of an art than a science, and hey, I was an Arts major!

Right now, I don't need two weeks off, which is ironic because there's been plenty of eye-rolling on my part when D tells me he can't afford to take time off work on a certain day or week. But now I get it. Bali would be cool; I just can't afford to take the two weeks off from my kids' lives right now. Their crazy little siren songs are too strong.

Tangled Plots

I'm what you might call a greedy gardener. I have formal flower beds at the front and back of the house, a huge vegetable garden and a new hillside flower bed outside my office. I regularly neglect every one of them, yet I have a near-pathological urge every spring to BUY MORE STUFF. Often these new plants, purchased in a heady rush of excitement over their colour/fragrance/newness, are left to wilt in their containers because I haven't got the faintest idea where to put them, or I get busy with other things, or it's too hot out. I know. I should be banned from all garden centres within a 50 km radius or whipped with stinging nettles for serial botanical neglect. Thank heavens the only one who really notices is D, and I don't really listen to him when he starts ranting about how many times he's tripped over my nearly dead marigolds or wilted roses.

My enthusiasm for gardening bursts into action in April and peters out around July, or whenever the first bout of relentless humidity descends upon the Bruce. There’s something rejuvenating about spring gardening; I dive into the task of tidying up autumn debris with a big silly grin on my face. I don’t know if it’s the scent of fresh earth, or the way my muscles start to unwind after the laziness of winter, or the feel of my crusty old gardening gloves. Probably all three. There's deep pleasure in being outside without ten layers of clothes, digging in my patches of dirt.

There are so many gardens at Someday I hardly know where to begin tidying up all the gunk to make way for spring blooms. This year I decided to tackle the wild looking patch along the driveway that I like to call my "naturalized rock garden" (although it doesn't have very many rocks and looks more like a nature preserve than a garden). It's full of perennial treasures like columbines and bluebells and forget-me-nots, and over the years I've planted fragrant grape hyacinths, stubborn crocuses and crinkly-leaved primulas as part of my previously mentioned compulsion. Last summer, I even hauled six loaf-of-bread-sized rocks home from the beach. “See?” I told D. “Now it’s a rock garden.” D rolled his eyes and muttered something about crazy people and their stones.

Spring gardening has a lot in common with brushing a toddler's hair. You're tempted to rake through the snarls and tangles and sticky bits without mercy, but you know that if you do, it will all end rather badly. The trouble is that my so-called rock garden rests under four very large maple trees, and in the spring, every inch of the ground is covered in crispy dead stuff. I try to pick leaves off the flowers with one tine of the rake, but I always end up getting impatient. I start thinking how good a hot cup of coffee would taste, twang the rake a bit too vigorously, and a little bluebell head snicks off and rolls down the hill, causing me to shriek as though I've just witnessed Eddard Stark's beheading.

Once the cleanup is done, usually around May, my planting obsession takes over. Five years of wildly unorganized purchases have taught me that a crowded garden is not a happy garden. Stick too many plants close together and things start to tilt out of balance: one flower elbows out another, a gang of aphids show up, weeds strangle the roses and suddenly it’s chaos.

My preference for buying “care free” perennials backfires because I forget to thin and transplant them. The front gardens have been taken over by a fuzzy but determined troop of lambs’ ears; the harmless looking plant that resembles giant buttercups has morphed into a yellow menace, squishing my poor peonies and threatening my innocent mock orange. Daisies have exploded in unexpected places from heaven knows where. And don’t get me started on what were once two tiny patches of sweet woodruff I’d brought from my old gardens in Waterloo. Apparently woodruff takes the term “ground cover” very literally.

You’d think I’d learn a thing or two from my mistakes, and try to limit my flower-buying until I get my gardens in some semblance of order. Instead, I have a dahlia, a clematis and a geranium gasping for water in their pots by the garage, a husband who wants to strangle me and a slightly guilty conscience. If only someone would hurry up and invent a spray-in conditioner for tangled up garden messes. And a cure for obsessive plant buying.

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.

Random thoughts when I'm supposed to be paying attention in Yoga class

Gah, I'm late again! There's one spot left over there in the corner. (Unfurl my mat and sit down) Holy crap, where is that arctic breeze coming from? No wonder this spot is open. Brrrrr...

Overheard on the mats beside me:
Woman #1: Your uncle's insane.
Woman #2: Which one?

I love my teacher. Her movements are like water, her voice like warm honey. She radiates kindness with every word and look. Oh boy...I might have a girl crush.

Having to clench my cheeks to hold in pizza-related flatulence while doing Goddess pose is kinda ironic. This goddess really needs to let one fly.

This older woman next to me is so beautiful. She's lean and fit, and I like that she hasn't dyed her hair. The silver grey suits her.

Wow, that preggo woman can hold these damned poses longer than I can.

Yoga Instructor: "Are you experiencing the pose, or enduring it?"
Me: I don't think you want me to answer that.

This alternate nostril breathing exercise really doesn't work when you have allergies. Oh man, I just shot stuff out of my nose....did anyone see that?

Yay! My cousins are here!


I am beautiful and strong. I am beautiful and strong. I am - oooh, trembly legs! Trembly legs!!

Dancing warrior has got to be the coolest name for a pose ever.

There is something really intimate and powerful about 15 women facing each other in goddess pose. But now I want to stick my tongue out like Kali...

Thank God for Shavasana. AT LAST. Okay, stop thinking. Relax. Breathe. Geez, I wonder if D remembered that the kids are at his Mom's tonight? AHH! Stop thinking things! Shavasana, Shavasana. Ahhhhh. Yes. This is nice. (pause) Is that woman beside me snoring??? Seriously?? *sigh*

'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.

Date Night, Someday Style

My friend Ruth and I have our wedding anniversaries on the same day. We both have two young children and know how precious a night out with our hubbies can be. Last year, a few days before my fifth anniversary and her eleventh, we were talking on the phone and comparing battle plans.

“What are you guys doing to celebrate?” I asked her.

“Oh, I think we’re going out for dinner to Bhima's and then to a movie. We’re going to try to get away for a weekend too. What are you and D up to?”

“Well,” I said, “We’re going to the Legion in Lucknow. They’re having a dance.”

It’s not often that I can make Ruth go completely silent. Most of my city pals have never darkened the door of a Legion, much less celebrated a special occasion by dancing there. What can I say? Date night in the country can be a unique experience.

Don't get me wrong; there is a wide variety of stuff to do up here, just as there is in the city. You can still take your sweetheart to a movie, eat out at a posh restaurant, or see a live show. The difference is that the movie theatre is cosy and has fabulous popcorn, you can probably get into the restaurant without making a reservation a month in advance, and you're likely to recognize a relative performing at the theatre. But why bother with these boring old choices when there are so many other opportunities to get your romance on, country style?

Take the dump, for instance. A place often relegated to husbandly duty, the dump was a revelation to me the first time I was invited to come along. Yes, the smell in the summer is fit to gag you and sometimes you see rotting stuff you wish you hadn’t. But there are so many good things about the dump that cancel out the nastier bits. Like the dress code. No high heels, Spanx or hairspray are necessary. I simply pull on my grungiest jeans, D’s oldest sweatshirt, my trusty rubber boots and I’m good to go.

Then there's the truck. Many Bruce County women own trucks, or are used to driving them regularly, but riding in - or better yet, driving - a pickup is still a novelty to me. Especially when D says, “Your turn to back ‘er up, Kimmy,” and I have to navigate the truck backwards to the (gulp) edge of the dump pit, which is a gaping hole in the earth that looks big enough to swallow three tractor-trailers whole. Nothing gets the heart pumping like the thought of demolishing your spouse’s beloved vehicle, and nothing makes a country boy randier than watching a woman back up a large piece of machinery.

To me, the best part of the dump is when I have to clamber over the tailgate to help chuck stuff into the pit. There’s something incredibly freeing about getting rid of all the accumulated crap that’s built up over a season by sending it sailing as far as your skinny arms can throw. I also get wicked satisfaction from tossing armfuls of the twigs and brush I’ve cleared out of the gardens in the spring and fall; it feels good to trim it, but it’s even more gratifying to pitch it into the pit. And don’t underestimate the goofy, childish high you get when you throw in something breakable that makes a glorious smash. When your man raises an eyebrow and remarks, "Good one, hon'," you know your country romance is going strong.

To be honest, I never really thought of going to the dump as a "date" until the second time we went and the friendly clerk said, "So, out on another dump date today, folks?" My husband looked sheepish. "Hey, if you're out together without the kids, consider it a date," she reassured us, handing over two of her trademark lollipops. I decided she had a point. With both of us working full time and two active little ones at home, time alone with D had become a rare commodity. A dump date was fine with me.

Motorbike rides are another outing with D that I never tire of. I wouldn't have dared climb on the back of his elderly Honda in the city, but it's more exciting to bump over fields and scare seagulls than it would be to putt-putt our way through Waterloo traffic. Plus, on a motorbike we can get up close and personal with the mighty windmills, or take a mellow drive under a canopy of trees on the lower shore road. It’s just not the same in the city. We have so many motorbikey memories here, anyway; D knows that for me, the best motorbike date is a trip to the lighthouse, where we reminisce about our engagement (he knelt beside his motorbike at the foot of the lighthouse), and end up at the restaurant in Point Clark for some fries and souvlaki. It’s simple, and perfect.

Beach dates are a given, especially with my aunt’s cottage so close by. Swimming in heavily chlorinated city pools was never a favourite pastime of mine; I much prefer a stealthy skinny dip in the lake to a noisy, crowded pool that makes my hair smell like bleach for a day. I took D to the Goderich pool on a date night, since he loves swimming and it too cold for the beach, but I just can’t find my lovey dovey vibe at a public pool. D isn’t much of a beach person, so I treasure the times when he relents to a long walk on the sand without the kidlets tagging along. There’s just something about the purr of the waves beside us, the stars twinkling out above and the soft sand beneath our feet that brings out the lover in me. Even when D insists on wearing socks and shoes.

One date night I never pictured myself enjoying was spending a Saturday evening in the barn, milking cows. Now that we have two little ones in our lives, I’ve decided that pretty much any time together alone with D is an opportunity for romance, even in a stinky dairy barn. Leaning in for a quick kiss as we pass each other on the walkway, belting out our favourite songs to an audience of cows and cats and the odd squirt-of-milk fight makes our time together in the barn pleasant. There's something to be said about working side by side with the guy you love, even if you're up to your ankles in poop

We still catch the occasional movie or have supper out. But the date nights that stand out in my mind are the ones that could only happen up here in Someday land: learning to drive a tractor while cutting hay at 1 a.m.; throwing brush into the gully on a hazy September afternoon (and clocking D in the noggin with a wayward branch); taking long snowshoe tramps in snow that shone like diamonds all around us. I'll never forget the morning I wandered out onto our bedroom balcony and looked down to find my name growing in the grass; my hubby had drawn it in triple 16 fertilizer early in the spring without telling me. Stuff like that just wouldn't have happened back in Waterloo.

As D and I twirled around the creaky wooden floor of the Lucknow Legion last year on our anniversary, enjoying the familiar sounds of the Glen Boyd Orchestra, I couldn't stop smiling. Ruthie may have been skeptical of our choice of date, but she’s just never experienced romance, Someday-style.

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.

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.

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.

Nosey Nosey....

My daughter Jade does this really cute thing where she'll come up to you, rub your nose with hers and say, "Nosey nosey!" It's her form of a kiss and she's been doing it with my family since she was very little. But lately her nose has been more of an experimental playground than a cuddle tool.

Last week, on my way home from my dad's cabin, I hear Jade's little voice say, from the depths of the backseat, "Mumma, lookie lookie! Look at me!" I glance in the rear-view mirror, and the kid has a raisin (her drive home snack) jammed up one nostril.

"AHHH!" I screamed. "JADE, honey, no! NO! Get that raisin out of your nose right NOW!" She snorted it out with impressive force and said, "Kleeeeeenex pleeeeease."

We had a conversation about the evils of putting things up one's nose, and I thought I'd gotten the point across (you'll have to go to the hospital, I'll take your raisins away, blah blah blah). Until today. Today, at various times throughout the day, I had to get her to snort out dried cranberries, cereal, toast, vegetable chips and a piece of apple. GAH!!!!

Someone please reassure me that this stage does not last? In the meantime, I'm keeping the tweezers handy.

In praise of...the Thank You note

One of my more vivid memories of childhood is of my sister and I hunkered down at the dining room table, necks stiff, legs dangling, surrounded by tape, glue, bits of paper and lists galore. We were on thank-you note duty, as enforced by my formidable mother.

Although we had a small immediate family, my mother had a lot of friends. These friends were not only plentiful, they were generous, kind and always brought us gifts when they came to visit. They never forgot a birthday, or arrived for supper empty-handed. And even the ones who didn't celebrate Christmas still came for Christmas dinner bearing gifts for my sister and I. And one thing my mother insisted on was that we write formal thank-you notes for every gift we received.

These were not store-bought notes with swirly THANK YOUs already stamped across the top, oh noooo. These, my friend, were hand made notes, little paper cards meticulously folded and decorated with collages of cut and paste pictures scrounged from the piles of dead greeting cards my mother hoarded for this exclusive purpose. I'm sure they were perfectly hideous, and perfectly entertaining for the folks who received them.

I think I must have written hundreds of little notes over the years. When Christmas or birthday months rolled around, I would look at my delightful pile of presents and gloat over them - then groan inwardly, thinking of the cramped hands and stiff back I'd have to endure in a few weeks. Initially, writing thank-you notes was kind of fun. The first five or so would be carefully folded and decorated, with much thought given to theme and colour. Then it was all downhill after that, each successive card looking sloppier and more haphazard than the last.

I still have very generous friends and family, and I still feel moved to write thank-you notes. It's a testament to my mother's lessons about gratitude and politeness, but I also feel it's kind of a lost art. I wrote over one hundred fifty notes after D and I got married (his job was to address and stamp them); I wrote around fifty after each baby was born. It humbled me to see how generous and kind people were to us after these events; I figured the least I could do was write them a wee note to say thanks and endure a few hours of stiff neck and fingers.

A few of my friends write some pretty mean thank-you notes themselves. My sister-in- law always writes beautiful, very personal notes inside her hand-made cards; my good friend creates the most elaborate works of card art to send her thanks. And one of my newer Kink friends got her two year old daughter to crayola the inside of the note they sent to say thanks for her birthday present. I thought that was pretty cool.

I'm a bit ashamed that I don't take the time to write notes for my birthday presents any more. Emails and phone calls are easier for this sleep-deprived mama right now. I do my best to send notes anytime the kids get a gift though, and I'm hoping that I can pass along this small act of gratitude to them when they're old enough. I like to think that one day I'll corral them into sitting at the dining room table (the same one I wrote mine at) and creating little cards of their own, while I (and my mother from up above) nod in approval.

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!

Sanford & Son at Someday

When my older sis was here visiting at Christmas, I proudly showed her around the farm, as she'd only seen it through Facebook photos. She ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the house, the apple orchard, the proximity to both beach and river. She loved the hayloft and the old horse stalls in the barn. But when I took her to the shop, she started laughing.

"What?" I said, puzzled. "I know, it's a mess."

"It's not that," she said, still giggling. It was only when she started singing the theme song to Sandford & Son and doing her unique chicken-wing dance around the boat, motorbike, snow blower and tractor that I got it.

Sandford & Son, for those of you too young or too cultured to have ever seen it, was a show about a crusty old junk dealer who lived in a ramshackle, cluttered shop so full of "treasures" that people could hardly walk around without knocking something over. Ahem.

It seems that the more room one has, the more stuff one accumulates. After watching my sister's performance in our shop last winter, I've come to realize that the barns, garages and closets of Someday Farm are no exception. To put it bluntly, we have a lot of crap.

When I lived in the city, my house was often described by other people as "charming." When someone says this about your house, what they're really saying is that it's small and old. Charming houses have unlit, cramped closets, and cupboards too deep and too high to be used properly. Charming houses have teeny little vestibules with doll-sized spaces that laugh at your attempts to hang bulky winter gear or store your vacuum cleaner. Their garages are barely wide enough for one car, let alone bikes, sleds, lawn mowers, etc. And the backyard sheds are mostly decorative, seeing as how entering them means risking severe head injuries.

So on our first offical walk-through of Someday - before it was ours - I was delighted by the car garage, shop and two barns. I'd finally have room for my gardening implements, my skis and my BBQ! And I was over the moon about the 12 cupboards, pantry and various handy drawers in the kitchen. But the bedroom closets were horrific: a single door opened onto a long, dark hallway with a few shelves and no place to hang clothes! How did the poor previous owners LIVE?

A few discussions with our renovator gave me the closets of my dreams: double doors, excellent light, lots and lots of room to hang stuff. I was in closet heaven. We had oodles of space. In fact, we had so much space that we'd never use it all. Or so I thought.

As slow as a rising tide, my magical roomy closets began to fill up: my sister stored a few of her outfits while she went to Russia; comforters and blankets began to accumulate; and then came the mountains of baby clothes. One day I suffered a severe case of deja vu as I attempted to stuff a box into an overflowing closet. It was my house in Waterloo all over again. I'd been blaming the size of my old house for my space issues, but really, it was ME and my squirrel-like accumulation issues.

My husband is no different; his shop is piled high with a jumble of tools, errant farm equipment, defunct snowmobiles and lawn tractors. Our garage is packed full of strollers, wagons and other baby mobility equipment, offset by paint cans, snow shoes, and apple tree bug spray. It's a wild mix.

But I don't consider all our accumulations junk, no matter how many times my sister sings the Sandford & Son song to me. I don't think we've entered "hoarder" territory (yet); everything we have, we use (except for the snowmobile). When I look around at all the stuff, I swell up with a feeling of thankfulness. We have space, and we have stuff. How lucky are we?

My cheatin' heart...and pen

Last Tuesday, I did something kind of naughty. And I plan to do it again tonight.

I cheated.

On my hot husband? Heavens, no. On my recommended pre-natal diet? Um, I would actually have to be following said diet in order to cheat on it. No, I committed my naughty act against two slightly more mundane things: my old city coffee shop, and my new country one.

My long-suffering novel has been dormant for almost a year now; the last time I dusted it off was at the KPL Storytelling festival last year, where I read a revised version of my first chapter. Since then - nada.

Motivation to write is - not surprisingly - harder to come by these days, not to mention the dwindling trickle of once-plentiful ideas that kept my characters and plot ticking away. I'm trying not to be too hard on myself; family needs to come first sometimes. But things are gonna get really busy in the fall with baby numero duo, so I made up my mind to try and get at least two more chapters written this summer. And in order to do that, I needed a writing space...outside of Someday.

I'm not sure why I can't seem to write at home. I have a decent-sized office with a great chair and a reasonable desk. But I prefer to do my writing outside the walls of my house. Back in Waterloo, I used to write faithfully for several hours a week at the Second Cup coffee shop; there was something so comforting about the aroma of that place. I'd feel all the day's tension melt away at the first sniff of freshly ground coffee. I always ordered the same thing (a mocchacino to start, with a mint tea for later), the chairs fit my kinks, and there always seemed to be a table waiting just for me, with an electrical outlet within my laptop's reach. It was my weekly ritual, and I loved it.

After moving to the Kink, I searched for a suitable replacement. There weren't many options, and certainly no Second Cups to satisfy my mocchacino cravings. The independently owned Books n' Beans had a quirky, welcoming atmosphere and decent lattes, but they weren't open beyond 6pm, and I'm an evening kind of writer. Still, I liked the fact that it was a small-town operation, and not some crazy Starbucks catastrophe.

When a Coffee Culture chain opened up a block away from Books n' Beans, I disdainfully turned up my nose after trying one latte, which - HORRORS! - came out of a push-button box thing instead of a proper espresso machine. Yes, Second Cup is a commercially owned chain too, but at least all their drinks are hand-brewed!

But as I tried to find other options, I realized that unless I wanted to write in a noisy bar with peanut shells on the floor, or in the hermetic, beverage-less silence of the library, I was going to have to suck it up and give Coffee Culture a try. And so last Tuesday, after Tai Chi, that's just what I did. And I was pleasantly surprised.

CC was clean, quiet and comfortable. I had a wide array of seats to choose from; deep, squishy armchairs by the fire, straight-backed chairs at little tables, or soft, cushioned booths. They had a rather nice menu, and as I'm always starving after Tai Chi, the toasted bagel and cream cheese hit the spot. (My one complaint with Second Cup was that their food always - frankly - sucked.) Even the latte wasn't as bad as I'd remembered it, although it still made me shudder to see the guy press the "Latte" button on his machine. Service was friendly and prompt, too. All in all, CC was a location very conducive to writing. I managed to get a few pages scribbled after spending an hour sorting through old chapters and trying to collect my scattered thoughts.

So I'm going back tonight. Wish me luck. And don't tell the guys at Second Cup!

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.

Oscar and the grumbling tummy

Some of you long-suffering readers might recall my effusive, gushing Oscar entry last year. Well guess what? It's that time of year again - huzzah! But I think that instead of boring you with my usual starry-eyed Oscar deluge, I'll focus on the food.

What, no moaning about how my Oscar dress is tighter than ever this year? Or the fact that I can't indulge in too much champers on account of nursing Jady? Nope, this year, I'm just gonna tell you about the food I plan to make and devour during the 3 hour Oscar shennanigans. Cause I'm hungry and I haven't written about food in ages!

I come from a long line of excellent cooks and entertainers. My mother threw elaborate parties, and relied on several mainstays when serving appetizers. My sister and I were schooled in the art of putting together the "hors d'ouvres" (as Mom always called them) for the parties, and to this day, I can still make many of her recipes from memory. They're not fancy, but they look good and they have a certain 1970's - 1980's kitsch factor that tickles me every time I make them. Plus, they rock the tastebuds, which is the most important thing.

I'll describe a few of them here, then list the recipes below if you're interested. And if you have any fancy-dancy appies to share, please do. I always prefer a meal of appetizers to a full course supper.

First on the list are the Cheese Dreams. This one is kind of a poor man's quiche, but there's never any left when I serve it. It's a bit annoying on account of the Pillsbury dough management technique, but once you get the hang of it, it's worth the sticky fingers and muttered epithets while unrolling the dough. For those of you outside North America who have no idea what Pillsbury dough is, I'm not sure I can suggest a substitute; Pillsbury dough is every lazy cook's companion. It's chock full of fat, salt and unmentionable ingredients, but does it ever taste good.

Next, I like to whip up Mom's famous Taco Dip.
Mom's prounciation of the word "taco" used to make my sister and I exchange eye rolls, but the dip is absolutely scrumptious. I have even been known to eat leftovers for breakfast...if there are any, that is. It's simple, and actually not that horrible for you if you use low-fat cream cheese. The flavours meld together into a fantastic blend and the texture is somewhere between creamy-crunchy depending on which veggies you use. I must stress that you use decent nacho chips for dipping though - use a cheap brand and they'll snap like matchsticks when you try to scoop up a decent helping. Blue corn chips seem to be the best pick in my experience.

I didn't make Mushroom Caps this year, because D doesn't like them and I don't want to gobble an entire platter myself, which is exactly what will occur. But my heavens, they are SO GOOD. I assume it's the bacon, or maybe the fresh parmesan...in any case, I have never once made these and had people not scarf them so quickly they burned their tongues, despite my warnings. Once, I brought a tray of uncooked mushies to a New Year's party. The power went out - and the guests snorked them all back raw!

Mom never served proscuitto
that I can recall, but it's a treat for me. The sweetness of the melon against the saltiness of the meat is divine. The trick is browbeating your deli-counter employee to slice it PAPER THIN. There is nothing gaggier than a too-thick piece of proscuitto, trust me, and the folks at Sobey's, bless their high-school hearts, just can't seem to grasp that until I've sent the slice back at least three times. Good thing I don't make this one very often - I might get banned from the grocery store.

So anyway, the recipes are below. I hope you'll try 'em - and even if you don't watch the Oscars, I hope you feel glamorous when you eat these patented Alisa Feick hors d'ouvres. Bon appetit!

Cheese Dreams
You'll need:
2 rolls of Pilsbury dough - crescents
4 eggs
splash of milk or cream
1/4 cup parsley, minced
1/4 cup green olives, sliced
1/2 cup onion, chopped
1/2 cup bell pepper, chopped
1/2 cup cheddar cheese, shredded
dash of your favourite hot sauce
pepper

1. Preheat oven to 375. Spread the dough out so that it covers a 9x13 baking sheet, preferably one with edges. It's a pain in the butt process, but try to make sure there are no gaps between the seams. You may have to get creative.
2. In a medium bowl, beat eggs and milk together until well blended.
3. Add all other ingredients except pepper. Stir until everything is well coated.
4. Spread the mixture out until all parts of the dough are covered. You may have to tilt the pan to get the eggy stuff to move around.
5. Grind some fresh pepper on it, and bake for 15-20 minutes, or until slightly browned. Cool for 10 minutes, cut into squares and serve warm or cold.

Taco Dip
What you'll need:
5 green onions, chopped
1 red bell pepper, finely chopped
1 orange or yellow bell pepper, finely chopped
1/2 seedless cucumber, finely chopped
3/4 cup salsa
1 block cream cheese, softened
1/2 cup sour cream
1 tsp chili pepper
1 tsp onion or garlic powder
pinch oregano
1/2 cup jack or cheddar cheese, grated

1. Blend cream cheese and sour cream together until smooth and no lumps. (If you have the energy, use electric beaters.) Add spices and mix well.
2. Spread the cheese mixture over a large platter to 3/4 inch thickness. Cover with the salsa.
3. Starting at the outside edge of the platter, spread the onion in a circle. Follow with a circle of red pepper, then orange/yellow pepper, then fill centre with cucumber.
4. Sprinkle with cheese. Chill 30 minutes; serve with good quality nacho chips.

Marvy Mushroom Caps
You'll need:
20 medium sized mushrooms, stems removed (reserve 8 stems & chop finely)
1/2 block cream cheese, softened
1/4 cup sweet onion, minced
1 clove garlic, minced
1/4 cup parsley, minced
two (or more) dashes hot sauce
salt and pepper
5 strips bacon, cooked and crumbled (Do NOT chintz out and buy pre-cooked bacon. Just...don't.)
1/4 cup fresh parmesan, grated

1. Preheat oven to 400.
2. Mix all ingredients together (except mushroom caps!).
3. Stuff mushroom caps as full as you can.
4. Bake for 20 minutes or until juices start flowing out of the caps.
Note: let them cool slightly or you will burn your tongue!


Proscuitto & Melon
You'll need:
10 slices of proscuitto, paper thin
10 chunks of honeydew or canteloupe melon
10 fresh mint leaves
juice from 1/4 lemon or 1/2 lime

1. Toss melon with lemon or lime juice in a small bowl. Let sit 5 minutes.
2. Wrap each piece of melon with a slice of proscuitto.
3. Top with a mint leaf. Refrigerate until ready to serve.
Note: You can stab them with toothpicks, but I find the meat/melon/mint combo sticks together quite well without them.

Dunstan Dunce

My loving sister from Oz sent us a DVD when I was pregnant. It's called "Dunstan Baby Language," and promised to reveal the secrets of baby talk. I thought the idea was sweet; D snorted and rolled his eyes. Then we kind of forgot about it and at one point it became a coaster for Tanzi's beer during her summer visit. My sister from Oz kept asking me whether I'd watched the DVD and I would hem and haw and say, "Ooohhh, not yet, but next week for sure!"

Then came the business of giving birth and recuperating and learning to breastfeed and no sleep, and needless to say, Ms. Dunstan was completely forgotten. Until the screaming began, about the fourth week after Jady lady's arrival.

I was slumped on the couch, bleary-eyed, watching my gorgeous daughter turn purple with unexplained rage. She wasn't colicky, and she really didn't scream that much. But when she did - man, oh man, that kid could really holler. For a long time. Her screams made both me and D want to run and hide, which was not a helpful reaction.

It was then that I remembered the promises of the lovely, raven-haired Ms. Priscilla Dunstan of Australia. I lunged for the coffee table, shuffled through the stacks of assorted crap and fished out the magical DVD.

"Your baby speaks Dunstan," it said on the back. "Your baby is talking to you. Now you can understand." Tucking Jade under one arm, I peeled off the cellophane and popped the disc into the DVD player. "You will feel less stress as your baby becomes happier. You will feel like a successful parent," the insert promised. Eight years of research, remarkable story of an Aussie woman, universal language of babies, blah blah blah. I turned up the volume. My husband would likely laugh at me, and my brother-in-law would make that "you're crazy" hand motion when I told him, but I would do it. I would learn the whole freaking Dunstan lexicon if it would only stop the insanity.

As luck would have it, the lesson (and DVD) was short: Dunstan-ese only consisted of 5 words. Yeah. What are these groundbreaking words, you ask? NEH, HEH, EH, EAIRH, and of course OWH. Meaning hungry, uncomfortable, gassy, really gassy and tired. And ALL babies say these words. Yep, all of them, regardless of race, language, background etc. At least, that's what Missus Dunstan says.

Now, call me nutty, but I really did begin to hear Jade say "NEH" (which I came to interpret as HUNGRY RIGHT NOW MUMMY) and "EH" (which means OW OW OW THE GAS! I AM A WINDY BABY!) and this was extremely helpful, as I no longer tried to shove a boob in her mouth when she said "Eh" or put her to sleep when she said "Neh." As for the rest...well, perhaps I wasn't listening closely enough. I don't think I ever heard her say anything else on the DVD.

It's a neat idea, very nicely packaged, and Ms. Dunstan is mighty attractive. The thing that burns me about the whole Dunstan thing though, is that they don't tell you about the million other words babies say. Such as "WAAAAAHHHHH!", which I personally think has to be the most universal of all baby words. Or what about "AAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE?" Or even "ARRRGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHHHH!" (Oh wait, that's what I say after a Jady screamfest.)

Anyways, I'm glad there wasn't an exam for Dunstanese, because I surely would have failed. I've taken the handy chart off my fridge, because I got tired of trying to explain and defend it, and frankly, Jady Lady and I are starting to come to vague understandings based on facial expressions. We'll figure each other out eventually, DVD or no DVD.

Now if they'd just make one on the universal language of husbands, I'd be set.