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.

Red and Purple Stones

A cardinal sang outside my window nearly all day yesterday, on Rose's birthday. I've always thought of cardinals as my mother's spirit bird, and we hardly ever get cardinals at Someday so I smiled, and sighed, and smiled again.

I used to think about grief as something I needed to get over. Now I think of it more in terms of a necessary experience, something we all go through at one point or another in our lives. I've come to realize that it's a process without an ending. And I'm learning to be okay with that.

Although I hate cliches, I believe in the old adage, "time heals all wounds." They can heal cleanly, or they can fester for a while and heal in a slow, painful way. There are always scars in the end, faint though they may be. I don't mind, though. I like a little reminder of my battles.

Here's what I did to embrace my grief yesterday, on the anniversary of Rose's birth, of the day she left us, and became a part of us always:

- made a giant dish of pasta with all my favourite things in the sauce (wine, olives, sundried tomatoes, asparagus, garlic, cream)
- ate an obscenely large piece of the chocolate birthday cake Ruthie brought me
- read two chapters of my book in the stillness of an empty house
- walked the beach for an hour and collected all the red and purple stones I could find
- sat on the pier and watched a loon dive and surface while seagulls wheeled in the sky above us
- collected ingredients for a double batch of granola and mixed them with my hands; savoured the grainy, nutty, maple fragrances as the granola browned in the oven
- bought a very good bottle of wine, dropped blackberries into our glasses and drank deeply with D

But I suppose it's not how long you grieve for, or even how you choose to do it; it's for whom you grieve, and how you plan to keep them alive in your consciousness. I found a small purplish-rose coloured stone for Rose; I heard her cries in the voice of seagulls, felt her breath on the wind, her weight in the bag of stones I carried to the car. I see glimpses of her when I close my eyes.

For now, it is enough.

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.

Sister Misser

Well, my sister Tanzi left yesterday for the long day's journey back to Moscow. Actually, she's stopping off in London first to take in an unlikely performance: Jude Law as Hamlet. If Hamlet had slept with his nanny, dated a skin and bones starlet and had a habit of impregnating women 10 years his junior, I might believe Jude in the role. At this point, I'm having a hard time picturing pretty boy as the brooding prince of Denmark.

But hey - to each their own. Hopefully it's not a total disaster. At the very least, Tanzi will have the whole crazy city of London to explore for a few days before she heads back to the less than passionate embrace of the 'Cow.

I shouldn't moan too much; we were lucky to have spent most of the summer together. I was so thankful she got a chance to meet her niece and hang with us. We did our annual Bayfield and Stratford pilgramages, drank countless cups o' coffee and played lots of Yahtzee (man, if Facebook ever creates a Yahtzee application, we are so screwed). We slept in, went to the beach, shopped a little, ate a lot of great food and drank a lot of great wine (let's never speak of my attempts at making mojitos again).

It's gonna be a slow and lonely August without her. I got used to waking up and hearing her patented greeting ("Meow!") from the guest bedroom. I relished the fact that I could take an extra-long shower and know that she'd be keeping Jady Lady entertained. I miss seeing her buddha statue on the guest bedroom night table. And I was tickled by how many people thought Jade was Tanzi's baby when we were out and about because she was usually snuggled in her Auntie's arms. In fact, I think the phrase I will remember most from this summer is Tanzi saying, "Can I hold her?" (Thanks Jaime for the beautiful photo!)

Whenever I miss Tanzi too much, I just have to look at all the lovely keepsakes she's given me over the years: my polished stone with golden Koi swimming on it; my "New Beginnings" picture; the rose and violet art she gave me this summer. When my sister cravings get to be too much, I'm able to take some comfort in the ultimate calmer-downer: lying in my king-sized bed under the hand-made quilts D's aunts made us, listening to my husband breathing on my right and my daughter breathing on my left, secure in the love of my little family. That's when I remember that the Tanzinator WILL return!

Well Tanzi, only a few more months until I start making subtle hints about you coming home for Chrissie...in the meantime, I'll innundate your inbox with stories and pictures of wee Jade so you don't miss a moment of her growth spurts, poopy explosions, bizarre noises and other wacky baby accomplishments.

Three Degrees of Happy

'Cuz after those first few scary weeks of being ill at home with baby, happy's where it's at right now. And although the Chinese only have a symbol for double happiness, I'm going with triple the feeling:

1) Jady Lady
Yeah, I know - I'm a sucker for this child! I'm violating all my former bloggy principles! Ahhh! But dear reader, she's started to smile. A lot. Big, goofy, toothless grins that make her eyes squinch shut in a blissed-out, almost drunken manner. She reminds me of the laughing Buddha I used to keep in my study back in Waterloo. And she's starting to make sounds other than cries of hungry rage: soft coos, pirate-like "argggghs" and "ayes" and even little squeals of glee when we make the right silly faces at her. She no longer has chicken legs - there are actually some delicious folds of chub around her thighs and wrists now - and she can wing her head around fairly well too. Despite the fact that she sometimes resembles "an old man sitting on a dock" (says D) or a tiny monk, she is awesome and beautiful and everything I've ever wanted. Insert sigh of contentment and gooey happiness here.

2) Breasty Dumplings
I know it's shallow and will set feminism back several hundred years, but my former A-cup self just has to say it: I love having cleavage. Sure, they're tender and sore and tend to leak at the slightest thought of anything Jade-related, but my new dumplings ROCK and I'm going to enjoy them while I can. So there.

3) Auntie Tanzi is home!
My Muscovite sister is home for the summer and she and baby Jade have taken to each other like Russians to a bottle of frozen Vodka. (And yeah, I can say that without an ounce of political correctness. Why? Because we're Russian.)

It warms the cockles of my usually unsentimental heart to see Jade nestled in her Auntie's arms, sucking on her necklace...or shoulder...or neck (seriously, that kid will suck anything). Auntie Tanzi gets more smiles from Jade than anyone, even Grandma, and that is a feat to be marvelled at. And she's not just a good babysitter: she's been flexing her housekeeping muscles and does dishes, sweeps the dog-hair tumbleweeds, hangs laundry out, feeds the kitties and cooks a mean grilled cheese. I didn't realize how much I needed some help around the place until she arrived. And it's sooooo nice to just have a friendly face to talk to over morning coffee, or an evening glass of wine, or an afternoon lunch. She got me out of the house for my first lunch date since Jade was born, and we're planning daytrips to Stratford and Bayfield. I adore those little towns, but they are the most enjoyable with Tanzi by my side.

I have a feeling this summer is going to go by at the speed of light. It will be August all too soon and then Tanzi heads back to the 'Cow for another year. What in the world will I do without her? Oh yeah...this blog was supposed to be about happy stuff, wasn't it? Guess I'll stop talking then. *sigh*

A Top 10 list of mushy things...

1. MOVIE - Favourite doomed romance: Laszlo (Ralph Fiennes) & Katherine (Kristin Scott Thomas) in The English Patient. Adultery is not one of my favourite subjects to watch, but there is such incredible passion & chemistry between these two that I'm able to wink at poor Katherine's husband's plight (and this is the ONLY movie I've ever seen where Colin Firth is positively repulsive, so it makes it easier).

2. MOVIE/MUSIC - Favourite unrequited romance: Once. Such a lovely, gentle story. And the music is so powerful in its simplicity it often brings me to tears. I highly recommend the soundtrack. Eternal thanks to Yay/Nay guy for lending me the movie.

3. FOOD - Favourite romantic supper: anything that can be eaten with your fingers, like empanadas, pizza, fried chicken, wee fancy sandwiches, spaghetti (hey, one of the most romantic suppers I ever had was spaghetti eaten with fingers and wooden spoons cuz all our silverware was packed up for a move).

4. DRINK - Favourite lust-inducing beverage: a glass of the boys' delicious home-made apple cider will make mature adults fling off their panties and dance around in the buff. Trust me. But Ravenswood Red Zinfandel is good too if you're looking for a more subdued seduction.

5. BOOK - Favourite sigh-inducing read: Pride & Predjudice. It's witty, the main female character is strong and independent, and Darcy...well, heck, he's Darcy!

6. CLOTHES - Favourite article of clothing to wear on V-day: My red dress. Plunging neckline, plunging backline, and oh-so-firey. Look out Saturday night dance in Goderich - here I come! (oh, and of course, my lucky heart underwear)

7. MUSIC - Favourite anti-love song: It's gotta be "Broken F*cking Heart" by Luther Wright & the Wrongs. Great Canadian band with a biting sense of humour. Seriously, you'll howl.

8. SONG - Favourite song to make your heart swell with happiness: Po Girl's "'Til it's Gone." (You can listen to some of it online if you scroll down to the second album on the list.)

9. WEBSITE - Favourite wistful & sometimes romantic notions: PostSecret. Some of these secrets will break your heart.

10. MOVIE - Favourite sappy, embarrassed-to-admit-I-like-it film: Greencard. I used to have a terrible crush on lumpy ol'Gerard Depardieu and found his character in this movie charming. (How can you not like a character that separates garlic cloves by smashing them with his fist?) And though the movie completely tests your ability to suspend disbelief, the first time G and Andie MacDowell kiss makes it all worthwhile.

11. Yeah, I know - this is #11, but I have to sneak it in:
PLAY - Favourite play of all time: Cyrano De Bergerac. The poetry, the sacrifice, the sheer, swaggering manliness of it all - ooh, gives me shivers. I re-read it every year, but only Anthony Burgess's translation. And joy! Bliss! They're putting it on at Stratford this year with Colm Feore.

Now, share some of YOUR top lovie-dovie, sentimental or even anti-sentimental faves, wouldja?

Whine....

One bright spot about not currently being preggers is the return of the wineglass in front of me at supper time. My heavens, how I've missed sipping wine while I was cooking these past few months! I can't drink a lot - more than two glasses and I become a giggling tipsy thing subject to narcolepsy - but I do savour a glass with a meal, or while preparing a meal. (It's important for me to have food in my stomach before uncorking anything.)

My current goal is to teach D that there IS a difference between the giant economy size bottle of wine and a really tasty bottle of wine. I think I have a little touch of wine snobbery about me, but I try hard not to let it surface. I don't actually know a lot about wine, but I DO know that keeping a box of Jackson Triggs in your fridge for an entire summer and still thinking it tastes great is not cool.

My parents always drank wine; I still remember my mother (who was a French teacher) wanting to kill my father after he sent her to the liquor store in search of his favourite bottle of white, which he insisted was called "L'esprit" (it was actually called "L'eparyie"). Dad has since progressed from his enjoyment of table whites to raving over $5 bottles of Chilean merlot to appreciating different kinds of red that may cause him to break a $20. You cannot escape from my Dad's cabin without sharing a glass of something with him, a trait of his that I truly admire.

But I owe any real understanding I may have of grapey goodness to an old friend who was a wine agent for many years. That man has exquisite taste in wine and he taught me pretty much everything I didn't glean from frequent tasting trips to Niagara on the Lake. He even has a gianormous wine cooler thingy in his house; it stretches floor to ceiling and I think it can hold up to 300 bottles. He's also someone who won't let you leave without sampling a little something from his private stash.

My absolute favourite wine at the moment is Ravenswood Zinfandel. The aforesaid friend introduced me to it back in the days when I thought Zinfandel was synonymous with icky pink sweet stuff that only trophy wives drank. How wrong I was; red Zinfandel is complex and jammy - perfect for sipping on a slow Sunday evening. If I was going the white route, I'd splurge and buy Toasted Head Chardonnay. It took me a long time to get used to the grassy flavours of chardonnay, but this one is mellow and buttery. And you have to love the label's charming fire-breathing bear.

Tonight I am making D stay home instead of stripping trim at Someday. I'm going to put on the dress he bought me, make his favourite Thai Peanut stir fry and open up a good bottle of Gewurztraminer. Thank God for simple pleasures.