Greetings from Chilly Florida!
This weekend was spent Driving Miss Patty (my beloved mother-in-law)to her fun vacation rental in Florida, so I'm writing this from a house that has a lanaii. And a resident aligator. I'm not kidding. There's an aligator out there, a real, live lizard, not far from where I'm sitting. I am simultaneously thrilled and freaked by this and if you readers are red-blooded Northerners, then you are too. Admit it. And when I tell you that manatee and dolphin sightings are also a possibility, then if you don't admit that's a teensy bit pants-wettingly exciting, you need to stop reading this right now.
Manatees! In the backyard! Come on!
Florida. Wow. This place is so weird, but I kinda love it already. I never did the Florida thing as a kid (mine is the kind of family where you road tripped to Cape Cod. In March.) and the only other time I've been down here was for two press junkety type trips to Disney and we all know that Disney is a planet unto itself and not exactly representative of the actual Sunshine State. Of course, so far all I've seen is Rte 301 and the I75, the Walmart where we stocked up on pool noodles and the Winn Dixie where we stocked up on snack cakes (just kidding, we didn't buy any snack cakes, though the variety of donettes and snack cakes was positively psychedelic), and of course, this fabulous house. That has a pool. That's kind of indoors.
I'm never leaving.
Or, if I do, it will be very hard not to turn around and drive down here all over again. I have loved every minute of the whole trip. So much so, that I'm trying to figure out how to do this professionally (long haul trucking? Can anyone tell me how I go about becoming Large Marge?), how to get paid for driving through North America, particularly the United States. We started this trip in snow and ice, and by day two had left that all behind -- do you know how funky it is to kick-start Spring by just leaving Winter behind you on I77? Then, on Sunday, I began my day by driving through a mountain, people! Not over, not around, but through a mountain. And I liked the experience so much, a few miles down the road I drove through another mountain. And then down a mountain, enjoying all the while a view that must have stretched a hundred miles or more. Just spectacular.
And did you know that the friendliest people on earth live in Georgia? I defy anyone to stop at the Welcome Centre on Rte 301 just after crossing the South Carolina border and not be welcomed to the very zenith of welcomedness. Those people are friendly! And welcoming! They had pins with the Georgia peach and a Canadian flag on them. Seriously! Why? I don't know, but they did and it made me love them all the more. Plus, they gave us free coca cola products to refresh us for our journey. Admittedly, I'm a total pushover for fountain pop of any sort, but when it's a waxed paper cup of icy cold cherry coke proferred with a genuine "how y'all doin?", my heart melts a little. Best Welcome Center ever!
I want to do this whole trip again. And if you come with me, you have to be as nice to me as my lovely mother in law, which means you have to let me drive your car (mine's a lemon, we're taking yours) and you have to sit beside me, reading out interesting historical facts about the towns we're driving through. From now on, this may be the only way I'll travel.
Kara
Monday, March 1, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Why I Cook
I'm at home today because there's a team of plumbers in the basement installing a back-flow valve. This will, hopefully, prevent sewage from coming up our basement drain in the event of another (and let's face it, inevitable) flood like the one we had in July .
ANYway, given that their jackhammers are making either writing my oyster piece OR napping impossible, I was just rootling through Twitter and someone was talking about their new blog post on Why I Cook, which was inspired by Michael Ruhlman's post on the same subject. It's kind of an interesting question -- in the same way that, apparently, some historians don't take food history seriously as a subject because food just is, and therefore isn't interesting enough to research/write about*, cooking just is. It's universal. Well, except for the raw food people, of course, but for most of us, cooking is just a fact of life and not one that you particularly question. It's like asking why you wear shoes or something, you just do.
So, why do I cook? Well, it's a three part answer, but it all comes down to the same thing: Pleasure.
I Cook For Me
Not to get all Nigella on you, but for me cooking is pure pleasure. And I don't just mean weekend cooking when you get to spend time at the market and lovingly pick every ingredient, or even just ransack your pantry and then spend hedonistic hours in the kitchen while a cassoulet simmers fragrantly in your oven. I'm talking about every time I set foot in the kitchen. From making a sandwich to frying an egg, cooking fills me with every positive emotion you care to name. So much so, that I find it hard to stay out of the kitchen at parties (only with the host's permission, of course, since God knows I don't like people in my kitchen) or out of the way at cooking schools. I have to get in on the action.
And, truly, is there anything more lovely than a few minutes at the stove, contemplatively cooking an omelette? Or chopping vegetables? Or searing the perfect steak? Or whisking a salad dressing exactly to your taste? And what about all those little kitchen miracles -- watching butter and egg become hollandaise, or the way a simple mixture of yeast, flour and water will rise into the perfect pizza dough, or thickening a sauce with roux. How can anyone not find pleasure in making this stuff happen? It's magic.
I Cook For You
The pleasure of cooking is increased many times over when you've got an appreciative audience. My mother has noticed over the years that the people she meets who don't cook are generally the ones who don't have an audience. If the person you're feeding doesn't notice what they're eating, then your pleasure in cooking is bound to be diminished. I am grateful to be surrounded by people who are interested in and appreciative of their food. There is nothing better than watching someone react to something I've made for them. If they love it unconditionally, then it's like Christmas, and if they suggest that the dish is missing something or could use a little less this/that, then it means they're really paying attention and tasting and dinner becomes more than just a meal, it becomes a conversation.
Now that I think about it, actually, I think there IS something better than simply cooking for others -- when your friends and family e-mails to ask for your recipe, or calls to ask for tips on how you made something. A few years ago, Kate asked me how I make my ribs. So I wrote out the three-day process that I use (probably the first time I ever had to write a recipe out for something I just make without thinking!) and e-mailed it off to her. The ever-practical mother of four promptly simplified the recipe ("do I REALLY have to brine for 24 hours? Really, Kara?") to her tastes and has been making it for family parties ever since. Then last night, my friend S. called to ask how I prepare the fish for Baja Fish Tacos, which I'd made for her and her husband last month. I know that S. will take this dish and make it her own, make it part of her repertoire, and share it with others who will then tweak the recipe to suit their own tastes. What an enormous compliment to have people want to replicate/tweak foods that you've introduced them to.
I Cook To Eat
The pleasure of cooking is only matched by the pleasure of eating. And I love to eat. Oh, goodness, but I love to eat. Which is why it's funny to remember that I was such a godawful picky eater as a kid. Looking back, I really feel sorry for my mother, who is an excellent cook, for having to deal with my limited diet. Only the plainest foods were allowed on my plate, nothing could touch each other, no visible fat was allowed on my meat and I'm pretty sure the only cooked vegetable I ate from birth to my mid-20s was corn niblets. I'm not kidding. I didn't try olives or pickles or raw tomatoes or ANY of the foods I now consider basics until I was in university. Pathetic! However, I've been making up for lost time for years now and, with the exception of insects and some organ meats, will pretty much eat anything**.
Especially if I've had the pleasure of cooking it.
Kara
*Don't even get me STARTED on how wrong this point of view is. At least 27 different kinds of wrong.
** And beets. If I wanted to taste basement, I'd go lick the cellar floor.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The New "Just Say NO!"
The other day I had one of those moments that stopped me in my tracks. My son asked me why I am so mad all the time.
Ouch.
The answer I gave him, was that I am not mad, I am frustrated. There was a lot of babbling about being busy and asking the kids to help out, and there was a lot of apologizing and making sure he knew that I was not mad at him or his sisters.
The truth is I am mad.
I am mad because I am totally out of time. I know this is the mantra of modern living, but it's true. I usually function on about 4 or 5 hours of sleep. Either because I didn't actually make it to my bed before 1 or 2 AM or I got into bed early and then laid awake thinking of everything I was supposed to do and didn't get done, and what won't get done tomorrow so I can finish up today's stuff.
I am a stay at home mom. My job is running the house and keeping the family going. My husband owns his own business and works long hours. At the moment we ( my husband and I and our 4 kids) are living in a house that is going through a renovation. So I have all the cooking. cleaning, laundry basics to deal with in a house that is caked with drywall dust and covered in plastic sheeting. Then of course you have all the extra-curricular the kids are involved in.
Get ready this is where I start to lose my mind.
My mother was fond of saying that a busy kid is a happy kid. I have found this to be true. What is driving me nuts is having a busy kid means that I have to be a totally overscheduled parent. It isn't all the taxi-ing around that I find annoying it's the endless requests to volunteer. It all seems so simple when your child comes home and asks to play soccer or hockey or whatever. Hang-on, because you will barely be finished filling out the registration form when someone will start to tell you how they need parents to help coach the team or be referees or sit on the executive. They all have the same pitch. The only way they can keep costs down and offer this fabulous program to all of these kids is with the help of parent volunteers. It is only one or two hours a week. You are going to be at the field/arena anyway.
This year things have spiraled out of control around here with volunteering. Between hockey, dance, the school's parent council we average about 36 volunteer hours a month. That is above and beyond attending the games or shuttling kids to and from lessons. Right now we are lucky to have one meal a week together as a family. This week the kids will have Valentine's parties at school. They have all asked me to bake either cookies or cupcakes for their classes, so now I need to find a couple of hours beyond the time already spoken for.
My husband usually works from 8 AM-6:30 PM. Two of my kids are in school full time, a third is in JK half days, and the baby is still home. My oldest daughter dances 3 days a week, my son has hockey 2-3 days a week, and has cub scouts once a week, and my 4 year old dances once a week. Now try and schedule in the birthday parties and play dates that every kid gets invited too. Of course there is a lot of overlap which means one parent is home with kids who aren't in an activity at that time, or those kids are home with a baby-sitter who is getting $10 an hour.
I helped out at Cub Camp last month and then last week my son's cub scout leader asked if I would be interested in becoming a leader. "it doesn't take much time, just the meetings and maybe an hour in planning time." That would bring us to 46 hours a month. The hockey people are already making a pitch to have my husband more involved next year. The organizations we are involved with love us. People who know us through our kids activities are always telling us what great parents we are. But my son thinks I'm mad at him all the time.
Here is the plan, I am going to say no to cubs, and hockey is just going to have to find another superhero. There are dozens of kids in these activities, and yet I keep seeing the same few faces during all of our volunteer time. I am stepping down, or at least back. There will be less of my cookies on the bake sale table, and there will be a new face on the bench at hockey games next year. Either some other parent is going to step up and help share the load or the activity will fold due lack of interest ( highly unlikely by the way) and if that happens it means I'm the only one who cared so who was I killing myself for anyway?
Then I can spend more time at home relaxed and happy with my favorite people in the whole world.
Kate
Ouch.
The answer I gave him, was that I am not mad, I am frustrated. There was a lot of babbling about being busy and asking the kids to help out, and there was a lot of apologizing and making sure he knew that I was not mad at him or his sisters.
The truth is I am mad.
I am mad because I am totally out of time. I know this is the mantra of modern living, but it's true. I usually function on about 4 or 5 hours of sleep. Either because I didn't actually make it to my bed before 1 or 2 AM or I got into bed early and then laid awake thinking of everything I was supposed to do and didn't get done, and what won't get done tomorrow so I can finish up today's stuff.
I am a stay at home mom. My job is running the house and keeping the family going. My husband owns his own business and works long hours. At the moment we ( my husband and I and our 4 kids) are living in a house that is going through a renovation. So I have all the cooking. cleaning, laundry basics to deal with in a house that is caked with drywall dust and covered in plastic sheeting. Then of course you have all the extra-curricular the kids are involved in.
Get ready this is where I start to lose my mind.
My mother was fond of saying that a busy kid is a happy kid. I have found this to be true. What is driving me nuts is having a busy kid means that I have to be a totally overscheduled parent. It isn't all the taxi-ing around that I find annoying it's the endless requests to volunteer. It all seems so simple when your child comes home and asks to play soccer or hockey or whatever. Hang-on, because you will barely be finished filling out the registration form when someone will start to tell you how they need parents to help coach the team or be referees or sit on the executive. They all have the same pitch. The only way they can keep costs down and offer this fabulous program to all of these kids is with the help of parent volunteers. It is only one or two hours a week. You are going to be at the field/arena anyway.
This year things have spiraled out of control around here with volunteering. Between hockey, dance, the school's parent council we average about 36 volunteer hours a month. That is above and beyond attending the games or shuttling kids to and from lessons. Right now we are lucky to have one meal a week together as a family. This week the kids will have Valentine's parties at school. They have all asked me to bake either cookies or cupcakes for their classes, so now I need to find a couple of hours beyond the time already spoken for.
My husband usually works from 8 AM-6:30 PM. Two of my kids are in school full time, a third is in JK half days, and the baby is still home. My oldest daughter dances 3 days a week, my son has hockey 2-3 days a week, and has cub scouts once a week, and my 4 year old dances once a week. Now try and schedule in the birthday parties and play dates that every kid gets invited too. Of course there is a lot of overlap which means one parent is home with kids who aren't in an activity at that time, or those kids are home with a baby-sitter who is getting $10 an hour.
I helped out at Cub Camp last month and then last week my son's cub scout leader asked if I would be interested in becoming a leader. "it doesn't take much time, just the meetings and maybe an hour in planning time." That would bring us to 46 hours a month. The hockey people are already making a pitch to have my husband more involved next year. The organizations we are involved with love us. People who know us through our kids activities are always telling us what great parents we are. But my son thinks I'm mad at him all the time.
Here is the plan, I am going to say no to cubs, and hockey is just going to have to find another superhero. There are dozens of kids in these activities, and yet I keep seeing the same few faces during all of our volunteer time. I am stepping down, or at least back. There will be less of my cookies on the bake sale table, and there will be a new face on the bench at hockey games next year. Either some other parent is going to step up and help share the load or the activity will fold due lack of interest ( highly unlikely by the way) and if that happens it means I'm the only one who cared so who was I killing myself for anyway?
Then I can spend more time at home relaxed and happy with my favorite people in the whole world.
Kate
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Baby NoBounce
Speaking to my mother briefly last night about that last blog post ("I think you're too late for this Olympics") reminded me of something from childhood that explains ALL when it comes to my lack of running ability.
When I was little, I couldn't jump.
Not kidding. I couldn't. I had no bounce. I used to stand on the edge of the rug in this sort of skiiers crouch, bent at the knees, swaying back and forth, down and up, swinging my arms, tensed to spring my little body right off that rug and into the stratosphere. And, inevitably, all that effort would end in one thudding step forward. I had no jump.
Running? HA! I've never stood a chance.
Kara
PS Maybe THIS is why I fell in love with basketball (as a spectator, not a participant) so easily? Those boys can fly!
When I was little, I couldn't jump.
Not kidding. I couldn't. I had no bounce. I used to stand on the edge of the rug in this sort of skiiers crouch, bent at the knees, swaying back and forth, down and up, swinging my arms, tensed to spring my little body right off that rug and into the stratosphere. And, inevitably, all that effort would end in one thudding step forward. I had no jump.
Running? HA! I've never stood a chance.
Kara
PS Maybe THIS is why I fell in love with basketball (as a spectator, not a participant) so easily? Those boys can fly!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
If anyone on Hamilton Mountain felt a tremor yesterday, the epicentre was my ass
Every Monday morning, I get up early and workout with a trainer. It seems ridiculous on a number of levels, but I've come to really love this part of the week. Not only does it fill me with that smug Rockyesque Feelin' Strong Now sense of well-being that greatly improves my mood in the workplace even if most Mondays I can't lift my arms above my head for the pain, BUT it's also the one day a week I'm guaranteed to get my fat ass to the gym. Not just because I'm paying trainer-dude for his time, but also because he'd be disappointed if I didn't show up and if there's one thing I can't bear, it's knowing I've disappointed someone.
(Aside: have I told you about the time in my last year of high school when I had to write a paper on that bloody Pynchon story, Entropy, and I Just. Didn't. Get. It. and when I got the paper back the teacher had written that he was disappointed with my efforts and I ended up prostrate with grief? Yeah, that's how much I hate "disappointment".)
ANYway, in the time I've been doing the trainer thing, I've mostly stopped attending the "Lean&Fit" classes at my gym. Partially due to scheduling difficulties but more because the trainer's spoiled my appetite for the high-intensity circuit-classes. Why? Because trainer-dude is a very quiet, intense kind of guy so our half-hour sessions are very intense and very q-u-i-e-t, a quality I've come to greatly appreciate but which makes the "Lean&Fit" classes unbearable in their volume and pace. "Lean&Fit" instructors never shut up, never get off the microphone, never stop yelling at you. It makes me want to kick them in the yoga pants all the while mewling shutupshutupshutupshutupwhywontyoujustshutup?!! So, I've stopped going and instead try to go and break a sweat on the treadmill 2-3 times a week, which I quite enjoy.
Which led me to begin thinking seriously of taking up running. It's attractive for a number of reasons. It requires very little equipment. It's an excuse to listen to music. It's something you can do alone or in a group, depending on your mood. Every woman I know who's taken up running speaks of it in this reverent tone. One woman I know lost a whopping 60 lbs just from running. It's a religion I want to join. I've got powerful legs, I've been thinking, powerful legs that could probably run pretty darn well. That's it! I'm gonna start running!
Yeah, maybe not. Yesterday, trainer-dude made me run around one of the training rooms. Up one side, shuffle side-to-side across, backwards down the other side of the room, shuffle side-to-side across, and repeat. And it nearly killed me. I do, it turns out, have very powerful legs. I start like a shot, like an absolute shot -- I'm not kidding, for a nano second there, I swear I'd beat a cheetah in a foot race -- but about four steps later the seismic kachunkachunk of my very large badonkadonk catches up with me and all but stops me in my tracks. I think I must be very susceptible to gravity or something because it's like I can barely lift my feet, I'm so earthbound and, well, lumbering. Of course, it didn't help that I was doing this in front of a large mirrored wall and became horribly aware of just how much of me was rolling and heaving as I thundered up and down and back and forth across the matts. Not to mention how much I need a new sports bra and possibly some sort of high-tensile exercise pants to contain/tame these gigantic thighs and all the junk I've got in my trunk. And my arms! What do runners do with their arms? How does it not kill them to hold their arms bent at the elbow like that? Jeeze!
So, maybe running's not my thing. However, with all that power in my legs for steering and my love of winter, not to mention my willingness to appear in public in entirely unflattering high-tensile exercise wear, I'm now seriously thinking that the luge might be just the sport for me.
Kara
(Aside: have I told you about the time in my last year of high school when I had to write a paper on that bloody Pynchon story, Entropy, and I Just. Didn't. Get. It. and when I got the paper back the teacher had written that he was disappointed with my efforts and I ended up prostrate with grief? Yeah, that's how much I hate "disappointment".)
ANYway, in the time I've been doing the trainer thing, I've mostly stopped attending the "Lean&Fit" classes at my gym. Partially due to scheduling difficulties but more because the trainer's spoiled my appetite for the high-intensity circuit-classes. Why? Because trainer-dude is a very quiet, intense kind of guy so our half-hour sessions are very intense and very q-u-i-e-t, a quality I've come to greatly appreciate but which makes the "Lean&Fit" classes unbearable in their volume and pace. "Lean&Fit" instructors never shut up, never get off the microphone, never stop yelling at you. It makes me want to kick them in the yoga pants all the while mewling shutupshutupshutupshutupwhywontyoujustshutup?!! So, I've stopped going and instead try to go and break a sweat on the treadmill 2-3 times a week, which I quite enjoy.
Which led me to begin thinking seriously of taking up running. It's attractive for a number of reasons. It requires very little equipment. It's an excuse to listen to music. It's something you can do alone or in a group, depending on your mood. Every woman I know who's taken up running speaks of it in this reverent tone. One woman I know lost a whopping 60 lbs just from running. It's a religion I want to join. I've got powerful legs, I've been thinking, powerful legs that could probably run pretty darn well. That's it! I'm gonna start running!
Yeah, maybe not. Yesterday, trainer-dude made me run around one of the training rooms. Up one side, shuffle side-to-side across, backwards down the other side of the room, shuffle side-to-side across, and repeat. And it nearly killed me. I do, it turns out, have very powerful legs. I start like a shot, like an absolute shot -- I'm not kidding, for a nano second there, I swear I'd beat a cheetah in a foot race -- but about four steps later the seismic kachunkachunk of my very large badonkadonk catches up with me and all but stops me in my tracks. I think I must be very susceptible to gravity or something because it's like I can barely lift my feet, I'm so earthbound and, well, lumbering. Of course, it didn't help that I was doing this in front of a large mirrored wall and became horribly aware of just how much of me was rolling and heaving as I thundered up and down and back and forth across the matts. Not to mention how much I need a new sports bra and possibly some sort of high-tensile exercise pants to contain/tame these gigantic thighs and all the junk I've got in my trunk. And my arms! What do runners do with their arms? How does it not kill them to hold their arms bent at the elbow like that? Jeeze!
So, maybe running's not my thing. However, with all that power in my legs for steering and my love of winter, not to mention my willingness to appear in public in entirely unflattering high-tensile exercise wear, I'm now seriously thinking that the luge might be just the sport for me.
Kara
Friday, January 15, 2010
about this #draw365 thing...
As I mentioned before, I haven't drawn a thing in years. Unlike riding a bike, I think it's something you do forget, or at least it's the type of thing where if you don't use it, your facility for drawing really rusts up.
So, I have to say, agreeing to draw something, ANYTHING, every day and posting it for all the twitterverse to see has made quite an impact. Without thinking, I seem to have started a bit of a series of self portraits in the mode of famous images. Kinda my version of Cindy Sherman, on a doodling scale. I've attached the first two, one of me as a Zaftig Edie Sedgwick and another as a Zaftig Betty Grable. Honestly, this is the most fun I've had with a sketchbook in decades. If I keep going, I might have an entire wall full of fat little me cutouts. Silly! But so damned fun to do!
Kara
Thursday, January 7, 2010
140 Characters
Happy New Year!
Because I am sick of seeing the Sticky Toffee Pudding post on the blog (I overdid it in the cookie and cake category this Christmas and really can't bear the thought of anything sticky or toffee or puddingish) I thought I'd write a quick post to start 2010 on Are You Kidding Me?
Unfortunately, I don't really have anything to write about at the moment as I'm feeling quite blue and it's mainly job-related and I don't want to bore you all with my whinging and moaning.
But I DO want to say how much I love, love, LOVE Twitter. Good GOD, but I loves me some Twitter. I love the 140 character limitation, I love having the opportunity to send random thoughts out into the universe, I love reading other people's random thoughts, and I love the fun stuff like #draw365, where a whole bunch of people commit to drawing something, anything, once a day and posting it for all to see. Considering that I drew constantly up until the age of 19, you'd think this would be easy but that all stopped after I failed to survive art school so getting back into drawing is a nice little challenge. So far, it's not so much drawing as doodling but whatever, the point is that I'm putting (Sharpie fine-point) pen to paper again on a regular basis. So hooray for all that.
Alright then, having now entered at least one post that has nothing to do with Christmas or food, I should get back to work. Or, at the very least, to doodling.
Kara
Because I am sick of seeing the Sticky Toffee Pudding post on the blog (I overdid it in the cookie and cake category this Christmas and really can't bear the thought of anything sticky or toffee or puddingish) I thought I'd write a quick post to start 2010 on Are You Kidding Me?
Unfortunately, I don't really have anything to write about at the moment as I'm feeling quite blue and it's mainly job-related and I don't want to bore you all with my whinging and moaning.
But I DO want to say how much I love, love, LOVE Twitter. Good GOD, but I loves me some Twitter. I love the 140 character limitation, I love having the opportunity to send random thoughts out into the universe, I love reading other people's random thoughts, and I love the fun stuff like #draw365, where a whole bunch of people commit to drawing something, anything, once a day and posting it for all to see. Considering that I drew constantly up until the age of 19, you'd think this would be easy but that all stopped after I failed to survive art school so getting back into drawing is a nice little challenge. So far, it's not so much drawing as doodling but whatever, the point is that I'm putting (Sharpie fine-point) pen to paper again on a regular basis. So hooray for all that.
Alright then, having now entered at least one post that has nothing to do with Christmas or food, I should get back to work. Or, at the very least, to doodling.
Kara
Monday, December 21, 2009
Sticky Pudding and a cup of good cheer!
"Because I've odd ideas about Christmas. Because I have all that money can buy. I want more people, but no more things."
Howards End
I've got to agree with Margaret Schlegel on this one. As I get older and acquire more stuff, I find that providing Christmas gift lists gets harder and harder. I don't need any more things, just more people. Or rather, more time with the people I like.
Yesterday was the Annual Holiday Lunch* with the girls -- oh, and husbands and children and even a dog, but really it's the girls that matter here. This particular group of girlfriends all centres around the lovely S. who married an adorable Englishman in 2005 and went to live in London for a few years. In her absence, and missing her dreadfully, us bridesmaids would get together for lunch or dinner every so often and boom! a group friendship was cemented. I adore these women. They're so funny and so bright, they sparkle. They eat everything I put on their plates. They're wonderful. And now that S. is back in Canada with husband and daughter, the group is complete and all's right with the world.
You would think. But not quite. The fly in the ointment is that, despite the fact we're all in the same general geographic area, we still can't seem to get together more than once a month, and that's if we're lucky. What has happened to the world that we're all so busy? Children, jobs, family commitments, I know, I know, it all adds together to eat up every moment of free time, but suddenly the year is over and you realize that all your communication with your friends is electronic and you can't remember what they look like. It's kind of sad, when you think about it. Your friends are the family that you get to choose (what a luxury!) and here we are, squandering it because we're all so busy that in some cases 2 years may go by before you can actually pull together a casual dinner.
Sigh.
Ah, well. What can you do?
Resolve, I guess, to make the most of the time you do spend together. Try to ensure that there's at least one high-quality weekend away a year together. Keep dreaming of renting a house in Sonoma together. And seal the deal with food, of course, as N. did yesterday with her superb roast beef for lunch and I did with this heart-stopping dessert made specially for S. who counts herself as something of an Sticky Toffee Pudding expert. It passed the test.
Sticky Toffee Pudding with Toffee Sauce**
ingredients
1 1/2 cups pitted dates, chopped
1 1/2 cups water
1/2 cup butter
1 cup brown sugar
3 eggs
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp.baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
pinch of salt
pinch of nutmeg
pinch of allspice
For Toffee Sauce:
1 cup whipping cream
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup butter
method
Combine the dates and water in a medium-sized saucepan. Bring to a boil and simmer gently for 10 minutes, or until most of the liquid had been absorbed by the dates or evaporated. Puree the dates in a food processor, blender or stick mixer.
With an electric mixer, beat the butter with the brown sugar. Beat in eggs, one at a time.
In a medium-sized bowl, mix flour with baking powder and baking soda. Add to the wet batter and then stir in pureed dates.
Spoon the batter into a buttered & floured 9" x 13" baking dish. Bake in a 350° over for 35 to 45 minutes or until the top feels firm when gently pressed in the center.
While pudding is cooking, make the toffee sauce by combining cream sugar and butter in a heavy-bottom saucepan. Bring to a boil then cook, boiling and stirring for about 3 minutes. Let cool slightly.
When cake is done and cooled slightly, prick with a skewer to make lots of tiny holes. Spoon half of the toffee sauce over the cake.
When ready to serve, heat remaining toffee sauce (stirring all the while) and spoon over individual portions. If you really want to kill them with kindness, add a scoop or two of highest quality vanilla ice cream.
Kara
* this event does not, in fact, happen annually because of scheduling conflicts. Go figure. However, I am determined to make it so and start by labelling it, quite firmly, as the Annual Holiday Lunch.
**adapted from Food & Whine:http://www.fortysomething.ca/2008/01/sticky_toffee_pudding.php
Howards End
I've got to agree with Margaret Schlegel on this one. As I get older and acquire more stuff, I find that providing Christmas gift lists gets harder and harder. I don't need any more things, just more people. Or rather, more time with the people I like.
Yesterday was the Annual Holiday Lunch* with the girls -- oh, and husbands and children and even a dog, but really it's the girls that matter here. This particular group of girlfriends all centres around the lovely S. who married an adorable Englishman in 2005 and went to live in London for a few years. In her absence, and missing her dreadfully, us bridesmaids would get together for lunch or dinner every so often and boom! a group friendship was cemented. I adore these women. They're so funny and so bright, they sparkle. They eat everything I put on their plates. They're wonderful. And now that S. is back in Canada with husband and daughter, the group is complete and all's right with the world.
You would think. But not quite. The fly in the ointment is that, despite the fact we're all in the same general geographic area, we still can't seem to get together more than once a month, and that's if we're lucky. What has happened to the world that we're all so busy? Children, jobs, family commitments, I know, I know, it all adds together to eat up every moment of free time, but suddenly the year is over and you realize that all your communication with your friends is electronic and you can't remember what they look like. It's kind of sad, when you think about it. Your friends are the family that you get to choose (what a luxury!) and here we are, squandering it because we're all so busy that in some cases 2 years may go by before you can actually pull together a casual dinner.
Sigh.
Ah, well. What can you do?
Resolve, I guess, to make the most of the time you do spend together. Try to ensure that there's at least one high-quality weekend away a year together. Keep dreaming of renting a house in Sonoma together. And seal the deal with food, of course, as N. did yesterday with her superb roast beef for lunch and I did with this heart-stopping dessert made specially for S. who counts herself as something of an Sticky Toffee Pudding expert. It passed the test.
Sticky Toffee Pudding with Toffee Sauce**
ingredients
1 1/2 cups pitted dates, chopped
1 1/2 cups water
1/2 cup butter
1 cup brown sugar
3 eggs
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp.baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
pinch of salt
pinch of nutmeg
pinch of allspice
For Toffee Sauce:
1 cup whipping cream
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup butter
method
Combine the dates and water in a medium-sized saucepan. Bring to a boil and simmer gently for 10 minutes, or until most of the liquid had been absorbed by the dates or evaporated. Puree the dates in a food processor, blender or stick mixer.
With an electric mixer, beat the butter with the brown sugar. Beat in eggs, one at a time.
In a medium-sized bowl, mix flour with baking powder and baking soda. Add to the wet batter and then stir in pureed dates.
Spoon the batter into a buttered & floured 9" x 13" baking dish. Bake in a 350° over for 35 to 45 minutes or until the top feels firm when gently pressed in the center.
While pudding is cooking, make the toffee sauce by combining cream sugar and butter in a heavy-bottom saucepan. Bring to a boil then cook, boiling and stirring for about 3 minutes. Let cool slightly.
When cake is done and cooled slightly, prick with a skewer to make lots of tiny holes. Spoon half of the toffee sauce over the cake.
When ready to serve, heat remaining toffee sauce (stirring all the while) and spoon over individual portions. If you really want to kill them with kindness, add a scoop or two of highest quality vanilla ice cream.
Kara
* this event does not, in fact, happen annually because of scheduling conflicts. Go figure. However, I am determined to make it so and start by labelling it, quite firmly, as the Annual Holiday Lunch.
**adapted from Food & Whine:http://www.fortysomething.ca/2008/01/sticky_toffee_pudding.php
Thursday, December 17, 2009
And so this is Christmas
Okay, so Christmas.
It's been intimated around the office and on Facebook lately that I'm a Grinch or a Scrooge, that I lack Christmas Spirit and all that. And the thing is, it's absolutely not true. I love Christmas. I love the last wheezing gasps of the old year and the promise of the new. I love that there's all this lovely time off, that there's days and days of feasting ahead, the whole giving and receiving of gifts and good wishes. I love all the lights and the shopping (bah! humbug! on this online shopping thing – I need to see and feel the gifts I’m choosing for you) and the whole suspension of reality. It’s lovely and from mid-December onwards I’m capable of tearing up at the tiniest thing, sentimental fool that I am.
But the thing is, it can’t be forced. You can surround me with all your tinselly shit and good cheer at the office all you want, but until that mid-December moment comes, I just won’t feel Christmas. I have to wait, every year, until something triggers it for itself.
Last year it was the night my husband and I decorated our first Christmas tree together (we’d been married for 5 years but had never had a tree before because we feared what our border collie/lab mix dog would do to it in our absence) with all these wonderful old glass ornaments from his grandfather’s house. It was such a nice moment, and the house smelled so good, and the ornaments were such little nostalgia-globes, and I think we watched A Christmas Story afterwards and laughed, and maybe it snowed, and maybe I’d had a few too many glasses of cabernet, but whatever it was, that was the night I felt Christmas for 2008.
Well, tonight was the night I felt Christmas for the first time in 2009. And it’s all my sister’s fault.
My elder sister is mentally handicapped, which, for anyone reading this who has a handicapped relative or friend knows, is a situation that’s incredibly layered with emotion and meaning and good stuff and bad stuff and, just, stuff. Anyway, about once a month the two of us go out for dinner. Sometimes when I pick her up she’s had a bad day and is grumpy, but lately she’s been in fine form almost every time we have dinner. Tonight was no exception.
We sat in the crowded restaurant, chatting as we do on these evenings out about how busy or not busy the restaurant is, how things are in the house where she lives, about what she’s going to order (complete with the dessert that she promises to never tell our mother about, yet invariably does, so thrilled is she to have snookered me into buying her dessert when my parents never give in on that) until the waitress came to take our order. Looking up at the 20-year old server with bright eyes and a smile, my sister stuck her hand out and introduced herself to the girl, saying “Me, Andrea.”
(I always have this teeeensy moment of fear when my sister makes any sort of gesture to the outside world, when she breaks her focus away from me and reaches out to someone else. Because I never know what sort of reaction Andrea’s going to get and there’s nothing worse than to see someone recoil from her, as though she’s a monster of some sort. It’s a reaction that hurts, that ruffles all those layers of emotional stuff -- she’s as familiar to me as my own skin, how can she be a monster to others – that’s just so damned rude and yet what can you do. You can’t blame people for their instinctive reactions, that’s just who they are, just as my sister is just who she is.)
So, yes, I held my breath as my sister trustingly introduced herself to the young waitress. And I was richly rewarded as the girl, without missing a beat, laughed and put down her tray, shook hands with my sister and said “well, hello, I’m Michelle!”
And that was it. That was the moment when the whole Christmas spirit or whatever you want to call it started to trickle in. For Andrea, simple contact with non-handicapped people means a lot. I think it makes her feel like she belongs, like she’s less different. And, because of the way she is (in the sense that she’s not always in such a great mood that she’ll reach out to the outside world) and because of the way people are and the way they handle difference, it’s something she doesn’t get to experience on a regular basis. So Michelle the waitress’ kindness in treating my sister like anyone else, a tiny event she likely forgot minutes after it happened, meant the world to Andrea right at that moment.
And then, about an hour later, as Andrea and I finished some Christmas shopping and she loudly and happily wished the cashier a Merry Christmas with great, innocent enthusiasm, well, that pretty much sealed the deal. Put out some cookies, crack open that box of tissues, prepare for floods at the first sentimental t.v. commercial, Christmas 2009 is officially open for business.
Kara
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The problem with blogging (Part Deux)
The problem with blogging is that sometimes the only things you want to write about are the things you absolutely should not write about in the public domain. Your dysfunctional relationship with your family or your employer, for example. Or about your observations on Christmas, which is a time of year that you adore, but that has a dark side that you'd like to explore in print, but you don't want to scare your mother (who is the only person reading your blog, of course), again. Or about how some of your most meaningful conversations these days are happening on Twitter with strangers you'll never meet and though you tell yourself that Twitter is like a big ol' virtual cocktail party, there's a part of you that thinks it's all so weird. Or about how too much vitamin water will give you a case of the electric scoots. You know, stuff like that.
Kara
PS The photo is the cover of Scared of Santa: Scenes of Terror in Toyland, by Denise Joyce and Nancy Watkins (Harper Paperbacks, $10)Read more: http://www.esquire.com/fiction/books/bad-holiday-books-1208#ixzz0ZmFtUOLq . 'Nuf said.
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