Guilt is a funny ol' thing.
It's supposed to be there to let us know when we've done something wrong, right? My friend asked me the other day if I thought guilt was from God. She'd heard a Christian speaker say that it is not. I think it's probably like everything else in this fallen world - created by God for a good purpose, and then messed up by the Enemy. And us.
My other friend and I were also discussing how we live in a perpetual state of guilt - a hamster wheel of guilt over things done or not done, guilt over inner attitudes, and then the guilt of just being ever so bad. And then guilt over feeling so guilty. I'm thinking we've both gotten our God-given Guilt Mechanisms a little tightly tuned. Here's a list of the top ten things I feel weekly, if not daily, guilt about, in no particular order:
1)not getting enough work done! Oh the slovenliness!
2)eating too much
3)not phoning family members often enough
4)not making my kids clean up their rooms (the slovenliness passes to the next generation!)
5)reading my book(s)
6)staying up too late watching a movie
7)procrastinating
8)thinking nasty things (usually vile swear words like "bloody" or "bugger", or rehearsals for imaginary arguments)
9)feeling unreasonable guilt
10)something to do with the kids' school work.
Now, I can almost hear certain peoples' opinions about my list - a)"I feel guilty about those things too!" b)"You should absolutely feel guilty for those things! Shame on you!" c)"Oh for crying out loud! There is nothing wrong with any of those things! Stop feeling guilty!"
There must be a balance in there somewhere. I mean, most of those things that I feel guilt for NOT having done, the reason I've not done them is because I hate doing them so much that it outweighs the discomfort of the guilt. Not all, but most. Like the housework. Man I hate housework. I wonder how I got myself into a life comprised of so much sweepingwashingdustingdryingwipingcleaningscrubbingpolishingfoldingtidyingmoppingvacuuming... Ah, the things they don't tell you in guidance councelling in high school. And when I feel bad for eating something, it's because I'll feel far more SAD if I don't eat it. Like a huge bowl of popcorn when I'm distressed. Comfort food to the tenth power. But then that guilt certainly removes a certain percentage of the pleasure factor.
And maybe that's part of it - the Enemy assuages us with inappropriate guilt in order to stop Joy. Case in point, just now I gave my purring lap cat an extra cuddle, thought how nice to be sitting in my comfy robe, drinking excellent coffee, being creative, with a happy purring cat-on-lap, and into my head came screaming "For Shame! Look at the dirty dishes!!" and the joy ran sobbing away. (Also, the cat-from-Satan sensed this interplay, bit me, and also ran leaving a cloud of shed hair.)
Speaking of guilt, there are certain things that I probably should feel guilty about, but don't. Like shooting cute furry animals. Even shooting animals I'm not supposed to. Thankfully Hubbykins is also affectionately known as The Legal Beagle, so he keeps me on the straight and narrow, meaning our deepfreeze is nearly empty instead of filled with tender whitetail doe meat and fawn chops. Of course, that annoys me, which then fills me with guilt over being annoyed that I'm prevented from breaking provincial law. Now I'm hungry and guilty. And annoyed.
See what I mean about the hamster wheel?
So, does anyone have an answer to this dilemma? Is there a solution? Should I simply obey the guilt, and magically find fulfillment in these mundane tasks that I avoid? Or, if I was able to do or undo every guilt-causing thing on my top ten list, would I just find more things to feel guilty about? Perhaps there's a clear difference between Good and Bad Guilt, and I'm just missing it.
Well, I leave it up to you, my readers. Although, you've let me down sadly re. the perfect peeler. I'm still on that quest, with very little helpful input. I hope you all feel guilty for not stepping up to the plate there.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Invasion
Wintertime up here is deliciously quiet and serene. Birds will eat from our hands, snowshoe hares appear out of nowhere, and one catches fleeting glimpses of deer passing through the woods. A flying squirrel visits the "treat tree" that the kids and I decorate on the deck, using peanut-butter coated pine cones and popcorn balls.
So when spring comes, and all the little critters creep out of hibernation, it's always uplifting. Especially the chipmunks. Their timorous wee faces peer around the corners, tiny crabbed paws reaching up the doorframe as they see their reflections in the glass. This spring I saw one chipmunk bounding into the same spot over and over; investigation revealed a perfect hobbit-hole disappearing under the wild roses. I knew she would have a family in there, and decided that this would be the summer to tame the chipmunks.
I began the project some days ago. My first strategy was to simply wait until I saw the creatures on the deck, then slip out and place some peanuts in an open spot, so they'd see that I was The Provider of Nuts. I was never sure if the message was getting across, since the cat usually raced out the door as well, with intentions quite the opposite of mine.
Yesterday I watched, peanuts in pocket, as one bold chipmunk scrabbled around the patio door. He was a quick one - and probably one of the new youth of the season. He seemed to be everywhere at once! It was then revealed that there were in fact several young chipmunks scampering about the deck... it was a perfect opportunity! And Mike said "Tristan, go get the trap. We've gotta do something about these chipmunks! Stop feeding them!"
But I couldn't resist. Tristan geared up the live trap, and I sat down in the sun and broke up some peanuts into my hand. One little rodent in particular was very brave, and hungry, and as soon as I was still he started to creep forward. Before long he boldly snatched a peanut bit and shot away to nibble it in safety. He was soon back, and within half and hour he was confident enough to climb onto my lap and sit in my hand, shoving the morsels into his cheeks.
This was fine progress. I envisioned a passel of devoted chipmunks greeting me at the door, sitting on my shoulders as I weeded the flowerbeds, following me around like tiny clever dogs. I went about my day, hanging laundry, potting plants, digging holes...
Then Tristan caught one. In the live trap. This is the thing with humane traps - sure, you don't kill the prey, but what are ya gonna do with it? Two options - let it go, or kill it yourself. Preferrably without getting the live trap bloody. There was the little guy, racing wildly around inside the wire box, terrified. I instructed Tristan to take it to daddy. Daddy instructed Tristan to put it in a different cage, and he'd "relocate" it after work. So the kids dug our old birdcage out of storage, and proceeded to make Chippy comfy.
Chippy decided he was not comfy, and deftly leaped to the top of the cage, squeezed through an impossibly tiny hole, and escaped. Into our house. The cat was delighted.
Thus began the Chipmunk Rodeo. It came to involve 1 horrified chipmunk, 1 retarded cat, two children, two grown men, and one bemused spectator. Also several pieces of furniture, a butterfly net, and various magazines.
Round One: Chippy camps out under the couch. Cat guards couch. Chippy makes a break for the safety of the piano. Cat guards piano. Repeat ad naseum.
Round Two: Kids attempt poking Chippy to chase him out the open door. Cat impedes progress by racing about, getting poked and meowing loudly. Everyone argues about where Chippy actually is.
Round Three: Hubby solves the mystery of Chippy's whereabouts by pulling out the couch. Chippy dashes behind desk. Hubby pulls out desk. Chippy hides behind curtains. Hubby ties up curtains. We skip intermission and proceed directly to Round Four
in which Chippy leads the entire family in a wild parade throughout the house. Avoiding both open doors, of course. Parade runs as follows:
Chippy. Sometimes emitting a series of angry chirps.
Cat. Who could've caught Chippy multiple times, but prefers to trot with her nose a few inches above her prey. Succeeding merely in getting stepped on.
Hubby. Wielding green plastic butterfly net.
Two kids. Giggling like mad.
Tim. Our current building project employee - also family friend, fishing and hunting and mechanic pal for Hubby. Also giggling like mad.
Me.
And every time we get Chippy cornered, Tim is all ready to shoo him out the door with a magazine, until he makes a break for it and rushes over Tim's foot, which provokes a high-pitched squeal and an interesting little dance. The period of time spent in Tristan's bedroom was a highlight - Chippy found many good hiding places and tunnels amongst the Lego ships, sleeping bags, books and clothing strewn about. Cat was highly motivated by this time - to get a closer look. Everyone was shouting and laughing and I was aware, once again, that people acheive an interesting state of eccentricity when trapped on a mountain with limited influence from civilization.
In the end, Chippy made it out the door and gasped with relief that he was still alive and not in Chipmunk Hell as he'd suspected. We all fell about, laughing and reliving the episode. The live trap is put away, and I'm doubting I'll ever tame that particular chipmunk.
It goes to show you, though, how quickly our fickle emotions can turn. One minute a chipmunk is cute, then an annoyance, then funny... when I see a little critter sitting up, nibbling dandylion seeds it's adorable - when it's digging up my nasturtium seeds I'm ready to get out the .22.
Speaking of which, I think I'll go put netting over the strawberries!
So when spring comes, and all the little critters creep out of hibernation, it's always uplifting. Especially the chipmunks. Their timorous wee faces peer around the corners, tiny crabbed paws reaching up the doorframe as they see their reflections in the glass. This spring I saw one chipmunk bounding into the same spot over and over; investigation revealed a perfect hobbit-hole disappearing under the wild roses. I knew she would have a family in there, and decided that this would be the summer to tame the chipmunks.
I began the project some days ago. My first strategy was to simply wait until I saw the creatures on the deck, then slip out and place some peanuts in an open spot, so they'd see that I was The Provider of Nuts. I was never sure if the message was getting across, since the cat usually raced out the door as well, with intentions quite the opposite of mine.
Yesterday I watched, peanuts in pocket, as one bold chipmunk scrabbled around the patio door. He was a quick one - and probably one of the new youth of the season. He seemed to be everywhere at once! It was then revealed that there were in fact several young chipmunks scampering about the deck... it was a perfect opportunity! And Mike said "Tristan, go get the trap. We've gotta do something about these chipmunks! Stop feeding them!"
But I couldn't resist. Tristan geared up the live trap, and I sat down in the sun and broke up some peanuts into my hand. One little rodent in particular was very brave, and hungry, and as soon as I was still he started to creep forward. Before long he boldly snatched a peanut bit and shot away to nibble it in safety. He was soon back, and within half and hour he was confident enough to climb onto my lap and sit in my hand, shoving the morsels into his cheeks.
This was fine progress. I envisioned a passel of devoted chipmunks greeting me at the door, sitting on my shoulders as I weeded the flowerbeds, following me around like tiny clever dogs. I went about my day, hanging laundry, potting plants, digging holes...
Then Tristan caught one. In the live trap. This is the thing with humane traps - sure, you don't kill the prey, but what are ya gonna do with it? Two options - let it go, or kill it yourself. Preferrably without getting the live trap bloody. There was the little guy, racing wildly around inside the wire box, terrified. I instructed Tristan to take it to daddy. Daddy instructed Tristan to put it in a different cage, and he'd "relocate" it after work. So the kids dug our old birdcage out of storage, and proceeded to make Chippy comfy.
Chippy decided he was not comfy, and deftly leaped to the top of the cage, squeezed through an impossibly tiny hole, and escaped. Into our house. The cat was delighted.
Thus began the Chipmunk Rodeo. It came to involve 1 horrified chipmunk, 1 retarded cat, two children, two grown men, and one bemused spectator. Also several pieces of furniture, a butterfly net, and various magazines.
Round One: Chippy camps out under the couch. Cat guards couch. Chippy makes a break for the safety of the piano. Cat guards piano. Repeat ad naseum.
Round Two: Kids attempt poking Chippy to chase him out the open door. Cat impedes progress by racing about, getting poked and meowing loudly. Everyone argues about where Chippy actually is.
Round Three: Hubby solves the mystery of Chippy's whereabouts by pulling out the couch. Chippy dashes behind desk. Hubby pulls out desk. Chippy hides behind curtains. Hubby ties up curtains. We skip intermission and proceed directly to Round Four
in which Chippy leads the entire family in a wild parade throughout the house. Avoiding both open doors, of course. Parade runs as follows:
Chippy. Sometimes emitting a series of angry chirps.
Cat. Who could've caught Chippy multiple times, but prefers to trot with her nose a few inches above her prey. Succeeding merely in getting stepped on.
Hubby. Wielding green plastic butterfly net.
Two kids. Giggling like mad.
Tim. Our current building project employee - also family friend, fishing and hunting and mechanic pal for Hubby. Also giggling like mad.
Me.
And every time we get Chippy cornered, Tim is all ready to shoo him out the door with a magazine, until he makes a break for it and rushes over Tim's foot, which provokes a high-pitched squeal and an interesting little dance. The period of time spent in Tristan's bedroom was a highlight - Chippy found many good hiding places and tunnels amongst the Lego ships, sleeping bags, books and clothing strewn about. Cat was highly motivated by this time - to get a closer look. Everyone was shouting and laughing and I was aware, once again, that people acheive an interesting state of eccentricity when trapped on a mountain with limited influence from civilization.
In the end, Chippy made it out the door and gasped with relief that he was still alive and not in Chipmunk Hell as he'd suspected. We all fell about, laughing and reliving the episode. The live trap is put away, and I'm doubting I'll ever tame that particular chipmunk.
It goes to show you, though, how quickly our fickle emotions can turn. One minute a chipmunk is cute, then an annoyance, then funny... when I see a little critter sitting up, nibbling dandylion seeds it's adorable - when it's digging up my nasturtium seeds I'm ready to get out the .22.
Speaking of which, I think I'll go put netting over the strawberries!
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Trunk - Window to the Soul
On Saturday I was cramming things in the trunk of our car after a graduation party.
See, our beloved Suburban is currently resting on blocks, looking sheepish as her underparts are painted. A bit like a dog when you wash around its tail. Hubbykins is certain She'll have her repairs completed by the end of the month. You know, in his Spare Time. Snort.
The building project drags on up here at the lake. It's become a bit more complicated, working around 80 schoolkids who have a tendency to rush blindly in front of the tractor. Seems like every bit of the project needs just a little more work to be completed... some of it will be done in the next week, some of it in the next year. Hopefully. The government money has been pretty much spent, which means the useful members of the work crew are too expensive to keep on, so it's all on the Propery Manager. (slashplumberslashelectricianslashpropanefitterslashdrywallerslashpainterslashchainsawoperatorslashetcetcetc)
(aka Hubbykins)
ANYway, until the 'burban is road-worthy once again, we're driving a ridiculously small and inappropriate car. Inappropriate in that it doesn't know enough to lift up its skirts when we cross the mud. As in it drags its rusty bumper all along our boulder-paved road. Right now there's something wrong with the anti-lock brakes, so when one approaches a stop and applies the brake, the rear passenger wheel suddenly locks up, then lets go, then locks up... accompanied by a highly disconcerting KER THUNK KER THUNK which, judging by the concerned rubbernecking of other motorists, is probably also noisy OUTside the car.
So, I was putting things in the trunk of the car on Saturday, after a graduation party. It seems to be a very small trunk, after having a Suburban all this time. Glorious Suburban who happily swallows up whatever you decide to stow in her hindquarters. I actually had comments from strangers in the Superstore parking lot yesterday: "How are you going to fit all that in THERE?" I replied "Oh, I'll get this in alright, I'm not sure where I'll put the kids though!" It was suggested that I leave the kids behind. That would make the groceries go farther...
ANYway, on Saturday, after the graduation party, I was putting things in the trunk of the car. And it struck me that there was certainly an odd assortment of possessions in there:
potting soil - not in a bag, but spilled in the corner
a giant glass jar with spigot (had been used for the party)
umbrella
two large boxes of assorted craft supplies
a crock pot
empty mixing bowl
guitar (this ended up in the back seat eventually)
church bulletin and assorted photocopied music
plastic case of tools of some sort
Any stranger could've looked in that trunk and realised that the driver of the car is obviously
into gardening
a cook and party guru
a musician
a church-goer
also probably messy (spilled dirt), sharing (the cooking stuff was all empty, after all), likes to be prepared (well, between the four of us we are sometimes prepared), and usually drives a much bigger vehicle.
It got me thinking about the psychology behind the Car Trunk. We toss everything we need, buy, sell, borrow in there, and close it up, and figure no-one will notice stuff. All that stuff reveals what we like, what we do, where we go - who we are.
I picture the hatch of my mom's car in PEI: water bottles (you'll get a headache and be cranky if you're dehydrated), beach towel (in case of stopping at the shore after work), library books, beach glass, sand, blanket, raincoat... these are just the things that are always there, at any given time one may also find snacks, antiques, plants, gardening tools...
Or my car in high school: blanket, candles, the shoes I can't find, jacket, face paints, a crepe hair mustache, window paints, spray paint (hey, I only did graffiti once, and it was to cover up a really ugly tag!), old essays, books...
The thing I really wonder about is people with empty trunks. Empty and clean. What does that mean??
I think if people are dating, or meeting someone new, they should just ask to check out the car trunk. You might think you were dating a perfectly normal guy, then discover a bunch of sci-fi comic books, a shovel, assorted computer parts and a can of spray-cheese in his hatchback. Or you're meeting a nice couple at church, think you've got lots in common with them, but then notice a dog collar, a spider-web bungee cord net, tree-planting spade, milk crate of engine oil, picnic blanket, box of used clothes, empty 30.30 cartridges, bag of ski pants and mittens, bottle of BBQ sauce, 30.30 wrapped up in a Blue Lake jacket...
Well, maybe it's best not to judge a book by its cover. Or a person by their trunk.
See, our beloved Suburban is currently resting on blocks, looking sheepish as her underparts are painted. A bit like a dog when you wash around its tail. Hubbykins is certain She'll have her repairs completed by the end of the month. You know, in his Spare Time. Snort.
The building project drags on up here at the lake. It's become a bit more complicated, working around 80 schoolkids who have a tendency to rush blindly in front of the tractor. Seems like every bit of the project needs just a little more work to be completed... some of it will be done in the next week, some of it in the next year. Hopefully. The government money has been pretty much spent, which means the useful members of the work crew are too expensive to keep on, so it's all on the Propery Manager. (slashplumberslashelectricianslashpropanefitterslashdrywallerslashpainterslashchainsawoperatorslashetcetcetc)
(aka Hubbykins)
ANYway, until the 'burban is road-worthy once again, we're driving a ridiculously small and inappropriate car. Inappropriate in that it doesn't know enough to lift up its skirts when we cross the mud. As in it drags its rusty bumper all along our boulder-paved road. Right now there's something wrong with the anti-lock brakes, so when one approaches a stop and applies the brake, the rear passenger wheel suddenly locks up, then lets go, then locks up... accompanied by a highly disconcerting KER THUNK KER THUNK which, judging by the concerned rubbernecking of other motorists, is probably also noisy OUTside the car.
So, I was putting things in the trunk of the car on Saturday, after a graduation party. It seems to be a very small trunk, after having a Suburban all this time. Glorious Suburban who happily swallows up whatever you decide to stow in her hindquarters. I actually had comments from strangers in the Superstore parking lot yesterday: "How are you going to fit all that in THERE?" I replied "Oh, I'll get this in alright, I'm not sure where I'll put the kids though!" It was suggested that I leave the kids behind. That would make the groceries go farther...
ANYway, on Saturday, after the graduation party, I was putting things in the trunk of the car. And it struck me that there was certainly an odd assortment of possessions in there:
potting soil - not in a bag, but spilled in the corner
a giant glass jar with spigot (had been used for the party)
umbrella
two large boxes of assorted craft supplies
a crock pot
empty mixing bowl
guitar (this ended up in the back seat eventually)
church bulletin and assorted photocopied music
plastic case of tools of some sort
Any stranger could've looked in that trunk and realised that the driver of the car is obviously
into gardening
a cook and party guru
a musician
a church-goer
also probably messy (spilled dirt), sharing (the cooking stuff was all empty, after all), likes to be prepared (well, between the four of us we are sometimes prepared), and usually drives a much bigger vehicle.
It got me thinking about the psychology behind the Car Trunk. We toss everything we need, buy, sell, borrow in there, and close it up, and figure no-one will notice stuff. All that stuff reveals what we like, what we do, where we go - who we are.
I picture the hatch of my mom's car in PEI: water bottles (you'll get a headache and be cranky if you're dehydrated), beach towel (in case of stopping at the shore after work), library books, beach glass, sand, blanket, raincoat... these are just the things that are always there, at any given time one may also find snacks, antiques, plants, gardening tools...
Or my car in high school: blanket, candles, the shoes I can't find, jacket, face paints, a crepe hair mustache, window paints, spray paint (hey, I only did graffiti once, and it was to cover up a really ugly tag!), old essays, books...
The thing I really wonder about is people with empty trunks. Empty and clean. What does that mean??
I think if people are dating, or meeting someone new, they should just ask to check out the car trunk. You might think you were dating a perfectly normal guy, then discover a bunch of sci-fi comic books, a shovel, assorted computer parts and a can of spray-cheese in his hatchback. Or you're meeting a nice couple at church, think you've got lots in common with them, but then notice a dog collar, a spider-web bungee cord net, tree-planting spade, milk crate of engine oil, picnic blanket, box of used clothes, empty 30.30 cartridges, bag of ski pants and mittens, bottle of BBQ sauce, 30.30 wrapped up in a Blue Lake jacket...
Well, maybe it's best not to judge a book by its cover. Or a person by their trunk.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Gild the Lily
Cream. It's all about the cream, I tell ya.
Think about it - you've got your cream pies, cream puffs, cream cheese, Boston cream donuts... imagine pumpkin pie without whipped cream on top? Not even worth eating. If something looks unappetizing I hear a little voice in my head: "Meh, poot leetle bit whip cream - now, ees goot." (for some reason, all the good cooking advice in my head is in a Greek accent.) No matter what kind of gunk I'm serving, if I top it with a dollop I'm guaranteed at least one "mmmm". Why is this? Beats me.
Oh, so much has happened in such a short while - including the consumption of several litres of whipping cream. The assistant cook has come and gone, the new cooler has finally been finished, the second crew has been fired...
As it happened, I did share my good coffee with the Chef. And she did load my dishwasher wrongly, but I didn't care. She saw that things were not entirely FoodSafe, and she didn't care. It was fabulous having someone to "talk food" with, even if she did talk down to me a bit, like assuming I didn't know what "minionette" was. (It's actually spelled "mignonette" and it's like a vinegar sauce for oysters. I googled it when she wasn't looking.) She didn't cook better than me, just different. Sort of "new-school" vs. "old-school". Probably not enough whipping cream invoved in her meals; the guys did revolt and demand more meat.
In any case, sharing a kitchen never works well, and I'm not entirely disappointed that her position was no longer needed once the second work crew hit the chopping block. Now I have sole possesion of the kitchen, dining hall, cooler and pantry, and I know if my can of chickpeas is still there on Monday morning. All is as it should be.
The second crew? Well, it was astounding to observe the work ethic of that bunch. Or lack thereof. One guy actually said "I didn't expect to have to work to keep my job." ?! That just leaves one speechless. Is it just me, or is that the most amazing oxymoronic statement ever? Heavy on the "moronic". It became a running joke amongst the first crew that Monday mornings were devoted to fixing whatever the second crew had messed up over the weekend. Sometimes all of Monday. We started calling them "the A Team" and "the F Team". And then one bright Monday morning the Foreman was doing his rounds and discovered that, despite repeated instruction, the fellow doing the cooler floor had completely bungled the tile job. Not out of ignorance, but out of stupidity, or spite, or stubborness. The entire floor had to be ripped up and redone. (Happily, he'd FUBARed it so badly that the ripping up part was pretty easy!) And the Foreman said "ENOUGH!", made a flying trip to the manager's office (which, in this case, was the front seat of said manager's pickup, as the toddler was sleeping in the back - we're an easy-going bunch around here) and that was the end of the WonderDummies.
Granted, a couple of them made the cut and will join Team Allstar for the Monday - Thursday shift. This includes the guy who smoked pot after work on his first day up here (we don't allow liquor - never mind the alternatives! But no solid evidence and no repetition, so...); and the dyslexic medic who, according to his First Aid records, prescribed Advil for Bill's "menstrual" pain.
(Foreman: What's this??
Medic: Oh, um... it was the other day... for pain...
Foreman: Bill?! Menstrual?!
Medic: Oh, it's supposed to say "muscular". I'm dyslexic.)
(Now that he's dyslexic we can't make fun of him. Phooey.) So, we've got PotHead and MyslexicDedic here; they were the cream of the crop of Team F!! Wow. You see my point.
But, all it means to me is that I throw another pie in the oven, another jug of cream in the KitchenAid mixer. Life goes on.
Think about it - you've got your cream pies, cream puffs, cream cheese, Boston cream donuts... imagine pumpkin pie without whipped cream on top? Not even worth eating. If something looks unappetizing I hear a little voice in my head: "Meh, poot leetle bit whip cream - now, ees goot." (for some reason, all the good cooking advice in my head is in a Greek accent.) No matter what kind of gunk I'm serving, if I top it with a dollop I'm guaranteed at least one "mmmm". Why is this? Beats me.
Oh, so much has happened in such a short while - including the consumption of several litres of whipping cream. The assistant cook has come and gone, the new cooler has finally been finished, the second crew has been fired...
As it happened, I did share my good coffee with the Chef. And she did load my dishwasher wrongly, but I didn't care. She saw that things were not entirely FoodSafe, and she didn't care. It was fabulous having someone to "talk food" with, even if she did talk down to me a bit, like assuming I didn't know what "minionette" was. (It's actually spelled "mignonette" and it's like a vinegar sauce for oysters. I googled it when she wasn't looking.) She didn't cook better than me, just different. Sort of "new-school" vs. "old-school". Probably not enough whipping cream invoved in her meals; the guys did revolt and demand more meat.
In any case, sharing a kitchen never works well, and I'm not entirely disappointed that her position was no longer needed once the second work crew hit the chopping block. Now I have sole possesion of the kitchen, dining hall, cooler and pantry, and I know if my can of chickpeas is still there on Monday morning. All is as it should be.
The second crew? Well, it was astounding to observe the work ethic of that bunch. Or lack thereof. One guy actually said "I didn't expect to have to work to keep my job." ?! That just leaves one speechless. Is it just me, or is that the most amazing oxymoronic statement ever? Heavy on the "moronic". It became a running joke amongst the first crew that Monday mornings were devoted to fixing whatever the second crew had messed up over the weekend. Sometimes all of Monday. We started calling them "the A Team" and "the F Team". And then one bright Monday morning the Foreman was doing his rounds and discovered that, despite repeated instruction, the fellow doing the cooler floor had completely bungled the tile job. Not out of ignorance, but out of stupidity, or spite, or stubborness. The entire floor had to be ripped up and redone. (Happily, he'd FUBARed it so badly that the ripping up part was pretty easy!) And the Foreman said "ENOUGH!", made a flying trip to the manager's office (which, in this case, was the front seat of said manager's pickup, as the toddler was sleeping in the back - we're an easy-going bunch around here) and that was the end of the WonderDummies.
Granted, a couple of them made the cut and will join Team Allstar for the Monday - Thursday shift. This includes the guy who smoked pot after work on his first day up here (we don't allow liquor - never mind the alternatives! But no solid evidence and no repetition, so...); and the dyslexic medic who, according to his First Aid records, prescribed Advil for Bill's "menstrual" pain.
(Foreman: What's this??
Medic: Oh, um... it was the other day... for pain...
Foreman: Bill?! Menstrual?!
Medic: Oh, it's supposed to say "muscular". I'm dyslexic.)
(Now that he's dyslexic we can't make fun of him. Phooey.) So, we've got PotHead and MyslexicDedic here; they were the cream of the crop of Team F!! Wow. You see my point.
But, all it means to me is that I throw another pie in the oven, another jug of cream in the KitchenAid mixer. Life goes on.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The honeymoon is over.
Construction continues - chaos reigns... between the power and water outages, drywall dust and Home Hardware deliveries, gravel trucks and wheelbarrow loads of tools, the meals keep hitting the table with heartbeat regularity. Three weeks into the project, and with twenty-some pounds of beef under our belts, we all keep chugging along at our respective tasks. Some with more chugging, some with more respect.
When I served grilled T-bone steaks last night, I think I heard my last "ooohs". Gone are the heavy sighs of satisfaction, the lip smackings and tummy pattings and "oh wow that was soooo awesome"s. The crew has seen my repertoire of hearty fare; they're putting in long hours at tedious chores and the food-thusiasm is gone. I still hear the murmured thank-yous as they put on their boots and head for the door, but there will be no more surprises, no more amazement at what's set before them. And I can deal with that - I expected that. I still thrive on that meal-time silence punctuated by the clinking and scraping of cutlery on well-cleaned plates.
Of course, all of this might change tomorrow morning. My "assistant cook" arrives tonight. She's a Real Chef. Who actually went to school to be a chef. And I've seen her in action - it's a thing of beauty. She cooks "mise en place" - everything in place. Little bowls of all her ingredients neatly diced and ready to be tossed in at just the right moment. Me, I time the right moment by how long it takes me to chop the onion - as in: the butter is sufficiently browned by the time this onion is chopped. She's going to turn out restaraunt-quality meals in record time and expose me for the ego-centric interloper that I fear I am. And worst of all, she's going to do it IN MY KITCHEN.
You see, she was supposed to arrive last week for her first shift, but we were nowhere near ready to resume cooking in the big commercial dining hall, so I called the whole thing off. But now, I'm tired, I want a break, and the crews are on a split-shift and are, in essence, working an eight day week - with both shifts overlapping mid-week. So she is enroute as I type... but the dining hall floor still needs sealing and the cooler still needs tiling then grouting then sealing... and thus she will be using my house, my kitchen, my tools and she will paw my drawers.
While I'm not keen on it, I can and do function in chaos; I know that the bag of quick oats is buried in the back of the rolling trolley behind the jug of vanilla and beneath the mini marshmallows and icing sugar. Makes perfect sense. I know that the cup of margarine in the fridge is to feed the men, and the half-used foil-wrapped butter is mineallmine. The whipping cream with MA 02 due date is mine - MA 08 is camp's. Three out of four of those loaves of french bread in the deep freeze belong to me. Peaches and Cream corn, me - mixed veg, camp. But how do I explain all this to my keen WonderChef? Wherever will she set her multiple bowls of julienned root veggies? My already-inadequate countertops currently house the coffee urn, a vase of flowers, hubby's coffee flavorings, a bamboo box of tea, my recipe box, baskets of spices and bottles of oil....
Not to mention - what will she say of my wooden cutting board?! It's highly debateable. I know perfectly well that it's far better than plastic due to its natural enzymes which kill bacteria, but did she learn that in her new-fangled school? Hmm? Did she?
She'll likely load my dishwasher all wrong too. People do. YOU know.
Will she play with the cat while she wipes the table, or think it's horrifically unsanitary? My cat rushes up from the basement when she hears the tap running after mealtimes - she loves to try to snag the cloth as I whisk it along the tabletop.
The longer I sit here the more comes to mind... will she drink my good coffee in the morning? Will I share it with her on purpose? Should I leave the food processor on the cupboard for her to use, or will she think it really is broken just because I melted one attachment chopping up alder for smoking a turkey one time so it's all crazy-glued together. It still works pretty good. Just sometimes the glue gets hot and you have to leave it stuck together 'til it cools off again. When is the last time I emptied the crumb catcher on the toaster? Considering I can't remember how to open the crumb catcher, I'm thinking it's been a while. And is keeping the five-gallon pail of sugar next to the garbage can entirely FoodSafe?
All these questions. Mostly, will she cook way better than me. Will I be put to shame. Will the first-shift guys be disappointed that I cook for them, and not her.
I will listen to melancholy music while my dishes cool in their soapy water. My pepper grinder is empty. And I wait.
Construction continues - chaos reigns... between the power and water outages, drywall dust and Home Hardware deliveries, gravel trucks and wheelbarrow loads of tools, the meals keep hitting the table with heartbeat regularity. Three weeks into the project, and with twenty-some pounds of beef under our belts, we all keep chugging along at our respective tasks. Some with more chugging, some with more respect.
When I served grilled T-bone steaks last night, I think I heard my last "ooohs". Gone are the heavy sighs of satisfaction, the lip smackings and tummy pattings and "oh wow that was soooo awesome"s. The crew has seen my repertoire of hearty fare; they're putting in long hours at tedious chores and the food-thusiasm is gone. I still hear the murmured thank-yous as they put on their boots and head for the door, but there will be no more surprises, no more amazement at what's set before them. And I can deal with that - I expected that. I still thrive on that meal-time silence punctuated by the clinking and scraping of cutlery on well-cleaned plates.
Of course, all of this might change tomorrow morning. My "assistant cook" arrives tonight. She's a Real Chef. Who actually went to school to be a chef. And I've seen her in action - it's a thing of beauty. She cooks "mise en place" - everything in place. Little bowls of all her ingredients neatly diced and ready to be tossed in at just the right moment. Me, I time the right moment by how long it takes me to chop the onion - as in: the butter is sufficiently browned by the time this onion is chopped. She's going to turn out restaraunt-quality meals in record time and expose me for the ego-centric interloper that I fear I am. And worst of all, she's going to do it IN MY KITCHEN.
You see, she was supposed to arrive last week for her first shift, but we were nowhere near ready to resume cooking in the big commercial dining hall, so I called the whole thing off. But now, I'm tired, I want a break, and the crews are on a split-shift and are, in essence, working an eight day week - with both shifts overlapping mid-week. So she is enroute as I type... but the dining hall floor still needs sealing and the cooler still needs tiling then grouting then sealing... and thus she will be using my house, my kitchen, my tools and she will paw my drawers.
While I'm not keen on it, I can and do function in chaos; I know that the bag of quick oats is buried in the back of the rolling trolley behind the jug of vanilla and beneath the mini marshmallows and icing sugar. Makes perfect sense. I know that the cup of margarine in the fridge is to feed the men, and the half-used foil-wrapped butter is mineallmine. The whipping cream with MA 02 due date is mine - MA 08 is camp's. Three out of four of those loaves of french bread in the deep freeze belong to me. Peaches and Cream corn, me - mixed veg, camp. But how do I explain all this to my keen WonderChef? Wherever will she set her multiple bowls of julienned root veggies? My already-inadequate countertops currently house the coffee urn, a vase of flowers, hubby's coffee flavorings, a bamboo box of tea, my recipe box, baskets of spices and bottles of oil....
Not to mention - what will she say of my wooden cutting board?! It's highly debateable. I know perfectly well that it's far better than plastic due to its natural enzymes which kill bacteria, but did she learn that in her new-fangled school? Hmm? Did she?
She'll likely load my dishwasher all wrong too. People do. YOU know.
Will she play with the cat while she wipes the table, or think it's horrifically unsanitary? My cat rushes up from the basement when she hears the tap running after mealtimes - she loves to try to snag the cloth as I whisk it along the tabletop.
The longer I sit here the more comes to mind... will she drink my good coffee in the morning? Will I share it with her on purpose? Should I leave the food processor on the cupboard for her to use, or will she think it really is broken just because I melted one attachment chopping up alder for smoking a turkey one time so it's all crazy-glued together. It still works pretty good. Just sometimes the glue gets hot and you have to leave it stuck together 'til it cools off again. When is the last time I emptied the crumb catcher on the toaster? Considering I can't remember how to open the crumb catcher, I'm thinking it's been a while. And is keeping the five-gallon pail of sugar next to the garbage can entirely FoodSafe?
All these questions. Mostly, will she cook way better than me. Will I be put to shame. Will the first-shift guys be disappointed that I cook for them, and not her.
I will listen to melancholy music while my dishes cool in their soapy water. My pepper grinder is empty. And I wait.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
fruits de mer
I ate an oyster.
Here's how it happened...
It was in an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet; the kind of place where you wade into a wall of odor - onions, soy, hot fat, fish, sweet and sour sauce - and your skin is instantly saturated with peanut oil. The kind of place where you're so hungry that you don't notice the stained curtains and splattered sneezeguard until you've gobbled up two platefuls. The kind of place where a big sign in red letters posted above the sushi bar reminds you that consuming raw fish greatly increases your chance of foodborne illness. (translation: "don't eat the sushi!!")
It was in the midst of this cacophony of aromas, this steady rythmic murmur of various languages, this "I've-got-three-days-off-work-and-I'm-shopping-with-the-girls" giddiness that my friend and I spotted the oysters in black bean sauce. A tray heaping with gargantuan barnacled shells, the truth of the unappealing mollusc "bodies" concealed with glistening garnish. And my friend and I looked at each other. That knowing look that screams "Dare ya!" While we were at it, we figured we ought to give the cheese mussels a try. And the squid - absolutely.
Actually, I quite like squid. At the Greek restaraunt where I used to work we served baby ones, whole and battered with fritto misto, their little tentacles curling crisply around a pool of garlickypungent tzatsiki. They tasted exactly like batter and tzatsiki. Yum.
Back at the table (this was still our first plateful - we didn't notice the grime on the soy sauce bottle yet) we poked warily at the brown gobs with our chopsticks. Mine was in a smallish shell, belying the fact that it was a gooeysaucecovered monster which popped easily from its anchor and wobbled menacingly in front of my lips. I waited for my friend to pry hers off the shell - it slipped and slithered out of her grasp, refusing to let go of its crusty bed. I was losing my nerve. With a deep breath I shoved the entire mess in my mouth - "this is how you do this, right?" I asked through the black bean sauce. No one had an answer.
It was too big to swallow whole; chewing was in order. I bit down and felt an oozing, an unpleasant gushing across my tongue. The face across the table from me mirrored my grimace. It tasted like the smell of Prince Edward Island's south shore when the tide is out. The smell right where the river runs in and the sign says the shellfish are contaminated and should not be dug. Or eaten. That rotten seaweed stench was in liquid form IN MY MOUTH and I was in public and COULD NOT SPIT. To make my oral holiday complete came the grinding scrunch of sand between my teeth. The face across the table from me started to giggle. I wondered where that promising black bean sauce had gone - all I could taste was muddy ocean and sandy snot.
At some point I mashed the hideous creature enough to swallow it. At some point my friend must have eaten her oyster as well, but I honestly can't even remember now. The mussel was worse - tough and rubbery and agonizingly fishy beneath its melted cheddar blanket... the squid was somewhat less rubbery and delightfully peppery; I do indeed like squid.
The rest of the meal was a mixture of suspense and surprise - fried wonton skins encasing a shocking combination of cheeses and sweetness; mystery meat that didn't seem to get any smaller no matter how long one chewed. Very tasty garlic green beans.
In retrospect, it occurs to me that things like squid and shellfish, molluscs and crustaceans, were not really intended for food. They're the trash compactors of the sea. They're garden pests. At some point in time some starving mother, trying to salvage the last bit of lettuce for her starving children, became so enraged with the voracious snails that she snatched one up, snarled "this'll teach ya!" and popped it in her mouth. She knew it tasted revolting, she knew it may not be nourishing, but she felt slightly less hungry. Thus escargots were discovered. Like authentic Mexican food, people only ate that stuff because they couldn't afford decent food. And now just as there are entire dining establishments with sombreros and pepper lights serving leftovers and calling it "refried beans", people are paying ridiculous prices to consume what are in essence, giant water bugs. It's a prestige thing. Like, if one doesn't like seafood, one has poor taste. "Unepicurean". Well, I can tell the difference between Dove and Callebaut chocolates just by the mouthfeel. I can tell whether you've served me 36% or 18% cream in my coffee, and I can tell if it's Kicking Horse coffee by the smell as its brewing. Don't even try to tell me that there's decaf that tastes like the real thing! I'm secure enough in my good taste that I'll forgo the fanaticism of fruits de mer. Call me crazy, but I'll stick to ginger beef from now on.
Here's how it happened...
It was in an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet; the kind of place where you wade into a wall of odor - onions, soy, hot fat, fish, sweet and sour sauce - and your skin is instantly saturated with peanut oil. The kind of place where you're so hungry that you don't notice the stained curtains and splattered sneezeguard until you've gobbled up two platefuls. The kind of place where a big sign in red letters posted above the sushi bar reminds you that consuming raw fish greatly increases your chance of foodborne illness. (translation: "don't eat the sushi!!")
It was in the midst of this cacophony of aromas, this steady rythmic murmur of various languages, this "I've-got-three-days-off-work-and-I'm-shopping-with-the-girls" giddiness that my friend and I spotted the oysters in black bean sauce. A tray heaping with gargantuan barnacled shells, the truth of the unappealing mollusc "bodies" concealed with glistening garnish. And my friend and I looked at each other. That knowing look that screams "Dare ya!" While we were at it, we figured we ought to give the cheese mussels a try. And the squid - absolutely.
Actually, I quite like squid. At the Greek restaraunt where I used to work we served baby ones, whole and battered with fritto misto, their little tentacles curling crisply around a pool of garlickypungent tzatsiki. They tasted exactly like batter and tzatsiki. Yum.
Back at the table (this was still our first plateful - we didn't notice the grime on the soy sauce bottle yet) we poked warily at the brown gobs with our chopsticks. Mine was in a smallish shell, belying the fact that it was a gooeysaucecovered monster which popped easily from its anchor and wobbled menacingly in front of my lips. I waited for my friend to pry hers off the shell - it slipped and slithered out of her grasp, refusing to let go of its crusty bed. I was losing my nerve. With a deep breath I shoved the entire mess in my mouth - "this is how you do this, right?" I asked through the black bean sauce. No one had an answer.
It was too big to swallow whole; chewing was in order. I bit down and felt an oozing, an unpleasant gushing across my tongue. The face across the table from me mirrored my grimace. It tasted like the smell of Prince Edward Island's south shore when the tide is out. The smell right where the river runs in and the sign says the shellfish are contaminated and should not be dug. Or eaten. That rotten seaweed stench was in liquid form IN MY MOUTH and I was in public and COULD NOT SPIT. To make my oral holiday complete came the grinding scrunch of sand between my teeth. The face across the table from me started to giggle. I wondered where that promising black bean sauce had gone - all I could taste was muddy ocean and sandy snot.
At some point I mashed the hideous creature enough to swallow it. At some point my friend must have eaten her oyster as well, but I honestly can't even remember now. The mussel was worse - tough and rubbery and agonizingly fishy beneath its melted cheddar blanket... the squid was somewhat less rubbery and delightfully peppery; I do indeed like squid.
The rest of the meal was a mixture of suspense and surprise - fried wonton skins encasing a shocking combination of cheeses and sweetness; mystery meat that didn't seem to get any smaller no matter how long one chewed. Very tasty garlic green beans.
In retrospect, it occurs to me that things like squid and shellfish, molluscs and crustaceans, were not really intended for food. They're the trash compactors of the sea. They're garden pests. At some point in time some starving mother, trying to salvage the last bit of lettuce for her starving children, became so enraged with the voracious snails that she snatched one up, snarled "this'll teach ya!" and popped it in her mouth. She knew it tasted revolting, she knew it may not be nourishing, but she felt slightly less hungry. Thus escargots were discovered. Like authentic Mexican food, people only ate that stuff because they couldn't afford decent food. And now just as there are entire dining establishments with sombreros and pepper lights serving leftovers and calling it "refried beans", people are paying ridiculous prices to consume what are in essence, giant water bugs. It's a prestige thing. Like, if one doesn't like seafood, one has poor taste. "Unepicurean". Well, I can tell the difference between Dove and Callebaut chocolates just by the mouthfeel. I can tell whether you've served me 36% or 18% cream in my coffee, and I can tell if it's Kicking Horse coffee by the smell as its brewing. Don't even try to tell me that there's decaf that tastes like the real thing! I'm secure enough in my good taste that I'll forgo the fanaticism of fruits de mer. Call me crazy, but I'll stick to ginger beef from now on.
Monday, February 15, 2010
A Few of My Favorite Things
With no crisis underway or imminent disaster, I thought I would wax poetic about my favorite cooking tools. These are the can'tlivewithout items that I use almost every day:
- my Big Red Pot. This is an 8-quart, cast iron Mario Batali pot, white enamel inside and deep red outside. My gramma sent it to me shortly after Christmas, and I use it daily, and use it for everything. In the past two weeks alone it has perfectly cooked: oatmeal, roast beef, mashed potatoes, multiple soups, gravy, pasta, chili, and cheese sauce. I love it 'cause it can brown my meat, then simmer the soup or roast the cut. Tonight it's going to roast the ham, and then I can make the smoky ham and bean soup in it without wasting any of the crunchy baked-on hammy goodness. Added bonus - it weighs about 8 tons so I get a great upper body workout when I have to drain the potato water.
- my Lee Valley rasp. This one started out its life as a wood rasp, but some clever wife realised its true potential as one of the best kitchen accessories ever. Since it's so sharp, it perfectly grates parmesan cheese, chocolate, nuts, garlic, nutmeg, lemon zest... and it's stainless steel so a quick rinse gets rid of any smells, all ready to turn the next item into fine shavings. Doubles as a fingernail trimmer. Ouch.
- my German mandoline. Not the musical kind - although I have heard about a type of fresh pasta which is rolled thin, then laid on a stringed gadget like a guitar, then rolled over so the pasta all gets cut by the strings... no - my favorite mandoline is a lovely one from Germany with marvellously sharp, angled blades that make short work of julienned carrots or sliced veggies. Safe enough for my ten-year-old to slice the potatoes paper-thin for scalloped potatoes. This tool came from gramma, too!
- my Paderno pepper mill. Oooo I love to gawk at the Paderno line, but I almost never buy... my dear brother-in-law and his wife gave me this one for Christmas a few years back - or was it my birthday? Anyway, it now occupies a place-of-pride right beside my stove. Not the best place to store pepper, but I use it up pretty fast. I love this mill 'cause it's really really tall - like 13 inches - and a beautiful deep brown stained wood with a graceful elegance. It's not one of those globular Taj Mahal types. It grinds lots of pepper in a hurry - fine or coarse or anything in between. Gorgeous.
Yeah, I've got lots of other stuff that I like too - my weird canelloni shaped garlic peeler; my slow cooker; my Henckels knives... but nothing compares to those essentials listed above.
What I really really NEED is a really really GOOD peeler! I know this is a highly controversial subject - I know peelers and peeling methods are hotly debated... but I could use some advice and opinions. I've tried quite a few different ones - even an expensive Henckels, and none fit the bill. Too dull, weird angle, nasty handle, no pivot, odd sticking-out-bits - there are a lot of problems with all the peelers I've tried thus far. I know Jamie Oliver uses a U-shaped peeler, so I'll try that next...
I'm also working on a particular kitchen tool design, but I'm not telling. Can't have someone swipe my idea on me. But when it comes out, oh boy, everyone will want one. Everyone who makes candy or icing or fudge or melted chocolate, that is. No more hints! Don't even ask.
Well, the coffee is nearly ready. Man there's a lot of coffee around here these days! Now, my coffee perk is also a dear friend - can't even compare perked coffee to dull drip. But that's another story...
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