A Grown Up Moment

07 Jan 2014 1 Comment

by Suelinhess in Bitching & Moaning, Childhood Memories, Family, homemaking, humor, Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

Most of the time, I feel the same Sue in my head; the teen that refuses to grow up all the way, who wants to argue with everyone in the world about the craziness that surrounds her. I hate it when my kids force me to be a grown-up and boss them around about their homework or their chores. I really hate it when my furry man reminds me oh-so-gently-and-carefully, of my grown up responsibilities (I have a small iTunes addiction, and eBay occasionally wants to party with our bank account). But there are moments that flash in front of my eyes that make me feel my age. Unfortunately, they aren’t always moments of wisdom or great meaning.

Tonight, for example, I was filing off the ends of my fingernails that I had been too lazy to trim for weeks, down to my preferred length of nothing ( I hate it when fingernails tap on the keyboard – I like the thump of the pads of my fingertips; very satisfying when I’m mad-typing). I had a sudden memory of being in 2nd grade or 3rd grade, in our apartment in Moscow, staring in fascination at the 4-inch nails of a friend of the family, Aunt Linda. I had never seen anything so beautiful in my entire life. They were blood red, oh-so-shiny, and matched Aunt Linda’s lipstick perfectly; she put Joan Crawford to shame. I wanted my nails to be just like Aunt Linda’s nails so badly, my teeth hurt. My mom was very much against make-up of all kinds, and wouldn’t even let us play dress-up with make-up. Of course, I took every opportunity to paint my nails with magic markers at school, only to come home and have my mom scrub my hands raw with a Brillo pad and her trusty can of Comet (“Comet, it makes your teeth turn green. Comet, it tastes like gasoline. Comet, it makes you vomit. So buy some Comet, and vomit, today!”). But that didn’t stop the yearning. For decades, my nail ideal was always the image of Aunt Linda’s glamorous scarlet nails.

Standing in my bathroom, at 9pm tonight, after an exhausting day of detangling hundreds of ornaments and a dozen strings of lights from my dry-as-tinder beyond-dead Christmas tree (that viciously stabbed my hands full of teeny-tiny pine-needle holes), I had to chuckle out loud at the thought of Aunt Linda’s fingernails trying to live my life. Raising 3 kids —who am I kidding, let’s lump the dogs and the husband and round it up to 6 kids— who really has the luxury of 4-inch nails? And now that I have access to the best salons and am able to treat myself to any colour manicure on the planet, do you know what colours I find myself getting? Clear. The aestheticians sigh and shake their heads when I walk in…here comes the boring lady, just thankful to have her cuticles trimmed and a chance at adult conversation…

So there is my daily reminder that I am getting older. This was a little one. I am still severely disturbed by the biggie I had earlier, when I couldn’t read some small print and realized I might be heading to Reading Glasses Land. I’ll write about that one on another day; my newly filed fingers will thump quite satisfactorily on the keyboard for that story, because just thinking about it blows my mind. I might just slip into a post-mid-life crisis moment and have to run to the salon to get myself some 4-inch red lacquered nails…

Clown Appreciation Day

16 Oct 2013 1 Comment

by Suelinhess in adventures, Bitching & Moaning, Childhood Memories, confidence, DIY, Family, frontier living, home repair, homemaking, humor, self reliance, Uncategorized Tags: , , , ,

 

sigh. It seems I have underestimated the clown crew. I know. The world has stopped spinning on its axis. Normally, you mention the guys at our hotel who come to the house to fix the plumbing or anything else, and I will keel over laughing. They travel in herds, piling into and tumbling out of their miniature pickup trucks (the clown cars), and stand around scratching their heads and banging on things with monkey wrenches. Today, I tried walking a mile in their clown shoes. For weeks, we have been dealing with a front screen door that flies off the handle. Actually, the handle flies off the door. The whole assembly came kind of loose, the handle fell off, and the simple solution of duct tape wouldn’t work because it needs to rotate. So, the Treppenhauer solution was to pick it up off the floor, stick it in the hole, and yell at the kids for slamming the door. The furry man hates to ask for help from staff that is overloaded with work in the hotel rooms, and is the first to admit that he is very good some things, but fixing door handles is not one of them; so the door handle stayed broken. At least he changes light bulbs, washes dishes, and assembles book cases and bicycles. I have a very distinct memory, when I was a child, of glaring at my dad while my mom changed the lightbulbs in the kitchen. I said, “Normal dads help their wives with changing lightbulbs and other things around the house.” His first sentence was always the same response when I complained about our weird family, “First of all, Sue-Sue, we have never been normal and we never will be; get used to it.” But THEN he said, “Your mother and I have an agreement. I work outside the house and bring home the pay check; she handles everything inside the house. Light bulb changing falls within the house.” This was after we spent an entire year of living off of the income from my mom’s art gallery and painting lessons, while he was on sabbatical earning his Master’s degree (so the “agreement” worked when it was convenient for him). One of my earliest resolutions in life was to NEVER make that kind of agreement with anybody. Oh, also to never marry a rude person who doesn’t love me enough to lend a helping hand without my asking.

But I digress; back to my Clown Appreciation story! This morning was the last straw. I was shivering out by the the car, waiting to drive the kids to school on a freezing wet fall morning. The kids were yelling at each other about something as they were leaving the house, and Hanna slammed the screen door. Clunk, the inside handle fell off, and the outside handle stopped functioning. Of course, the actual front door is wide open, blowing in ice-cold air to the house that we can no longer enter. Both kids turn to me, mouths open, eyes bugging out. They glance at each other with, “Mom’s going to kill us” expressions, and immediately launch into each other, bickering about whose fault it was. Ever the practical pioneer woman, I smack the backs of their heads, shoo them into the car, wrestle with the guilt of overworking the furnace in the house while we drove to school, and accept that I will have to punch in the screen of the screen door and crawl into the house very awkwardly, upon my return.

Kids kicked to the school curb, I returned home with great resolve. Today will be the day that I stop relying on others. Today will be the day I am completely self-sufficient. WE don’t need no steenking clowns! I will take that door apart and I will put it back together as good as new. When I was in 1st grade, my big sister had a calculator. My memory is a bit rusty, but I may have been playing with it and I mayyyyy have broken it. There was much yelling, I think I got a spanking, and the calculator was discarded. I snuck to the garbage can, pulled out the calculator, and proceeded to completely take it apart. Then, curiosity satisfied, I put it all back together again. Much to my surprise, the calculator powered on and functioned perfectly. I ran to my sister and crowed, “LOOK LOOK! I fixed it! You threw it away, so now it’s MINE!” Of course, that’s not how things work in the Hess house. She sat on me, wrestled it away, and repo’d the calculator. I think that event may have been my initiation into the decades-long policy I had in childhood, of “Lie First, Be Sneaky, and Try Not to Get Caught.” This also gave me false confidence in myself, and I spent my entire life telling myself that I was good at fixing things. This confidence has led to many repairs, but who is to know whether those things were truly broken, or just needed screws to be tightened or batteries to be changed…

First obstacle: entry into the cottage through a screen door whose handle is no longer functioning. My life is full of good things to be grateful for. Let me take this moment to be thankful for living in the middle of nowhere with no neighbours to observe the total humiliation of me lifting my leg into the screen that I punched out (thinking that I could step into the door in a dignified way), realizing when I’m on my tippy-toes and in much crotch pain that dignity doesn’t exist in my world, then hopping the extra inches needed for the rest of my obese self to tip over and fall sideways into my house, onto my 2 happy golden retrievers. This all took place with the soundtrack of me yelling, “AAAAAAHHHHHHHOWWWWAAAAHHH!” Lying on my back, dogs licking my face, I wondered, “Would this ever happen to a hotel engineer?” Somehow, I thought not. They probably have special clown tools to make the handle-less door open without undue humiliation. sniff. The dogs agreed. They had never seen a hotel engineer fall through the front door, before. Mama, on the other hand, seemed to be a very fun klutz, indeed.

Later, after a game of Candy Crush to make myself feel like even more of a failure, I looked at the door and thought, “This can’t be harder than taking apart a calculator.” Second obstacle: tools. Apparently, we have 8 screwdrivers in our home, and not a one is a Phillips head screwdriver. 30 minutes later, frustrated from digging through the garage, fuelled only by an espresso consumed hours prior, I resorted to breaking into my son’s treasure box and stealing his jackknife. He’s a mini-survivalist, and his jackknife has all the tools to go hunting, including a saw to cut down trees to build a campfire after his prey has been gutted and skinned. Sure enough, there was a gadgety thing that had a tip like a Phillips head, so I unscrewed the door handle. Victory! Expecting the assembly to open up for me like a picture book, it was a very unhappy surprise to have a jumble of metal bits fall into my hand. It was like having a handful of puzzle pieces, and no box to show me the picture of what the puzzle was about. There was much swearing. Much swearing and slamming of the door with the flappy screen and a hole where the handle used to be.

5 more games of Candy Crush failure (what the Hell, Level 134, why you hate me so bad?) and my resolve returned. After all, a door handle has a finite number of parts, they can only fit into each other a certain number of ways, and like a multiple choice test, I KNOW the answer is right there in front of me. I can fix it and make the handle work, right?Another half hour of my life on the toilet, and I managed to reassemble the parts and figured out how to insert them into the door to make the little thingy on the side of the door squish in and out. Highly technical terms, I know. Also, my legs fell asleep; “on the toilet” was not a figure of speech. 5 minutes of hopping up and down to get out the pins and needles, while explaining the handle mechanics to the dogs (they are a very appreciative audience; the Mama Show is their #1 form of entertainment), and I was ready for my door-handle home run.

Word of advice to all DIYers: take pictures; lots of pictures. This way, when you go to, say, put a door handle back on a door, you don’t tighten the screws and discover that you’ve put it on backwards and can no longer shut the door all the way. All puffed up and full of myself, I swung the screen door shut, expecting a satisfying, “click” as the latch closed. “THUD.” The handle stuck out so far it banged into the door frame. Aha. Thank God I have dogs, not parrots. By now, they’d have learned enough new vocabulary words to be cursing like pirates.

The whole time I was struggling with the door, it was wide open, inviting the dogs to forage in the front yard, gathering as much mud as their coats and paws could carry. They then snuck all of that into the house behind my back, while I was cursing and threatening the spring mechanism inside the door handle. As I screwed the handle on backwards, then kicked the door a few times, my furry fiends were quietly doing doggy finger-painting on my white kitchen floor. Let me stop right here and ask the former tenants of this cottage: what kind of a bozo installs white tiled floors in a mud room and a kitchen? Perhaps they were the same dumbasses who thought rhubarb would be a lovely ornamental plant to have growing all around the flower garden. My dad used to play the guitar when I was little. One of my favourite songs was called The Cat Came Back. It was about this poor old thing whose owner went to drown it in the river, and it just kept coming back and following him around. Zombie cat. Rhubarb is that cat. I dug it all up from my flower garden; roots like orange baby parts – tendrils shaped like arms and legs. But no matter how thorough I thought I was, I kept having rhubarb shoots sprout up in the flower beds, all summer long. Zombie Rhubarb.

Obviously, I haven’t had the coffee necessary to stay on task, and it is possible I am not-so-quietly losing my mind out here in the big woods. Let me pull your attention away from the Zombie Rhubarb and my mud-covered floors, and direct it to my newly repaired screen door handle. As good as new. It only took me 2 hours and 10 Candy Crush lives. There might be a few new dents in the door, but I see them as badges of courage. Oh, and my little boy’s jackknife also had a very nice doohickey that helped me re-insert the screen into the door. I have officially completed a job that I would normally have called the clown brigade to do. I guess that means I am an honorary clown? You know, I don’t have clown shoes…I think I need to go shoe shopping…Shoe shopping would be an awesome way to avoid dealing with the doggy finger-painting masterpieces on my very smart white tiled mudroom and kitchen floors…or maybe I’ll bake some rhubarb pie…

Chronicles of the Rodent Slayer

02 Oct 2013 2 Comments

by Suelinhess in adventures, animal control, Bitching & Moaning, Family, frontier living, homemaking, pests, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , ,

My day began early. The howling dog scratching around the furniture told me there were mice to catch at dawn. Thinking I just had a mouse-filled glue trap to dispose of, I ambled over for a peek, sipping my cup of coffee. Empty. Hercules, the Rat Catcher’s Companion, was frantic, scrabbling on the hardwood floor, trying to get behind the side table next to the couch. Slowly, I started to realize that there was a mouse on the loose, and I would have to flush it out or never have a moment’s rest. At this point in the story, I could skip to the happy ending and retain my dignity, but I need to record this for historical purposes. This is proof that practice does not make perfect, that mouse-hunting (and housekeeping, for that matter) should be left to the professionals, and that nothing of importance should ever be attempted without a least 3 shots of espresso. Not only that, if I don’t write this down, I might forget to tell the furry German man when he comes home from work this evening; this is money in the bank for me. He keeps me around to do the dirty work, so this event must be documented for my job security.

The more I thought about how I would need to go about capturing that runaway mouse, the more I realized how much I would dislike a confrontation with a feisty rodent, unencumbered by a sticky glue trap. Over the past few years, I have built up a false confidence in dealing with rodents, only because I have always had the advantage. I threw down the glue traps, the mice or rats got stuck, and I used the BBQ tongs to throw them in the garbage, whilst feeling all-powerful and in charge. All of a sudden, all confidence shattered with the realization that I was NEVER in charge. I abandoned the howling Hercules in the living room, and locked myself in the bathroom. Standing there, shivering, in my pyjamas and bare feet, I considered my options. If I took action, moved the couch away from the wall, and let the dogs chase the mouse towards its doom, there was a chance the mouse would choose to run onto my bare foot and crawl up the leg of my pyjamas. Just picturing that gave me the heebie jeebies and I actually hopped around the bathroom to shake off the image. The other option was to ignore the mouse; who knew if it was even really there? After all, the dogs have been wrong before. They bark at the wind, don’t have the sense to be afraid of elk, and have even been known to eat their own poop. Why should I trust them? On the other hand, if I chose to ignore the mouse, and it decided to take a tour of the house in the middle of the night, my luck would have it crawling up my bed covers to visit my face. Visions of Pa, in Little House on the Prairie, waking to the sounds of a mouse chewing off his beard to line its nest, floated through my head. I was pretty sure I would hate waking up to half a head of hair, knowing the mouse was lining its nest with my shiny locks…

Okay, decision made, I pulled on my thick socks and trusty shitkickers. I armed myself with a sturdy broom. And then I felt a moment of brilliance come upon me. I should gather all the glue traps from every corner of the house, and place them on the floor, all around the couch. That way, no matter what direction the mouse chose to run, I would catch him without having to lift a finger, right? I’m a genius! So I searched the house and found 7 glue traps. I placed them strategically around the couch, all the while telling the dogs, Hercules and Cody, to take care to avoid stepping in the traps. Right there, I should have stopped myself. My dogs don’t speak English. Not only do they not speak English, Cody is the world’s worst golden retriever. He hates water, hates all physical activity, and doesn’t retrieve. He mostly dances around (you think I exaggerate – but picture prancing horses at the circus – that is Cody) and pretends to be a golden retriever, while his brother Hercules is actually playing fetch, hunting chipmunks, and attacking the water sprinkler in the yard. Immediately, I lost one glue trap to Cody’s tail. 5 minutes later, with the help of a pair of scissors, Cody had a bald patch on his tail, and I think my yelling convinced him to stay on the other side of his brother ( who I thought would catch the mouse if the glue traps failed).  If there ever was a more perfect time for an intervention by a guardian angel to save me from myself, that was it.  Alas, my guardian angel must have been on a coffee break.  It was just me and the dogs against the mouse; a pack of fools versus the evil genius.

My triumphant moment arrived. Broom positioned to protect my legs from climbing rodents, I prepared to move the couch and release the hounds. I even counted down for the dogs, “Ready, set, GOOOOO!” And all chaos broke loose. The couch was shoved away, the dogs leaped, the mouse zig zagged BETWEEN glue traps, I hopped up and down screaming, “GET HIM GET HIM!!!!” and the dogs proceeded to catch 2 of the remaining glue traps, while the mouse scurried into the corner of the living room where several framed pictures leaned (did I mention that we are still moving in and the house is cluttered with crap that needs putting away?) My house is Disneyland for mice. So many places to play, so many fun things to do, so much good food to eat.

Okay okay. Time to regroup. Hercules and Cody looked at me, panting, one glue trap dangling from Hercules’ left ear, and one glue trap attached to Cody’s front left paw, lifted up to me in an offering. Both of them had such eager looks on their faces, asking me, “Aren’t we great? Aren’t we manly hunters?” Resisting the urge to yell, “YOU SUCK!”I reached out my shaking hands and patted their heads. Eyes on the mouse corner, I once again used the scissors and gave the dogs 2 more bald patches so I could remove the glue traps from their fur. Those glue traps sure are good at dog catching. Hercules, freed from his glue trap, guarded the corner while I ran to get a flashlight. I had to be sure the mouse was there, and not crawling towards the bedrooms. DOH! The bedrooms! Quick detour to shut all the doors in the house, then returned with a flashlight. Climbing up onto the easy chair (yes, still afraid of leg-scaling mice), I leaned over and shone the flashlight between the picture frames. Sure enough, 2 beady black eyes stared back at me. And you know what? He wasn’t even breathing fast. I was the one hyperventilating, while he stared me down, daring me to make a move. That was when all of the spirits of my housewifely ancestors came rushing into the room, brooms collectively raised in solidarity, causing me to take up my broom and start hysterically waving it around and banging it on the floor, yelling expletives, cursing the mouse and all of its relatives. The mouse made a mad dash for the other side of the room, with Hercules on its heels, and Cody danced around in circles, gluing himself to 2 of the remaining 3 traps. And I lost the mouse. In the struggle to stop Cody from more dancing (he glued his own tail to his ribs, and when he finally obeyed my scream to “SIT!” he promptly sat on the back edge of the glue trap stuck to his back right foot, effectively glueing his butt to his foot), I lost track of where the damn mouse had scurried. My living room looked like a bomb had exploded, my dogs looked like mangy mutts that had been attacked by killer giant moths, and I had been beaten by a mouse. Resigned to my plight, I told the dogs that we were losers, cut Cody loose from his trap, let them out to the front yard to chase chipmunks, and made myself a pot of tea.

As the tea was brewing, I tried to make a plan for living with a mouse on the loose. I thought about wearing my shoes to bed. I also thought about wearing a snow suit and a bike helmet to bed. Every few moments, I tossed out some trash talk to the mouse, to keep it on its toes. “Don’t get too comfy out there, mouse! I WILL find you. Oh, and by the way, if you really want to visit someone in the middle of the night, maybe go to Hanna’s room, instead of mine? The eatin’s good under Hanna’s bed. I’m just sayin’…” Nothing. Not a squeak, not a scribble-scrabble sound. All I knew was that the couch it was originally hiding under was safe to sit on. Nothing in the house was safe, just that couch. So I perched myself on the couch, criss-cross-applesauce to keep my legs mouse-free, and wrapped my hands around my cup of tea, in surrender.

Minutes passed. My heart rate returned to normal. I began to make peace with the thought of a mouse wandering around (after all, I knew there were hundreds of his kin living in the cellar and in the walls). I began to accept that he had won and I had lost. Mid-sigh, sipping my tea, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. The mouse was making its way to the kitchen. He didn’t even have the decency to run. He sashayed over the threshold of the kitchen doorway, tail held high, and ducked under the refrigerator. Not believing my good fortune, I sat frozen for a moment. Then I jumped to my feet, grabbed the last surviving glue trap, and ran to the kitchen. There is only one way in and out of the the path to the fridge, so I wedged the trap in the path, and returned to the living room. If the gods were smiling, I would need to do nothing more. Sure enough, by the time I had finished my cup of tea, I could hear the scrabbling sounds of a glued animal (the dogs had given me enough practice to know that sound anywhere).

Confidence returned, I sauntered over to the fridge, and used the BBQ tongs to pick up the spoils of war. A plastic shopping bag shroud, a few words of blessing (“haHA! I told you not to mess with me!”), and the enemy was tossed into the bear bin outside. I am victorious. I am all-powerful. I am Woman, hear me ROAR!

Still, I just might wear the bike helmet to bed tonight. There was a stretch of time unaccounted for, where the mouse may have had an opportunity to send a message to its brethren. If he did call in the troops, I’d best be prepared. Maybe the bike helmet AND my shoes…and a ski mask…Does anyone have any more glue traps I can buy?

Better Safe Than Sorry

20 Jun 2013 Leave a comment

by Suelinhess in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

In 1995, torrential rains and flooding washed away Hwy 1 South in Carmel, on both sides of the cliff top hotel where Markus and I worked–Highlands Inn.  For a few days, we lived on an island with a few dozen guests and a handful of employees.  We dined on the finest food, prepared by our friends, world-class chefs.  It seemed like an adventure, but deep inside I was terrified.  As soon as the road was slightly repaired to the south, we caravanned out of there, taking an 8 hour detour into Big Sur, for a drive home that would normally take 30 minutes.  Once home, I went into Safety Mode and immediately purchased a giant red backpack from the Red Cross, filled with emergency supplies, should we ever face such an ordeal again.  Markus laughed every time we moved, and we transferred that red backpack from one front hall closet to another.  In Hawaii, we lived through a magnitude 6.7 earthquake in 2006.  That sent me to the store to stock up on 1 gallon of water, per person, for 3 days.  So the red backpack and 15 gallons of water sat in our closet for the next 2 years.  When we moved to Canada, my husband said, “We’re moving to the Rocky Mountains – no more earthquakes, no more tsunami threats, and mostly snow, not rain.  Please get rid of that old red backpack!”  I responded by tossing out the expired MREs, chocolate, and batteries, and replacing it all with fresh supplies.  The backpack sat in our mudroom closet in Banff for two years, only getting pulled out once, when my husband drove 4 hours to Edmonton in the winter.  He laughed at me and didn’t even bring a coat (it was a warm day).  A blizzard hit while he was getting gas for his car, and as he stood there shivering in his shirtsleeves, he could hear my voice in his head, “Bring your coat – you live in the mountains – weather can change on a dime!”

 

We’ve since moved 4 hours north of Banff, to the town of Jasper.  In order to travel to civilization, we need to drive through mountain passes with no cellphone reception, past glaciers and avalanche country.  We make that drive dozens of times a year.  Guess where that red backpack lives now?  In the trunk of my car.  My husband still laughs, but he did have an occasion to use the little shovel I added to the kit this winter.  A stranded tourist had driven into a snowbank, and we ended up digging him out.  HaHA!

 

Just this morning, a little creek in the town of Canmore, where I used to do my grocery shopping, grew to monstrous proportions, jumped its banks, and washed away the highway connecting it to the nearest city.  Homes were evacuated, schools were closed and turned into evacuation shelters, and people watched their back yards get washed downstream. Mudslides from the steady rain closed off the highways connecting the other towns, like Banff and Lake Louise.  Even the highway leading up to Jasper was closed.  We spent the day worrying about our friends, worrying about the roads, and remembering other weather emergencies we’ve lived through.  

 

Lying in bed tonight, my furry guy turns to me with a twinkle in his eye, and says, “Wow.  People in Canmore should really have a red backpack filled with emergency supplies for times like this.  It would really come in handy.”  I didn’t see the twinkle, at first, and my eyes widened to hear him support the emergency bag for the first time in 17 years.  I enthusiastically exclaimed, “I KNOW, right?!” and then I saw him giggle. Laugh it up, buddy boy.  I grew up with my mother filling the bathtubs with water during monsoon seasons in Malaysia, and typhoons season in Taiwan.  There were storms that forced us to use that water. In west Texas, where my oldest daughter was born, I spent several hours a week IN the bathtub with my baby, during tornado warnings, with the tornado sirens wailing in the background. My backpack is my security blanket.  If I never have to use it for the rest of my life, I will be one very happy lady.  And if you haven’t put together an emergency backpack of your own, now is the perfect time.  Go to: 

 

http://www.redcross.ca/what-we-do/first-aid-and-cpr/first-aid-at-home/first-aid-tips/kit-contents

 

Hopefully, it will be the best thing you never have to use!Image

Ancient Chinese Seeclet…I Just Don’t Get It

18 Jun 2013 1 Comment

by Suelinhess in Bitching & Moaning, foie gras, Food, Healing, illness, Medical, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

There is a very mature adult, deep inside my head, who insists on keeping my mouth out of trouble.  Some might consider it my Conscience, some might consider it the Voice of God, but I just see it just as a very little person.  Sometimes this little person has a big voice and sometimes a gentle whisper is all I need to close my mouth and smile.  Today, my little inner person screamed herself hoarse, stopping me from outright ridiculing a nice friend of mine.  Unfortunately, now that the little person has laryngitis, there’s a party going on in my head, and my mouth wants to dance on the speakers.  What I am about to write will surely offend many, but I just cannot help myself.

 

I was enjoying coffee with a visiting friend, this morning (we shall call her Betty), when her carpool partner joined us.  He is also a friend, and a co-worker of my husband.  Very nice man, about as whitebread as I can imagine a Canadian, with Scandinavian roots.  These roots are so strong, he named one of his sons Eric the Red (okay, it isn’t Eric the Red in real life, but a name so close, he might as well have named him Viking Boy).  I shall call this Scanadian Man Bob, to protect the innocent.  We all started discussing their visit to Jasper; my husband had rolled out the red carpet for them, catering all their meetings and hosting feasts at night.  Our Food and Beverage Team went above and beyond, creating drool-worthy meals.  Bob and Betty recalled the yummy food with closed eyes and dreamy voices.  But then, Bob said, “It was all so heavenly, but with my food sensitivities, you know, I really paid for it last night and today.”  I raised my eyebrows in concern and asked, “Food sensitivities?” And he said, “OH, nono, nothing like Celiac or allergies.  But you know mixing the hot foods and the cold foods, and you know, the hot kinds of foods just set me off, and I couldn’t sleep…”

 

This whole time, my eyebrows are still raised, and my jaw is slowly dropping open, as I realize that this tall white Canadian man is describing ancient Chinese food personalities.  I discretely brought my hand up to my chin to shut it quietly, as Bob proceeded to launch into his special relationship with his food.  He was very quick to point out that Chef had created such amazing delicacies, that he couldn’t resist eating it all.  But the discomfort he described afterwards, made it sound like there was a battle of the food divas in his tummy.  Eventually, we changed the subject, and started talking about little Eric the Red, and my daughter the Assassin – they are growing nicely and are poised to take over the world.

 

Long after Betty and Bob headed home, I puzzled over Bob’s latest diet trend. I pondered over this obsession people have with creating meaning from the unknown and manipulating things they just don’t understand.  Dying of the Black Plague and the monarchy has left you starving?  God will save you and punish the rich; you just have to pray pray pray, and give all your money to those less fortunate than yourself.  Don’t want to catch a cold?  Make sure you wear your cozy slippers so you don’t catch cold through the soles of your feet. Oh, and God Forbid you go outside with wet hair – you will catch pneumonia!  Well, if you do, we’ll just throw some leeches on you – the bloodletting will balance your humors…  

 

Granted, Asians are an old enough race that there are some tried and true remedies that even science has accepted.  But if I mention powdered bear gall bladders as a remedy for male impotence, all of you should roll your eyeballs along with me.  Some things are completely ridiculous.  

 

Asians aren’t the only ones with a corner on the Crazy Market.  My husband’s family is quite earthy-crunchy when it comes to medicines.  Rather than head to the doctor when coughing up green phlegm, they will try 42 different herbs and potions, all distilled into small vials of alcohol.  My sister-in-law came to visit us when we lived in California, and I wondered why her giant purse clinked when she moved.  It turns out she took a minimum of 6 different potions every hour – several drops of each.  And she said she was very nervous being in America so she also guzzled Burt’s Rescue Remedy too.  I mentally calculated the amount of alcohol in all her potions by the end of the day, and realized that it all seemed to work for her because it was the equivalent of several stiff drinks.  Well, DUH, I could have given you that prescription.  And years ago, I knew a man who went through a very painful cleanse just because his meditating yogi wife told him he would lose 30 lbs in intestinal blockage alone.  After a week of lemon juice and hot pepper water, I’m thinking he was not a fan of hot foods.  

 

So let’s get back to this hot foods cold foods thing (or the Yin and the Yang foods, as some put it).  According to Wikipedia (my main source for Asian information, as my Chinese mother is currently rolling over in her grave, filled with shame for her half-breed ignorant daughter), “Chinese food or Nutrition therapy, is a modality of traditional Chinese medicine. Central to this belief system is the idea that certain foods have a “hot” or heat-inducing quality while others have a “cold” or chilling effect on the body and its organs and fluids. An imbalance of this “heat” and “cold” is said to increase susceptibility to sickness or to directly cause disease itself. Such an imbalance is not necessarily related to the subjective feeling of being hot (tending toward sweating) or cold (tending toward shivering).

As an example, if one had a cold, or felt he was about to get a cold, he would not want to eat any “cold” foods such as a lemon, melon or cucumber. If one had a so-called “hot” disease, like Eczema, then he would not want to eat “hot” foods such as garlic, onions, or chocolate lest the “hot” disease is worsened. Indeed, it is thought by some that these “hot” or “cold” properties of foods are so intense that merely the eating of too many of one or another can actually cause diseases. For example, the eating of too many “hot” foods like chili peppers or lobster could cause a rash, or the eating of too many “cold” foods such as watermelon, or seaweed could cause one to develop stomach pain or diarrhea. In this way, this health system is in direct opposition to evidence-based medicine and the germ theory of disease (where microbes are described as the cause of many disease states).”  The article goes on to list different foods in a temperature table, showing the supposed side effects of consuming too much…for instance, my over-consumption of foie gras and other duck/goose related products, should give me hemorrhoids.  Well well well, my bottom is as smooth as the proverbial baby’s bottom. I am a walking miracle, then eh?   And how convenient for them that beer is listed as a Yin food, to counteract the dry fire effects of the Yang foods like chili peppers.  Who makes up this shit? Could it be that instead of the explanation for diarrhea after eating too much watermelon is NOT because it too much of a “cold” or Yin food, but because you are a PIG and too much fruit will give you the runs?  It’s all sugar and water, people!

So there you have it.  I am in turmoil.  The Chinese half of me is horrified that I have betrayed my roots and shamed my ancestors.  I actually flinch when I see movement in the corner of my eye, thinking it’s my mom reaching out from the grave to smack me upside my head.  When I do, the American half of me shakes her head and laughs.  SCIENCE.  We have SCIENCE to prove or disprove most of this. I will tell you what we do know.  Yes, there are chemicals in many herbal tinctures that are very helpful.  Yes, too much watermelon will give you the runs.  Yes, I take herbal supplements to help me with PMS, Hashimoto’s, and my immune system.  These herbal supplements have scientifically proven chemicals and properties that do more good than harm if taken in moderation.  But damned if I know whether or not my Evening Primrose Oil is a Yin or a Yang food.  Once again, I demonstrate that I am the Worst Chinese Person Ever, and that my inner white chick has the tiniest brain ever.  I just can’t open it up to let in this “food therapy.”  My idea of food therapy is a pan-seared slice of foie gras, with a few figs and a baguette.  Put that Yin my tummy, and Yang I’m happy! 

Being the New Kid is Getting Old

20 May 2013 4 Comments

by Suelinhess in Bitching & Moaning, Family, Moving, teenagers, Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

I can’t believe I did this, but after making 2 giant lasagnas and slicing 2 giant watermelons for a potluck for my high school daughter’s Quebec Exchange program and all the participants’ families, I dropped off the food and hightailed it home.  I was fully prepared to be brave and sit with my daughter and her “twin” from Quebec, and maybe meet some of the other parents; maybe make a friend.  But when I got there, I got a big slap in the face.  Teens can be cruel, and adults who don’t know any better, can cluster together to shut out the new girl.  

I pulled into the parking lot, to a chorus of mocking teen boys calling out, “SUE’s here!  Everyone watch out! OOO, It’s SUE!”  My daughter had already warned me that it was her class joke that I take away my daughter’s phone when she is disrespectful or her grades drop – they call each other “Sue” as an insult, or if someone is not being nice, they say, “watch out, or Sue will take away your phone.”  Ha. Ha. I’m fine with the idea of all of them doing this, since I am quite convinced that I am making good parenting choices and the phone is a good tool in disciplining my daughter.  But when surrounded in real time, by a big group of teens that are whispering and laughing, while looking at you sideways?  That’s a whole different story.  I’m glad I never taught in high school, and I feel great compassion for any teacher who is the butt of these kids’ jokes.  

So you’d think my daughter would be happy to see me and make me feel better.  Nope.  She runs up to me and demands, “I hope you brought me a change of clothes!”  When I said, “no, but I brought a lot of food – will you please help me unload the car?”  she became upset and flounced away.  

I asked one of the parents where I should enter the building to bring in the food for the potluck, and she answered, “THROUGH THE DOOR.”  Seriously.  So I hefted the huge lasagna into the front door, found the entree table myself, and went back out to the car for 2 more trips of food.  This entire time, there are dozens of people milling about, hugging, chatting, taking their places at the many long tables set up for the dinner.  

When I tried to think about sitting down with total strangers who didn’t even make eye contact with me or smile, my heart just jumped up into my throat.  I went up to my daughter and whispered in her ear, “is it okay if I sit with you at dinner tonight? I feel a little nervous.”  And she said, “Mommmmm, I want to sit with my friends, and they will all just make fun of you and that would mess up the dinner. Maybe you can just go home and bring me some clothes?  You don’t have to stay for the dinner, but you can bring me the clothes when you come back to pick up the dishes.”  

That did it.  Flashback to 1st grade in Monterey, 2nd grade in Moscow, 4th grade in Kuala Lumpur, 6th grade in Reston, 7th grade in Shanghai, 9th grade in Kent, 10th grade in Bloomington, 10th grade in Taipei, Freshman year in university, 1st year in England, 1st year in Texas, 1st year in Carmel, 1st year in Pacific Grove, 1st year in Hawaii, 1st year in Banff… Maybe I have a lot of practice being the new girl, but tonight I felt knocked down and stepped on.  Tonight I felt so lonely that my throat hurt, even with 50 people clustered around me.  I can only plaster the smile on my face for so long before my cheeks start to hurt and I just want to run away. So I put my head down, got into my car, and headed for home.  

I wish someone could wave a magic wand and a door would open to this town.  Well, I say that, but I guess my real wish is that I didn’t have to have any interaction with any more people in this town.  

You don’t believe me.  If you just met me, you don’t believe me.  I’m smiley, I ask questions, I make conversation; of course I must be outgoing and personable, right?  But if you really know me, you know that inside I squirm at the idea of getting thrown in among strangers.  When I was little, being the new kid was always fortified by the strength of my sisters.  Every 2 years we moved to a new place because of my father’s job. But my sisters and I could be the new kids together.  Now, I usually have my own kids, or my husband.  My husband, especially, is very sensitive to my stranger panic, and he will hold my hand and introduce me, then whisk me home at the earliest opportunity.  The kids have lately complained that I am “anti-social” so I have been making great efforts.  But this town is shut tight like a clam.  They don’t really want help in the schools, which is the best way to get my foot into the door and meet other parents.  How many times can I knock before my knuckles start to hurt?  And after a year and a half, is it okay if I just give up and retreat to my books and my family?

I know I am being completely unreasonable, and my friends would tell me, “Don’t be silly – they are all your future friends just waiting to meet you.”  And that is very good advice.  It’s just that tonight I didn’t quite believe myself when I tried to whisper that out loud while driving home, face frozen in a tearful grimace.  I know I need to wipe these stupid childish tears and check my makeup and find a decent shirt for my daughter, and get back into my car to return to the potluck.  I just need a few more minutes to breathe and dig really really deep to find a shred of courage to grasp.  Just a few more minutes.

When Life Gives You Lemons, Leave Them in the Fridge and Get on the Bus

17 May 2013 Leave a comment

by Suelinhess in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , ,

As I was wrangled into chaperoning for my teenaged daughter’s Sevéc Exchange field trip to Edmonton, I braced myself for a miserable day. I expected misbehaving teenaged boys, a crazy bus ride with 40 unruly 9th graders, followed by an overwhelming day in the biggest mall in Alberta. For an antisocial geek who would prefer to hang out in her pyjamas and read at home all day without speaking to a single soul, bringing me to a mall that is big enough to have its own amusement park and water park is akin to feeding me Ex-Lax and then locking the bathroom door.

Surprisingly, I did not perish. The bus ride was exactly what I expected, but I may have given an over-indulged boy the first “no” in his life (he wanted to throw trash out the window), so my good deed for the day is done.  The rest is a blur that my mind is trying to cushion me from and is now doing its best to erase from my memory. Fresh off the bus and faced with 5 hours to kill in the mall, I brought my laptop to the Genius Bar in the Apple Store for a checkup, stood in Williams & Sonoma and just breathed (I left without buying anything simply because I wanted it all), and sat in the movie theatre, all by myself, to watch the new Star Trek movie. But even alone, I was not lonely. My fellow geeks took the afternoon off to watch the same movie, and we all laughed and cried and cheered at the same times. It was heartwarming to be surrounded by kindred spirits. After that, I sat at Baskin Robbins with a diet Pepsi (yes, I resisted the mint chocolate chip ice cream- too much indulgence in one day and I could explode) and noodled around on my laptop by piggybacking on my iPhone. In the olden days, I would have brought a good book and just sat in Starbucks for 5 hours. Either way, I would have been happy. I wasn’t required to watch the kids while they were in the mall, and being in such a big mall, I never ran into a single one of them. It was dreamy.

At 6pm, our bus jumps into rush hour / long weekend traffic, and we begin the long ride home to Jasper. Being so far north, our spring/summer days are super long. The sun is still out and shining in the evening, and we have the treat of seeing lovely scenery the entire way. As our bus leaves the city behind, the buildings and busy roads pass into the distance and the green of the approaching countryside beckons. Larches and Aspens just beginning to grow their spring foliage, gentle and soft, begin to stand out from the standard pine and spruce. The rolling farm fields are plowed and ready to be planted. The land is wide open and poised – waiting to leap into summer. We have 4 hours to go before we make it back into the mountains and home to Jasper. In the winter, this drive is the dreariest, most boring ride. Usually grey and dead-straight, unlike the winding road that provides the striking views of glaciers and craggy mountains we have when driving to Banff via the Columbia Icefields Parkway. But in the sunny months, the drive to and from Edmonton is quite beautiful. There is a delicious feeling, seeing the rich brown soil in the fields in contrast to the green trees. There are farmhouses and barns painted the perfect shade of red, as if the farmers are waiting for an artist to come by and put their images on canvas. Soft round hills, velvet with green grass. Verdent. Grazing brown cows dot the landscape, as if some giant hand has sprinkled them there for our viewing pleasure. This is countryside as I always imagined it should be. Such a difference from our rocky mountains and icy lakes back home. I expect the air to be warm and to smell sweet if I roll down the window. The sky is big, and the land seems to go on forever.

Sometimes it’s good to not be in the driver’s seat. The passenger can enjoy the scenery. And sometimes it’s good to be pushed out of my comfort zone. I’ll take my lesson and say Thank You. And I will put in my noise-cancelling earphones for the next few hours.  LIfe is Good!

Blessed Be the Gluttons

05 Apr 2013 Leave a comment

by Suelinhess in Food, Friendship, Montreal, Roman Catholic, Travel, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , ,

Gluttony is Good.  At least it was today.  Just in case it really isn’t, Gaby and I decided to visit Basilique Notre-Dame-de-Montréal (Our Lady of Montréal Basilica) first.  We started by thoroughly sleeping-in this morning.  If you’ve never slept in a Fairmont Hotel before, you might want to scurry to the closest one as soon as you can.  The beds are the BEST and they make you want to stay in them all day.  Nevertheless, we dragged ourselves out at 9am, wrestled with the Nespresso machine, then promptly swooned when we tasted the creamy goodness of fine espresso in our cups.  After recovering, we made ourselves presentable, stopped at the hotel patisserie for almond croissants, and took the escalator down to the train station under the hotel.  Yes, there is a train station in the hotel basement (not your average basement – no pool table and moldy cement walls) – you could hop on a train to New York City if you felt like it.  We didn’t feel like going to New York, we felt like finding the Metro, so we wandered around in circles until a charitable lady took pity on us and turned us toward the tunnel we needed to follow.  We bought 3-day passes from the ticket booth, and hopped onto the train to eat our croissants.  2 stops later, we stepped out onto Place-d’Armes station, and walked up the street to the imposing Notre Dame Basilica.  When the enormous entry doors closed behind us, we were enveloped in the hushed silence of the cathedral; the smoky aroma of candles and incense swirling around us.  I’m Catholic, but Gaby is famous for saying that she stays away from churches because she will burst into flames if she enters.  Regardless, we both agreed that it was incredible to see the intricate carvings, the painting, and the painstaking details that went into the creation of churches like this.  Inspired by their spiritual beliefs, the builders made a tangible representation of their faith; awe-inspiring for all.  Columns made from entire trees, ceilings so high they seem to be the sky…I had to sit still in a pew just to absorb it all.  There was a door to the left of the alter that led us to the Chapelle Sacré-Coeur (Sacred Heart Chapel).  It seemed to be a hidden, secret place.  When we entered, the lighter wood that covered every surface glowed in the sunlight.  I followed the Stations of the Cross until I found my favorite one: #5 Simon reaching out to help carry the cross for Jesus, on the way to the Crucifixion. My little boy, Simon, always perks up during Mass, whenever Simon is mentioned in a reading, whispering, “Mama, Simon was Jesus’ friend!” I texted the photo to my son and had to smile.  Before we left, I needed to take a picture of Gaby inside the chapel – Proof of Life – to show she had survived and that we didn’t need a fire extinguisher.  

 

We wanted to also see Chapelle Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours (Our Lady of Perpetual Help Chapel) and found it down the road with only a couple of turn arounds.  All my friends and family know I am the opposite of a GPS – I am guaranteed to get you lost if you follow me.  Gaby impressed me, pulling out her iPhone and looking at street signs…I followed like a little baby duck.  Only later in the afternoon did she surprise me by laughing and saying, “I’m horrible with directions!”  I’ve never had such fun getting lost before!  If I’m by myself, I’m crying.  With Gaby, we’re like, “woops!” and we’re moving on.  So we made it to the chapel (singing all the way – “Goin’ to the chapel and we’re Goin’ to get maaaarrrrriiied”) and were told by the lady inside the museum that we would need to climb an unGodly number of stairs (yeah, I said unGodly about chapel stairs – I bet if you’d ask Him, He would agree!) to the tower up above.  Deathly afraid of heights, I quaked inwardly and wondered just how high the tower was…but when we made it to the top, I was so busy trying to gasp air and grip my bum because it had met the worst Stairmaster of all time, that I was only slightly terrified of the height.  The little railing around the outside of the tower would stop us from falling to our deaths onto the passers-by in the street below—on a still day.  Today was a little too windy for our liking; some of my photos came out crooked because while taking the pictures, I would suddenly think about dropping the iPhone off the tower, and I would crazily grip it in reflex.  I need an off-switch for my brain.  Despite the gusts, we were still enchanted by the view of the St. Lawrence River and the 2 angels on the towers of the chapel, with their arms outstretched in the blue sky, welcoming all the seafarers home.  It’s good to ignore your fears sometimes.  

 

After we dizzily made our way down the spiral stairs to the street level, we realized that some of our light-headedness was caused by our growling stomachs.  A measly almond croissant is not sufficient fuel for cathedral-exploring.  Having read about a nice little cafe close by, we decided to finish touring the little museum below the chapel, and then go to lunch.  The museum had a very interesting display about the chapel’s founder, Saint Marguerite Bourgeoys.  There was a painting in the house of the religious order she founded, that many doubted was the true depiction of Saint Marguerite.  The painting was x-rayed and an entirely different style of portrait was revealed.  An olden day mystery solved. There was also a creepy little room filled with miniature dolls and dioramas made in the 1950‘s, illustrating the many events in the life of Saint Marguerite.  So many of the dolls had hilarious expressions on their faces – I think the Sisters of the order who made the dioramas just bought little plastic dolls from toy stores, dressed them up, and glued them into the dioramas.  It was an odd room, and I’m not sure I wasn’t hallucinating from hunger, so maybe it doesn’t actually exist.  Exiting the museum, faint with hunger, we consulted Gaby’s iPhone and set forth.  Getting lost in Old Montréal is actually quite lovely.  The cobblestone streets and the ancient buildings make you feel like you are walking in another time.  I kept staring at old wooden doorways, fully expecting little French people to come out, dressed in 19th century clothing.  The shop fronts were sometimes very deceiving – beautiful old windows with wooden frames…and then modern day souvenirs leapt out at us; t-shirts that screamed, “I ❤ POUTINE!”  We eventually found Olive et Gourmando, and entered the BEST lunch experience I have had in Montreal.  It was hopping inside – a line to the door, and people bustling all around.  On every wall, there were chalkboards with menu items, funny stories about the restaurant, and cute drawings.  There was an entire counter dedicated to coffee and pastries.  Did I mention I love Montreal?  If this is an imitation of France, then I might have to visit France so I can eat myself to death.  The hostess told us that we would be table #5 as soon as the current occupants finished up, then we would take the blank notecard she handed us and make our way to the back, where we would puzzle out the menu in French, and give our order.  I am on a lifelong quest to find the perfect Rueben sandwich, so I had to give the OG Rueben Panini a try, Gaby ordered a Cuban Panini, and because you must always say YES to truffle, we ordered the homemade mac & cheese with mushroom and truffles. Yes, we ordered 3 lunches.  We’re on vacation, don’t judge us.  The tables were so close together, I had to humiliate myself and squeeze my large American rear end between our table and our seated neighbors.  I shouldn’t have felt embarrassed – poor Gaby had to witness my neighbor eat her entire lunch with her mouth open.  People who haven’t been taught by their mommies to eat with their mouths closed should be more embarrassed than I am about my bum.  Seriously.  See-Food Lady beside us did nothing to take away from the sheer decadence of our lunch, however.  Even when the neighbor table accidently splashed their homemade ketchup on me, it didn’t bother me.  The paninis were perfect.  Slightly crispy, thin focaccia bread, melted swiss cheese, Montreal smoked meat, sauerkraut, whole-grain mustard, and a creamy sauce.  I almost screamed.  The mac & cheese came bubbling in a cast-iron pan.  All the food was so hot, we burned our greedy hands and mouths as we stuffed our faces.  Oh, the gluttony.  Oh, the glorious scent of truffles, wafting up to our quivering nostrils… We finished lunch with a good, strong, kick-in-the-ass double espresso (actually, Gaby enjoyed a creamy latte while I gulped the caffeine) so we could have the energy to visit one more museum: Musée d’Archéologie et d’Histoire Pointe-à-Callière (Pointe-à-Callière Archaeology and History Museum). We rolled our stuffed selves up and down a few windy streets, completely lost, until we re-oriented ourselves and found our way. We discovered that the museum was going to close in an hour, so we rushed down to the bottom level – one of the coolest parts of the city.  Archeologists had discovered, under the old building, the foundations and remains of the original settlements of the city – starting with the First Nations inhabitants.  The area’s first cemetary is actually right there as one of the displays – creepy.  The little river (St. Peter) that the settlement was built next to, was eventually overtaken, converted into an aqueduct for wastewater, and the city was built over it.  Now, the museum is excavating further, and future museum patrons will be able to take tunnel tours under that part of the city, following the route of that stone tunnel. I look forward to the new exhibit!

 

The whole day has been a bit of a blur, with us absorbing history and chasing food….somewhere along the line we decided to try again to find the famous Queues de Castor—Beaver Tails!  You would only understand our obsession if you’d ever tasted the fresh-from-the-fryer crispy, chewy goodness of this pastry, smeared with Nutella that is melting from the heat of the fried dough, maybe sprinkled with sliced bananas or strawberries…Heaven on Earth. Yesterday’s search for Beaver Tails was a bust.  Today, we found another address online, and tracked it down to the banks of the St. Lawrence River.  On the King Edward Pier, we pressed our noses to the glass doors of the Centre des Sciences de Montréal…and woefully read the sign on the Queues de Castor shop, “SEE YOU NEXT SPRING!”  We turned around and slowly dragged our weary asses up the hill to the Metro station, mumbling all the way, “But it IS Spring…why they no open? We want Beaver Tails…”  

 

As soon as we landed at our home station, we searched for a pharmacy in the underground city.  Nothing hurts more than middle-aged feet that have been pounding the pavement all day, after years of sedentary living.  One more thing I love about Canada?  We are not so Scroogey about our over-the-counter meds.  You can find Tylenol with muscle relaxants at any drugstore, no prescription needed.  Gaby snatched up 2 boxes for the road, and we bought the 2 biggest diet cokes we could get our hands on to wash them down.  A gajillion steps and a few ventures down the wrong tunnels later, and we were back in the blessed Fairmont the Queen Elizabeth.  We didn’t have the energy to make it to the elevators to crawl to our rooms, so we collapsed in the cushy armchairs in the lounge in the hotel lobby.  Slurping icy cold soda, popping Tylenol for our throbbing feet, we made noises of satisfaction that you normally shouldn’t make in public.  I neglected to mention that I am on Day #2 of treatment for Strep throat as well, so I had to gulp down some absolutely disgusting cough syrup.  Following it with a mouthful of diet coke, I realized too late that I really hate the taste of cherry coke. Bleah.  But our day was so good, and the food so fine, that even our complaining muscles and the foul taste of cherry coke could not drown out the pleasure we felt.  After about 30 minutes of recovery in the lobby, our fickle stomachs turned to thoughts of more food opportunities.  We explored the guidebook and the reviews online, and decided our feet would like to eat at the closest good restaurant.  We chose the Dominion Square Tavern.  We had just enough energy to return to our rooms and make ourselves presentable.  Then, we hit the streets.  We are getting better with our senses of directions; we only had to turn back once on this journey.  In just a few minutes, we were opening the doors to one of the best places I’ve ever been to for dinner.

 

Built in 1927, the Dominion Square Tavern has the golden feel of the Roaring Twenties, but somehow has become one of the hottest current spots for people to gather in and share a loud meal with friends.  The low roar of music, working bartenders and servers, and friends laughing and talking, was just as my husband once told me was his ultimate goal for his restaurants: loud enough so that you had to slightly lean in to your dinner companion for conversation, but you don’t have to yell.  Music in the background, but not imposing on your conversation.  The chatter of all the tables jumbled together so you don’t hear one particular voice or conversation.  A gentle roar. Gaby and I were seated at the bar (the place was crowded and busy) where we could watch the very cute bartenders mix drinks in their simple uniforms of tuxedo shirts tucked into blue jeans, white aprons tied on their waists.  I tried a Pimm’s Cup for the first time, and Gaby had a Royal Gin Fizz.  The menu had me drooling, so I ordered the Bone Marrow appetizer, and the Roasted Cod on Pureed Carrots and Kale.  Gaby ordered the Deviled Eggs appetizer, and the Braised Beef on Mashed Potatoes and Greens.  The appetizers arrived and mine almost rose up from the plate and beat me over the head.  There were 2 HUGE beef bones, the length of my forearm, sliced lengthwise, marrow broiled and glistening.  A tiny spoon stood straight up, stuck into the marrow.  On the side, there were 8 points of toast on which to spread the marrow, and a tiny silver bowl of course salt to sprinkle on the deliciousness.  Gaby’s deviled eggs looked like the stunted midget little brothers to my enormous appetizer. It was spectacular.  Of course, my greedy eyes were scolded by my wimpy stomach, and I only managed to down 1 1/2 of the bones of marrow.  It was like eating straight butter – beefy butter…Sinfully good.  The entrees made their appearance, and my stomach immediately rejoined the game.  The roasted cod was tender and creamy, the carrots silky, and the kale gave the dreamy mouthfuls the bite they needed to be well-rounded.  I cleaned my plate like a good little girl – no nagging necessary.  Gaby’s beef was fork-tender, and I think she regressed into her infancy, curling up on her barstool while she savored each morsel.  And since we were on a Romanesque roll, I thought we could ask around for a feather to take care of our full stomachs, and perhaps order desserts as well.  I am not a sweets kind of gal, but the lemon tart looked very nice.  Gaby is a sucker for sticky toffee pudding, and lo and behold there was one on the menu.  No feather needed – just the right amount of dessert came out on dainty plates, and my little lemon tart was presented with flakes of light sweet merengue chips scattered on top.  All of it was so light, I could almost fool myself into believing we hadn’t indulged in dessert.  Almost.  We definitely needed the walk home, to wiggle and shake that dinner down to our toes.  And the desserts must have had a healing influence on our inner GPSs.  We went straight back to the hotel, no problems.  I can’t recall much after that; the food coma lifted just enough for us to stumble into pajamas and Facetime my family, then we slurred, “Good Night, Sweet Dreams” and oozed our way to our rooms.  I lost track of Food vs. Exercise…I really wanted to justify all that gobbling we did all day.  Then I remembered how we like to resolve arguments or competition among the kids…”Let’s just call it a tie!”  Whattayasay?  Gluttons Indulging vs. Gluteus Maximus Toning…Let’s just call it a tie! 

 

Blessed Be the Gluttons, For They Shall Eat the Earth.Image

Beaver Tails, Croissants, and Wine, Oh My!

03 Apr 2013 Leave a comment

by Suelinhess in foie gras, Food, Friendship, Montreal, Travel, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , ,

After waking at 3am to drive to the airport this morning, I am completely exhausted.  But the excitement of traveling and the anticipation of the next few days in Montreal just won’t let me sleep!  My cousin ,Gaby (who flew in from Philadelphia), and I were reunited at the baggage carousel of the Montreal Trudeau airport and were zoomed into the city of Montreal in a taxi whose driver weaved fearlessly between other cars, pursued by what sounded like an ambulance.  Or it may have been the police, but they couldn’t catch us.  We were gallantly deposited on the steps of Fairmont Le Reine Elizabeth (Fairmont The Queen Elizabeth – home of John and Yoko Lennon’s famous Bed-In), and a short time later we entered our luxurious 2 bedroom executive suite on the top floor.  After getting lost a few times, we discovered a formal living room, a dining room that seats 10, a kitchen, 2 bedrooms, and 2 and 1/2 baths.  I think we might need to keep the gps tracking devices activated on our phones so we can find each other in this set of rooms!  We then dumped our bags and rode up and down on the elevators until we found Le Montréalais bistro to take care of our rumbly tummies.  We immediately ordered 2 glasses of sparkling wine and toasted our Spring Break.  After our Pacifique Salad and Smoked Meat Sandwich, we took a walk to search for the legendary Beaver Tails (deep-fried pastry dough smothered in Nutella or other delectable sweet toppings of your choice).  We walked far, pushing through wind gusts like a good little Dorothy and Scarecrow would.  Eyes watering, hair askew, we came upon an empty storefront, with the remnants of Beavertail menus on the wall.  Tragic.  Heads bowed, we thought we would take a shortcut back to the hotel through the Underground City (a warren of tunnels that span 11 miles under the city of Montreal, that are filled with thousands of shops and places to eat and drink).  We now know where to go when the Zombie Apocalypse arrives.   One could live in the Underground City for years and never need to visit the street level.  As usual, I was a dismal failure at being Navigator, and luckily my cousin is a naturally talented pathfinder.  I think I’d rather have her plugged into my car, giving me directions, than my crabby Garmin, who always scolds me and repeats in her jaded phrase, “recalculating.  recalculating.”  Gaby got us back to the hotel through the tunnels, and we rewarded ourselves with pastries and lattes from the Boutique Gourmandise.  It was an eclectic mix of very bright spring clothing and handmade pastries.  We chose the pastries.  Bringing them to our room, we claimed a small end of the enormous dining table, spread out our tour books and iDevices, and proceeded to while away the afternoon, sipping coffees and planning the rest of our week.  At the end our day, we were too tired to get dolled up to eat out, so we ordered some Caesar salad, some foie gras, some fruit salad, and a bottle of wine from Room Service.  Then we settled into our living room and Facetimed my husband and kids, tormenting them with our plans to find a functioning Beaver Tails the next day.  Tomorrow, we will intersperse sightseeing with bouts of eating, followed by strolling along the mighty St. Lawrence River.  If anyone would like to join us in our gluttony, we have a sofa sleeper in the living room, or space on the room-length dining table than could sleep quite a few folks.  Day 1 completed, and things are only going to get better…Happy Easter, Mon Ami!Image

Keep Calm and Buy Booze in the Duty Free Shop

10 Mar 2013 2 Comments

by Suelinhess in airline delays, Travel, Uncategorized Tags: , ,

Every 6 months, I fly from wherever we happen to live, to Davenport, Iowa, to visit my Aunt Barby. She is my dad’s older sister, a retired school teacher, spinster, and she could use a daughter around every once in a while. I love her and I love to help her, but I seem to have a travelshitmagnet that activates on all my trips to see her.

1st leg of my trip and my travelshitmagnet is working on full battery power. Before I left Jasper, I deliberately updated my Garmin online, to prevent any weird “Recalculating” glitches hitting me mid-highway. Well, the update ended up giving the Garmin little hiccups, and during the drive through the city of Calgary this morning, every other word coming out of her was, “Recalculating.” All I could do was laugh through my tears, as I drove in circles.No problem no problem – the highways signs brought me to the airport eventually.

At the airport, I stressed myself in the long-term parking garage, trying to commit to memory, the exact spot that I parked my car, so when I return in 10 days I don’t find myself wandering around like a pathetic Gretel, sans Hansel, searching for the breadcrumb trail to my car. I had installed an app in my phone a lonnnng time ago, that is supposed to help you in this exact type of situation. Trouble is, I couldn’t remember how to use the damned app. Hashimoto’s strikes again. I finally took a picture of the concrete pole I was parked next to. No problem no problem!

Wheeling my luggage into the main terminal, I checked-in, went through Homeland Security (I love how you can walk behind the ticket counters at Calgary International Airport in Canada, and in a few steps, you are on U.S. territory…it’s like time travel or something – you don’t even need to get on an airplane, and there you are on U.S. soil). The flight was delayed. First for 13 minutes, then for 25 minutes, but finally we boarded. The pilot told us later, when we were airborne, that the flight was delayed by “weight and balance issues.” What does that mean? Do the fat people need to be divided evenly on each side of the aisle? Did the sports freak a few seats down really need to bring his hiking boots, his skiing boots, AND his snow shoes?! It was a small plane – 2 seats on each side of the row. And for some reason, most of the passengers decided to bring ALL of their luggage as their carry-ons. With few exceptions, it seems that most of them ignored the rules about what constitutes legitimate carry-ons (this explains the “weight and balance issues” the pilot was talking about). And nobody likes to put their bags under the seat in front of them, so all the overhead bins were taken by the time I boarded. No problem no problem- I don’t mind resting my feet on my carry-on. Let’s just get this damn plane off the ground – I have a connecting flight to catch on the other side! The poor flight attendants began to play musical-overhead bins when some of the bags were so big the bin doors wouldn’t close. Still, it seemed we were almost ready to take off. Until the female attendant discovered a pair of crutches hidden under a seat. She asked the passengers around, if everyone was comfortable with the crutches stretching under 2 sets of seats, and was told, “this is absolutely unacceptable” by some crotchety old lady. The flight attendant patiently began to rearrange the overhead bins again, and my poor seat mate finally nudged me and whispered, “help me keep an eye on my leather jacket – it’s changed bins 6 times. I feel like I’m playing a cup game on a street corner in New York.” Sure enough, I turned away just ONCE and I lost it. Good thing it wasn’t a small child or a puppy; later, when the flight landed, it took a few minutes, but the jacket was found at the front of the plane. During this musical overhead bin show time, the plane started taxiing down the runway, and the female flight attendant actually had to get on the phone and tell the pilot to stop. So he stopped. On the runway. I fully expected the traffic jam to cause other planes to honk their horns, but airline pilots are much more polite than the rest of us drivers.

My seat mate was a lovely old man from Medicine Hat (for my ‘Merricun friends, it’s the Canadian equivalent of the town of Mayberry. And my seat mate was Andy Griffith). He said he liked small towns, and never wanted to live in a big city like Chicago, but “it sure is amazing to visit the big city! And, oh my, what about those flight delays? And would you take a gander at the male flight attendant? His eyebrows are quite elegant, and his earrings are diamonds bigger than my wife has! And how do you stay so calm when you might miss your next flight?” I told him that there really weren’t any other options than to stay calm. I had spare clothes in my carry-on in case I missed my flight, and fussing wouldn’t make the plane fly faster. What I didn’t mention was that I had stopped at the Duty Free Shop and purchased a giant bottle of Grey Goose vodka, and it was happily nestled in my spare clothes, inside my carry-on. Every time I felt myself begin to panic about missing my flight, I pictured a shot of Grey Goose on the rocks, with a squeeze of lime. No problem no problem.

5 minutes before we landed in Chicago, the female flight attendant got on the intercom and lightheartedly told us not to worry, we were only delayed by 45 minutes, and we should all be fine, as long as the people who were not connecting to further flights would stay seated so the rest of us could run like mad beasts for our departure gates. Oh. And did we forget to tell you that we are landing in Terminal F and you need to run to terminal E to take a shuttle bus to Terminal C? That’s right, we’ll be landing in Terminal F-you. I had exactly 15 minutes to make it clear across the airport to get on the last plane to Moline, Illinois. Well, I ran like Hell and made it – the last one to board. It turns out, I needn’t have run, because we were stuck on the runway for an hour after that. This pilot told us we were “inexplicable delayed.” Not possible. Inexplicable is aliens landing their aircraft on the runway and us having to wait until they disembark their aircraft before we proceed. Inexplicable is a plague of locusts splattered on the windshield of the plane, blocking the pilots’ view. For the rest of the rational world, there is always an explanation. What was that pilot hiding? Somehow, I thought crutches were involved. During this time, I felt a hot flash coming on, so I aimed the overhead fan towards me. And I discovered my new seat mate forgot to brush his teeth…after drinking all night last night. And also, he forgot to bathe. And the fan kept blowing his aroma my way. No problem, no problem. I made it onto the plane, I’m almost at Aunt Barby’s. And there is Grey Goose waiting on the other side.

I should have bought a bigger bottle. After waiting at the luggage carousel in Moline, through 3 airplanes’ worth of luggage, I decided to face the fact that, while I was running to catch the plane to Moline, the guy who was carrying my suitcase to the same plane, stopped to pick his nose. Maybe I was spared having to spend the night in Chicago, but my luggage will be spending the night there. We’ll be reunited tomorrow, and all will be well in the universe. Actually, I’m not stressed. I’m safe at my Aunt Barby’s house, I have spare clothes in my carry-on, and I have a double shot of Grey Goose on the rocks. No lime, but no problem no problem!

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