Monthly Archives: February 2012

The Anti-Clean Plate Club

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This morning the world is white and grey, snow falling and the colour of the sky perfectly matching that of the ground.  Jake has the sniffles, my husband had a cortisone shot in his shoulder on Friday and hence has been rendered the one-armed man (wasn’t there a show about that?), I am running the book fair this upcoming week, and, with all this cheerfulness surrounding me, I woke up with a decided sense of fatigue and ennui.  I decided to skip yoga this morning and cheered myself up by drinking coffee and eating granola on the couch, while watching the new Looney Tunes show with the boys.  Have you seen the new Looney Tunes?  It is VERY funny.  Today’s episode dealt with Bugs Bunny and his – apparent – caffeine addiction, which led to him becoming addicted to a Red Bull-type energy beverage and consuming a month’s worth in one day.  Hilarity then ensues with Bugs redecorating the house and cooking all the food and spending hours on the elliptical machine.  “He likes coffee just like you do, Mom!” Jake said happily, while I wrapped my hands around my mug.

Maybe it was the coffee, or maybe it was the energy from my new green smoothie loving, but I rallied to putter around the kitchen and bake a loaf of cinnamon bread, which somehow led to cleaning all surfaces in the house like a maniac.  I’m not sure how that happened, but at least the house looks good. 

My neighbour told me that she had found in her home a bunch of her grandma’s old recipes, including one for pineapple ham, which reminded me of a cookbook that is in my possession.  It is the Canadian Lutheran Ladies’ Family Favourites, which my mother gave me when I moved out.  I will preface this by saying that the Lutheran Ladies really know their way around muffin baking, and there are a number of tasty cookie, quick bread, and square recipes that I use frequently.  However.  There is also an entire section entitled “Meat and Macaroni Salads” which includes such dishes as Jellied Egg Salad (utilizing hard-boiled eggs, lemon jello, mayonnaise and cottage cheese), Jellied Chicken Salad (utilizing diced chicken, lemon jello, onion, and Lipton’s Chicken Noodle Soup mix), and a dish made entirely of cold Kraft dinner with celery and Catalina dressing.  Predictably, there are any number of jellied fruit salad recipes, including one that involves orange pop, orange jello, and canned pineapple.  It really reminds me of the church potlucks of my childhood.  

Fortunately for those of us who like to watch our girlish figures, there is a Low Calorie section, which contains no calorie counts but does contain a recipe entitled “Low Calorie Hot Dish” which is made with a head of cabbage, a pound of hamburger, onion, rice, and canned tomato soup.  There is also an “Ethnic” section, which is largely comprised of German, Norwegian, and Swedish dishes, with very sad recipes for tandoori chicken and empanadas rounding out the global feel.  The strangest recipe of all in the “Ethnic” section is one for PEI Clam Chowder.  Apparently living in an Atlantic province is exotic enough to be considered ethnic. 

It’s strange to consider how food trends have changed over the years.  When I was a child meals were of the meat-and-potatoes variety, tomatoes were canned, and I had never eaten a pepper, ever.  There was also a clean plate rule, which has given me memories of sitting at the table long after everyone else had left it, crying, a piece of fried liver, growing cold, on my plate.  That right there is the reason I give my children a bit of rhythm, as they say on NYPD Blue, about finishing their meals.  I don’t encourage waste, of course, but I feel it’s mean to force a child to eat everything on their plate.  I grew up to be a vegetarian; for all I know my kids are going to grow up to never want to see another quesadilla or a bowl of pasta ever again.

Whale Tail!

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At first I was going to do a “Wordless Wednesday” post – does anyone still do that?  I’m so hip to the scene – but then I realized that it’s Thursday, which is great, really, but probably means that “Wordless Wednesday” isn’t exactly relevant.  Nonetheless, I was going to entitle it Whale Tail and then show you this:

Cool, right?  We went on a whale watching tour and saw 30-40 whales, which I thought was incredible, until I spoke with my girlfriend who had gone with her family on a whale watching tour on the same afternoon and saw a) a group of males competing for female attention, and b) a baby whale breech right in front of them.  Still, it was very fun although I think that my kids were just slightly too young to really appreciate whale watching.  They enjoyed it, for the most part, but for kids that age if you have seen one whale, you’ve seen them all.

Note the guy next to me in his festive Hawaiian shirt.  It’s obvious, but Hawaiian shirts are de rigeur in Maui, but they really do look silly elsewhere, unless worn ironically, I guess.

It is starting to snow right now, which makes me think of Triumph, the insult comedy dog.  This clip is QUITE hilarious, if you like that kind of humour, which I do (note: clip is not family friendly).  “Oooh, clouds!  It’s Armageddon for Hawaii!”

Something about being on vacation has made me completely incompetent when it comes to meal planning and grocery shopping.  I depleted our cupboards and fridge in anticipation of our trip, with the tragic exception of the milk I forgot to empty and hence came home to two 3/4 empty cartons, complete with chunks.  Ew!  Gross!  In any case, because of this depletion I have found myself grocery shopping every single day since our return.  EVERY DAY.  Today I realized that I needed – NEEDED – to go to Costco, and so there I went this afternoon.  I found that my faith in humanity – as usually happens when I shop at Costco – has been shattered.  Is it so hard to return a cart?  Is it?  Presumably, the non-cart-returner has already pushed the heavy, gigantic, unwieldy cart through the vast expanses of Costco and the parking lot.  Is that, then, it?  Is that all the non-cart-returner can give?  Is that the extent of their ability to exert themselves physically?  Is walking an extra thirty seconds with a depleted, much lighter cart just too much?  Apparently it is. 

It makes me all stabby.  Fortunately, I think that my grocery levels are now back to par, although unfortunately I went through the mental process I seem to go through every time I’m at Costco, which is to “just pick up an enormous family-sized package of soap and/or toothpaste, since I’m here anyway.”  I do this EVERY TRIP and now I have hoarder-levels of toothpaste and soap.  I’m going to have to hide some in the downstairs bathroom, else my husband may have me committed. 

Speaking of committed, my kids made up a game this morning that involved writing “prizes” on scraps of paper, putting them in a hat, and making me draw the said “prizes”.  I kept “winning” the following: ninja attacks on my person, bad luck, a football, and, finally, the grand prize of a golden marmot.  These prizes are all theoretical, of course, but I’m still a little disturbed by the many impending ninja attacks I have won.

Flying through the air with the greatest of ease.

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Before we left on our trip, a friend of mine told me that her favourite part about any holiday is being on the plane, heading towards the destination, because at that point the trip is just beginning and all the fun is ahead of you.  I agreed with the sentiment, but I can’t say the flight is my favourite part.  Even though flying requires almost no effort on my part, I always board the aircraft looking fresh, with lipgloss and brushed hair, and exit the aircraft looking like I’ve been on a bender: raccoon eyes, unkempt and partially flattened hair, sweaty, crazed expression on face.  Why is that?

Before:

After:
 
Note the Hawaiian shirt.  Festive! 
Our flight was scheduled to leave at 8:20 am, and so we were at the airport by six, only to find out that US Customs had changed their policy, and so instead of checking in, going through customs, and then hanging out at the other side of the airport drinking coffee and watching the kids go insane, we had to stand in a gigantic, winding-around-the-airport lineup, until the customs people called our flight number.  Then everyone on the flight would go through customs at the same time.  Why did we need to get there so early, then?  It’s anyone’s guess.  Attention US Customs: this is a very poor system.  This is a very poor system because there is zero communication between customs and the airport, it seems, and so customs had no idea – so they say – of passenger volumes.  We got through customs after 8:00.  We stood in line for over two hours, which wasn’t that big of a deal, but it was kind of irritating.  It meant our flight was an hour and a half late taking off, which, again, was not a big deal for me but I did feel sorry for the people with babies in the lineup.  I also felt profoundly annoyed with the middle-aged couple behind me who complained incessantly.  Yes, we’re in a lineup, but CONSTANT COMPLAINING IS NOT HELPING THE SITUATION.  The woman kept threatening to write strongly-worded letters to everyone from the airport staff to the president of the United States.  “This is just a total nightmare!” she moaned.  Really?  Annoying, yes.  But if my worst nightmare involves me getting on a flight to Maui within a couple of hours, I think I can take it.  This, plus the very dissatisfied babies in the lineup, led to a travel epiphany for me: I would much, much rather hear screaming babies than the sound of complaints, especially complaints from the privileged and entitled.
Instead of drinking coffee on the other side of the airport, we had a picnic of sorts in our giant lineup.  I need to give a (completely unsponsored) shout out to Tim Horton’s.  For the price of two lattes and a bottled water at Starbucks, I bought the following items at Tim Horton’s: two large coffees, two bottles of water, two cranberry-blueberry bran muffins, one chocolate chip cookie, one sprinkled doughnut, and two fruit-and-yogurt parfaits.  Amazing, right?  Hooray for Canada!
Once we got on the plane, I found myself to be profoundly drained, perhaps from all the negativity, or perhaps from saying “I’m not sure how much longer, sweetie” a million times.  The kids immediately immersed themselves in games of Angry Birds and downloaded episodes of Scooby Doo on the iPad.  I, on the other hand, stared at the seatback for three hours straight.  Getting to the airport at six meant that I woke up only slightly earlier than I would on a normal day, but still I was strangely exhausted.  I had reading material, my notebooks, crossword puzzles, and Sudoku, and yet I stared at the seatback for three hours.  I felt like Putty from Seinfeld.  Remember that episode?  Eventually I channeled that episode in my mind and nicknamed the guy across from me “Vegetable Lasagne”.  Vegetable Lasagne was a guy in his twenties who apparently subscribed to the school of thought that says if you have to be up early in the morning, the best way to do it is to stay up all night.  Poor Vegetable Lasagne.  He spent the entire flight with his blue hoodie pulled up around his head and his sunglasses on, playing little dirt-bike racing games on his phone.  When the drink cart came around he requested a beer – hair of the dog, I guess.  I kept waiting for him to barf or something, but he made it okay.
Today is the first real back-to-reality day, as the boys are back to school, my husband is back to work, and I am back to my life of meal planning, school pickups, and figuring out who is going to volunteer for the book fair next week, OMG, I have some gaps in the schedule!   It all feels a little surreal.  For two weeks, I walked around wearing things like this:
(That picture is for my grandma.  Not that she reads my blog.  At least I hope she doesn’t.)
I mean, I walked around in that outfit, a lot.  I went to the grocery store looking like that and I was not out of place!  Today I’m wearing two sweaters and my hands are all purple and sore and I AM WEARING A BRA AND NOT A BIKINI. 
Now that I think about it, my friend was right.  I wish I was on that flight again. 

Here Today…Gone To Maui

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In case you were wondering where I’ve been, I just got home from two weeks in the paradise that is Maui.  O-o-almost paradise!  We’re looking on heaven’s door.  Almost paradise!  How could we ask for more?

I’ve been to paradise but I’ve never been to meeeeee.

I may be a little delirious since I flew on the red-eye last night and I’m functioning on minimal sleep, people.  I’m also slightly delirious from swinging from a tropical climate to one in which my hands are already cracking, and from a lifestyle where I spent the majority of my day lounging in the sun, reading, swimming, and eating a lot to one where I discovered that I had forgotten to empty the milk before I left and came home to a festering, yet strangely empty refrigerator.  For two weeks I barely registered the day of the week and now I’m trying to come to terms with the upcoming book fair and soccer scheduling commitments.  What a buzzkill.  I’m wearing a bra for the first time in almost 16 days, for crying out loud, and I feel oddly bitter and constricted.

I feel as though I need to immediately clarify that last statement, lest you wonder who is this braless hippie who has taken over the Boyhouse?  Not to worry.  I was braless only because my upper body wardrobe was exclusively made up of bikinis and Lulu tanks, and not – absolutely not – because I decided to wander around letting it all hang out in a depressing, droopy, partially deflated water balloon kind of way.  No one needs to see that.

That settled, I love Maui.  My husband and I honeymooned – nearly ten years ago now – on the big island of Hawaii, and other than the awesome newlywedded bliss, the experience left me feeling kind of meh about Hawaiian islands. Mostly I felt uninterested except from a highly amused fashion perspective:

Do you need a closeup?
That one’s for you, Nan and Beck.  You’re welcome.
So my expectations for a Hawaiian vacation were not especially high.  HOW VERY WRONG I WAS.  From the moment I stepped off the plane, my skin plumping happily from the humidity and my purple Raynaud’s diseased hands looking and feeling like normal hands, the moment I smelled the tropical flowers blooming and felt the sun, I instantly wanted to vacation nowhere else, ever again.  Within a day, I immediately started petitioning my husband to book our vacation in Maui every year until the day I die.  I could see myself there, happily, forever, eating pineapple and doing yoga and drinking frosty beverages with little umbrellas in them. 
I was ready to trade in all my black sweaters and boots for (black) bikinis and sandals.  I even have, astonishingly enough, a suntan.  A SUNTAN, PEOPLE.  A SUNTAN.
Note: astonishing suntan may be relative.  After eleven days in the sun we went for a whale watching tour.  Prior to, I was in a long lineup for the ladies’ room, chatting with my line-mates about organizing a coup to take over the uncrowded mens’ room, when the very tanned woman behind me mentioned that perhaps I had not been in Maui very long.  After some discussion, it was discovered that we arrived on the very same day.  Well, said the very tanned woman, I have been at the beach every day.  Um, me too.  Not three hours later, we ran into my husband’s colleague and his wife, who touched my bare shoulder and asked, concerned, if I hadn’t had a chance to be out in the sun much.  I think I need to get a button that says “This IS my suntan.”
But anyway, my delirious, suntanned, bra-wearing, back-to-life-back-to-reality self now must go fold a mountain of laundry.  I have so much to tell you!  I want to know everything that happened while I was away.  Tell me everything. xoxo

It’s the least relevant day…of the year.

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It’s Groundhog Day, or, as I like to call it, the least relevant day of the year if you live where I do. I don’t care what’s happening in the rest of the world – six more weeks of winter would be an early spring; we’ve been having unseasonably mild weather which makes me a bit superstitious that it is going to be ALL WINTRY BLASTS ALL THE TIME come April and May.

But Groundhog Day – you will be happy to know – is not just a weird, made-up holiday like you may have assumed. It actually has roots in pagan European weather lore! Good times. Despite my previous feelings that Groundhog Day is the stupidest day of the year, which was largely based on weather bitterness which I am trying to overcome by finding within me an invincible summer, I now say hooray for the groundhog! The lowly groundhog, elevated to the status of having its very own day. It’s not everyday we celebrate a rodent. We should all be happy for the groundhog.

Today is also the day Sid Vicious died, which seems a bit of a “who-gives-a-shit” piece of information, but since he overdosed on heroin to be with his beloved crazy-ass Nancy, maybe he was somehow confusing Groundhog Day with Valentine’s Day. I mean, you do that much smack in your lifetime you probably have a hard time keeping up with the calendar, you know?

Many, many of our special days have roots in pagan rituals, but not – as you likely already know – St. Valentine’s Day. St. Valentine was a Christian martyr, and I’m a little fuzzy on the details as to how his day became synonymous with love and chocolates and those cheap incarcerated teddy bears that proclaim they are prisoners of love. In any event, I am very much looking forward to Valentine’s Day this year because my kids are at the hilarious stage when talking about anything romance related has them shrieking with disgust.  It’s quite amusing.  Their teacher started a heart-themed calendar for the month of February and it’s the Worst! Calendar! Ever!  The boys have taken to bringing home Geronimo Stilton books from the library, and we have been reading them at bedtime.  There was a chapter where a female mouse VERY CREEPILY goes after Geronimo in a romantic way, and the boys were actually screaming with horror.  It was kind of horrible, come to think of it.  If there had been a gender reversal – a male character going after a female one in the same manner – there would have certainly been an uproar about it.

But alas!  This is the way of the world, it seems.  Being a mother of boys makes one acutely aware of gender bias.  Take, for example, what used to be Boy Scouts but is now just Scouts, versus Girl Guides.  It’s okay for girls to be with only girls, but not okay for boys to be with only boys, is the take-away message I am receiving.

We’ve all heard about the uproar over the new Lego line that is aimed at girls.  Personally, I looked at that line and immediately coveted all the sets for myself.  They are CUTE.  I also covet one of those Maplelea dolls – I really like Taryn.  But anyway, I think we’re all aware of the uproar about Lego, how Lego is supposed to be gender neutral, etc., etc.  I do not agree.  I think that Lego is generally marketed to boys.  Girls do play with Lego, of course, just as boys play with dolls, but predominantly those items are gender-marketed.  Is this a bad thing?  I don’t know.  We don’t live in a gender neutral world, people.  I am not saying this is right or wrong, I am saying that this is reality.

But I digress.  I am simply amused that my boys have reached the stage where little hearts cause them to make retching noises, whereas I have reached the stage where Valentine’s Day evokes feelings of the craving variety, as in chocolate and wine.  Come to think of it, perhaps chocolate and wine should be the new way to celebrate Groundhog Day!  Yes!  Let’s celebrate the groundhog with a nice glass of Shiraz and a pile of frozen York patties, shall we?