Category Archives: Food

Eating a Rainbow: The Meal Plan and Pasta Night!

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Yesterday the temperature made it all the way up to minus 12, and honestly, it felt like a huge respite. I took the dog for a long walk and didn’t feel like dying. All of which is to say we are still in the deep freeze, which is really to be expected as it is winter. It is, frankly, terrible this morning, although not as bad as Monday, when there was a windchill factor of “around minus 40,” the meteorologist said vaguely. When we are talking minus 40, there is no need to be too exact. It was cold enough that I actually picked the boys up from school, which I never do, and as I waited for them I noticed their classmates coming out with unzipped jackets, no gloves, and, in the case of one girl, only a pair of capri-length leggings, canvas running shoes, and a hoodie. Oh, the inner fires of youth. Teenage bravado notwithstanding, there’s nothing to do about this weather but dress in layers and wait it out, and perhaps spend some time baking delicious things or cooking warming meals. I have a couple of zucchinis that will become a chocolate zucchini loaf this weekend, and I have plans to make my dairy-free version of my mom’s classic eclair recipe, which I haven’t made for several years.

As you know, or should know if you have read more than one post on this blog, I am an Organized Person, and that extends – to a degree that is probably extreme – to meal planning. I also am a person who likes routine and predictability, and I have passed those qualities along to my family. All of which is to say, when it comes to weekly meal plans, I a) write things down and never ever deviate from the Plan, and b) do not employ a whole lot of variability. I am a person who has had the exact same smoothie every single day for lunch for…I don’t even know how long. Years? Kitchen creativity and experimentation is, in this house, reserved for Weekends Only. Weeknights are for the Tried and True, for things that are relatively quick and easy and do not require a lot of thinking on my part.

That said, here is my typical Weeknight Meal Plan:

Monday: Pasta with roasted vegetables

Tuesday: Some kind of stir-fry; there are three main kinds

Wednesday: Pita pizza with veggie plate

Thursday: Wraps or tacos

Friday: Greek salad with pitas and hummus; My Favourite Meal

There is some room for flexibility here; for example, if I am subbing an evening class or have a meeting at the school, then I can swap things around a little. Generally, this is how our week shakes out. A friend asked me recently if I sometimes don’t feel like making what’s on the plan, and honestly, that never happens. I think it’s a Pavlovian thing; if it’s Friday, I start looking forward excitedly to Greek salad. If it’s Monday, I’m excited about pasta.

In the coming weeks I’ll be sharing all the “recipes,” such as they are, with the huge caveat that since I stopped food blogging, I don’t really measure things much anymore. Today I’ll share my “recipe” for pasta, along with my method of incorporating more vegetables and placating the meat-eaters.

The “Recipe” For My Favourite Pasta Sauce

My favourite pasta sauce is a mash-up of an old pasta salad recipe and Grandma Fern’s trick for cutting acidity in tomato-based soups and sauces; this particular recipe makes enough for three meals for my family, and it freezes perfectly. Take two 600 mL bottles of strained tomatoes (passata) and pour into a large-ish saucepan over low-medium heat. Add one teaspoon of baking soda and stir really well. As it warms, it will foam up like crazy; keep stirring.

Take two cups of oil-packed sundried tomatoes, drained somewhat. Leave some of the oil in, but not too much. How much is too much? I have no idea. I drain most of it off but I don’t get obsessive about it. Oil is yummy. Put the tomatoes in a food processor and add some red wine vinegar and balsamic vinegar, maybe 3 tablespoons to a third of a cup each? I don’t really know, I just pour. Measure with your heart, people. You can always add more but you can’t take it out. Then shake in some garlic powder; you could use actual garlic cloves but for some reason I always use powder. Shake it in until you think, yes. Yes, that’ll do, Donkey, that’ll do. Then process it until it’s all nice and chunky and even.

Add that mixture into your foamed-up strained tomatoes. It’ll foam again, because that’s science, bitches. Vinegar plus baking soda equals a fun chemical reaction, as we all know from school or from making volcanoes with our children to amuse them for a while when they are small. Then add cracked black pepper to taste; stir and let simmer for a while.

Eating a Rainbow

I love pasta, but what I love best about pasta isn’t the actual pasta, it’s the sauce. I also find that I could eat massive amounts of pasta and not feel satisfied, just bloated. This is why pasta night is accompanied by one of my favourite things, roasted vegetables, which I smother in sauce. Almost always, I make roasted cauliflower, but for that one or two times a year when cauliflower is $10 for a tiny head, I use zucchini or broccoli. Have you ever roasted broccoli? It’s delicious.

I have a rule about portion control: when it comes to vegetables, the rules do not apply. The rule is there is no rule! I, like Sally Allbright, do not like to eat between meals so by the time dinner rolls around, I’m pretty much a rabid wolf. Therefore, I eat a MASSIVE amount of vegetables. On pasta night, I cut up two large or three small heads of cauliflower, toss them in olive oil, and sprinkle with sea salt and pepper. At least one of those heads is for me and me alone. I spread the cauliflower (or zucchini or broccoli) on two pans; since I like my roasted veggies kind of crispy, I put “my” pan in the oven for over an hour at 325 convection. The other one goes in for around 35 minutes. If this sounds like a low temperature/ long time, there is a reason for that.

Catering to the Carnies

Ha! I just referred to my guys as “carnies,” like they are working the midway with their greasy hair and moustaches and copping a feel when they check young girls’ safety belts. Ew. Sorry. Anyway, on pasta night the guys get turkey meatballs, which is why I use a 325 convection temperature. The meatballs go in around the same time as the second pan of cauliflower. If you’re interested, I use a pound of ground turkey and mix with the following: one beaten egg, 1/3 cup bread crumbs, a handful of Parmesan, several shakes each of Worcestershire, soy sauce, dehydrated minced onion, sea salt, and cracked black pepper. That recipe makes enough for three meals and also freezes well.

This is a huge favourite in my house; everyone loves it. It’s nutritious and pretty easy, and it gives me something to look forward to on Mondays.

The ingredients

Foaming.

Adding pepper.

A nice moderate amount of cauliflower.

The apple that rolled away

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Last week I was startled to learn that Johnny Rotten is not only still alive, but he just turned 63. I grouped him in with aging rockers who have defied all odds by living past the Eighties, such as Billy Idol and, of course, Keith Richards. I was talking to a friend about this (HI TARYN), and she told me that Johnny Rotten is actually a person on the straight and narrow, which I did NOT know. I guess this is a cautionary tale for anyone jumping to conclusions about people based on their occupation, appearance, and, possibly, the company they keep. On further investigation, I discovered that Johnny Rotten tried heroin one time and then quit after it made him throw up, and also he was predisposed to not use based on the cautionary tale that is Sid Vicious. In addition, he got his stage name due to his total lack of oral hygiene, which led to rotting teeth which he had completely replaced in the early 2000s, not just because of vanity, but because the dental rot was affecting his health.

On that note, I have a dental cleaning tomorrow! I am “looking forward” to it as much as I “look forward” to getting a mammogram or Pap smear. I cannot wait for the hygienist to tell me again that my dental tape – which I use to floss every day, EVERY SINGLE DAY – is all wrong, and that I might as well be using nothing. I will refrain from mentioning that big, gross study that said that flossing in general is ineffective; you will tear my dental tape out of my cold, dead hands.

After a few months of fairly mild winter weather, we are suddenly living in a Planet Hoth Simulator; it is the kind of painful cold that makes it difficult to do anything at all. It’s difficult to get undressed to get into the shower, and then difficult to get out of the shower. It’s difficult to get dressed again and difficult to do regular things like get groceries or, you know, leave the house at all. The dog hasn’t been walked for days, although it’s “warming up” this afternoon so I might give it a go. Here is a sadly Canadian thing: this morning I chatted with a friend about how it “didn’t feel SO bad” this morning, at minus 24. It’s all relative, I guess. I’m trying not to complain.

Thankfully the cold weather, along with sleety snow and treacherous roads, hit the day AFTER my son got back from his Epic Winter Camping Overnight Adventure. He got off the bus, enthusing about how great the trip was. He Loved Every Minute Of It. The apple not only fell far from the tree, but it rolled several thousand metres away, ending up in an entirely different orchard, with entirely different fruit.

Well, not entirely. The one thing he admitted he didn’t love was the food. “There weren’t any vegetables!” he said indignantly, adding that the only fruit available was in the form of apple cinnamon instant oatmeal. It made me smile. Imagine hauling fresh produce on a 12 kilometre uphill ski! Although the teacher in charge, and one of the volunteer dads each hauled a Chariot with ski attachment full of supplies all the way, which made me appreciate their fitness levels.

We do eat a LOT of vegetables and fruit around here, to the point where strangers comment on my grocery cart contents. If you are looking for ways to eat more veggies, well, I’m your huckleberry.

Lately, inspired by the lovely Suzanne (HI SUZANNE), I’ve been toying with sharing my weekly meal plans, including school lunches. I recently read something that basically said people have lost the basic ability to cook, due in part to the really super detailed recipes on blogs and in cookbooks. Is that true? When I was learning to cook, I had a very simple step-by-step beginner’s cookbook, and I was completely paranoid to deviate from the recipe AT ALL. OMG, I used a teaspoon of oregano and it was only supposed to be half a teaspoon! But with practice, all is coming, as they say in the yoga world. I realized that, other than for baked goods, I rarely use a recipe for anything. Even when it comes to baked goods, I change and modify the recipe almost always, mostly to cut sugar or to make it vegan or what have you, depending on who in the house is going to be eating it. So I think in the coming weeks I will start sharing my meal plans – which are pretty much the same week after week, with some variations on a theme – as well as my “recipes” for those meals. The “recipes” are always inexact and approximate, which is what will make them fun. They also contain vast amounts of vegetables, which you have probably already guessed.

One thing that you likely already know, if you have been reading this blog for any length of time, is that my husband and kids eat meat and I do not. I do cook meat for them, and I do not make separate meals. Essentially, which you will find out when I start posting my meal plan, I make a veggie-centric dish six out of seven days a week, and most of those days I include meat on the side, so the guys can add it to their meal. The one day I do not do this is Sunday, but that’s a whole other post.

Today I saw a woman asking for advice for her picky eaters; a woman I know who wrote a book and is evidently a parenting educator, strongly advocated for not taking her children’s personal tastes into account when making dinner. Just make dinner, and if they don’t like it, they can go fuck themselves, was essentially the takeaway. Well. I have very strong feelings about this. I always cook dinners that I, personally, like. I think it’s the prerogative of the cook to make things that they themselves enjoy. However. Imagine what it would be like if someone cooked for you and discovered that you have an absolute hatred for celery, as I do. Imagine then that this person was like “Well, I love celery, so CELERY IN EVERYTHING! You don’t like it? THEN YOU MIGHT AS WELL STARVE.” I think there is maybe a middle ground to be found here.

One thing I pride myself in is having calm, pleasant dinners with my family, and I don’t think that atmosphere can be maintained with an attitude of I’m making whatever I want and I don’t care what you like. The kids are teens now and basically hoover up everything, but when they were small, I would make sure that they had at least SOMETHING they could eat at dinner. One meal, yes, but sometimes things can be added or subtracted from that meal. For example, for years one of my sons would eat taco shells with cheese and vegetables on taco night, but all separately. To this day, my son who loathes tomatoes will eat a pile of pasta, just buttered. He also is the son who eats all the roasted vegetables I serve with pasta, so I consider that very acceptable. Everyone leaves the table full, and happy, and they always thank me for a “great dinner” whether it was something I spent all afternoon on or something I threw together in twenty minutes.

Anyway. This has gotten fairly wordy so I shall close. I think it’s going to be a fun way to spend February, writing about the Meals of the Boyhouse. I mean, what else happens in February? Valentine’s Day and rage about Costco carts? Well, there might be some of that too. I’m only human. xo

Life Luxuries

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“I remember you!” the cashier at Superstore said to me yesterday as she weighed out six pounds of red peppers and sixteen pounds of bananas. “You’re the lady with the teen boys who eat all those vegetables!” That would be me. I’m Superstore Famous!

They eat a lot of yogurt, too.

It’s an absolute luxury to be able to feed my kids fresh, nutrient-rich food every single day. It really is. I mean, think about it: we can buy any fruit or vegetable we want, in any quantity, ANY TIME OF THE YEAR. Isn’t that incredible? It is really, truly, a luxurious, incredible thing. I can buy eight pounds of grapes – which will, hopefully, last me a week – in the middle of January. Two or three generations ago we would have been all relegated to root vegetables and canned fruit, and a few generations before that? Very little fruit at any time of the year.

When I think about it, every single component of my life, and most likely yours as well, would be considered an enormous luxury for a very large proportion of the global population. Daily showers, with soaps and cleansers and little exfoliating masks, using hot water that is available any time from the turn of the tap, sleeping at night in a comfortable bed with warm covers and clothes in my heated house, easily accessible public education and health care. I drink four litres of water a day, all perfectly clean and from my tap. This very morning I chose to run on a treadmill, watching the sun rise, purely for exercise. And the laundry, my god, why would I ever complain about the laundry? I put clothes in one machine, and then transfer them to another or to a drying rack, without ever having to haul the water or scrub the clothes or carry baskets of wet laundry on my head. Every single moment of every day is a goddamn miracle, and we should all be thrilled just to be here every second.

Well. That’s not exactly how it works, does it? I count my blessings every day and I feel grateful every day and yet I might still complain about the amount of time I spend washing dishes, in my miraculous sink with hot water and soap at my disposal. That’s just being human; just because someone else has a terminal disease does not mean we cannot complain about a miserable cold. Just because someone else is unemployed does not mean we cannot complain about a bad day at work.

I was thinking about the word “luxury” the other day, as I noticed a long comment thread about the “luxury” of getting rid of things that don’t spark joy. There has been a large uptick in the number of snarky and disapproving comments about Marie Kondo; I couldn’t figure out why, as her amazing book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up came out years ago. Ah, but apparently there is a new television program called Tidying Up, which has apparently rubbed people the wrong way. I haven’t seen it and probably won’t, since as longtime readers may remember, I happily Kondo-ed my life a few years back.

The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up literally changed my own life. I implemented most, if not all, of her strategies; to this day that book affects how I purchase and consume things. I roll my socks and stack my sweaters sideways. I keep all my bathroom items in neat cardboard boxes for easy access. If I don’t have a use for something, or if it doesn’t Spark Joy, I donate it.

It’s definitely a luxury to be able to do that, but this is where I circle back to my original point: our entire lives are luxury, comparatively speaking. Sure, maybe we would define luxury in a different way, like being an heiress or just living completely hedonistically, like Cleopatra drinking pearls or similar, but the reality is that we all have these wildly beautiful, incredible lives. I mean, my god, we can VOTE. We can vote and own things and we can get medicine when we are sick, we can be educated and wear clean clothes and if we want to visit another country, WE CAN DO THAT TOO. Sure, some things cost money and we may have to work for that money, but ultimately work is allowing us to live in this manner. Following that, work allows us to Spark Joy.

So yes, it might be very luxurious to just get rid of things that are not Sparking Joy Within Us. It’s a pure luxury to get rid of a perfectly good shirt, just because the colour doesn’t suit or that it was purchased several years ago. We are very fortunate indeed to be able to do just that.

Further to the conversation, a woman I know commented that stated that material things do not bring her joy; her joy is derived strictly from non-material things. I will confess that I derive a lot of joy from many, many material items. Every single day my blender, my jewelry, my clothing, my house, my piano, my books, that fancy brightening face mask from The Body Shop – all of these things and many more Spark Joy every day. I am, apparently, a Material Girl, living in my very own Joy-Sparking Material World.

Do you ever see comments about something you love and feel badly that you love it? That’s how I felt, ridiculously enough, after seeing so much negativity about Tidying Up. This is silly; why should I care what anyone has to say about a clutter-controlling methodology? One of my goals in 2019 and beyond is to just rise above such comments, and not allow them to penetrate my psyche, not just about Marie Kondo, but about everything that brings me joy. Further, I have decided that life is short and I have no time, none, for the following: passive aggressiveness, constant unmitigated outrage, unkindness, meanness, and, especially, smug commentary that make people feel badly about things they enjoy, be it music, books, food, or the way a sock drawer is organized.

Festively Limping To The Finish Line

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I won’t ask if you are all ready for Christmas, because I know you already are! a friend (HI GLENN) said to me last week, and it’s true, my gifts were all purchased over a month ago, cards have been sent out weeks ago, everything is wrapped, and yet. This last week, these last few days before a break, may just be my undoing. We are all so exhausted and completely burnt out that it is taking every ounce of energy to rouse myself and the kids out of bed in the morning and just get through the day. We are all counting down the days until vacation, even though it specifically goes against my Enjoy The Moment mantra. If we are always looking ahead to the next thing, we can forget about what’s happening right now. Or, as Ferris Bueller said, Life moves pretty fast, if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it.

Deep thoughts from teen movies of the Eighties.

What is it about this week? This morning I felt like my sanity was holding on by a thread, and not a sturdy thread either, but one that is completely frayed and shoddy. Yesterday my younger son said that he thought there was no school on Friday. Weeks ago I had checked the school website; since Thursday is “activity day” I thought that might be the case. But on the website, Friday was listed as Last Day of Classes. So, by that logic, I concluded that Friday was indeed the Last Day of Classes and there would be school.

Strangely, the kids kept telling me that over the morning announcements, there were x-1 days of school left, when I felt there should be x days left, based on Friday being the Last Day of Classes. After my son’s claim yesterday though, I looked again at the website. Friday: Last Day of Classes. But oh! When I started to scroll down to confirm the date of my older son’s Environmental and Outdoor Education trip to the mountains, I noticed something. Underneath Friday: Last Day of Classes was Friday: PD Day NO CLASSES.

WHAT.

It seems to me like there could have been a much better way of communicating that information. I looked through all the paper forms in my possession and not one mentioned this fairly salient fact. To be sure, it is not a big deal; if anything, it’s an unexpected bonus since that will allow me to have a much more relaxed morning, but yet it was unsettling.

More unsettling was the realization that the Grade Eight Ski Trip – for which no forms or information has been distributed to parents as of yet – was on the exact same day that my eighth grader was due to go in to get molds made for his upcoming orthodontic work. Under normal circumstances, this would be No Big Deal. I would Figure Things Out. But with everything else going on right now, and a January packed full of one-off appointments, and the fact that I had already rescheduled this particular appointment twice, and this appointment needed to occur 7-10 days before the actual braces are put on actual teeth, and finding an appointment time that both works for my crazy schedule and minimizes the missing of Important, Difficult To Make Up classes is incredibly trying, well, this was the thing that took the thread from Sturdy to Completely Frayed.

I’ll just call before I head into the studio, I thought, with deep ujjayi breaths. I had a few minutes between the time the office opened – 8:00 – and the time I had to leave. No problem! Except that I kept getting the If you are calling to reschedule or book an appointment, please contact us during our regular office hours message. But I AM calling you during regular office hours! This IS your regular office hours, why is no one answering the PHONE?

Well. I got it done, not without the requisite mental anguish. The finish line is indeed in sight. Soon, I will be able to pour giant glugs of Almond Baileys into my coffee and drink it in my pajamas, with nowhere to go and no place to be. Soon.

I don’t want to complain, I really don’t. I do love this time of year; I love the parties and gatherings and getting cards in the mailbox. Speaking of which, last year someone sullenly tweeted that they had received only one Christmas card, and it was a standard-issue from a local business. It turned out that she had sent ZERO cards but was expecting many. Well. That might not be how it works. Perhaps expectations need to be adjusted. And perhaps I need to adjust my own expectations about my own limits and go to bed every night this week at 8:00. That sounds like a very good plan.

Speaking of expectations, I had very low ones yesterday when I drove into the Costco parking lot. Costco, one week before Christmas. I was, to be honest, expecting a complete nightmare and I spent a few minutes in my car just deep breathing. I had just taught a yoga class and I discussed the stressful time of year with my students, using words like “self-care” and “meditative breathing” and I felt like the teacher could be the student, so to speak. The parking lot was strewn with carts, which, as we all know, causes me much grief, and the man in the car across from mine literally shoved his cart into the VERY SAME SNOWBANK from which I had retrieved a cart only two weeks prior, and drove off. DEEP BREATHING, SERENITY NOW.

So I was expecting the literal worst as I went into the store, wondering, not for the first time, if the items on my list really were worth the angst involved. And then…nothing. The produce section was a bit crazy, due to very poor aisle engineering, but the shopping trip was really…fine. All my items were available, some were discounted, all the produce looked great, and then when I went to check out there was NO LINE. I wheeled my giant heavy cart up to the till and immediately unloaded. WHEN HAS THAT EVER HAPPENED, I ASK? Certainly it was not what I was expecting the week before Christmas. Maybe it was all that cart karma during the year. It all paid off.

And speaking of karma, my lovely friend and yoga student Sara (HI SARA) brought me these cookies, along with – get this – chocolate pretzel bark and honestly, this kind and beautiful gesture absolutely turned my whole day around. I went from Being Ready To Cry to having my sanity reinstated. It is no longer hanging by a thread. It is now securely double-stitched together. Never underestimate what kindness will do for someone, especially this time of year. xo

Buddhas, Black Friday, and Bikinis

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I’m torn between not wanting time to go any faster than it already does, living mindfully in the moment, savouring every day, and also counting down the next three weeks until Christmas vacation. On the one hand – mindfulness! On the other – hoo boy, am I looking forward to the break.

Were you on the edge of your seat, wondering how the white chocolate fudge turned out? Well, wonder no more! IT DID NOT GO WELL.

I was so optimistic until the time came to cut it; it was not dissimilar to cutting into a thick pudding. Which is to say, it was messy and weird. Again, how? How did this happen? How do two things that become solid when frozen become a non-Newtonian fluid when mixed together? Why do I need a degree in chemistry to make fudge? At any rate, I was very disappointed. By this time, I had sunk approximately $15 worth of ingredients into that little pan, and I was loathe to throw it out. It’s like throwing $15 in the compost bin. I put the pan back in the freezer and took the dog for a walk.

Taking a walk is great for generating ideas, isn’t it? The little loop Barkley and I walk takes about thirty minutes, and it is good thinking time for me. It’s also a good way to practice mindfulness and notice my surroundings. For example, there is one house on our loop that has a Buddha statue on their front step; it’s not just any Buddha statue, either. There is a jagged edge where the head used to be. This headless Buddha has been there for many months, and the strangest thing is that the head sits on the drain spout directly beside its decapitated body. To my inexpert handywoman eye, it seems like it would be easily fixed with some Gorilla Glue, but no. I can’t help wondering why. It cannot be unnoticed by the residents of the house. Is it some kind of statement? Mere laziness? We may never know the answer.

In any case, as I was walking, I wondered why I was so attached to the idea of little squares of fudge. Practice non-attachment, Nicole. I came up with the idea of rolling the fudge-like-substance into little balls and then dusting with cocoa powder, like a truffle. I tried later that day and it was incredibly messy and oddly difficult, but it somewhat worked.

They did not hold shape particularly well, but my younger son assured me that they were delicious and that he would volunteer as tribute to eat the entire thing, if no one else wanted them. Always willing to sacrifice, that’s him.

I made a coffee date last Friday with a colleague of mine; we both had a brief window of time and she had an appointment in my quadrant of the city. For those of you who I have had actual coffee dates with, you already know that I never have any clue about cool and interesting coffee shops. I never know where anything is and I’m always at a loss to suggest a venue. But for this coffee date, I suggested the Starbucks at a nearby mall; my colleague’s appointment was just down the hill from it, and I live about five minutes away. Normally I do not set foot in the mall after mid-November, but I thought 10:30 on a Friday morning, how bad could it be?

It was Black Friday.

Later, when I was relating this story, a friend (HI ALANA) said to me How could you not know it was Black Friday? Didn’t you get all the emails? Well, yes. My inbox had been exploding over the past week, and yet I never made the connection between the mall and Black Friday. Neither did my colleague, which is how I ended up circling the road-rage-filled parking lot, trying to find a spot, and having to allow an extra twenty minutes to leave the parking lot, so that I wouldn’t be late for my class.

It’s ridiculous, really. Black Friday ISN’T A THING IN CANADA. Well, I guess it IS a thing now, no matter how much I deny it. The parking lot was similar to Christmas Eve or Boxing Day, with the exact kind of panicked, I must buy all the things attitude that one might see on those days. It was insane. The only upside is that I got to see all the pretty Christmas decorations that were not up when last I was in the mall, such as a gigantic sparkly moose.

And as much as I deny the existence of Black Friday, I am not made of stone. The endless barrage of emails from various retailers wore me down, and I actually clicked on the one from La Vie En Rose. I was in the market for a new bikini, anyway, and they had absolutely ridiculous prices. The one I fell in love with was obtained for a mere $22. Twenty-two dollars! Of course, my husband looked at the photo and pronounced it “ugly” and that the “embroidery looks old-ladyish.”

Well. I do not think it’s UGLY but he may have a point in terms of old-ladyish-ness. A few years ago I realized that triangle-and-string bikinis were really not suitable anymore, for a few reasons, most notably that they were no longer flattering – hello, gravity – and also they were not providing the, shall I say, coverage that I think is appropriate for a woman my age who is the mother of two teenage boys. Since I refuse to wear one-pieces for the same reasons I refuse to wear rompers or jumpsuits, more modest bikinis are my new jam. The key word here is COVERAGE. I don’t want to end up dressing like Stacy’s Mom.

Speaking of teen boys, this week I took them to the dentist for their cleaning and checkups. They are still going to the same pediatric dentist we’ve been patronizing for a decade. It occurred to me for the first time that perhaps it might be time to switch dentists; not because I have any issues with the actual dentist practice, in fact, it’s the opposite. I love their whole office. However, I thought maybe it was time to move on when I looked at my sons and their feet hanging off the small purple dental chairs, their heads popping up above the headrests. I asked the dentist at what point should we say good-bye to them, and he said that he sees kids up to age eighteen. I pictured their future six-foot-plus frames squished into the child-sized dental chairs.

The thing is, their office is so convenient. It is literally a three-minute drive from my house, and approximately that long from their school. They had an 8:00 appointment and both were back at the school by 8:25. I mean, you can’t buy that kind of convenience. Maybe I will keep them there until they are 18, their deep voices will be a change from the usual high-pitched screaming that is de rigeur in any given pediatric dental office.

I think we’re going to make it after all

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A few months ago I offered to bring desserts to a Christmas party on December 1; I love making holiday-themed sweet treats and I always, without exception, make more than even my family with two teen boys can possibly eat. Or, should eat. In any case, I happily offered and two days ago I realized with a start that December 1 is next weekend. How did that happen? In my mind it’s still September. Well, kind of. It feels like this fall has flown by and now I am in full-on Christmas treat-making-mode, going through massive amounts of coconut milk, chocolate, and peppermint extract.

Yesterday I made two different kinds of fudge to have in the freezer; I decided to make a white chocolate fudge with dried cherries and almond slices, and I followed the base recipe from Kraft Canada, thinking that it couldn’t go wrong. Well. I guess I can’t really blame Kraft because I DID alter the recipe slightly – instead of using condensed milk I used full-fat coconut milk which, in my defense, has worked as a substitute every single time before. Even as I was making it I thought it didn’t seem quite right, it seemed too thin and liquidy. After a full 18 hours in the freezer, it was still soft and certainly not set in the least, which begs the question: why? I mean, if I put coconut milk in the freezer it would be solid. If I put white chocolate in the freezer, it would also be solid. WHY DO THE TWO TOGETHER NOT WORK?

That is how I found myself scraping the strange soft, and cold, mixture into a saucepan at 7:00 this morning, adding white chocolate like there was no tomorrow, based on the theory that more solid matter could only make it more solid. It’s science, bitches. My kids watched with interest; the younger one was particularly invested in the process and kept suggesting other things we could try. I find myself, this morning, obsessively checking on it, as if the state of the fudge is much more important than it actually is. Maybe I’m projecting my emotional state on the fudge? Maybe I’m compensating for something in my life? I don’t know. As it stands it seems to be firming up, but will I be able to cut it into squares, and if not what do I do? Who knows. I am full of regret. Why would I substitute when I’ve never made this before? White chocolate isn’t even vegan so I can’t say I was trying to make a dairy-free version. I was just being too lazy to buy condensed milk, I guess, like I haven’t spent two full afternoons this week grocery shopping. I most certainly could have picked up a can.

Yesterday when I was in the checkout line at Superstore, the cashier handed me the little “this till closed, please use next register” sign to put behind my groceries. I love when that happens! It felt like payback for the week before when I made a decision between two lines and chose the one that had only two men, both with maybe a dozen items each. This will be fast, I thought happily, as I was in a hurry. If this was a movie, albeit a very boring movie, some very dramatic music would start playing, foreshadowing disaster. Grocery store disaster. The first gentleman kept trying to pay with cards that didn’t work, which took several minutes and a special customer service supervisor to resolve. The second gentleman seemed fine, until he pulled out his giant Samsung and started price-matching everything. EVERY SINGLE ITEM. I know it’s their policy to price match but MY GOD PEOPLE. Things got a little tense when it appeared he could NOT price-match his already-discounted meat because it was the wrong kind of meat and by this time I started spiralling into despair, as I watched five – FIVE – people go through the other lineup, the lineup I could have been in if I hadn’t smugly assumed that two men with small amounts of groceries would not actually take twenty minutes. An older lady behind me had started unloading her groceries, and when it appeared we weren’t going anywhere anytime soon – customer service again had to be called with regards to the discount meat – she said to me in a heavy Eastern European accent, What have I done to deserve this? What indeed. I considered asking her if she was the type to leave her cart in the parking lot at Costco, but refrained. After all we were both in this together, I with my good cart karma, and also it was Superstore, not Costco.

I just checked on the fudge again. I think it might be okay. We might be okay, everyone. xo

Yard-work fashion on point

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I admit that I’m very surprised that several of you have tried growing your own cilantro with no success, for the reason that I have had very little success with other herbs, but for me cilantro grows like a weed. Is it the super-dry climate I live in? Is it my basement grow-op that is never warmer than twenty degrees, and is frequently as low as 14 degrees in the winter? Is it the extreme love I put into it? No, the latter can’t be true – I’m sure you all were beaming your hearts like Care Bears at your own cilantro seeds.

Honestly, I can’t explain it. The only other herb that I’ve had any success with – and “success” is very loosely defined here – is basil, and even that was finicky and difficult and never amounted to much. Cilantro though! Here is my current crop:

And here is the set-up, from a distance:

I have two sets, and one I allow to lay fallow, like I’m an actual farmer. Then when my cilantro plants are at the end of their little life spans, I plant the other set so that I can smoothly dovetail between old cilantro and new sprouts and so that I am never – save for this summer’s incident – without.

Anyone still here? I didn’t really come here to talk about cilantro, although I COULD. I could talk about cilantro all day long. I could also talk about how happy I am that the snow is melted and we are suddenly into FALL, like an actual autumnal season that people in normal climates have. Who knows how long it will last, and so carpe diem, carpe diem all damn day. I’m just thrilled not to be wading through the snow for a few weeks. I managed to rake up the still-soggy leaves and I had enough spring in my step to make my sole contribution to Halloween decorating:

Aren’t they the most perfect pumpkins? This weekend the house will be transformed into something haunted, but it won’t be me doing the work.

What I really wanted to talk about today is current fashion, specifically one facet of current fashion: ripped denim. About a month ago I was at the mall shopping for a birthday gift for my dad, which was notable in itself as this was well in advance of my dad’s actual birthday. For some reason, I am usually scrambling at the last minute, like my dad celebrates on a lunar calendar and it is not actually the same date year after year.

Small digression: my dad is fantastic to shop for. He is the kind of gift recipient who immediately incorporates the gift into his life to show his appreciation, which I in turn appreciate very much. His gifts from me are strictly in three categories: shirts, golf balls, and aftershave, and I cycle through those categories throughout the year.

Another small digression: the last time I bought him aftershave, the woman at the counter – despite my clearly stating that I was shopping for my father – kept trying to steer me towards all sorts of pheromone-type sexy aftershaves with names like SEXUAL and similar. Lady, I am shopping for my DAD. I will leave the pheromones to my mom, thank you very much.

Back to the story at hand. I was in the Bay – an excellent dad-place – and I noticed a clearance rack of ladies’ clothing. I am not made of steel, and so I took a peek. This is what I found:

Further down the aisle:

I would have LOVED those when I was the age my own kids are now.

“I hate milennials!” my 14-year-old said to me just yesterday, and when I reminded him that he himself would be considered such, he replied, “I know, but still, we are terrible.” I was laughing so much I didn’t even get the context in which this statement was made. Note: I do not share this opinion, mostly because I do not like making sweeping statements about entire groups of people. Also, to quote my dad, we shouldn’t HATE anyone.

However, kids these days do have a lot of things easier than we did, that’s for sure. For one thing, google. If you wanted to know the primary export of Argentina or the capital city of Ethiopia or Tom Cruise’s height or the calories in a Reece’s Pieces Blizzard, you had to either a) look it up in the Encyclopedia Brittanica, which your parents had purchased volume by volume, b) hope for a Tom Cruise expose while paging through your mom’s copy of Star magazine, c) buy one of those calorie counting books and hope for the best, or d) spend time in the reference section of the library.

When I was in university, I had an actual preference between microfilm and microfiche.

Now, all kids have to do is grab their phones and google things. They don’t know what a busy signal is, they can shop for literally anything they want online, and, these days, they can buy their denim pre-shredded.

Back in MY day, if you wanted ripped denim – and who didn’t? – you had to do it yourself. There was none of those artful tears and frays that are sold at a premium. Back in MY day, we took scissors to our jeans and spent hours fraying them so it looked natural, and we LIKED it that way. Goddammit.

I am not one to revisit my youth, particularly in terms of style – BEEN THERE, DONE THAT – but this week as I was raking leaves I considered my yard-work outfit: old Skechers that have flowers on them (my special garden shoes!), my old Goodnight Moon t-shirt that I bought for Blissdom 2013, and these:

Look! I’m on point, fashion wise! This is what happens when you have the same jeans for six years. I earned that! Kids these days, sheesh.