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Hello November!

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Yesterday a friend asked me how much Halloween candy I had eaten while waiting at home for Trick or Treaters, and I will tell you this: zero. My secret? I buy the candy that I don’t like, which is for me a giant box with a mixture of those little Kit Kats, Coffee Crisps, Smarties, and Aero bars. The new young couple down the street – who reminds me of my husband and I many years ago – came by with their two little ones. This is their first Halloween in the neighbourhood, and the woman told me enthusiastically she had bought 100 little bags of chips and hoped that would be enough. I was loathe to tell her that we have never had more than 20 Trick or Treaters, and that she would be munching on chips for some time to come. See, that is a mistake I would never have made – it’s not that I don’t buy hundreds of tiny chocolate bars, it’s that I would never buy that many potato chips, for the simple reason that I cannot resist them. For me, salty beats sweet any day.

Next year I think I’ll buy full size chocolate bars, because I want to feel like one of those fancy ladies; a princess distributing largesse to the populace, as it were.

Thursday after classes I took the Halloween decorations down, with the help of the boys. Normally this is something I would leave to my husband but a) it’s completely dark by the time he gets home and b) today is supposed to be a “rain/snow mix” which would be a bit disastrous for our animatronic thingamagigs. Electric shorting out might add to the creepiness though:

The kids went Trick or Treating with all their friends; I was very happy to see them come back candy-laden and happy, with no one commenting on their giant statures. Does it seem to you that EVERYTHING is a divisive topic nowadays? You name it, everyone has a STRONG and IMMOVABLE opinion on it. Teens trick or treating is definitely one of them. I am of the camp that would give candy out to literally anyone who comes to my door; they could be in university – hell, they could be senior citizens and they would still get a handful of Kit Kats from me. As for my own kids, they can Trick or Treat for as long as they want as far as I’m concerned.

So here we are in November, and I for one am happy about it. Our house was hit by an absolutely deplorable virus, and I seemed to have gotten the worst of it. I recovered enough to be on my feet but the residual exhaustion has been something else. It’s been a week of just setting one foot in front of the other, and occasionally bursting into overwhelmed, exhausted tears. Today I’m finally starting to feel like myself again; I spent some days last week wondering how on earth I usually had the energy to do my normal day-to-day things. Here’s how poorly I felt: I haven’t had a sip of wine in two weeks. Dark times, people.

This morning, after napping all yesterday afternoon and sleeping ten hours last night, I felt well enough to return to my usual Saturday morning spin class. You know how they say the first time back is the hardest? I certainly hope that’s true. All during the class I kept looking down at the little orange warning on my bike: Over exercise can result in serious injury or death. Death! It seemed like a terrible portent. Usually I am filled with all sorts of personal-best goals during the class; this morning my aim was to just make it through without death. If I have a choice in the matter, I would rather not Meet the Maker while wearing sweaty padded leggings.

Fortunately, I am still here to tell the tale.

The kids are in that teenage phase where every morning, they seem taller than the day before. This has resulted in them completely outgrowing their single beds; my older son in particular is several inches longer than his bed, which has led to some uncomfortable nights. We decided to buy them both extra-long-full-size beds, which is more complicated than you might think, given we live in a 1960s bungalow. There has been much jenga-like moving of beds, and there were twenty-four hours when the new beds were delivered into the front entry, in which the entire entryway and front door were completely blocked off. The chaos of this has not added positively to my mental and emotional state this week, but the final result is extremely satisfactory. At one point I looked at all the wrappings and cardboard and craziness and repeated to myself the only way out is through over and over. Happily, after much rearranging and quite a bit of purging, things are looking up! The only problem is that I lay down on one of the beds and damn, it is way more comfortable than my own bed. The only thing keeping me from surreptitiously bed shopping is the thought of going through all this chaos again so soon. Maybe I’ll feel well enough for a glass of wine tonight, to give me some courage. Let’s hope!

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.

Spoiled

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It occurred to me yesterday, as I was baking muffins at 6:30 in the morning, that my children are exceedingly spoiled. I might go so far as to say that my husband is, as well. Of course, anyone who knows me would think that is probably a rich statement, coming from such a princess, but just because I am incredibly spoiled doesn’t preclude my family being so as well.

There is a difference, I think, in being spoiled and being a spoiled brat, and I will say that the latter is not the case. And, as one of my students said to me as I mentioned that my dog has become much more spoiled with age, that is on me. It’s true! It’s my fault. I don’t really think the kids are spoiled in terms of material things, not really, but they certainly are in terms of food. Hence, muffins at 6:30 in the morning, so that the kids will be able to have a delicious homemade snack when they get home from school.

Delicious homemade snacks and fresh fruit are my two must-have-at-all-time-items, which certainly explains why all my free time is spent grocery shopping and preparing food. I was just telling a friend that I have two refrigerators and one refrigerator-sized freezer, and all of those appliances are chock-full of food all the time. Doesn’t food go bad though? she asked, and no. Nothing goes bad in our house, ever, with the exception of the odd mini-cucumber. This is because we never go out to eat, and I make all our meals, and most things, from scratch.

Side note: whenever I say I make something from scratch, I think of my beloved late Grandma Fern, who used to say about cakes allegedly made from scratch, Scratch your ass and reach for the mix? Oh, Grandma. I was a little skeptical about Hedy’s spice cake at the church potluck too.

Anyway, I do make most things from scratch – no ass-scratching involved – and so now my family is so accustomed to homemade things that store-bought or restaurant items “taste weird.” This includes but is not limited to: ice cream, muffins, loaves, cookies, cakes, brownies, pasta sauce, and, strangely, hummus. It is a problem of my own making but sometimes I’d just like to buy a container of hummus from Costco without everyone wondering what’s wrong with this hummus, it tastes weird. 

ICE CREAM, you guys. A few years ago my husband bought me an ice cream maker, after we were at a dinner party at which the hostess served her own homemade ice cream. One thing led to another and now I have no fewer than three flavours of homemade ice cream in the freezer at any given time. And I don’t even eat ice cream! But I digress.

I am not one to talk, though, as I recently discovered my own “it tastes weird” scenario and that is store-bought cilantro. A few years ago, as a Valentine’s gift, my husband bought me my own indoor grow lights so I can grow HERBS NOT THAT KIND OF HERBS ACTUAL FOOD HERBS. I almost exclusively grow cilantro because a) it’s easy to grow and b) no one else in my house will eat cilantro, and I hated how quickly a bunch would go bad in my refrigerator. The only thing I will accept going bad is the single mini-cucumber every two weeks. So, for the past few years I’ve grown my own cilantro, loving how I can just easily harvest the exact amount I need when I need it.

Over the summer, though, we were out of town and so I took a cilantro-planting break. I didn’t feel I’d be around enough to give my little plants love, and also I am deathly afraid of fire and wouldn’t want to leave the grow lights on lest a cilantro plant weave its way into the fluorescent lights, dry out, and suddenly burst into flames, eventually leaving the house to be a smoking hole in the ground while we were off on vacation.

My two greatest fears in life are, in this order, my husband and/or children being diagnosed with a terminal illness, and fire. I cannot even contemplate having little scented candles in the house, I will never run the dryer if I’m going to step out of the house for even five minutes, and I look nervously at the allegedly harmless little tea lights that are lit in the yoga studio. What if someone knocks it over, and the whole studio goes up in flames? I think, extremely irrationally, given that the tea light would most likely just extinguish itself before such a scenario would ever happen. I even was anxious during Christmas Eve candlelight services, although that fear I think has much more basis. I mean, some of those little kids holding actual flames? What if one of them set my hair on fire? I would think, as a teenager. Given the fact that it was the eighties, and I went through a bottle of Salon Selectives a week, this was a pretty rational fear.

When I was a kid my maternal grandparents had a lamp that rotated, and when it was lit, it looked like a forest fire. A forest fire! God help me. No wonder I’m so crazy. I was obsessed with looking at the forest fire lamp, which probably explains a lot.

Anyway! Enough about fire. Back to the cilantro story. When we returned from vacation, I replanted some seeds, but in the interim, as I waited for them to sprout their little green deliciousness, I needed my favourite stir-fry garnish and so purchased a bunch from the local Co-Op.

People. I thought I had actually bought the wrong herb. It tasted…weird. Is this parsley? Or what? I thought, then looked at the little labeled twist tie. No. It’s cilantro. It tasted weird and off and I thought it must be the bunch. I threw it out – breaking my own rules – and bought another bunch at Superstore. I looked carefully – yes, it definitely is cilantro – and when I got it home it was the same thing. I have spoiled MYSELF for regular cilantro. After growing my own I cannot go back to conventionally grown cilantro. I can’t. I won’t. No wonder my kids look askance at bakery goods and regular ice cream. IT ALL TASTES WEIRD.

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Thankful Edition (sort of)

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Yesterday I learned that it was National CB Radio Day – 10/4! That was a cheering discovery, and if I was a trucker in the 1970s, my handle would be Red Pepper.

Speaking of which, it’s funny; the song Personal Jesus by Depeche Mode, a song I listened to and enjoyed back in 1990 or so, has come on the radio every single time I have gotten into the car in the past week. Every single time. Is it enjoying a resurgence in popularity? I am sure I haven’t really heard it much at all since the early nineties, yet, here we are. Did all the radio stations suddenly collaborate to pull it out of obscurity? A few years ago I witnessed a similar phenomenon with I Just Came Back To Say Goodbye, which is a terrible song to have going in a loop in one’s head. It’s even worse than Your own. Personal. Jesus. Someone to hear your prayers. Someone who cares. over and over.

I have felt like I needed my own personal Jesus in the past few days, mostly because of this:

That was my backyard first thing Tuesday morning, and then about six hours later it looked like this:

I stopped measuring after we hit twelve inches, because I only have a foot-long ruler, and I didn’t think the measuring tape would work.

I’m not going to complain about the weather, I’m not going to complain about the weather, we can’t control the weather, we can only control our own reaction to the weather…I kept up with this mantra over and over, even while I wondered why I live in actual frozen hell. Complaining about the weather is very boring, not to mention depressing, and weather talk in general is only interesting to those directly affected, and so while I’m sure you would all be fascinated by my dog walk that featured snow-laden branches completely giving way and dumping snow all over me not once, not twice, but five times in a thirty-minute walk, and how I actually calculated the calories burned by shoveling snow that felt like it was 100 pounds per square foot, I will abstain. Sort of.

It’s almost Thanksgiving! This is as early as it can possibly be, and I really do want to take the time to be mindful and thankful, even while I am completely depressed about the fact that I live on Planet Hoth and all of my frozen plants are covered in snow and probably will be for the next nine months. That was not being mindful and thankful, Nicole.

Positive thoughts! Positive thoughts! Let’s segue into Nicole’s Favourite Things, shall we! I missed September, so will smoothly combine it with Thanksgiving which is, in my humble opinion, kind of a lame holiday. I dislike pie in general; pumpkin pie is particularly abhorrent to me. Even when I did eat meat, I never liked turkey dinner; as a plant-based person, it is now, how shall I put this, very un-fun. But it’s not all about the food, is it? Well, it kind of is. I do like the thought of being thankful for things, which is something we should do every day, and Thanksgiving gives us a good reason to remember all those things for which we are thankful. So, here we go!

Nicole’s Favourite Things, the Thanksgiving Edition

Leaves

I’m sure glad I took this photo last week, because those same shrubs are now sagging under the weight of the snow. Sorry! I can’t seem to stop complaining. But they are pretty, aren’t they?

Boy, those leaves are going to be a bitch to rake up. Moving on! Positive thoughts!

Apples

I know all of you people are all about the Honeycrisp, but for me, there is only one kind of apple, and that is the McIntosh. Have I mentioned this already? Yes, I have. Many times. But Macs are so good, they are the perfect texture and the perfect tartness and the perfect taste. My older son was begging, literally BEGGING me to make an apple pie, and although I consider it to be an abomination, and a grievous waste of the perfect fruit, I bought a few extra apples specifically to make pie.

I am not gifted in the “making baked goods look pretty” department, so this is as good as it gets, in terms of pie crust. I read the shortening box, and one suggestion was to roll out the crust between two pieces of waxed paper and WHY HAVEN’T I BEEN DOING THIS SINCE THE BEGINNING? What a game changer. I highly recommend it; it makes it so much easier to roll and to transfer into the pie plate, and it is so much less messy than cleaning up flour that gets scattered everywhere since the dough keeps sticking to everything.

By the way, do you like my apron? My parents brought it back for me from their recent trip to Scotland. My youngest niece calls aprons “cooker capes” and forever that is how I will think of them.

Pears

As much as I love apples, I love pears a teensy bit more. Their season is so short that our whole family ends up bingeing on pears for the few weeks that they are really good. I have been buying them in six-pound bags; the first one contained pears of all the same greenness, so they all ripened at exactly the same time. We were a family of pear bingers for a few days; the next bag I bought had a few that were almost-ripe, so things have smoothed out around here, pear-eating-wise.

Inhale Smoothies, Exhale Love

After my one-year shopping challenge finished, I wasn’t actually going to buy much of anything; I really do have a lot of clothes. But I saw this tank and I could not resist:

It’s like it was made for me! I do both of those things! I had to have it and it makes me happy every time I wear it.

This Sweater

One of the nice things – I guess? – about living on Planet Hoth is that I have a number of gorgeous, warm sweaters. This one I bought right after my shopping challenge ended – it was on clearance for TWELVE DOLLARS, PEOPLE. I love the way it looks! But it is NOT the most practical item, as the sleeves droop into everything while cooking or washing dishes or doing any of those household tasks that seem to take up a large percentage of my life.

Barkley is wondering what is UP with those sleeves.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends. I hope you have many things to be thankful for this weekend. xo

Reach out and touch someone

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This is a thing that actually happened at Superstore this week: behind me, unloading her groceries, was a mom with a small boy, around aged two, eating one of those free cookies the bakery gives any child under 12. Behind HER was an older lady, who started talking to the little boy, seated in the cart. She was talking the way you do to a two-year-old – Is that a good cookie? Are you a good helper? Are you getting groceries with Mommy? – and then suddenly, loudly and stridently, said to the mom, “You really should teach him that he shouldn’t talk to strangers! I’m serious! I just read something about a little boy being abducted and KILLED after talking to strangers!”

I whipped my head around from where I was piling my groceries into my bins. I was smiling to myself when I heard the little boy babbling, and this woman’s complete change of tone was startling, to say the least. The mom made slow and direct eye contact with me, raised her eyebrows and smiled, and then turned to the older lady. “Thank YOU for your concern,” she said in a very polite and kind voice. The woman kept talking, saying she was serious, this was a serious situation, and the mom just kept nodding and smiling. “Okay, THANK you. That’s kind of you to be concerned.” She said it in a way that was completely unoffensive and simultaneously showed that she would not give this weird busybody a single thought.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so impressed in my entire life. Also? What the actual, lady? First of all, why are you luring a two-year-old into a conversation with you, only to chastise the mother for allowing such a conversation to happen? Secondly? While of COURSE I taught my own children to be cognizant about their surroundings and not randomly begin conversations with strangers on the street, I do think there is something to be said about polite chitchat in the grocery store. I would like to think that if an older person began conversing with my children in the security of their local grocery store, that my children would be so kind and polite as to carry on with the conversation. Everywhere you go these days, people are on their phones, desperately avoiding any and all human contact, and this has made the world a worse place. Whatever happened to making small talk while waiting in line? We have enough temptations in our phones to avoid society as a whole, we don’t need weirdness about Not Talking To Strangers when that stranger is simply making a comment about the weather or the photo of the Duchess of Cambridge on the cover of Hello! magazine.

Clearly, this hits a nerve with me. I am a person who – surprise! – loves to talk to strangers. I think we, as a society, would all be better off if we took the time and extended ourselves a bit to have a light conversation with other people, people we don’t know, people we will likely never encounter again in our lives. Instead of just scrolling, liking, and commenting, making actual contact with other humans, people who may or may not be lonely, people who may or may not need a kind word, people who may or may not just want to be seen by someone, even if it’s a complete stranger asking if those Dr. Oetker pizzas are any good, because she’s never tried them, but she’s always wondered.

The world is so small now – we can connect with people half a world away with just a click – but it’s also so big. Reaching out and just making contact can really make a difference, plus, it can be fascinating. People are so interesting, aren’t they? Everyone has a story. I remember years ago, a friend posted a photo of a lovely little apartment in Italy, with flowers on the balcony, and she said, I wonder who lives here and what their life is like. I think that all the time, but with food. I wonder what that person is going to do with all those pears and Swiss chard, I might think as I gaze at the groceries on the conveyor belt in front of me, or Oooh, that looks like a birthday party to me!, or What makes Gourmet Gummy Bears gourmet? I always look at other people’s groceries, not in a judgmental way, no, but out of genuine interest. The other day I was at Costco with my usual cart full of groceries, and the older gentleman in front of me had a total of four things, which is always interesting to me when that happens. A person has to be, in my opinion, in possession of some incredible inner strength to go to Costco and leave with four things. How do they do it? I feel virtuous and strong if I leave without spending $400, let alone only putting four things in my cart and then LEAVING. But this particular gentleman made me smile because all I could think of was this guy is going to have a good time this weekend. In his cart was the following: a vacuum-pack of baby back ribs, a ten-pound bag of onions, a Costco-sized pumpkin pie, and a two-pack of the kind of whipped cream that comes in a spray can. PARTY.

Of course, sometimes the contents of people’s carts make me wonder. The other day, a young couple with a baby were behind me, and the cart – the entire, giant cart – was filled with that kind of baby food that comes in a squeeze packet. There was nothing else at all in the cart, just dozens and dozens of squeeze tubes, in all different flavours. It seemed like every squeeze tube of baby food was actually in that cart. For once in my life I didn’t instigate a conversation, because I didn’t want to sound in any way weird or judgmental (that’s a LOT of baby food you have for that one baby!). My natural nosiness was satisfied though, as I heard the lady say to the cashier that they were going to China for five months, and this kind of baby food was either unobtainable or expensive. I imagined a suitcase full of baby food on its way to China and smiled.

A cart full of squeeze-tube baby food is one thing, can you imagine a cart full of this?

I was looking for travel-sized shampoo when I saw this on display. I admit I stopped and stared at it for a good couple of minutes, completely blocking the aisle until a lady asked if she could get by. I apologized and explained that I was looking at this, to which she said, in an excited kind of voice, “Are you going to try it?” No. I’m not. I don’t want placenta on my face, no matter how revitalizing. She went on her way but I like to think that she circled back to pick one up. It could have happened!

Have a beautiful weekend, my friends, enjoy the end of September! xo

Let them eat really pretty cake

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In case you were waiting on the edge of your seat, yes, I did survive the seven-hour-ten-teen-boys birthday party on Saturday. More than that, it was probably the lowest-maintenance and most-enjoyable birthday party ever given in my house. Literally all I did was provide food; the boys entertained themselves very easily. What they did I do not know exactly; there was some trampolining, there was some extremely loud noise-making, there was a LOT of eating. At one point it was so quiet I was a bit concerned, but when I peeked downstairs they were all busily playing a card game, which was very unexpected. The sole downside was that all the adults who came to pick up, and I myself, were kept up way past our bedtimes, and we all looked like zombies at 11 pm.

However, a great time was had by all and the cake I had made turned out really nicely:

The birthday boy decorated it with Rolos just in case there wasn’t enough sugar in the caramel frosting and drizzle.

I recently purchased new, somewhat pricey, 9 inch round cake pans to replace the lowest-cost-possible-off-brand 8 inch ones I bought about twenty years ago. The latter are shallow little things that would result in very strange looking layer cakes. Twenty years of strange-looking layer cakes, people, and let me tell you, these new pans are amazing! I am reminded yet again that one gets what one pays for, particularly when it comes to kitchenware. Saturday morning I took the pans out of the oven and marvelled at the absolutely perfect layers. I forced everyone to come into the kitchen and admire them. Why didn’t I buy these pans before? I asked rhetorically, to which all three guys answered in unison, Because you’re cheap!

Well. Cheap is a harsh word; I’ve always been loathe to replace something that is Working Perfectly Well, even though Working Perfectly Well does not equal Working Optimally, as we all know. May I remind you of the life-changing effects of finally, after many, many years, obtaining a really good garlic press, vegetable peeler, and spatula? After Kondo-ing the house and my life I have been especially cognizant about bringing excess Stuff into the house. We don’t need more STUFF! I will say sternly to anyone who will listen. I think of this as virtuous but as you can see, it can also be construed as a character flaw that can only end in sub-optimal food preparation and results.

The econometrician in me desperately wants to do a cost-benefit analysis of this phenomenon, including the economic term “utility.”

This week has been busy with yoga teaching and grocery shopping, my dual loves. I am not even saying that ironically, I love yoga teaching and, in a very different way, I love grocery shopping. Mostly. I was at Costco and was shocked, absolutely shocked, at the state of the parking lot. I know what you’re thinking! Nicole, we have really heard enough about errant Costco carts and how people who don’t return them are the Worst People In The World. Well, surprise! I wasn’t going to talk about carts, although yes, those people are the Worst People In The World and I fervently wish Bad Costco Karma on them all; Bad Costco Karma consisting mostly of Long Lineups, Blocked Aisles, and The Discontinuation Of That One Product You Came To Costco For.

Moving on, it wasn’t the cart situation that shocked me yesterday; for one thing, I’m becoming deadened to it, for another, there were many errant carts but the situation wasn’t as bad as it often is. No, what was shocking was the multiple lineups of cars trying to access the gas station. Apparently the gas station is going through some refurbishment, although I am unclear as to what this entails. Perhaps there are fewer pumps available? I don’t know, all I know is that there were bumper-to-bumper lineups in all possible directions, all ending at the gas station. I am not exaggerating when I say there must have been fifty cars lined up to get gas. It looked like a photograph from the gasoline shortages of the 1970s, but with fewer Oldsmobiles.

Why would anyone spend thirty minutes of pure aggravation, idling their cars and eating up the very energy that one seeks at a gas station? Well, according to a lady I chatted with in the parking lot, the price of gasoline was a solid ten cents lower than anywhere else in the city. Ten cents is a pretty good savings, but when we do the math, it works out to – on average, assuming that everyone’s tank is about the same as mine – a $5 or $6 difference. Now, I am a frugal person, although you might not be able to tell from my extensive Lululemon wardrobe. I regularly price compare and calculate per-unit costs of household goods, I shop at different stores for different deals and I am absolutely obsessed with collecting and redeeming PC Optimum points. I KEEP SUB-OPTIMAL CAKE PANS FOR TWENTY YEARS BECAUSE I DO NOT WANT TO SPEND $20 TO REPLACE THEM. I tell you this: there is no way that I would undergo such an endeavour to save $5 or $6. Hey, I’m not judging! Maybe it’s worthwhile to the fifty cars idling away, blocking the parking lot exits. But, as I nosily peered at the people in the cars, they all looked as agitated and irritated as one might imagine.

Speaking of cars, I was driving to the yoga studio behind a car with a vanity license plate. The plate read “NIX TOY” which I took to mean, Nick’s Toy. Now, when you think of a car that would be construed as a Toy, what do you imagine? I think of a hot-looking sporty convertible or perhaps a refurbished muscle car. Something shiny and fast, in a sexy colour like red. What I don’t generally picture is a white four-door Buick sedan, which this car was.

Well, I will withhold judgement on that one. Maybe the owner went from a minivan like mine to a sedan, which might seem Toy-Like in comparison. Who is to say, really. At the moment I feel like my new cake pans have effectively changed my life for the better; perhaps a sedan revolutionized Nick’s life too.

It’s Apple Season! And Snowman Season!

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Ah, fall. The season of colourful leaves, crisp air, apples, and this:

Snow!

Well, to look on the bright side, it’s just a dusting.

I feel like the world is divided into two kinds of people: those who love and embrace summer with all their hearts and souls, and those who do not. People in the latter category, please enjoy your season for the next 8-9 months, and meanwhile, I will be busy putting on legwarmers, scarves, and other layers for eternity. It seems like a very unfair distribution, but what can you do? Complain to the management? Because I don’t feel God will suddenly decide to make Calgary a climate of beauty, just because I complain.

I might complain just a little though, as tomorrow a certain young man is turning thirteen, and there will be a total of ten teen boys in my house for SEVEN HOURS. Why or how this was arranged I do not know, but I was counting on a few hours of let’s go play war with Nerf guns at the playground and so the forecast is, shall we say, disappointing. I am sure none of the parents will judge me for indulging in a glass of wine or two whilst the Festivities Are In Full Swing. My non-drinking husband will be there in case someone loses an eye to a Nerf bullet or, more likely, falls into a sugar coma from the requested Chocolate Layer Cake With Caramel Frosting And Rolos On Top. I think I fell into a sugar coma just writing that. To counterbalance, I have a lot of vegetables to make a veggie plate, to go along with the pizza, star-shaped frosted sugar cookies, and three giant “family-sized” bags of chips. If there’s one thing I know about teen boys, it’s that they are a hungry people.

Now that I have two of them, if anyone needs me, I’ll be grocery shopping. Again.

The happy news about grocery shopping – and about fall in general – is that it is officially Apple Season! Apples are, in my humble opinion, the very best thing about fall, followed closely by pretty leaves and the return of thick black sweaters and tall black boots. I am pretty particular about the type of apples I eat; I am strongly Team Macintosh. We are all, as I tell my children and yoga students constantly, different, and I’m sure that many of you will disagree, but I firmly stand by my opinion that Macs are the Superior Apple. They are the perfect flavour and texture, and I essentially binge eat Macintosh apples the second they hit the produce aisle until they are no longer available. I also like the Scottish name; it is as if the Macs and I are namaste-ing each other in a Scottish way. The Scottish way to namaste is probably Aye Lassie It’s A Broad Bricht Moonlit Nicht Tonich or something similar.

Again, we are all different and the world is a rich tapestry and variety is the spice of life, but when I get excited about Apple Season and someone becomes similarly excited about apple pie, my response is this:

I will not judge you, you lovers of apple pie and apple sauce and apple crisps and other mushy abominations, but I will never understand you. This is the same way I feel when I hear of people making jams and muffins with fresh fruit and berries. Such things are so precious to me that I would never do anything but eat them raw. Muffins and jams, in this house, will always be made with frozen fruit, and I stand by that decision, at least while I live in this godforsaken snowy hellhole.

Oh! But I wasn’t going to complain! Perhaps I shall just go eat an apple and finish frosting all the cookies, and dream about warmer climates instead. Have a wonderful weekend, everyone! Please spare a thought for me tomorrow night. xo