Why bother?

It was a classic case of wardrobe meltdown. I stood in front of my closet, trying not to bite my nails (must save remains of nails for New Year manicure), and getting more and more frustrated. I was reaching the point when I had decided that I would be unable to go to work. I had nothing, nothing, to wear. I knew that I had gaps in my wardrobe but I hadn't realised that they had grown into massive craters.

It either didn't fit, the necessaray matching piece was not clean, or even worse it was packed in my suitcase. The things packed in my suitcase gave me great trouble. Did I need them to be clean? Or could I wash them upon arrival? "Hi Mum, can you wash all this for me?" I discarded the idea.

The pile of rejects grew, my nails started disappearing, and my frustration level grew. My fall back of black no longer existed. My black pants were no longer wearable. In desperation, I decided to aim for my black skirt. The first pair of black tights I found had a massive run in the heel. It felt like it would grow. I kept digging and finally located another pair.

Now that my bottom half was covered, I turned to the matter of the top half. Easy, black wool turtle neck. It used to belong to my Mum, like most of my better clothing. Vintage, darling and endless confusion as to why your mother was so much thinner than you. I pulled it over my head and looked in the mirror. Tah Dah! I'm dressed! And then I saw it, a very noticeable hole at the neck. In desperation, I looked for something to hide it. Anything!

My eyes lighted on my mother's black and white silk scarf. I'm not a fan of scarves. They always feel contrived to me. Today however, I was going to wear a scarf. I tied it round my neck, cleverly placing it on an angle so that the large floppy bow covered the hole.

I was relieved. I could now go to work.

Once at work, I had a lady walk by, turn and come back to tell me she liked my outfit. One of my co-workers appeared stunned when I appeared to ask him a question. He proclaimed it elegant. They were both French. The French are supposed to know a thing or two about being well dressed.

It was my secret chuckle all day. I had reached the French sophistication level of dressing and if I moved in the wrong direction, my outfit was going to literally fall apart. I'm going to buy more black (it always matches) and more scarves. I hear you can hide bad hair days with them too. I mean, why bother?

Put Up Yer Dukes

21

Um, yeah. Give it a try.

Breakfast

Breakfast should be easy enough. That's why hotels have room service: you pick your breakfast, phone it down and while you're busy shaving, they deliver it. You just need to be quick. He had noted the previous evening that the staff seemed to leave the meal outside the door. He had a sneaking suspicion that if you weren't quick, someone either pinched your meal or small boys spat on it.

He grabbed the in-room menu and plunked himself down on his bed. He quickly scanned the options. He needed something quick and easy. Although his habit was to have Belgium waffles when away, he thought he should try something less sticky. At the bottom, he found the basics - like toast and cereal. He thought he should be healthy and have orange juice as well. His eyes skipped over into the column in which the prices were listed. He opened his eyes wide and his jaw dropped. "They want $5 for orange juice!" Then he noticed the small print. He made it a habit to always read the small print. It was where companies put the information they didn't actually want you to know. On top of his $5 for orange juice, he would have to pay a tax and a fixed delivery and gratuity fee. He did some quick mental math. The orange juice alone would cost in the range of $9. He almost phoned to find out if the kitchen juiced the oranges to order. Maybe they would let him pick the type of orange they used. Then he realised that other than Naval and Juice, he wasn't aware of any other types. Seville! Oh, that was for marmalade and cleaning brass. Clearly not to be drunk . . . .

He sighed. While it was useful to be fully prepared, it was boring. He started to rummage in his suitcase. After a quick search, he located what he was looking for: a single serving of instant oatmeal in its envelope. He took the carafe from the coffee maker and headed to the bathroom. He had noted with pleasure that the hotel provided take-away disposable cups so that he could take tea to his first meeting. The water started to drip into the china mug and when he thought it had reached 3/4 of a cup, he took a deep breath, removed the cup and switched it for the disposable cup. Phew, minimal puddle. He dumped the oatmeal into the china cup, and added a tea bag to the disposable cup.

A short time later, he was dressed. He had downed his oatmeal, and brushed his teeth. He grabbed his writing folder, his name tag, the day's schedule and his tea. Opening the door, he took a deep breath. He uttered a quick prayer the sessions would be interested and strode towards the elevator.

Charities

It seems that everywhere you go now someone, somewhere, has a a pet charity for which they are trying to raise money. I was recently at a Broadway show where at the end, the actors hit the audience up for change on the way out to support their charity, "Broadway Cares."

I'm not the activist sort and I don't have a favourite charity. My friends normally are and do. I know just enough to be nervous. I know that there are reputable charities out there and ones that aren't. I have a friend who keeps up on this information and every now and then I'll run a charity by her.

My dirty secret though is that the charities I support aren't PC. I'll hesitate to give money to a poor developing country, but my university knows that I'm good for cash. Horror! Yes, my charitable donations go not to support those who are hungry, who have no shelter and who are suffering from war, but to support and uphold the greedy upper class.

But I disagree.

I have a huge karma debt that I owe to my university. I was a middle-class student who was falling between the financial support cracks. I didn't qualify for state aid based on parental income but my parent's couldn't afford to pay for my schooling. I knew that I was going to have to pay my own way through. By grade seven, my peers were starting to think about post-secondary education. My friend's talked of going to university. I wouldn't say either way. I said I was thinking of community college.

We were 14 and our ability to become employed was limited. Those of use who were paying our own way through got a job in the year in which we turned 16. By the end of high school, we were balancing part time jobs and our grades, trying to maximize both. The kids I worked with were all trying to save for university and college. One year as my aunt gave me birthday money, she looked at me, "This is for you to spend on yourself. It is not to go in the bank." It went in the bank. Everything went in the bank. I still talked of college.

Then I lucked out. I didn't qualify for bursary assistance but I won a scholarship. The scholarship gave me hope like nothing else. In the way that student bodies splinter, the kids who were paying their own way through clubbed together. They knew their stuff and they studied. They took school seriously. Those of them who were on scholarship took it even more seriously. I had several friend's on the same scholarship. You could tell by their faces, their marks on exams. A good mark garnered no reaction. Anything too close to the mark cut-off level meant a widening of the eyes. Either way, the test would be examined with a fine tooth comb. There was no room for error and an error made once could not be repeated.

Now when I tell people I was going to go to community college, they laugh at me. They don't understand. These are the same people who wonder why I always bring my lunch to work. It's related, but I won't tell them that.

I give to my university to assist the students who were like me. To rich to get assistance but too poor to make it on their own, these kids do all that they can to get themselves through school. And if they can't make it, we might lose the kid who would have been a doctor, the one who may have been a human rights lawyer, or the one who would have worked for the UN. And when someone's taken a chance on you, then you'll take a chance on other people.

My charity may not be PC, but I believe in it.

Suits

Tomorrow we're having a meeting at work. It's a big deal. People come in from all over the country and it lasts all day. It happens once a year. I'm not involved with any of the organization. All I have to do is show up and fill a seat, take good notes and not ask stupid questions.

There is the matter of showing up appropriately. We tend not to wear suits at work. There really isn't much point. If you wear suit, you tend to get asked if you have a job interview that day. So no one wears suits.

This consensus of no-suit wearing works, as long as everyone understands the circumstances when a suit is necessary. Last year, no one had explained that the annual meeting was a suit wearing occasion. It just wasn't billed that way. So a colleague and I showed up in our normal work wear - which is perfectly suitable for work, it just ain't for a suit wearing meeting. To our initial amazement which soon turned to horror, everyone else was wearing a suit.

This year we were prepared. At our last group meeting before the big day, my colleague clarified the situation. "Are we wearing suits on Monday?" There was a pause as we all looked round the table at each other. My manager shook his head slowly, "I think that would be appropriate." We had a consensus. We were all going to be suits for the day.

We were not the only ones to be worried. I met another colleague in the elevator who was carrying a bag from a local shoe store. She volunteered the information that she had bought new shoes to wear with the suit she's going to wear on Monday. I know for a fact she's going to be sitting down the entire time she gives her presentation. But suit panic knows no bounds. This year we'll all be prepared.

Hotels

He entered his hotel room, and looked around. He noted the King bed and the lack of surrounding space. He dumped his suitcase by the door and threw his coat over the nearby chair. He plopped on the bed and checked its firmness. It seemed ok. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with six pillows and a log pillow. He decided he'd dump the excess pillows in a pile on the other side of the bed. He kicked his boots off and stared at his suitcase. He reviewed mentally the clothes he'd packed and how urgent the need for him to unpack was. He thought he had packed a couple dress shirts. He paused. He'd hoped he'd packed them. Otherwise, he didn't know what he was wearing tomorrow. He took a deep breath, opened his suitcase and started rummaging. Yes, he had brought his dress shirts and now that he'd found them, he'd have to hang them up. Bother! If he'd kept wondering, he wouldn't have had to start the tedium of unpacking. The more you unpacked, the more likely you were to leave something in the hotel room when you left. The thought of ironing in the morning propelled him towards the closet door and he dutifully hung up his shirts, blazer and dress pants. For good measure, he hung up his coat too.

He checked out the bathroom. As far as a hotel bathroom went, it was nice. It was nicer than his own bathroom. He noted the towel rack, filled with towels, at the back of the bath tub and decided that the water pressure wasn't that strong. He washed up and decided to venture out and locate some dinner.

Upon returning from dinner, he decided it was time to go to bed and promptly got ready. He dumped the excess pillows in a pile and added the log pillow. He lay across the bed and discovered he could sleep in any direction he desired. Then he realised that he could see right into his bathroom. Deciding that gazing at the bath tub was not going to be conducive to sleep, he got up and shut the door. Problem solved. He got back into bed, turned the light out and fell asleep.

He awoke to the sound of his phone ringing. It took him a few seconds to realise that he had asked for a wake-up call. He peered at the clock. An ungodly hour in the morning, what was he doing awake? He was about to roll over onto his side again when he sat bolt upright. Eight o'clock. His first meeting was at 8:00am. He had to find breakfast. He needed to be up now. He scrambled out of bed and threw open the bathroom door. Or rather he tried. The bathroom door didn't open. He pulled on the handle again. Still the door remained closed. He tugged and he pulled. The door moved within the door frame but it refused to open. He put his foot up on the door frame and pulled again. The door refused to budge. He stared at the door. He had to be fully functionning and ready to greet the day in an hour. He didn't have time for this. He needed to go to the washroom.

He headed for the phone. "Er," he cleared his throat nervously, "I can't get my bathroom door open. Would you please send someone?" How embarrassing. He was still in his pyjamas. There wasn't enough space in the room for someone else. What was he supposed to do? Sit in the bed and point at the bathroom door, saying I can't open it? In no time at all, there was a knock at the door. He opened it and greeted the man apologetically. He started to panic. What if the man opened the door without any problem? He would feel like an utter fool. The man grabbed the bathroom door handle, twisted it and gave a tug. He felt an intense sense of relief. The door stayed shut. Then he remembered he needed to use the facilities locked behind the door.

The man contemplated the door and gave it another experimental tug. Then he put his foot up against the bottom, gave a mighty tug and the top came free. Then he opened the door. "Thanks awfully." He glanced at the clock. Time was running short and he needed breakfast.

Chicago and Trains

He looked around. He had only gotten as far as several blocks outside the airport, yet it seemed as though everywhere he looked, the mayor was welcoming him to Chicago. If he had wanted a personal welcome from the mayor, he would have rung him up, told him he was coming and asked him to meet him at the airport. Then he would have gotten a limo to his hotel and he wouldn't be sitting on this beastly train.

It had seemed like the best option at the time. He had thought about it carefully. There was a hotel shuttle: a bus to the hotel that went to all the other hotels, likely hitting rush hour traffic, all the red lights, an emergency vehicle or two and construction. Or there was the subway. The subway would avoid rush hour traffic. There would be the commutator rush but you would still be moving, not stuck on a highway. He could take being wedged in with his fellow men if he felt he was still making progress towards his destination. Red lights were not an issue, in fact the only hindrance to the subway making time was how quickly people could get off and on the cars.

Yet, as he had looked up, it felt as though a cold hand had gripped his insides. Yes the sign most definitley said, " 'Putting Rapid Back in Transport' to be completed by December of 2008. To downtown in 45 minutes or less." Forty-five minutes! He had taken the train to avoid such a journey. Trains were quick; they didn't stop at traffic lights and they didn't run into traffic jams. It seemed that trains had a bigger problem - the rebuilding of their tracks; construction for trains.

As the train lurched out of the station, it slowly swayed its way into the daylight. It's tracks met the highway and ran inbetween the two opposite directions of cars. His worst fears were confirmed. They were being passed, left, right and centre by the cars. A marvelous sight met his eyes: a traffic jam! Then the train started to slow down. He started to panic. Then the train entered a tunnel and picked up speed. He started to breathe again. Then it slowed as it entered a station. He started counting the stops to his station. He decided it was going to be touch and go. Forty-five minutes was beginning to seem optimistic.

A voice sounded over the loud speaker reminding everyone that solicitating and gambling were illegal on the train and the platform. He watched his fellow passangers. The old man up and to his left was fumbling with a case. He sat up straight and peered at the man. It looked as though the man was about to put his false teeth in. He tried not to stare, and when the man pulled out his hearing aid, he tried not to look disappointed.

The train was now elevated and there were row houses abutting the track. He amused himself by looking at the houses. The neighbourhood seemed like the typical neighbourhood that ends up around a railway; slightly run-down, a bit sad, and a bit rough. He decided it was better to see the back yards to Chicago then its finest bit of pavement in the form of six lanes of highway.

He checked his watch and re-counted the stops. Resigned, he pulled his book out of his bag. He made a mental note that next time, he would phone the mayor and inform him of his arrival. With any luck, he would get a helicopter and avoid the issue of public transport all together.

Fittings

Sewing is such a highly rewarding and downright frustrating hobby. After numerous set backs, my current project was approaching the final stage. All that was left was the side seams, the zip, facing and hemming. I mentally discount hemming. It's hand sewing and it's the last thing to be done. Side seams are easy. Facing is easy. The zip, well, zips are always a crap shoot.

What was making me the most nervous was the side seams. The literal sewing was going to be easy. However, the pattern had no darts and the only way in which I could adjust the fit was via the side seam. I knew that the waist was going to be too big. I'd had to go up a size to account for my hips. This had annoyed me to no end. I don't look like I have hips, yet in the magic ratios of patterns, my hips are too big for my waist.

Sure enough, the waist was too big and as I don't have hips, the line of the skirt looked funny. It was shaped for someone with hips. Then, I realised that I didn't know if the skirt was supposed to sit on my hips or at my waist. It would make a difference. I started jabbing pins into the seams to try and get it right. I decided that I needed to take five eights off each side. This discovery annoyed me even further. I'm pretty sure that's at least one pattern size down.

I should have done a mock. I know this. But when you've had to trace out each pattern piece, it seems easier to adjust the garment once it's constructed rather than trace out the pattern twice, make two mocks and then the final garment. It takes me long enough to make one garment, let alone making it three times. Apparently, this is where the concept of a wearable mock comes in. My feeling is that it all depends on the expense of the final fabric you intend to use.

I now have a garment that I need fitted. It's going to take a bit to get it fitted. This is why sewing is such a long process. Sitting at the machine and zipping the fabric through is easy. Ironing all the seams and fitting the garment make it so much more difficult.

Bubble Tea

When I first saw it, my eyes lit up. This was way too cool. My own personal make-it-at-home bubble tea supplies. They had the tapioca balls, in rainbow colours; they had the assorted flavours and they had the straws, made wide to allow you to suck up the tapioca balls. In short, you could make bubble tea, just like in the stores.

I don't remember liking bubble tea. But I am a sucker for a complete package and pretty packaging. The ability to get strawberry flavoured mix, with red and white straws and pink and green tapioca balls seemed an opportunity not to be wasted. I would be the only one of my friends who could offer bubble tea to her guests. My friend, who also doesn't remember liking bubble tea, was also enamoured with the idea. However, his conviction that it was a good idea extended as far as me having it and him trying it.

The bubble tea was worse than I remembered it. It tasted like flavoured water, which in fact was what it was. Despite now having a capital investment in bubble tea, I was not perturbed. For now I could experiment. I discovered that tapioca can be used as a thickener. I experimented with the idea of boiling the tapioca in milk, and adding the flavour so that everything took on the flavour. I didn't like the consistency of the water and I didn't like the blandness of the tapioca. Perhaps boiling the tapioca in milk would fix this. I resolved to experiment with this at some point in the future.

Now my friend does everything in moderation, especially moderation. He does moderation when he remembers it exists, which isn't too often. So the next thing I know, from being skeptical about the idea of home-made bubble tea, although willing to try it, he's now a fanatic. Except his conviction that its a good idea for me to have still hasn't changed. Therefore, one day I had no bubble tea, a week later, I've amassed the whole set.

I've learned that tapioca is more trouble than its worth and I still think that bubble tea has a funny consistency. But I've got the complete set, I've got the matching straws, and I can make bubble tea. The coolness factor totally trumps the hassle factor - just.

Guilty Pleasure

I have discovered a new magazine. It's glossy and it's about fashion. It really isn't new but it's new to me. Like most fashion magazines, there are the nice shots of models, the clothes that you try and figure out when and where you could get away with wearing something like that and then you wonder where you could buy it.

Here's the kicker. You can't buy it anywhere. The wonderful dress that would be perfect for the office. Yep, you can't buy it. But you can make it. That's right for under $10 you get lots and lots of patterns for new and fashionable clothing.

My pet peeve with sewing was the patterns. They weren't on the cutting or leading edge of fashion. They weren't even remotely near the latest fashion. You'd read that romantic blouses were the item for Spring in Vogue and do you think you could find a pattern? If you wanted to make something, you had better be ready to make something classic. It was the only way you were going to wear it.

Then I found the Burda magazine. It's European and it's up-to-date fashion. Which means, drum roll please, that in Canada, you can make clothing that is ahead of the fashion curve. Sixties clothing, men's styling, bright gemstone colours, yep, I've got them all. My mother found the magazine about the time that I did. She found it in Polish. She sent it to me anyway. I missed last month. I found it in French. I have a French dictionary and a French-English dictionary. I thought I could figure it out. I bought it. I paid more for it than I would have for the English version. I didn't care.

The magazine shows you all the styles in multiple variations. Then in the middle of the magazine, it gives you the instructions on how to put the garment together and the pattern pieces. You have to trace the pattern pieces out and add your own seam allowance. But when out-dated patterns cost $15 or more (depending on the sale at your local Fabricland), I'm willing to put up with a little inconvenience to get about forty different patterns. Especially when I want to make them all.


For instance: I could make this coat - if I could afford the fabric.

Need I say more?

Where did they all come from?

It struck me today that my life can easily be split in two: that which I have accomplished and that which I have yet to tackle. I wish that I was taking about major life goals, such as getting a PhD, or running a marathon. I'm not. I'm talking about coconut milk, rose water, and corn syrup; silks, wools and cottons in various patterns and colours; ribbons and thread; and more, much more.

I went to take a can out when I discovered the coconut milk. I know when I bought it. It was some time ago. I wanted to make Thai. I needed coconut milk to do so. I bought the coconut milk, put it away and promptly decided to ignore its existence. I would make Thai in my own sweet time - when I was good and ready. The can still sits there waiting for me. The potato flour next to the coconut milk had lain waiting for quite some time. It was to make bread. It is now open as I have tackled making bread. I wouldn't say that I have accomplished a wonderful loaf but I have tried. The corn syrup however is still waiting. It is waiting for me to start making candy again. Making candy is a winter activity in my mind. Standing over boiling sugar in the summer just seems silly. You want to steam the place up when its cold and dry.

The rose water has been used. I used it to make a dessert. My aunt also has rose water. She hasn't used it. She won't let my uncle throw it out. He doesn't understand. But her and I both know - one day, she will have a recipe or the urge to use it and she will need it right then. Right now, it represents a well stocked kitchen and the possibility of doing great things, an opportunity waiting to happen.

I have numerous sewing projects started. The lack of progress I blame on my sewing machine and my cat. My sewing machine for having suddenly stopped working properly. The tension is off. My cat hinders my cutting out efficiency by lying on top of the fabric and the pieces. She swats and attacks the scissors. She loves sewing. She has even discovered that lying on top of the fabric while it is being sewn is fun. When I used cheap fabrics, she never ever tried this stunt. This stunt is new and coincides with the purchase of expensive quality fabrics. She loves silk, she loves wool and she makes do with cotton.

I have numerous other projects on the go, waiting for their turn to be dusted off and re-attacked. I have a treadle sewing machine in parts waiting to be reassembled.

Yet I have several skirts that I wear that I made. They are accomplished. I have several needle-points that I have finished. They are accomplished. I have tried to make some interesting edible things and inflicted them on all my friends. I still have friends - the same friends. This is an accomplishment. I have finished my transcribing for my paper. This is the start of an accomplishment.

Perhaps this New Year's while everyone makes their resolution list, I too will make a list. While other people list such things as "Lose ten pounds. Clean the bath tub regularly. Go to the Gym. Be on time. Be nice to children and small animals, regularly," my list will be different. It will state, "Bell Pull. Afghan. 3 shirts. 3 Dresses. 1 pair of pants. 2 coats. Ribbon Picture. Taffy. Jellies. Running chassis. Mending. Clean bath tub." Suddenly it all becomes clear. The first item on my list will be "No new projects." My goal is now to start tackling, so that I shall have more accomplished.

"Trust"

Apparently I have trust issues.

and maybe control issues.

I don't care. All the girls in my swing class apparently have the same issues. This apparently has to be corrected.

A movie came out in the last few years, whose name escapes me, in which a dance teacher is teaching a group of students how to dance. Two of the students are having problems learning how to waltz, so the teacher blindfolds the girl, tells her she has to learn to trust and tells the boy to take her on a walk, the scene fades to black as they slowly waltz around the gym. It's all terribly romantic and symbolic.

However, when the instructor says in an exasperated voice, "No, you're not following my lead. You have to stop anticipating what's coming next," wipes the beads of sweat off his forehead and takes a deep breath, and goes, "Close your eyes," it's nothing but terrifying.

First of all, when you're waltzing, as far as I can tell, you are always touching at some point, so the unlucky party with her eyes closed has some indication of where she is headed. In Lindy Hop, you get to do freestyling, you get to do things by yourself, which means you have to let go of your partner. So here I am, with my eyes closed, murmuring, "One, two, three AND four, five six, seven AND eight," to myself for dear life, while trying to remember to dance in a straight line so that I don't hit my partner; any other couple; or the post that was to my left when I closed my eyes but which may have moved in the meantime. It's a large post. It's a weight bearing post. It's has sharp corners. I am doing mulitiple pass-throughs and bys which entails a lot of spinning. I distinctly remember as a child that you got dizzier faster when you had your eyes shut. It still holds when you are an adult.

At last, I was able to open my eyes. Everything had moved and I was disoriented beyond belief. However, my dancing was now 'smoother'. I had 'improved'. I was just relieved. I was intact. I hadn't lost track of my steps. I hadn't hit anyone.

We hope the guys improve their ability to lead very quickly. Us girls don't want to dance with our eyes shut again. We were all terrified by the experience and it's affecting our ability to trust, which is just aggravating our apparent control issues.

Boiling Sugar

I picked the pot off the stove, took a deep breath, and dumped the contents on my kitchen counter. I had just poured a sugar mixture at a temperature of 235F onto my kitchen counter. I was nervous and questioning my sanity. Someone was going to get hurt. I was the only one around. The probablity of that someone being me was looking pretty high.

I had a cake that needed to be iced. The recipe called for it to be covered in jam and then iced with a fondant icing. Covering the cake with jam was relatively simple. You heated the jam up and then using a spoon, you scooped it onto the cake and started spreading it around.

The fondant seemed simple enough. You put in sugar and boiling water, brought it up to temperature without stirring and then dumped it on a marble slab. You worked it with a spatula until it cooled and then you kneaded it smooth. It was easy until you reached the dumping stage. I was missing the necessary marble or enamel slab. My mother assured me I could use the normal kitchen counter.

I scrubbed and cleaned off my counter. My knowledge of sugar mixtures is that they tend to pick things up. I bleached the counter. Then I realised that I was dumping food on top of it. I really didn't want bleach in my fondant. Luckily I have two counters. I cleaned the other one.

If you do not stir a sugar mixture, it stays clear. Sugar is fascinating. Just the way you handle it will totally change your final product. The way you stir or do not stir it, the temperature you bring it too and the way you treat it as it cools. Everything will affect the final product.

For the fondant, you put two cups of sugar in a pot, added a cup of boiling water, brought it up to 234F (clever readers will note that I let my mixture go above temperature. This is because I walked away when I should have been monitoring the temperature), and then poured it onto a surface.

At this point, you start playing with it. My main goal was to keep it in a central puddle so that I would have a smaller mess to clean up afterwards and I wasn't going to have boiling sugar all over my cupboard doors. As the mixture cools, it turns white and becomes creamy. You are told to work quickly which is silly as I'm not sure how you can get the mixture to cool down faster. You will see it crystallizing and losing its elasticity. At this point, you hope you have baker's hands and can pick the mixture up. You start kneading it and working it like dough. My thoughts were that it was homemade play-doh - but from sugar instead of the normal salt. I broke it into smaller pieces and worked it in my hands which seemed to be easier. Then as I had more smaller smooth sections, I worked them into a larger ball.

I am proud to report that I did not burn myself, although it wasn't from a lack of trying.

Feline Tastes

I did not grow up with a cat, but I was taught that vegetables and fruit were essential for your corporal health. Thus, when I acquired my cat, I had no preconceived notions of what constituted normal cat behaviour. I did have the idea that vegetation would be good for it. I also thought that introducing it to green stuff should be done as soon as possible.

My method was to take a tiny piece of whatever vegetable I was having and offer it to my kitten. Broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, peas, she tried them all. The day she ate multiple lima beans, I was ecstatic! I dislike lima beans and I had inadvertently bought the bag of frozen vegetables with lima beans. I had found a way of disposing of them without wasting them.

Then my mother found out. Despite having forced me to eat numerous sorts of vegetables and assuring me it was for my own good, she adamantly told me to stop. "Cats don't eat vegetables!" As she was currently looking after my cat at the time, I was powerless to stop the narrowing of my cat's diet.

My cat now does not remember that she prefers broccoli to cauliflower, that she thinks she likes peas, but doesn't. She does however, most emphatically, remember apples and is convinced that they are wonderful.

Biting into an apple will bring her from her current hiding spot to your side. She will wind herself around your legs if you are walking and follow you around until you reach the core. If you are sitting, she will try and help herself to the apple, one paw held out in a gentle appeal. She monitors the progression of the apple eating, watching the shrinking core. When the core stage is reached and the core is held out to her, she tilts her head, and starts on the business of eating the apple. The edges of the core are scrapped of with her teeth, while the rest is slowly rasped away by her tongue. Sometimes she puts a paw up to assist, but the entire attitude is one of sheer bliss.

I hear frequently in relation to my cat, "I've never seen a cat do that before." Which I take to mean, the person hasn't met someone previously who had tried it.

My cat may not be a normal cat, but she and I don't know any different. We're convinced she's a perfectly normal feline.

Wake Up!

This morning I was complaining to my brother about how my cat had woken me up. She leap frogs off my stomach onto me bedside table which she then proceeds to clear. She's very adroit with pushing things off with her paw. This morning she did her routine at 3am. By 7am, we weren't on speaking terms.

My brother had one sole question, "Did you check your e-mail? GO Check it." I did. I wasn't as impressed with the coincidence as he was. But then it's funnier when it's not happening to you.

Old Vienna III

It's amazing how desensitized you become very quickly. Take eggs for example. Up until now, a good standard cake recipe took two or three eggs. A souffle took more but that was to be expected and you didn't serve it everyday.

I'm having guests on Saturday. They opted to come for dessert. They don't know about my new cook book so I'm a wondering why they didn't want to come for the full fledged meal. They've been before. They survived. They said they enjoyed it. No matter, I had an occasion to use my new cook book. I could spring it on them.

I spent several evening going through the cake section of the book. I was trying to decide whether I should cook a layer cake - using 6 separate cake pans - or one where you had to cut it into three even sized layers. I mused over the different flavour combinations and the different construction techniques. And I noticed my tolerance level for the number of eggs used increasing, 5 eggs, 7 eggs, 8 eggs, 9 eggs and counting. When I finally settled on a recipe, I had reached the 10 egg level. Not that the fact that I needed 10 eggs bothered me, I was annoyed by the fact that I needed 8 egg yolks and 10 egg whites. What type of recipe, other than meringue, doesn't use up the yolks and whites in equal proportions?

I had decided to embark on a Sachertorte. A quick google search revealed it to be a famous recipe from a hotel of which the original is a heavily guarded secret. None of the knock-offs I could find were as rich as mine. Then again, the author of my book seems to think that everyone had their own personal hen coop. The cinching factor was that my book said the original Sachertorte was not cut in half. I decided to ignore the fact that every other recipe had two halves. Squinting at the picture on the hotel's website also revealed it had filling in the middle of the slice. Bah! They don't know what they're talking about!

So last night I went and bought eggs.

Tonight I separated 10 eggs. I managed to drop the shell halves in the yolk and a yolk in the whites. I got it out whole and started breathing again. I had choosen my bowl for the whites carefully. Egg whites get big when beaten stiff and I imagined 10 egg whites would be huge. They were.

By the end, I realised I was making a giant chocolate souffle. Except that I have to let it rest for 2 days and then I get to smother it with fondant.

Which reminds me, I have to figure out how one makes fondant.

I hope my guests like ice cream. It may be all they're getting.

Old Vienna II

My new cookbook is fantastic, in just about all senses of the word. I'm already planning when I can spring the recipes on some unsuspecting guests.

You want a recipe for frog's legs? I have two.

You've always wondered how to cook eel, I can tell you how to cook them in beer or serve it smoked in a salad.

You're about to serve deviled eggs at a buffet or luncheon. How passe. Why you can do better than that! What about eggs stuffed with caviar, shrimp, smoked salmon, or goose liver pate? or even sardines or anchovies? or asparagus , if strikes your fancy?

I can tell you how to clarify your stocks for soup, both simply and with a bit more effort.

I know how to cook guinea hens, pheasants and quail.

I have a recipe for a Meringue to beat all Meringues. Let's just say it's constructed over a period of days and I wouldn't want to be in charge of cutting it.

I've learned that if you add some form of alcohol and light it, it makes a difference. (Case in point, broil mushrooms brushed with butter, then stick them in a pan, add brandy and flame it.) Cream is to be added to everything of which you can think and that eggs are in endless supply. These are the types of recipes you wouldn't dare use margarine instead of butter. Somehow you know that it wouldn't quite work.

I'm dying to try individual portion souffles cooked in tomatoes. I can make souffle so I think I can handle it.

Or for a simple option, Cheese Toast I - quickly dip 6 slices of 2-day old bread in white wine, place in a baking dish, cover with 1/2 cup grated Parmesan with 1 beaten egg and salt and pepper to taste, dot with butter and pop in a moderate oven (350F) until it is golden brown.

I mean, really why not? Other than lacking two key ingredients, I'd have tried it on the spot.

I now have a giant bottle of red plonk gracing my counter tops, for cooking purposes only. I've learned that a dash of wine will make the difference. I made a meat pie based on phone instructions from my Mum with a Viennese twist. I added a good slosh of red wine and used real butter. It was fabulous and I almost cried when it was gone.

This is definitely my favourite cook book.

Parity

I love parity.

I just put on a load of laundry. As I went to put my coins into the machine, I realised to my horror that one of them was a US quarter. I considered for a few brief seconds, taking the trek back to my place to get a proper Canadian quarter. I wasn't wasting a perfectly good US quarter on laundry.

Then it hit me.

Parity, yes sweet parity.

My US quarter was worth less than a Canadian one. By a few mili-cents, my load of laundry was going to be cheaper. Gone are the days of fishing out US coins and setting them aside, due to their superior monetary strength. The honors now go to the Canadian coins. I'm going to start passing my US change at the check-out. Think of the savings!

I love parity.

Swing

I and twelve of my friends are taking swing lessons. We had some idea of learning how to dance. We thought it might be fun. Some of us had tried a bit of West Coast Swing and had convinced the others.

The lesson started out with a brief therapy session in which we had to admit to everyone present why we wanted to learn to dance. And thus started the blame session, "I'm here because so-and-so made me come." However, one girl was very brave and admitted that she was there because she could not dance, full stop. Her husband however loves to dance. "At our wedding last year, we had a sit-down dinner and no dance, because I can't dance." Her husband swung round to look at her, "That's why?!!"

After everyone had blamed their everyone else, we started on the lesson. We all quickly learned that our declarations of having two left feet were not idle boasts. Every time a new step got added, there would be a mild panic attack followed by a rebellion. At least on the girls's side of the room. The guys seemed to be handle the new information better, they just didn't take it on board. The girls overreacted.

We handled the rock step, we handled the triple step. It was around this time that we discovered that we are learning Lindy Hop, not West Coast Swing. Lindy Hop is very different from West Coast Swing. All the guys got excited. They wanted to know at what point they got to throw their partner's around. The girls all went white. None were going to volunteer to be dropped on their head.

By the end of the class, we were all ecstatic about what we had learned. We had learned the basic step and one move. Well, not that we could do the move. We were still doing it in stop-motion. However, we all felt that our marginal improvement had been great.

One day, we might be as good as Doug and Dax.

Old Vienna

I was in Chapter's chatting on the phone to my Mum. I was in the cookbook section and browsing through the various books. I listened with half an ear as I tried to decide if I really did need a receipe book all on brownies, "say Mum, what about this one?" As it was about the sixth book I'd asked her about, she took a deep breath, "Where exactly are you going to put all these books and when are you going to find the time to make the recipes? Get out of the section!" I sighed, the pictures were so pretty. She did have a point. I wandered out of the section.

I was recently in a used book store, a posh one, and I started browsing the cookbook section. There was a lovely thick, blue hardbacked book with gold left on the front, "Gourmet's Old Vienna Cookbook." I cracked it open and started flipping through it. Various recipes caught my eye. Interesting . . . but I did not need another cookbook. Besides, if I was to be honest with myself, I had no idea what Viennese cooking encompassed. I put it back. Then just before I left the section, I pulled it back out. I opened it again and landed on the most amazing recipe for chicken. It was called beautiful chicken. Reading the recipe, I became absorbed in the incredibly lengthy and complicated process. Yet it all sounded so easy and absolutely delicious. I read the next recipe. It too sounded amazing. The pictures were few and far between. Today's cookbooks have lots of glossy pictures because the recipes are rather boring. This book had no need for pictures. The recipe was enough. I flipped to the front cover. $20. For $20, I could dream that I would one day have the patience and the skill and more to the point, the time, to make these types of recipes. And the friends that would truly appreciate what they were eating, without bringing up their latest diet.

I present "A Beautiful Chicken" or "Schone Poularde"

Wash, dry, salt, and truss a 5- to 6- pound roasting chicken and place it in a deep kettle. Pour over it 1/2 cup warm brandy and set the spirit aflame. When the flame dies down, pour over the chicken 3 cups chicken stock, and add 1 carrot, 2 onions, and 2 stalks of celery, all cut into pieces. Simmer the chicken, covered, until it is a little more than half cooked, about 45 minutes. Remove the chicken and keep it warm.



Strain the stock and reduce it somewhat. Add 1 cup red wine and continue reducing the liquid until there is only 1 cup. Melt 2 tablespoons butter, blend in 2 tablespoons flour, and cook the roux, stirring, until it is brown. Stir in the chicken stock and wine, add 1 teaspoon tomato paste, and season the sauce to taste.



Remove the skin from the chicken. Spread the chicken with 1/2 cup goose liver pate and sprinkle it with salt and pepper. Roll our pie dough into a sheet large enough to enclose the chicken. Spread on the dough 1/4 pound button mushrooms, chopped and sauteed in butter. Wrap the dough around the chicken and press the seam firmly. Paint the top of the dough with 1 egg yolk beaten with 1 tablespoon water. Cut a vent in the dough and bake the chicken in a buttered roasting pan in a hot oven (400F) for 30 minutes, or unti lthe crust is golden brown.



Halve 6 hard-cooked eggs and mash the yolks with 1/2 cup goose liver pate. Add salt and pepper to taste. Press the mixture into the egg whites through a pastry bag fitted with a fluted tube. Place the "beautiful chicken" on a platter. Arrange the warm stuffed eggs around it and garnish the platter with water cress. Serve the hot sauce separately.



I know. Amazing isn't it? I have a 600 page recipe book jammed with recipes designed to make you drool. You try and leave that on the shelf of the store.

Apple Pie

I consulted carefully with the gentleman operating the apple stall. I made it clear that I wanted cooking apples as I planned to make baked apples. My grandmother makes baked apples all the time. They are the perfect dessert for fall weather. The baked apple feels like a warm hug that will keep the damp out on wet autumn nights. Smothered in custard, its the perfect comfort dessert.

I brought my cooking and eating apples home and carefully separated them in my fridge. As the week went by, I would look at the cooking apples and realize that it just wasn't worth turning the oven on for half an hour to bake one apple. As the days went by, I decided that I had to use the apples quickly or the joy of buying freshly picked apples was going to be redundant. I might as well have bought them at the local grocery store. I have never managed to find cooking apples in the store, but the principle remained.

I decided that apple pie was my best chance of using up lots of apples in one full swoosh. I will spare you the pain of reading about the process of making the pie. You can conjure up a fair representation of the event by knowing that I have rarely, if ever, made pastry from scratch and that half way through slicing apples, I became bored. I began to decide that making baked apples would have been a much better idea.

The pie cooked nicely. It behaved nicely too and didn't drip all over the bottom of my oven. I let it cool and cut myself a slab. I mused over the first bite and tried again. I gave it a third bite and decided that I did not like it. The apples were mushy and the pie seemed like wet tissue paper.

Unsure if I was being prejudiced, I tricked a friend into eating eat who declared the pie good, and more importantly, normal. Apparently, this mushy mess is proper apple pie. Not being able to get cooking apples, my mother always used eating apples. The apples kept their shape and texture and did not turn to pulp. I like apple pie that way. I don't like it with baking apples.

Not that there was anything inherently wrong with the pie, but it reminded me of one that my mother made. And some memories are hard to erase. She once made the Ritz Apple Pie. The Ritz Apple Pie makes an apple pie entirely out of Ritz crackers. It tastes and smells and feels like a real apple pie. You would be hard pressed to really tell the difference.

If I'm going to go to all the effort of peeling and coring apples, then I want everyone to know that I did. From now on, I'm using eating apples. If I want proper apple pie, the I'll make the Ritz one. Crushing crackers is a lot easier than peeling apples. And no one will know the difference.

Excuse me,

"Excuse me. Do you mind if I recline my chair?"

I was slightly startled at the pure politeness of the request and hurriedly gave my consent. In that split second, I was blindsided by the brilliance of the whole thing. I was on the train. The lady, and she was a true lady, could as easily recline her chair without asking me. There wasn't much I could do about it. Yet by simply asking, she had made a huge difference. The chair in front of me didn't suddenly start descending towards my knees unexpectedly, upsetting my belongings. Instead, it went back right on cue. I wasn't filled with disliking towards the person in front but rather I had a respect and a slight awe for her.

I swung around and asked the person behind me if she minded if I reclined my chair. Her rapid sequence of facial expressions revealed that she was having the same thoughts I had had moments ago. I resolved at that moment that being polite, truly polite, was absolutely the way to go. The air was filled with bonhomie even though our knees wished they had more space.

I've taken this resolve into the realm of compliments. I am now up to three - three compliments to total strangers that I have just passed by. The criteria for giving a compliment is that the person must be wearing something unique - an element of style to some degree.

The first one was a young girl wearing a pair of jeans. The details on the pocket were such that they would have heavily influenced the purchase. They were shaped like apples and the stalk went into the stitching detail. As I passed her, on the left, I remarked on them. She gave me a startled look and then a smile, "Thank-you."

The latest was a lady wearing a knitted shawl. The startled look was followed by the look of someone who knows what they're wearing and is pleased that someone else appreciates the elegance of it too.

It's a challenge. Walking up to a complete stranger, delivering the compliment and then walking away with the hope that you made a difference in someone's day, makes you feel a little better. There are limits though. It is best to do it unobtrusively. I still haven't recovered from earlier this year when a lady at an intersection rolled down her car window to yell at me how much she liked my coat. The incident did nothing to inspire me to pass on compliments to others. It strengthened my resolve that strangers were to be avoided at all costs. I haven't worn the coat since.

But quiet elegance and politeness, there's something in it.

Obnoxious Parking

Unbelievably, the car parked parallel to the road is the only correctly parked one.

Coffee Maker

Last night I was at a wine and cheese party. This morning I woke up late and tired. When I'm tired, I get brilliant ideas. I pulled out bread to make toast for breakfast and as I looked at it, I realised that I wanted french toast for breakfast. French toast seemed like a much better idea than normal toast. Last time I had french toast, I was in a French cafe having brunch. It was fancy french toast. As I decided that I wanted french toast, I remembered that my previous french toast experience had included fig compte. As I peered into the fridge, I started looking at the jams and spreads wondering why I didn't have fig compte in my fridge. I had recently had it with something else and had enjoyed it. At the time, I had considered acquiring some of my own but hadn't. Clearly, I should have struck while the iron was hot and bought some. Because now I wanted it and I didn't have it. I hate not having a well stocked kitchen. It limits your ability to cook.

I pondered over my lack of fig compte dilemma and decided that I had homemade canned pears somewhere. They might help kick it up a notch. I still have cream so I could make the richer batter and I had baguette so I could make the proper style of french toast. I cooked up the toast and layered it with the pears, cream and real maple syrup. I realised that I didn't have icing sugar for the added effect. Drat! After my breakfast which was sadly lacking some key ingredients, I headed out for grocery shopping.

As I wandered around the store, I located different fig products in the different sections before settling on the one the that I wanted. I choose a fig compte in a nice looking jar which had no English on it. My french is improving. My Italian is still lacking. Then I wandered past the coffee section. My brain was operating in a bit of a daze and realised that coffee would help to clear the mists. The one that was on sale was for a coffee maker. I couldn't tell how fine the grind was to know if I could use it in a french press. I looked at the instant coffee and the only one that inspired me, I was unwilling to shell out for. I looked at the other options. I noticed the Illy coffee and how it too needed a coffee maker. Then it struck me. I needed a coffee maker.

I don't have one. I suddenly became convinced that the smell of coffee brewing and a freshly made coffee in the morning was the one element missing from my morning routine. The fact that until recently I had avoided coffee like the plague and preferred tea was irrelevant to my new inspiration. My mother likes coffee. She would like freshly brewed coffee when she came to visit. I reached for the coffee. I would need it for my new coffee maker.

At this point, I became smarter. I didn't pick up the coffee. I would wait until I got my coffee maker. I needed to ensure that I had the right type of coffee. I left the shop all ready to start scoping out coffee makers.

Then I realised that I was having one of my brilliant ideas brought on by fatigue. I marched myself in the opposite direction from the store where I was going to buy a coffee maker. I am proud to report that while I bought my fig compte, I still don't have a coffee maker. I think I'll get one next week-end.

Charities and Cancer

I walked into the bank and it was pink. Inwardly, I groaned. I thought the bank had done their Run for the Cure and that for the time being, we were to have a break. I object to being harassed for money everywhere I go. At the pharmacy, at the fast food store, at the bank, on the street corner, and at work, everyone wants money. And when you don't feel like giving to yet another cause you have no interest in, they put you on a guilt trip. The guilt trip is part of the training given by charity organizations. Charity is a business.

Many of the employees have no interest in pushing the cause that their respective organization has chosen to support. I am a recent forced recruit for my work's charity campaign. At the training meeting, the presenters were operating under the assumption that we all wanted to be there. The skeptical questions being asked quickly revealed the opposite. We believe in the theory of charity, we just object to the way that it's being implemented.

Yet as I stood in line at the bank, a small pink bear with the pink ribbon embroidered on its chest caught my eye. I started humming and hawing. My gut feeling was that few of the dollars of purchasing the bear would find its way into research. However, at that moment in time, I was feeling the need to strike a blow against cancer - no matter the form. In the past two weeks, I have lost a co-worker, and a family friend to cancer. My grandmother is recovering from breast cancer. There wasn't and there isn't much I could and can do. Cancer always makes me feel so helpless. It seemed that buying the bear would be a small way of doing something.

Like most jaded clerks who are being forced to push something against their will, the cashier didn't ask me if I wanted to contribute to the campaign. She seemed surprised when I asked how much the bears were and then taken back when I forked over the cash. It was refreshing that she hadn't tried to sell me the bear.

The bear now sits in my office. It is a small reminder to me of all those I have lost to cancer over the years. It reminds me that as much as I dislike charities there are causes that are worth fighting for and things that we need to fight against. Right now, cancer is my number one enemy. I'm keeping my eye out for ways to make it feel less welcome. Next time, I'll give the cash and let them keep the bear. Now that I have a reminder, I have no need of another. I will be charitable and give freely. I have a personal interest in the cause.

Male Fashion

"Adelaide, a man doesn't want to feel like he's being cut up and sewn according to how they're wearing husbands this year!"

This line in Guys and Dolls must have been written by a man. It totally misses the point. Most women I know could care less about their partner's flaws. They've learned to deal with them. They minimize the occasions on which these flaws become readily apparent and they have to deal with them. Most males are oblivious as to the way they're being manipulated. Everyone's lives are easier under this system.

What the women do care about is how their partner is dressed. They have not learned to deal with what he thinks he should wear. They will not cut him up and wear him according to fashion but they will force him to wear the fashions. They are determined that he will wear the male fashions for this year. The males are not oblivious to this. They tend to resist which makes everyone's lives involved more difficult - including the innocent bystander.

For instance, I was out with friends the other week. As we were walking back, I was talking to one girl who proudly pointed at her boyfriend's pants. "Look," she said. "I got him to wear white pants." It was true. I hadn't noticed until she had pointed it out. I turned and said the required response, "You're good." I'm not sure why she wanted him to wear white pants but I knew it was a feat to have suceeded. "Well, he wanted to wear a dark top with it, but I told him no. You have to wear a light coloured top and dark shoes." I schooled my features quickly. I would have worn it with a dark top. I tried to remember the whole light, dark, top and bottom debate and the accompanying side debate about if it was acceptable to break fashion rules only if it was a deliberate choice. I nodded gravely and agreed that dark on top is a bad idea.

She is good. I have seen this man wear a pink shirt. It was a long battle until he finally gave in, as she tells the story. I was unsure whether my role on listening to the story was to dismiss the irrational male tendency to avoid pink or whether I was to congratulate her on getting him to be so daring. Then there was the whole shade issue. Was it the type of pink to ease him into the experience or had she dropped him at the deep end? The whole thing was highly subjective.

If you didn't hear the back stories, you would think that this man was a sharp dresser. Someone willing to push the boundaries of what is considered normal male attire in my circle. In reality, he has a girlfriend. She's cutting him up and making him wear fashion.

Saturdays

Saturday always seems like a such a promise. You wake up with the entire day stretching before you and you can do whatever you wish (within reason of course). The best Saturdays start with the sun streaming in through the window and a slight breeze blowing the curtains. At this point, you have so many options, you can roll back over and go to sleep, you can lie in bed and daydream or you can get up and greet the day.

With a big stretch, I get up to greet the day and slowly amble through to the rest of the apartment. Half of my brain is creating a to-do list with an appropriate time-line and the other half is savouring the moment of expectation. It's Saturday: I don't have to be anywhere at a certain time; I have so many options to choose. What am I going to do today?

I know that I will go to the market and the grocery store to get supplies for the week, I know that I really must vacuum and I know that I really must tidy my room. But for the moment, I have the entire week-end to accomplish it. I put on the kettle and make toast. With my tea and toast in hand, I check my e-mail and the news, the breeze making the curtains dance beside me and the sun inviting me to come outside.

I get ready to head to the market and make a mental list of the stores I wish to browse through and things I need to buy. I grab my shopping tote and I head off.

First on my list of stores is the bookstore. I know exactly which book I want to get but I find myself wandering into the cooking section. My eyes alight on the baking books. Time doesn't matter today and I indulge myself by flipping through the various books. I toy between the purchase of a book full of creme brulee recipes, one on wonderfully gooey desserts like toffee pudding and a more encompassing baking book. As I find myself contemplating the purchase of all three, I force myself to leave the section and I find myself in the textile section. Luckily for my self-control, none of the books tempt my wallet. I pick up the book I came for and march myself out of the store.

My next stop is a stationary store. One of my friends makes scrap books and her own cards. While visiting her, we had gone to card store and spent ages looking through the various cards. At the end, we had decided that we should really send more cards - they're fantastic. The normal birthday cards don't do justice to the cards that are out there. The blank card isn't used enough. A quick note or a lengthy letter inside an appropriate card is always appreciated by the receiver. I spend ages in the card store choosing a blank card for my grandparents. In the end, I find the perfect card. I come out of the store feeling that this is the way that Saturdays should be spent. Accomplishing tasks in the most enjoyable way possible.

At home, I do my cooking stint and I sit down and start writing my cards. E-mail is fantastic because it's quick. A letter is different. Instead of the "Hey" or even no greeting, a letter starts "Dear" and becomes the start of something special. No one sits down to savour an e-mail but upon receiving a letter, one will eagerly break open the envelope and fan the pages. If it's a long one, you sit down and make yourself comfortable to find out what is contained within the its lines. This isn't something that was dashed off but something that was written to be savoured and as you read it, you savour it.

Writing and receiving letters feels like a Saturday, full of promise. There's something about writing letters on Saturday that just feels right. Whereas doing vacuuming just seems wrong.

Dinner for weeks to come

Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of something and you pause and you think to yourself, "how the heck did I get myself into this?" For the second Saturday in a row, I've discovered myself in my kitchen going, "Who's brilliant idea was this?" I take a quick look left and another one right. My cat has already gauged the situation and disappeared. There is no one around but myself. Apparently, I got myself into this. I thought for a second. Nope that didn't seem right.

I knew who to blame. It's that store. Last week, while browsing I discovered pesto and decided that I could make it. I did too. It was good. It still is good. I have no idea how to use it so I still have it. One of my friends explained it as something that you don't need to use, you choose to use it. Thanks, lots of help as always. They recommended making pesto ice cubes until I choose to use it. I now have lots of pesto in frozen cubes.

This week, I wandered in with the idea of making cannelloni. Then in looking at the pasta sauces I came across "Authentic Pizza Sauce." I stopped and looked again. Pizza? I love pizza! And in my momentarily well-stocked kitchen I had everything except the sauce and the pepperoni. I would make pizza at some point in the future. Cans keep. So I scooped it up and kept going.

Then I discovered asiago cheese on sale. I love asiago cheese stuffed inside chicken. Not that I know how to do it but the restaurants always do a really good job. I hovered over the cheese trying to decide whether to pick some up or not. I reached my hand into the bin and pulled it back out again. Really, what was I going to do with it? When I wasn't looking, the cheese jumped into my basket. I kept looking in the opposite direction hoping that it would change its mind and jump back out.

At the deli counter, I got my sandwich meat and paused, "What would you put on pizza?" Ah! Who said that? I'm not making pizza today. Sometime in the future, remember? I discussed the relevant salami's with the deli boy and choose two. I would mix the mild and the hot salami in my pizza. Then I noticed fresh chicken. "I'll have some chicken too, please." I sighed. I knew where this was going. The problem with being a Gemini is you're never sure who's doing what until it's too late.

Thus I found myself double-tasking through two completely different meals. If I was going to turn the oven on, I was going to make it worthwhile. I put the yeast on while I chopped the pizza vegetables. I put the dough onto rise while I attacked the chicken. None of the cookbooks had the recipe I wanted so I decided I would just do it myself. I figured out that stuffing things inside a chicken breast couldn't be that difficult. I would cover it all with a white sauce and pop it in the oven so that if it leaked, it wouldn't matter. It was in the middle of thickening my sauce and adding the panfried in garlic mushrooms and green onions, while glancing over at the pizza dough, I wondered what I was doing.

My first thought was that I was coping. I had a gazillion things happening and I was actually timing it all correctly. I wasn't trying to cook vegetables but I was managing to make two dishes without it going wrong! I had all the ingredients on hand and I was following some loose mental plan. I grinned. My brother would be proud.

Ok, so one of the pizzas is a bit too brown and I'm not sure the chicken sauce has enough pep but I blame that on suddenly wishing I had white wine to dump in the sauce. I'd put cream in it and I thought that the wine would just add the extra decadence. If you're making a heart-attack in a pan, you might as well go all the way.

I now have dinner for the next two weeks at least. That is a cause for celebration. And I won't be going near that store for quite a while. I made sure to buy two week's supply of lunch meat this time so I could miss a week-end. I'm looking forward to a rational week-end next week.

Oh, I put pesto in the pizza sauce. I chose to use it. I'm choosing to use it up.

Shirt Making VII

So in my last post I mentioned how I was scared to get the right and the wrong sides mixed up . . . . and then when I went to put the next sleeve in, I discovered to my horror that I had put the placket on the wrong side. Besides the agony of ripping out even more stitches, the fabric had been cut! I'm now going to have to flip everything and position it correctly around the slash. Oh dear.

*****************************************************************************

So I have ripped out all the stitches and removed the placket. The culprit was pressing the seam allowances on the placket to the wrong side so that everything went wrong from there. I have learned that I am not good at doing things as mirror images of themselves so I shall have to watch that in the future.

I have also learned that it is possible to pull a placket off, re-press it and sew it back in place over the slash. The only tricky part is the diagonal slashes at the top as I had taken them to within a thread of the stitching. It's a good job my edge stitching is getting precise thanks to doing all the seams twice!

Shirt Making VI

I have discovered a problem. My fabric has no clear right nor wrong side. I am flat flelling all the seams. I can't tell which is the right and which is the wrong side of my shirt. It all looks the same. I would be pleased that the inside of the shirt is going to be so nice, but I'm scared of making a mistake due to getting my right and wrong sides incorrect.

The shirt now has an arm. The sleeve had pleats but I think they got placed wrong so I ripped them out and will place them where I think they should go. I don't think there isn't a seam that I haven't ripped out. I'm so determined to get my stitching straight and even that the slightest deviation is becoming grounds for starting again. The flat flelling also means that every seam has to be sewn twice. Making shirts is not a quick process.

Ripping out seams would not be a problem except that my stitching size is 1.5 and everything is gray. I brought in my shirt to show my teacher. His comment was "#^%&!" He covered his mouth and looked at me, "I'm sorry, but those are really tiny stitches. You can't rip those out." "Actually, you can. I've been doing it all week-end." Would I do it again? Probably not, but I'm not having different sized stitches on my shirt.

My mother's comment on the whole thing was to shake her head and to mock me, "Yeah, I can't see but I can rip out tiny stitches." This was followed by a crash course in the appropriate stitch length for different fabrics. This is the lady who refused to teach me to make bobbin lace due to the damage it would cause my eyes. It took several years of concentrated lobbying before I was allowed to get the books and equipment out. At my last eye appointment, my eyes had started to stabilize. I plan to be done this shirt well enough in advance of my next appointment to give my eyes a chance to recover.

In the mean time, I have hopes of attaching a cuff without having to rip out any seams. Perhaps I'll even give it another arm.

Peach Cobbler

I have memories of peach cobblers. They were a wonderful creation. I distinctly remember them being easy and common. The type of thing made to use up peaches that were ripening too fast. My peaches had reached that stage and I wanted cobbler. I love cobblers.

I pulled out recipe book after recipe book. They either didn't have the lowly cobbler or they had up-dated it. I put one recipe book back in disgust. Who asked them to put a modern twist on the peach cobbler? What was wrong with the old one? Cobbler's were supposed to be easy. You dumped in fruit and dumped a mixture on top. I decided to trust the one recipe book that has yet to fail me.

I don't remember my mother's cobbler having alcohol in it. This didn't seem simple. But I decided that peaches simmered in sherry sounded like a good idea. Not that I had sherry. I have port. I have decided that they are interchangable so that when a recipe calls for sherry, I pull out the port. It just makes it richer. More of my port has gone into cooking than I have drunk. I mentally reflect to revisit the rule about not drinking by yourself.

The rest of the recipe whips up easily and I carefully spoon it on top so that I will get the hilly crust. I pop it in the oven. I lick the batter. It's sweet almost like almonds. Nothing like almonds went in it. I"m perplexed. Later when I'm checking on it, I discover that the crust has evened itself out. It does not look like a cobbler. I pull it out and test it. It's still not done. I try a bit of the crust. Hmmm, it's good but it doesn't taste like my memories. I remember it being a rougher creation. The thing is still cooking. I'm convinced that it isn't a cobbler. Port and almonds . . . not my mother's cobbler.

I've come to the conclusion that when you want to make it just like Mum made it, you've got to get your hands on Mum's recipes. And as soon as she comes home from work, I'm calling her. I know she too will be surprised. She always said cobblers were easy and simple. She's probably already made one to use up her peaches. I bet my brother had extra helpings - his and my share. I bet he phones to brag. I'm going to have a glass of port while I listen.

Pesto

It's peach season. I had bought myself a large basket of peaches which started to over-ripen faster than I could eat them. My logical solution to this was to make peach cobbler, which was why I found myself tipping basil in a blender and making pesto. I headed to the market to get week's groceries. I forgot that when you have reached the point where you are willing to roll up your sleeves and enter the kitchen, you find yourself making things - lots of random things.

I was in the Italian grocery store buying my rolls for the week and I stumbled upon pesto. I decided that it would be a nice thing to add to my sandwiches this week. So as I am trying to train myself, I scanned the ingredients and to my surprise, there was nothing in there I couldn't pronounce. Instead of the logical conclusion that the pesto would not harm me, a better idea sprang to mind - I could make this. This was aided by the fact that I had smelt fresh basil when I was in the market. I could buy fresh basil and make pesto. For good measure, I looked at the tapinade which was perched next to the pesto. Heck, I could even make the tapinade.

So I headed back to the stall that was selling herbs. I grew herbs back when I wasn't stuck in an apartment. I know my herbs. I also like to choose my produce. Nothing irks me more than the stall tender who chooses the basket of goods and dumps them into a bag for me before I have inspected the lot. I'm unsure how much basil I need but I decide I will probably need lots. I start inspecting the bunches which annoys the stall tender who is trying to bag a bunch for me. I point out the ripped leaves and leaves with holes. "They're grown without pesticide. It happens." she growls. "That's nice." I smile, "I'll take this bunch. . .. and er, this one." She glowers at me.

I now need pine nuts. I head to the grocery store. One of the nice things about being out early is that the shop clerks have just started their day - they haven't had time to have a bad day. I haven't put the numbers on the different bulk nuts so she's guessing at what the codes are. Trying to be helpful, I suggest that I could go look them up and holler them back at her. She thinks her way of looking them up would be easier, but I can tell she's open to the idea. I comment on how expensive the pine nuts are and that I'm not sure I'll let anyone eat the pesto when I'm done. She responds, "That's what I do with my pies." I look at her. She moves into a blocking position, "Yeah, I say I just spent $40 bucks making that pie. You can't eat it."

At home, I crack open the recipe book. To my astonishment, all you need to make pesto is basil, garlic, olive oil, the gilt-covered pine nuts, Parmesan cheese and a blender. I dump it all in and all of a sudden I have pesto. I also have another massive bunch of basil. I suddenly realise I don't know what one does with pesto. But I have it. I decide I'll deal with the rest of the basil at a different time. I have other stuff to make.

I clean out the blender and start again. This time I'm dumping olives, capers, garlic, olive oil, walnuts and lemon juice in. All of a sudden I have a tapinade. I feel smug. I have pesto and tapinade. I am amazing. Then it hits me. I have no idea what to do with them now. If I had a baguette, I could smear them on that, but I don't. And I still don't have a peach cobbler. I have accomplished nothing. I do have a new party trick for the next time I have guests. I can make home-made pesto and tapinade in about five minutes each. The guests will be impressed, once I figure out how to serve it, of course.

Closet Clean-outs

My friend was staring at my feet and then back up at my skirt. "Your shoes match!" she said in some disbelief. I was busy trying judging whether the shoes matched or went with the skirt so that I didn't completely hear her next comment. To me it sounded like, "You're a walk-in closet!" I protested loudly, "I am NOT a walk-in closet! I just happen to have two items in the same colour!" I think what she actually said was, "You have a walk-in closet!"

This brought up visions of a closet bursting at the seams which isn't true. My closet is well-organised and has lots of room left. I was browsing a magazine last night that had the standard tips on clearing out your closet. Does it fit? When did you last wear it? Are you keeping it for emotional reasons? I scanned the article feeling smug. Yes it fits, yes I wear it all and no I don't have any clothes for emotional reasons. Ha, no reason for me to do the dreaded closet clean-out.

Then later I started thinking of previous closet clean-outs. I have cleaned out at least two pairs of pants that I have since ransacked my closet looking for. I was going hiking and I needed my blue cargo pants. I couldn't find them anywhere. Then I remembered that in a previous misguided closet clean-out, they had been let go along with my black cargo pants with a thousand and one pockets. I have since had to go and buy new hiking pants.

I spent ages looking for a pair of shoes that I couldn't find. I was worried that they had been thrown out in a closet clean-up. I phoned home. "Mum, my brown sandals? Have you seen them?" She thought. "You haven't worn them in a while." My mental calculation was that I hadn't worn them in two years but I wanted them now. She promised to do a search. "I've found them. I've also found your clogs. Do you want them?" I asked her to send up just the sandals. I also told her not to throw out the clogs. "You never wear them." "Doesn't matter. I will."

Last time I was home, I was quizzing my mother. Her work wardrobe was fantastic. She had suits that we know by name. The pieces that she passed onto me are vintage treasures. No one else has a vintage wool Christian Dior turtle neck that matches the colour of their eyes. Thanks to my mum, I do. I've been wearing it since grade school. I wanted to know where the rest of the wardrobe went, what happened to it. I wanted to do a closet plunder. It turned out that what the moth didn't get, the closet clean-out did. I could have cried. I know my father does each time he discovers she pitched one of his favourite outfits. "You threw out the grey suit!?! How could you? You didn't ask me, did you?" Playing the consultation card normally gets a rolling of the eyes and then my father starts to think through the repercussions of this clean-out zeal and panic sets it, "You didn't touch my closet, did you?"

There are those who should do a closet clean-out. They are those who don't keep a mental inventory of everything they have in stock. They should downsize to a level they can handle. For those of us who keep a catalogued mental inventory, easy to browse by style, occasion, article of clothing, colour, fabric, the closet clean-out leads only to stress and havoc. For when you pull out your mental index card for an event and discover half the items missing, you quickly reach the state of "Having Nothing to Wear," which rapidly leads to, "Being Incredibly Late" and makes everyone else, "Unbelievably Unsympathetic." If only you had refrained from cleaning out your closet.

Shirt Making V

I held the scissors over the placket and looked at the instructions. I mentally turned the placket in my mind. Something wasn't right. I looked at the previous instruction. Pin right side of placket to wrong side of sleeve. #%^&@%^!!! I was looking at the right side of the placket. Wrong @#$^$^ side.

Every sewer knows that you don't sew well when you're tired, you don't sew well under pressure, and you don't sew well when you're distracted. I had decided that I could.

My machine is playing up. The thread is cotton so it keeps breaking. When you're in the middle of an edge stitch and your thread breaks for the umpteenth time, you decide to move on to the next item. The machine, me and edge stitching the yoke were not seeing eye to eye. The needle kept jumping on the seam allowance as in retrospect I cut it too thin. The machine kept binding - oiling it didn't overly help - so I've decided it needs a tune-up but I need the machine now. I moved onto the placket which I have now have to unpick. However, since this morning and this afternoon, my seam rippers have disappeared so I'm picking seams out with a pin and scissors. On the bright side, my can opener has recently reappeared. I feel like I've been picking seams out all day.

We all know it and we all do it. But say it once more all together:

DO NOT SEW WHEN TIRED.

My Store

I pushed the door open and the bell jingled. As I stepped inside, the boutique owner came forward to greet me with a huge smile on her face. "You've come home! How long are you visiting for? Where's your Mum?" I was a bit taken back. I barely recognize myself in the mirror right now and yet she knew me straight away. This is my store. This is the person I keep coming back to because I know that with a bit of effort and patience, I 'll find exactly what I want.

She sold me my dress for my graduation. I didn't like any of the dresses. None of them were quite right. The owner kept thinking and the last dress she found I bought. I love that dress. It was exactly what I wanted - not that I knew it until I tried it on.

She sold me my interview suit. She knew that I didn't want a traditional suit, but was going into a more traditional environment of work. End result was a pin-striped pantsuit - except it was white with red and black pin-stripes. Matched with red shoes and a red bag, it was perfect. I got the job.

When I couldn't find any clothes for my summer work wardrobe, she agreed to send up with my mother a selection for me to go through. She pulled out the right sizes and sent them up. She sent loads and loads of things. It was all colour co-ordinated so that multiple items went together to create many outfits. All of a sudden, I had a summer wardrobe.

I love shopping at this store. Shopping becomes a collaborative although a long process. This is what happens when you have youropinion , your mother's opinion, the shop owner's opinion, the shop owner's mother's opinion (who is hard of hearing and approaching 90) and the shop assistant. However, it means that when you push open the changing room door, the sea of expectant faces tell you everything you need to know.

The first stage is browsing the clothing racks. I pull out things I like, everyone else starts pulling out things that they think will be useful or look good on me. I don't think they care whether I like it or not. All of it is added to the stack of clothes to be tried on and I can dismiss items later. When everyone is pulling out items, the stack grows exponentially. My mother will realise how large it's become and do a mental calculation. A stack that large is going to take at least an hour to go through. "You'd better start trying things on." At this point, she sits down, I enter the change room and everyone else keeps looking.

I now have a large and growing stack of clothes to try on. My goal is to diminish the pile by separating it into two categories: yes and no, so that the number of clothes being taken out of the pile are greater than the number being added. I normally lose this battle. I also lose the hanger battle so that I end up with more hangers inside the change room than I've passed back out.

"You mentioned a dress? Here's four to try on." I start working my way through the dresses.


First dress was a white shirt dress. I come out. Unanimous reaction, "Too short." Reaction to the second dress, "Too much dress." Third dress, silence. Then a "That's smart. Go look at yourself in the mirror." Unanimous approval. It goes in the yes pile. The fourth gets dismissed.

We do skirts and we do pants. We go through the tops that will work with the skirts and pants. We go up sizes and we go down sizes. We have an intense discussion on which way round one skirt is supposed to face based on it's cut and the placement of the pockets. It's unclear whether I've got it on backwards or not. We discuss the potential places to wear items and how many seasons you can make them do.

At this point, I've lost control of what I'm trying on. I'm trying on everything I'm being passed. I end up putting a leopard print blouse with black vest in the yes pile. I would never have picked it off the rack. With black pants, it's an amazing look. Theunanimous reaction is "Wouldn't have thought it, but you can definitely pull it off." There's a skirt that I could pull off but no one's too sure where. It goes back.

Slowly the pile goes down. The rejection to approval rate tends to be about seven to one. It's one of the few stores where they don't try and convince me that everything I try on looks good. It's only when it's amazing that it gets the approval rating and gets put in the yes pile.

A couple hours later, I now have several items that will blend into my wardrobe. They can be dressed up or down. They can take me from summer into fall. They're useful and they look good. They're exactly what I want. My mother, the shop owner, the shop owner's mother and the shop assistant all approve of my choices. They're my harshest critics. I know everyone else is going to love them and even better, no one else in town is going to be wearing them. This is why I still shop in my hometown and why this is my store.

My hair

As I leaned my head back into the sink, I airly said, "Don't feel constrained by what the last hairdresser did." The girl smiled, "Don't worry, I know exactly what I'm going to do." I closed my eyes and she started shampooing.

Later, afterwards, I looked in the mirror. I vaguely remembered saying that I wanted a trim and the shape brought back. I tend to wake up one morning and decide that my hair needs cutting. This sudden realization comes after two weeks in which the only thing I can coax my hair to do is a pony-tail. I remember that my hair used to behave and look almost elegant. I could really see about getting it cut.

It turned out that my stylist had left the salon for another one. The new salon was less convenient in every way possible. So I stuck with the old salon and asked to be booked in. When I've decided to have a hair cut, I need a hair cut in the next forty eight hours. I didn't have time to look for a new place.

Last time I had seen the girl who was about to cut my hair, she had still been an apprentice. She had straightened my hair incorrectly. I didn't think it was possible. Now she was waving scissors around my head. My danger alarm needs new batteries. I decided that in the months since I had last come in contact with her, she must have improved, substantially. Nothing warned me for what was about to occur.

I went in with shoulder length hair. When I put my glasses back on, I had chin length hair.

I'm still in shock.

It's the most vicious trim I've ever had.

Last time, a hairdresser hacked off all my hair, I was nine. It was a cut. It was also the last time I've had a bob. I was inconsolable. My mother, trying to stem the flood of tears, told me, "You haven't lived until a hairdresser has ruined your hair." I decided then that I had crossed that one off the list and I was never getting my hair cut again. Ever.

I would get it trimmed, but never cut. It grew and grew and grew. I gave up on the grudge just before my hair reached my waist. It was too heavy. I had it cut. However, my hair remained below my shoulders. It was safe at that length from crazy hairdressers with scissors and stupid ideas.

Over time, I became more adventurous and the shoulder barrier no longer seemed important. I started trusting stylists again and my hair would frequently get cut shorter than my shoulders. It went longer and shorter and different colours. It came in close proximity to my chin and went below the shoulders again.

Last time I went to have it cut, I wanted it cut short. The hairdresser looked at me and said, "You're not ready." I trusted him. He cut it shortish.

Now my hair is short and that trust is broken. I was not ready for this. I didn't ask for this. I asked for a trim. The annoying thing is that so far most people love it. My shock is subsiding and I'm wondering what to do about the new length. I've realised that my mother lied or I've lived twice. I'm being more mature about it this time around. I'm giving it a chance. I'm not hating it right away. I'm going to give it a few weeks. Then I'm going to start encouraging it to grow with a vengeance.

Gremlins

This morning, I had the solid proof that I needed. Gremlins had definitely moved into my apartment.

When I had originally lost my bracelet, I was upset but I put down its disappearance to my carelessness. I knew it was somewhere in the apartment. When I told my mother that it had gone, she put my mind to rest, "You're always losing that bracelet." This is true. I decided then that I could stop pulling my apartment apart and it would show up. I am still waiting for one silver bracelet to reappear on my dresser.

The next item that moved was my salami. I was making lunch and went to grab my meat out of the fridge. It was gone. I rummaged through the fridge and started to panic. I had changed the garbage yesterday, perhaps I had . . . . I stopped myself. There was no way I had thrown out half a pack of lunch meat. Utterly confused, I pulled open various cupboards and looked down the side of counters. Then in desperation, I pulled open the freezer - voila. Salami. I was dumbstruck.

Then the other day, I went to make lunch again. This time tuna. It was the only meat suitable for lunch that I had in the house. There was nothing else. To my horror, I could not locate the can opener. It wasn't in any of the places that it could possibly be. In a last ditch hope, I rang my friend, "Did I take the can opener camping? and more to the point, do you have it?" Only good friends can deal with being accused of stealing your can opener at eight in the morning. She had not seen it. It was and still is gone. I had PB&J for lunch.

My marking pen is still MIA but I haven't checked under all the furniture to see if my cat has quarantined it somewhere. I know she has adopted the bath stopper. It was last seen flying down the sitting room with my cat in hot pursuit.

Then this morning, one of my shirts went missing. Panic-stricken I searched high and low for it. It finally emerged. It was hanging behind one of my dresses on my door. Due to the organized nature of my wardrobe, there is no way it should have ever ended up where it was. (and I am serious, my wardrobe is organised, thanks to forest fires in Australia.)

That's when it came to me, Gremlins. I have been invaded. Perhaps if I'm nice to them, they'll reveal the location of my can opener.

Shirt Making IV

"Ow, owwww." I whipped back my hand yet again. Steam is hot. This steam suddenly whooshes out of the iron and gushes upward towards my hand. Like Henry and the elephant.

Sewing is really two skills. The skill of keeping the machine steady and going in a straight line and the skill of pressing. Pressing is the real key. Clean, crisp seams make all the difference. So once again, I lowered the iron on the fold, determined to get the line of sewing on the edge of the fold. Sewing is strangely precise, a 1/16" out in either direction and you notice it. No one else will, but you will. And forevermore, when you wear the garment, you'll see the mistake.

For the first time, I got to use my clapper. This was rather a let down. Rather than clap the fabric with all the force you can muster, you just press down and slowly drag the clapper down the seam. Between my fire-breathing iron and my clapper, my fabric was soon making folds similar to a piece of paper folded with a nail. This is nerve wracking. If you get the line wrong, you can't get the fold back out.

I soon discovered that shirt making is a one shot deal. The needle pierces the fabric so that ripping out the stitching and redoing it is not an option - the fabric is already punctured and will show the old line. However, cotton is not slippery, so I have been able to dispense with pins. I am trying to avoid using pins as they too mark the fabric.

I had run out of fabric so I bought more tonight. This was fine until I realised that it too had to be washed. Currently, I am stalled until the fabric dries and I can cut out the new pieces. I'm left wondering why yet again I am doing laundry at ridiculous times of the night.