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.