I'm doing the walk for MS. We have a team and we're fundraising. This means we're acting under mafia principles. You go and shake down all your contacts. I've been stalking people on msn. I"m doing the hit and run. "Hey I'm fundraising, care to donate?" This has only so much success.
I'm calling in favours faster than you can blink. I'm getting nervous. I only have so much credit and then I'm going to be in the red and others are going to start calling in on me. I causally mentioned this to a fellow team-mate. I got one of those "This is for a good cause, you shouldn't be thinking about yourself" looks.
HAH!
My friends keep mental tally sheets. I'm getting pretty close to the end of my credit with some of them. They'll start calling in the favours soon. Normally this wouldn't be so bad except I know my friends. And you never know what will follow, "So I was wondering if you . . . ."
I cashed in some of my favours from undergrad with my eco study group - my eco boys. One of them promised to donate but the other coughed up the cash first. The first immediately wanted to know the amount. He then calculated how much help I'd given the second over our undergrad career, proportioned out how much help I'd given him and multiplied that by the amount. That was therefore how much he was going to donate. This was below the minimum donation I allowed him.
I remarked that calling in favours was making me nervous. He got it right away. This is why we studied together. "it's ok...your well isn't completely dry with respect to me. You can call in one more, so be wise." He then paused, "wait until you get arrested or something."
I'm waiting. He's my get-out-of-jail-free card. For real.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Think then act,
I need a house. It's official. I'm not made for apartment living. I need a basement, a garage and a backyard.
I had been to a Vietnamese restaurant for dinner with friends. Upon the plate had come a herb stalk. At first glance, I looked and went basil. The flower was basil, the shine on the leaf was basil but the leaf shape wasn't quite right. So I crushed a leaf and inhaled. Not basil. I was perplexed. One of my friends decided it was cilantro. We asked. The waitress said it was basil. I was annoyed. I am a closet herbalist. I know my herbs or I did back when I had a herb garden growing wild. My window box herb garden is dead. I even killed my bay tree which makes me cry. I need a backyard so I can put in a proper herb garden.
I came home. My last picture from my art class was mainly charcoal. It needed to be sprayed with fixative. So I decided that I would spray it. The only room with two windows that open wide is my bedroom. I opened the windows wide, laid the picture on my bed and let 'er rip with the spray can. Mid-spray I remembered that this stuff is supposed to be toxic and I'm spraying it in my bedroom. I'm also about to get ready for bed. The door to my bedroom is closed as I hope it ventilates quickly or I'm sleeping on the couch.
I am my father's daughter. I need a basement and a garage. I shouldn't be allowed to play with chemicals in an enclosed space.
I had been to a Vietnamese restaurant for dinner with friends. Upon the plate had come a herb stalk. At first glance, I looked and went basil. The flower was basil, the shine on the leaf was basil but the leaf shape wasn't quite right. So I crushed a leaf and inhaled. Not basil. I was perplexed. One of my friends decided it was cilantro. We asked. The waitress said it was basil. I was annoyed. I am a closet herbalist. I know my herbs or I did back when I had a herb garden growing wild. My window box herb garden is dead. I even killed my bay tree which makes me cry. I need a backyard so I can put in a proper herb garden.
I came home. My last picture from my art class was mainly charcoal. It needed to be sprayed with fixative. So I decided that I would spray it. The only room with two windows that open wide is my bedroom. I opened the windows wide, laid the picture on my bed and let 'er rip with the spray can. Mid-spray I remembered that this stuff is supposed to be toxic and I'm spraying it in my bedroom. I'm also about to get ready for bed. The door to my bedroom is closed as I hope it ventilates quickly or I'm sleeping on the couch.
I am my father's daughter. I need a basement and a garage. I shouldn't be allowed to play with chemicals in an enclosed space.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Designer Update
Dressmaking is a funny hobby. It makes you do things you wouldn't normally do. Having declared I was making a mock before attempting on the actual material, I pulled out my stash of fabric. My stash, for a dressmaker, is pitiful. My mother has a much better stash. My aunt has an even better one. The trick is to buy lots of fabric and never make anything out of it. When you do buy a pattern, you buy the fabric to make the item. The result is a great stash of fabric that I can raid. You have to be careful though in raiding fabric stashes. The last time I did it without asking, I cut up fabric that was leftover from my mother's bridesmaid's dress. Never ever cut up expensive fabric that has a sentimental value. It gets you in more trouble then cutting something right out of the centre of a piece of fabric, which I did once. You only ever do it once.
Not only did I not have the right type of fabric for doing a mock, I didn't have enough. I don't have a stash of old sheets so I was on the look-out for mock suitable material. This quest found me in Tiger somethingorother routing through their stock of sheets looking for the most meterage for the least price. I was buying a brand new sheet to take it home and cut it up. Oh yes. I bought the brand new sheet and took it home.
This is where it gets even odder. I had previously cut out the pattern pieces. I had ironed them. I made sure that the fold lines were pressed out of them. Have you ever ironed tissue paper? I didn't think so.
I next ironed the sheet to try and get the fold lines out of them. I never iron sheets unless I'm about to take huge sheers to them and cut them into little pieces. I know some people iron sheets to sleep on them. I think that's a waste of time.
So I laid my pattern pieces down on top of my freshly ironed sheet and cut it up. The next stage is tailor tacks. I hate tailor tacking. At this stage I stopped. I needed a guilt trip to set in to motivate me to the next stage. This past Saturday I was motivated enough to start. I am pleased to report that I managed to do it without sewing anything to the carpet. This is a huge accomplishment. Normally I manage to sew my pattern piece to the carpet as I tailor tack the darts. I spent practically all day putting the long running stitches into the pieces. You spend all this time putting in stitches and then you cut them up. You then spend ten seconds sewing the dart and then you pull the tailor tacks back out. One hours worth of tacking gone just like that. I hate tailor tacking.
There's a reason you make a mock. I made the wrong side, as always. There's nothing more frustrating then wearing a pink sheet that's too big for you. There was no way I was going to start from scratch. That meant more sheets and more tailor tacks. I determined how much fabric needed to come off to take it down a size. I took it down a size. Now it seemed too small. I'm going to go on a diet. It seems easier than starting again.
Not only did I not have the right type of fabric for doing a mock, I didn't have enough. I don't have a stash of old sheets so I was on the look-out for mock suitable material. This quest found me in Tiger somethingorother routing through their stock of sheets looking for the most meterage for the least price. I was buying a brand new sheet to take it home and cut it up. Oh yes. I bought the brand new sheet and took it home.
This is where it gets even odder. I had previously cut out the pattern pieces. I had ironed them. I made sure that the fold lines were pressed out of them. Have you ever ironed tissue paper? I didn't think so.
I next ironed the sheet to try and get the fold lines out of them. I never iron sheets unless I'm about to take huge sheers to them and cut them into little pieces. I know some people iron sheets to sleep on them. I think that's a waste of time.
So I laid my pattern pieces down on top of my freshly ironed sheet and cut it up. The next stage is tailor tacks. I hate tailor tacking. At this stage I stopped. I needed a guilt trip to set in to motivate me to the next stage. This past Saturday I was motivated enough to start. I am pleased to report that I managed to do it without sewing anything to the carpet. This is a huge accomplishment. Normally I manage to sew my pattern piece to the carpet as I tailor tack the darts. I spent practically all day putting the long running stitches into the pieces. You spend all this time putting in stitches and then you cut them up. You then spend ten seconds sewing the dart and then you pull the tailor tacks back out. One hours worth of tacking gone just like that. I hate tailor tacking.
There's a reason you make a mock. I made the wrong side, as always. There's nothing more frustrating then wearing a pink sheet that's too big for you. There was no way I was going to start from scratch. That meant more sheets and more tailor tacks. I determined how much fabric needed to come off to take it down a size. I took it down a size. Now it seemed too small. I'm going to go on a diet. It seems easier than starting again.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Don't Mind Me
If you were in Toronto this morning at an unearthly hour in the lobby of a swanky hotel, you might have seen a young person looking highly embarrassed. She would have been wearing a towel over top of a wet bathing suit and sandals, creating a slight puddle. She might have been me, although I'll deny it.
I was in Toronto for a business trip as a representative of the Federal government. I'm a professional with a laptop bag and a huge briefcase style purse to prove it. However, deep at heart, I am me. I can pull off being professional for about 0.5 seconds before my cover gets blown.
The hotel had a pool and I fully intended to use it. I set my alarm and got a wake-up call to ensure that I could squeeze in everything I wanted to do before I had to accomplish what I had been sent to Toronto to do. Everything went according to plan. Got up, threw on my bathing suit, realised I'd left a cover-up at home, grabbed a towel and my deck shoes and went swimming. The water was warm although shallow. This ruined my plan of perfecting my cannon ball technique. I tend to be a bit late on the tuck but I digress. Being a professional, I swum laps. It struck me as the type of thing people on businesses trips do. Laps are boring. So I hit the sauna next. When you're past the age of dumping water on the rocks to make steam, saunas are boring. Finished with the whole exercise in the morning stunt, I headed back to my hotel room.
I stuck the pass card in and there was no light. There was no iota of recognition that this room contained my stuff. I muttered, "You've got to be kidding me." And then it hit me. The only way I was going to get back into my room was to go to the lobby. You don't just go to the lobby wearing a bathing suit and a towel in the middle of Downtown Toronto at 7:30 in the morning. But it's 7:30am, no one else is crazy enough to be up and around at this time. I took a deep breath and pushed the down button to call the elevator. Let me ruin the punch line. There's lots of people around and they create lines at the lobby desk. When you're wet and waiting in line, you create puddles and generate funny looks.
The elevator arrived and there was a gentleman already inside. "You're up early," he said. "Yeah, and my pass card doesn't work. Apparently you can't take it into the sauna," I hurriedly tried to explain, "so now I've got to go the desk to get a new one." He smiled, "It's the type of thing that has to happen to you once in your lifetime." He was nice. I tried not to drip on him.
I was in Toronto for a business trip as a representative of the Federal government. I'm a professional with a laptop bag and a huge briefcase style purse to prove it. However, deep at heart, I am me. I can pull off being professional for about 0.5 seconds before my cover gets blown.
The hotel had a pool and I fully intended to use it. I set my alarm and got a wake-up call to ensure that I could squeeze in everything I wanted to do before I had to accomplish what I had been sent to Toronto to do. Everything went according to plan. Got up, threw on my bathing suit, realised I'd left a cover-up at home, grabbed a towel and my deck shoes and went swimming. The water was warm although shallow. This ruined my plan of perfecting my cannon ball technique. I tend to be a bit late on the tuck but I digress. Being a professional, I swum laps. It struck me as the type of thing people on businesses trips do. Laps are boring. So I hit the sauna next. When you're past the age of dumping water on the rocks to make steam, saunas are boring. Finished with the whole exercise in the morning stunt, I headed back to my hotel room.
I stuck the pass card in and there was no light. There was no iota of recognition that this room contained my stuff. I muttered, "You've got to be kidding me." And then it hit me. The only way I was going to get back into my room was to go to the lobby. You don't just go to the lobby wearing a bathing suit and a towel in the middle of Downtown Toronto at 7:30 in the morning. But it's 7:30am, no one else is crazy enough to be up and around at this time. I took a deep breath and pushed the down button to call the elevator. Let me ruin the punch line. There's lots of people around and they create lines at the lobby desk. When you're wet and waiting in line, you create puddles and generate funny looks.
The elevator arrived and there was a gentleman already inside. "You're up early," he said. "Yeah, and my pass card doesn't work. Apparently you can't take it into the sauna," I hurriedly tried to explain, "so now I've got to go the desk to get a new one." He smiled, "It's the type of thing that has to happen to you once in your lifetime." He was nice. I tried not to drip on him.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
When Life Hands You Lemons
Make Hot Lemon.
Forget all this talk about making lemonade. It's cute but really, when things are that bad, lemonade ain't going to cut it. When things are that bad, all you really want to do is grab a blanket, take to the couch and stay horizontal. Generally something has given and you're depressed - physically or emotionally.
If you're sick physically, and your throat hurts, then you're going to have to suck it up and gargle with salt water. This is the most disgusting and therefore, the most effective remedy that my mother has inflicted on me. I've learned to phone home complaining, "My throat hurts Mom . . . but I've already gargled with salt water." Then I can start the whining process that will garner me absolutely zero sympathy. I will instead get a recommendation to go to bed early and stop staying out so late. I'm pretty sure this is why I am rarely severely sick.
There's no point in being sick if you get nothing out of it. I mean, why bother with the runny nose and the head and body aches, if you have to drag yourself out of bed to make the chicken soup, which invariably you won't have in the house anyway. You then are going to be clutching the counter in the kitchen, feeling like death-warmed-over, with the sinking realisation that there is nothing to eat. You don't have the energy to go to the grocery store to get food suitable for invalids. Apparently calling in pizza is the only option you have. At that point, you're so sick, that the thought of pizza makes you go hide under the covers again. When you can't stomach pizza, you know you're sick. In fact, if you live on your own, being sick isn't an option unless you plan for it.
I was told to make sure I had soup and invalid-type food on hand over the winter in case I got sick. So I stocked up. This is the second most effective cure. If you're prepared for something, it will not happen. I'll be eating soup all summer.
There are times though when you're not that type of sick. You had a bad day at work or after work; you're mildly not feeling well; the weather outside is nasty. Then it's time to break out the Hot Lemon. (For bad days, I have another drink that also works but that's a whole different drink, in fact it's Greek.)
To make Hot Lemon, you have to be generous with the quantities.
Get a large mug because you're going to want more but you won't want to get up to make another one.
Put two large heaping spoonfuls of sugar in the bottom,
squeeze in lemon juice over top until it's a good generous half-inch at least,
and dump in boiling water.
Give it a stir, grab a blanket and take to the couch.
(You can also make it with tea which is just as comforting). The blend of sweet and sour will make you feel better if only temporarily. Combined with a warm bath and bubbles, it's even more effective.
Now, if I was an infomercial I would insert testimonials here. But I won't. I know that it works when the body hurts, but I'm not so sure about when the heart hurts. No one's given me a fool proof remedy for that yet.
This week-end, I made the tea version for a friend who was tired and borderline sick. She could barely talk. I think it helped but more so the music and the company of friends.
I also gave the recipe to a friend for whom I had made it in the past. If distances were shorter, I would have been making it for her too. Instead all I could do was give her the recipe, tell her to take a bath, and inform her that she was fabulous. One day, the right person will agree with me.
Forget all this talk about making lemonade. It's cute but really, when things are that bad, lemonade ain't going to cut it. When things are that bad, all you really want to do is grab a blanket, take to the couch and stay horizontal. Generally something has given and you're depressed - physically or emotionally.
If you're sick physically, and your throat hurts, then you're going to have to suck it up and gargle with salt water. This is the most disgusting and therefore, the most effective remedy that my mother has inflicted on me. I've learned to phone home complaining, "My throat hurts Mom . . . but I've already gargled with salt water." Then I can start the whining process that will garner me absolutely zero sympathy. I will instead get a recommendation to go to bed early and stop staying out so late. I'm pretty sure this is why I am rarely severely sick.
There's no point in being sick if you get nothing out of it. I mean, why bother with the runny nose and the head and body aches, if you have to drag yourself out of bed to make the chicken soup, which invariably you won't have in the house anyway. You then are going to be clutching the counter in the kitchen, feeling like death-warmed-over, with the sinking realisation that there is nothing to eat. You don't have the energy to go to the grocery store to get food suitable for invalids. Apparently calling in pizza is the only option you have. At that point, you're so sick, that the thought of pizza makes you go hide under the covers again. When you can't stomach pizza, you know you're sick. In fact, if you live on your own, being sick isn't an option unless you plan for it.
I was told to make sure I had soup and invalid-type food on hand over the winter in case I got sick. So I stocked up. This is the second most effective cure. If you're prepared for something, it will not happen. I'll be eating soup all summer.
There are times though when you're not that type of sick. You had a bad day at work or after work; you're mildly not feeling well; the weather outside is nasty. Then it's time to break out the Hot Lemon. (For bad days, I have another drink that also works but that's a whole different drink, in fact it's Greek.)
To make Hot Lemon, you have to be generous with the quantities.
Get a large mug because you're going to want more but you won't want to get up to make another one.
Put two large heaping spoonfuls of sugar in the bottom,
squeeze in lemon juice over top until it's a good generous half-inch at least,
and dump in boiling water.
Give it a stir, grab a blanket and take to the couch.
(You can also make it with tea which is just as comforting). The blend of sweet and sour will make you feel better if only temporarily. Combined with a warm bath and bubbles, it's even more effective.
Now, if I was an infomercial I would insert testimonials here. But I won't. I know that it works when the body hurts, but I'm not so sure about when the heart hurts. No one's given me a fool proof remedy for that yet.
This week-end, I made the tea version for a friend who was tired and borderline sick. She could barely talk. I think it helped but more so the music and the company of friends.
I also gave the recipe to a friend for whom I had made it in the past. If distances were shorter, I would have been making it for her too. Instead all I could do was give her the recipe, tell her to take a bath, and inform her that she was fabulous. One day, the right person will agree with me.
Shameless Plagarism aka how to make a grilled cheese
Ages ago my cousin came to visit and I was stuck providing him with lunch. So I pulled out my version of grilled cheese sandwiches. He seemed to enjoy them and it wasn't until much later I was browsing his brother's blog (funny enough also my cousin) that I realised how much he had. For right smack there for the world to see was my recipe. So I have gleefully lifted it right off his website and pasted it in mine.
From way back in May 2005 .
From way back in May 2005 .
The best Toasted Cheese Sandwiches ever (thanks to my cousin Kim for this one)
So here's how to get that incredible crispy on the outside, soft on the inside cheese sandwich. You will need:
Bread, cheese and butter
Method: Spread two slices of bread on one side with butter and place one butter side down in a heated frying pan. Now put on the cheese. At this point you can add lots of extra fillings like ham, tomato, pickle, mango chutney, etc. Now blonk the other slice of bread on top butter side up. Keep frying on a medium heat until the bottom is nicely browned, then turn down the heat and flip the sandwich over and fry till that side is done.
Simple and easy, but incredibly tasty and you don't have to bother with a sandwich toaster.
Well hopefully I'll get some more 'student grub that tastes like cordon-bleu' ideas up from time to time. But now its time for some revision, or maybe a sleep - I feel a bit nackered!
Enjoy the sandwiches and don't burn too many, its wasteful and cruel.
Geoff
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
I've turned designer (again)
I discovered today that I am a sucker for tissue paper and paper bags.
There is a fabric store near my work which shatters all previous conceptions of the genre. It sells the equivalent of designer clothing but in raw form. The store is designed on the same premise as an edgy boutique and oozes sophistication. On my lunch, I"ll go in and wander around, finger the cloth and weave designs in my mind. I"ll sit on the black leather couch and thumb the pattern books. Luckily, I had not found a pattern and then wandered around looking for the fabric. Until today.
My new summer wardrobe purchase was going to consist of three summer dresses: the ultimate wash, dry and go dresses. If I found the perfect one, I was going to buy it in different colours. I was leaning towards a shirtdress. I've never tried one on but I'm convinced it would be flattering. It has to be. I've just invested in one and I have yet to try it on. It's still in the concept stage.
I went for my periodic fabric wander today. The weather was warm and the birds were singing, I was feeling spring. I wandered through the bolts and then I sat down and started thumbing through the books. I was looking for a shirt dress. I found one. I went and asked the proprietor of the store about the pattern. He's a designer. He knows stuff. We went and looked at the cotton and linen. We discussed the relative merits of fun versus elegance. We went with elegant and cotton. He showed me a fabric that was gorgeous. He's using it in his spring line. I've never fallen in love with a fabric before. I fell hard. I emerged long enough to try and find a cheaper fabric but as is always the same, false economy will cost you dear. The cheaper fabric was going to shrink in the wash so I was going to need more of it. In the end it was going to cost the same amount. I breathed deep and I heard myself say "I'll take the other one."
What!?!
I've spent more on fabric then I have ever spent in my life. He folded it up carefully, put the thread and pattern on top and wrapped it in tissue paper. He taped the ends like a present and put it in a white paper bag. As soon as it went into tissue paper, I knew he cared about the details. Expensive things come wrapped in tissue paper. Delicate things come wrapped in tissue paper. I'd just invested in both.
I walked out oozing the promise of sophistication and elegance. I almost freaked out when I got home but it's wrapped in tissue paper. This is not fabric. This is the start of a beautiful creation. I'm going to do a mock first. I'm not ruining this fabric. This dress will be perfect and I"m going to be living in it this summer. I'm making three total and I know which fabric I'm investing in next. The cheaper one which isn't.
He's promised to help me when I come in freaking out. I can call for help - Kim, shirtdress, they'll know me. He's promised it will press like a dream. He warned me to take my time and then he winked. He's good. He knows stuff. He wraps his fabric in tissue paper.
See Darrell Thomas link.
There is a fabric store near my work which shatters all previous conceptions of the genre. It sells the equivalent of designer clothing but in raw form. The store is designed on the same premise as an edgy boutique and oozes sophistication. On my lunch, I"ll go in and wander around, finger the cloth and weave designs in my mind. I"ll sit on the black leather couch and thumb the pattern books. Luckily, I had not found a pattern and then wandered around looking for the fabric. Until today.
My new summer wardrobe purchase was going to consist of three summer dresses: the ultimate wash, dry and go dresses. If I found the perfect one, I was going to buy it in different colours. I was leaning towards a shirtdress. I've never tried one on but I'm convinced it would be flattering. It has to be. I've just invested in one and I have yet to try it on. It's still in the concept stage.
I went for my periodic fabric wander today. The weather was warm and the birds were singing, I was feeling spring. I wandered through the bolts and then I sat down and started thumbing through the books. I was looking for a shirt dress. I found one. I went and asked the proprietor of the store about the pattern. He's a designer. He knows stuff. We went and looked at the cotton and linen. We discussed the relative merits of fun versus elegance. We went with elegant and cotton. He showed me a fabric that was gorgeous. He's using it in his spring line. I've never fallen in love with a fabric before. I fell hard. I emerged long enough to try and find a cheaper fabric but as is always the same, false economy will cost you dear. The cheaper fabric was going to shrink in the wash so I was going to need more of it. In the end it was going to cost the same amount. I breathed deep and I heard myself say "I'll take the other one."
What!?!
I've spent more on fabric then I have ever spent in my life. He folded it up carefully, put the thread and pattern on top and wrapped it in tissue paper. He taped the ends like a present and put it in a white paper bag. As soon as it went into tissue paper, I knew he cared about the details. Expensive things come wrapped in tissue paper. Delicate things come wrapped in tissue paper. I'd just invested in both.
I walked out oozing the promise of sophistication and elegance. I almost freaked out when I got home but it's wrapped in tissue paper. This is not fabric. This is the start of a beautiful creation. I'm going to do a mock first. I'm not ruining this fabric. This dress will be perfect and I"m going to be living in it this summer. I'm making three total and I know which fabric I'm investing in next. The cheaper one which isn't.
He's promised to help me when I come in freaking out. I can call for help - Kim, shirtdress, they'll know me. He's promised it will press like a dream. He warned me to take my time and then he winked. He's good. He knows stuff. He wraps his fabric in tissue paper.
See Darrell Thomas link.
Why Blog?
I got asked recently why I was keeping a blog. I refered the person to an early post which explained why I had made public my previous defunct blog. He'd already read it. As he is my brother, he also objected to the next ten reasons I was about to give without me saying them. That's the thing about family - they tend to find you predictable.
The objection arose because I had stepped outside of my careful rationale for starting the blog.
So in response I would like to quote a Grook by Piet Hein.
Thanks for keeping me a wannabe wannabe!!
The objection arose because I had stepped outside of my careful rationale for starting the blog.
So in response I would like to quote a Grook by Piet Hein.
ON PROBLEMS
Our choicest plans
have fallen through,
our airiest castles
tumbled over,
because of lines
we neatly drew
and later neatly
stumbled over.
Thanks for keeping me a wannabe wannabe!!
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Flowers
As the weather gets ready for Winter, round II, a reminder of warmer times is in order.
Many have met my camera, few have seen pictures from my flower "collection".
Remember Spring does eventually come.
Enjoy.
Many have met my camera, few have seen pictures from my flower "collection".
Remember Spring does eventually come.
Enjoy.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Confectionism - Part II
I poked it and it oozed again. I was staring at two pounds of oozy sugar and there was no way I could eat it all. I enlisted the help of friends.
Upon arriving at work, I rushed my tablet packages into the fridge and sent out the notices that confectionary experiment #1 was ready to picked up.
The first brave soul arrived. I handed him the tinfoil package, expained that it should be kept in the fridge. We chatted for a bit. Then he mentioned that he had been given his grandmother's tablet recipe but he was missing the cooking instructions. I started talking about how you boiled it and the need for a candy thermometer (which had jumped from at some point if I remember to absolutely necessary and urgent on my mental shopping list) and he looked a little puzzled. I started to inquire into the nature of his recipe. When he hit flour in the list of ingredients, I suddenly understood. Shortbread! To which he looked puzzled, "What's this?" he asked gestering with the tin foil package that was beginning to lose its shape. Tablet. Not the same. Really not the same.
When I asked another friend what he thought of it, he was in raptures. So good, we're eating it with spoons. Sigh, not how tablet should be eaten. Yet another friend remarked she thought it was sweet, really sweet, very very sweet. That's the beauty of tablet - whatever it's consistency - you discover those with a real sweet tooth. However, I suspected that everyone thought I was making the whole concept of tablet up. Until we were at a Scottish restaurant where tablet was served to us. But even this was not what I was looking for. It wasn't creamy like I was used to. It was more granular. But it was a solid. I started asking questions. For the first time in my life, I talked to the cook.
That's when I discovered after about sugar, there was no similarity in my recipe and the recipe that they used, even the method was different. Actually, even the type of sugar was different. I was back to trying to decipher my grandfather's instructions.
Tablet - Take 2
This time I had a thermometer but I was still lacking the necessary patience to stir. I decided that stirring constantly was a sufficient but not necessary condition to produce the final result. In a way I was right. This time the result was a solid but it was granular. It wasn't creamy like the first batch. It was a different colour too. Sugar is rather cool. You put the same ingredients in a pan, cook it slightly differently and you get a completley different result. Even the taste was different. I was hooked.
When my friends have come off their permenant sugar high, their blood sugar levels have returned to normal and they can sit still, I'll make another batch. My perfectionist streak is kicking in and I want to get it right. However, my love of tinkering with recipes is also setting in. I'm not sure which will win. Most candy was a mistake. I think I'll be good at this.
Upon arriving at work, I rushed my tablet packages into the fridge and sent out the notices that confectionary experiment #1 was ready to picked up.
The first brave soul arrived. I handed him the tinfoil package, expained that it should be kept in the fridge. We chatted for a bit. Then he mentioned that he had been given his grandmother's tablet recipe but he was missing the cooking instructions. I started talking about how you boiled it and the need for a candy thermometer (which had jumped from at some point if I remember to absolutely necessary and urgent on my mental shopping list) and he looked a little puzzled. I started to inquire into the nature of his recipe. When he hit flour in the list of ingredients, I suddenly understood. Shortbread! To which he looked puzzled, "What's this?" he asked gestering with the tin foil package that was beginning to lose its shape. Tablet. Not the same. Really not the same.
When I asked another friend what he thought of it, he was in raptures. So good, we're eating it with spoons. Sigh, not how tablet should be eaten. Yet another friend remarked she thought it was sweet, really sweet, very very sweet. That's the beauty of tablet - whatever it's consistency - you discover those with a real sweet tooth. However, I suspected that everyone thought I was making the whole concept of tablet up. Until we were at a Scottish restaurant where tablet was served to us. But even this was not what I was looking for. It wasn't creamy like I was used to. It was more granular. But it was a solid. I started asking questions. For the first time in my life, I talked to the cook.
That's when I discovered after about sugar, there was no similarity in my recipe and the recipe that they used, even the method was different. Actually, even the type of sugar was different. I was back to trying to decipher my grandfather's instructions.
Tablet - Take 2
This time I had a thermometer but I was still lacking the necessary patience to stir. I decided that stirring constantly was a sufficient but not necessary condition to produce the final result. In a way I was right. This time the result was a solid but it was granular. It wasn't creamy like the first batch. It was a different colour too. Sugar is rather cool. You put the same ingredients in a pan, cook it slightly differently and you get a completley different result. Even the taste was different. I was hooked.
When my friends have come off their permenant sugar high, their blood sugar levels have returned to normal and they can sit still, I'll make another batch. My perfectionist streak is kicking in and I want to get it right. However, my love of tinkering with recipes is also setting in. I'm not sure which will win. Most candy was a mistake. I think I'll be good at this.
Hog's Hock - Update
All you need to know about Hog's Hocks is that there is no meat on them and they absolutely stink when they've been boiled. Now that I've cooked the wretched thing, I went and looked up what it is. Basically it's the pig's ankle. No wonder there's no meat. There's no meat on my ankle either.
Hog's Hock tastes like it smells.
Hog's Hock tastes like it smells.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Sticky Goodness
I remember thinking when I was very little, that those in their twenties were old. Not old in the way that grandparents are old but old in the sense that they had it together. Not that I knew what it was or what it meant to have it together, but in retrospect that's what I thought. Now I have reached that magical decade and I am rapidly regressing back to the level of an eight year old.
When I was eight, we never bought food that might be considered junk food or candy. My mother believed that junk food became a habit so she worked on instilling in us the habit of no junk food. She mostly succeeded. She failed on several counts though. Gummies of any sort were the first major failing, but mainly because she has a weak spot for them. Hazy childhood memories recall her getting back into the car after buying gas and passing back gummy worms. More recent memories contain us discussing the relative merits of sour versus standard gummy worms, (I'm for sour, my mother prefers the standard) and trying out the trantula gummmies in horrible hallowe'en colours. That was this hallowe'en. We enjoyed them.
Gum however was one thing my mother did not understand. We've learned it's best not to give her gum. It's a waste. Despite the virtual gum ban we grew up under, my brother and I can both blow and snap wonderful gum bubbles. All you need to imagine is: a seven year old, a five year old, a plane journey to England and an aunt who's packed enough bubble gum for the six hour flight. My aunt was taught to snap gum by my grandmother - a New Yorker. By the end we were sticky pros and the rest of the passengers couldn't wait to get off the plane.
Cotton Candy always fascinated me. I wanted some so badly. Pure sugar even if it was pink and blue was clearly junk food. Any amount of "but pleeeeeeeeeeease" was going to get nowhere. But we were at the circus museum and cotton candy was made for the circus. As we sat watching the clowns, my father left his seat and proceeded out of the tent. He returned with a bag of cotton candy. Since then cotton candy has been a huge treat. In my mind it's forever linked with my father and the bliss of having an irrational aching want for something fulfilled. He has a way of knowing and a way of coming through. Thus, despite my mother's best efforts, cotton candy sometimes managed to squeak by.
This week, I was at a hockey game. At the first intermission, we went to stretch our legs in the corridor behind the stands. Of course, it's lined with concession stalls. My friend is determined to get popcorn. I'm more hesitant. I've never eaten popcorn at a hockey game. I'm pretty sure my mother will find out about it and the consequences will be swift and punishing. As we approach the popcorn stand, I spy it - it''s bright blue and pink - it's cotton candy. Now by all the rules, cotton candy is ok because cotton candy is rare. I let out a squeak "Cotton candy!" Turning a quizzical eye on me, my friend utters the sentence of someone who has always had junk food at a game, "Why don't you get it?" I demur, "I couldn't possibly eat it all. Do you like cotton candy?" Turns out he doesn't. Turns out he's insane. "Just get it" so I do. I go back to my seat clutching my bag of cotton candy with a giant smile on my face.
So we watch the second part of the game eating popcorn and cotton candy. Apparently not everyone knows how to eat cotton candy. Cotton candy has to be treated delicately - you can't crush it or it quickly becomes sickly sweet. After being shown the proper way to eat cotton candy (I mean really), my friend decided that he did like cotton candy after all. So we sat and ate popcorn. The butter went all over our hands and leached through the bag so that whatever it came into contact with got butter stained. As is the way with popcorn, it goes everywhere. So we got popcorn everywhere. We sat and ate cotton candy. As is the way with cotton candy, our tongues and teeth turned blue, our fingers got a layer of sugar on top of the layer of butter. We were a mess. We were messier than any eight year old.
Luckily we had water and we had napkins. So we poured water on our hands and wiped them off with the napkins. We made a bigger mess. I'm pretty sure most eight year olds of my acquaintance could have done the job with more grace and elegance. I believe it's because I'm out of practise. When you're trying to figure out what it is so you can get it together, you forget the small things. You forget that you should only use two fingers for cotton candy and that you should eat popcorn with only one hand. You forget that going home sticky with a blue grin stretched ear to ear with popcorn stuck to your sweater is the sign of an evening well spent. It's amazing how quickly it comes back. It's also amazing how butter won't come off clothes and cotton candy dye lurks in your teeth. Maybe mother knew something after all. For I sure hope she knows how to remove butter over the phone.
BBQ
I've been invited to a BBQ. Normally I'd be thrilled, except this BBQ is in England; I'm petrified.
The first thing about BBQ's is that it's a male thing. I'm not sure when or why this occurred but a lit BBQ will be surrounded by gaggle of males drinking beer. One of them will be wielding the tongs and the marinating brush; he's the host. The rest are there to drink the host's beer.
In my experience, Canadian males make it a point of honour to only flip the meat once. It doesn't matter if it's triple A grade steak or No Name beef burgers. The principles of BBQing remain the same - you flip the meat once. British males however seem to flip the meat once a minute.
The first time I went to a BBQ in England I was unprepared. I didn't realise that it was a cultural phenomenon that hadn't crossed the Atlantic correctly. The BBQ was held in someone's backyard, lots of people were over, and the menu was burgers. So far, so good. Until we wandered over to watch the male gaggle cook the burgers. The burgers were a lot smaller than we were accustomed to but it was the sausages that perplexed us. Baby burgers and sausages, odd. However, the cooking of the meat soon wiped away any amusement. My brother and I watched in horror as our host repeatedly flipped the burgers, we gasped as he pressed on them with the spatula to make them cook faster, and we were stunned when we were presented with round bits of char to on burger buns with some cylindrical bits on the side. We poked them carefully. "I think its a sausage," my brother mouthed.
Going over to the condiment table, we spied potato salad and coleslaw. In Canada, coleslaw and potato salad are provided in big heaping bowls so you can put big heaping mounds on your plate. I love both. I'm starting to know more about them. Coleslaw can be made with a vinegar base or a mayo base. Pairing a potato salad with a coleslaw is a bit of an art. If you have a potato salad that's very mayo based, then you should have a vinegar based coleslaw. The relative sweetness and acidity are also to be carefully balanced. Cabbages are huge so there tends to be a lot of coleslaw when you make one. It takes the same amount of effort to make a large potato salad as a small one. That's why there's normally enough of both for seconds or even thirds.
However, at this BBQ, both salads were store bought and these pots struck us as being individually-sized. Does England not have cabbages? Are they imported? Was this one of those things that's cheap at home but expensive over here? We decided to play dumb - "What's this for?" we asked. "Oh, it's coleslaw, wonderful stuff. You put it on top of your burger." Ok, maybe it is expensive over here, or maybe they got the memo about ketchup, mustard and relish mixed up with the one about the side dishes. When in Rome . . . we carefully took a teaspoon of each and placed them on our burger.
I think it's fair to say we were polite and we survived. We were convinced it was a one-off but as our sample sized enlarged, we discovered that British BBQ's all go the same way. Anecdotal evidence further supported our conclusions. They insist on flipping your meat until it's dizzy and serving you sausages to go with your burger. Like everything else in Britain, the burgers are smaller than in Canada, and they are always charred to the point of edible charcoal. The condiments never make any sense.
I'm going to a BBQ in England. I'm also about to become a temporary vegetarian. I think it's safer that way.
The first thing about BBQ's is that it's a male thing. I'm not sure when or why this occurred but a lit BBQ will be surrounded by gaggle of males drinking beer. One of them will be wielding the tongs and the marinating brush; he's the host. The rest are there to drink the host's beer.
In my experience, Canadian males make it a point of honour to only flip the meat once. It doesn't matter if it's triple A grade steak or No Name beef burgers. The principles of BBQing remain the same - you flip the meat once. British males however seem to flip the meat once a minute.
The first time I went to a BBQ in England I was unprepared. I didn't realise that it was a cultural phenomenon that hadn't crossed the Atlantic correctly. The BBQ was held in someone's backyard, lots of people were over, and the menu was burgers. So far, so good. Until we wandered over to watch the male gaggle cook the burgers. The burgers were a lot smaller than we were accustomed to but it was the sausages that perplexed us. Baby burgers and sausages, odd. However, the cooking of the meat soon wiped away any amusement. My brother and I watched in horror as our host repeatedly flipped the burgers, we gasped as he pressed on them with the spatula to make them cook faster, and we were stunned when we were presented with round bits of char to on burger buns with some cylindrical bits on the side. We poked them carefully. "I think its a sausage," my brother mouthed.
Going over to the condiment table, we spied potato salad and coleslaw. In Canada, coleslaw and potato salad are provided in big heaping bowls so you can put big heaping mounds on your plate. I love both. I'm starting to know more about them. Coleslaw can be made with a vinegar base or a mayo base. Pairing a potato salad with a coleslaw is a bit of an art. If you have a potato salad that's very mayo based, then you should have a vinegar based coleslaw. The relative sweetness and acidity are also to be carefully balanced. Cabbages are huge so there tends to be a lot of coleslaw when you make one. It takes the same amount of effort to make a large potato salad as a small one. That's why there's normally enough of both for seconds or even thirds.
However, at this BBQ, both salads were store bought and these pots struck us as being individually-sized. Does England not have cabbages? Are they imported? Was this one of those things that's cheap at home but expensive over here? We decided to play dumb - "What's this for?" we asked. "Oh, it's coleslaw, wonderful stuff. You put it on top of your burger." Ok, maybe it is expensive over here, or maybe they got the memo about ketchup, mustard and relish mixed up with the one about the side dishes. When in Rome . . . we carefully took a teaspoon of each and placed them on our burger.
I think it's fair to say we were polite and we survived. We were convinced it was a one-off but as our sample sized enlarged, we discovered that British BBQ's all go the same way. Anecdotal evidence further supported our conclusions. They insist on flipping your meat until it's dizzy and serving you sausages to go with your burger. Like everything else in Britain, the burgers are smaller than in Canada, and they are always charred to the point of edible charcoal. The condiments never make any sense.
I'm going to a BBQ in England. I'm also about to become a temporary vegetarian. I think it's safer that way.