27 October, 2009

botulism is for pussies

speaking of canning - i have never done it before last week. i have been a virtuous blushing canning virgin. worse, i have not even harboured shameful fantasies involving canning. canning, to me, was what the other girls did. you know the girls i'm talking about, don't you?

so when it came time to do something with the insane amount of plum butter that i produced (from less than a third of our frozen plum arsenal) i took the easy way out and froze some in handy screw-type plastic containers. but there was more...lots more...what to do? 

being in the top 1 percentile of the population, intellectually speaking (shut UP, you), i was able to take 2 (plum butter) and 2 (empty jars) and, following some quick calculations on the back of an engineering magazine, come up with 4 (canning).

oh holy internet, fount of all knowledge, how doth one can jam? i have a big pot, some water, some jars and some jams. surely that ought to be enough?

according to the wisdom of the internet (and those folks who like to make north americans panic about improbable food safety issues while scarfing lean cuisine microwaveable meals made entirely of plastic), the way of our grandmothers, was The Way Of Certain Death Through Botulism.

fuck. apparently bacteria, yeasts and other food borne pathogens have been evolving and now scoff at a jar boiled in water. sterilisation, these days, requires high tech machinery and ridiculous things like thermometers and catheters and nuclear fission. 

fuck that, quoth i. my grandmothers have fed multitudes who took the botulism-infested jams and ATE THEM WITH PLEASURE. my mother has routinely sent me home with small jars of "ginger scented botulism" or "e-coli surprise" and i LOVED it on my toast. so there. what's worked for countless generations will work for us. and if there's a slight greenish layer, we'll scrape it bravely off and eat it just the same.

you've heard me ranting about the north american obsession with expiry dates, on the midnight of which, yoghurt explodes with acinetobacter baumannii and bread turns to pure strychnine. let me add this to the list of funny paranoias. 

btw, feel free to laugh as i lie in intensive care, sad victim of clostridium botulinum and pride, but i WILL NOT buy myself a canner.

the pickling, it just goes on and on

mister monkey has all the self-restraint of a 3 year old, when it comes to things he wants to pickle. 

hey! quoth he, let's make sauerkraut!
but, quoth i, we have no room! every spare bit of space is currently occupied with pickled plums, pickled pears, plum butter and wine. where shall we put the barrel (being a purist, i'm thinking barrels), in the goddamn bedroom?
sure, quoth he, the bedroom would be perfect.

so off i go, on an internet errand, trying to figure out how to make sauerkraut. the problem with this is such: canadian recipes feature vinegar or wine or some other sourifying substance where the whole goddamn point of this exercise is for it to self-pickle, ferment and become insanely healthy (if slightly malodorous) so that we don't get scurvy and die.

polish recipes, on the other hand, take it for granted that you and several generations before you have pickled all manner of things for years and years and years and thus require only the slightest prod in the right direction. polish recipes count on you having cooked feasts for dozens with your grandmother from the age of 2 onward, and say things like "add enough flour to achieve the right consistency" or "mix until ready" and have, on more than one occasion, resulted in me drinking my way out of a bind or going out to eat.

so, we kind of eyeballed it, took the average from several different recipes and so far, the house doth not smell.

will keep you posted.

26 October, 2009

yum yum yum

one night in victoria (hint: not the night spent in the emergency room) we went out to the cactus club for dessert. we ordered a pumpkin cheesecake and rob feenie's own chocolate peanut butter crunch bar. both were delicious. 

the cheesecake was moist and just sweet enough with little spicy globs of pumpkin placed judiciously throughout to whisper "autumn" to your palate instead of just whacking you over the head repeatedly with a slightly moldy jack-o-lantern. subtle, grown-up, niiiice...

the chocolate peanut butter crunch bar was heaven. it was peanuty, creamy, crunchy, chewy and moist in all the right places. the decorative "crunchy chocolate pearls" tasted like last year's easter bunny earwax, so i let mister monkey eat them, but the overwhelming sensation was one of joyous familiarity. eventually it dawned on me that it tasted exactly like a cadbury  wunderbar, but cost 7 bucks.

bon appetit

the garden of earthly delights

after three hours of increasingly hostile internal negotiations, i finally went for a run. in order to break up the monotony of the word "fuck" on an endless rhythmic loop of misery, i thought about things. these are the things i thought up.

if i were to have a house with a garden on vancouver island or the southern bit of mainland, these are the plants i would plant and why:

  1. a palm tree - as a joyous and enthusiastic fuck-you to the rest of canada and its semi-permanent blanket of snow
  2. a banana plant - just because i can, also see 1.
  3. a holly tree - because who knew this shit was for real and not just a product from the same delirious marketing team that brought you rudolph the red nosed reindeer and santa in a coca-cola themed suit?
  4. arbutus trees - because they are the coolest trees on god's green earth except maybe for the baobab and i'm pretty sure those wouldn't grow here 
  5. garden gnomes - just because 
what would you plant and why? feel free to ignore me in the comments section.

25 October, 2009

so tard

here's what i'm so tard of these days:

  1. "style blogs" wherein hipsterrific lads and ladies tell us their latest discoveries. filled to the brim with delicate drawings of deer, pink floral rompers, repurposed furniture and key necklaces. yawn. urban outfitters has already cleaned out your local salvation army and is selling the stuff with a stiff mark-up. anthropologie has done it too and better. move on. start a new trend. do something original. do NOT write about how you really think that frilly 80's jumper is so hot because it's not. trust me. it just isn't.
  2. lilies.
  3. teenage girls with The Bang.
  4. jars everywhere. on the shelves. on top of counters. inside cupboards. filled, empty, sterilised, waiting to be sterilised, jars, jars, jars - it's like martha goddamn stewart exploded inside my house and not in a good way.

ye goode olden dayes

back when i was young, thin and miserable, my parents, having had enough of a daughter determined to remain a virgin and a regular church-goer way past common human decency, moved to ontario and left me their house which i shared with several church friends. this was supposed to be a good thing. it was not. turns out good virginal church-going girls are bitches who take long hot midnight showers (to wash away the sin), fail to pay rent on time and sometimes even turn frightening. 

i gave up, rented the house to a nice clean family, and ran away. because i was so poor, i took my least favourite roommate (it made little sense at the time, but we became fast friends, amazing roommates and i really really wish i could remember her last name. alas, i cannot, and so i cannot hunt her down and see how well she got over god) and went searching for a hovel to call our very own. 

what we found was single rooms in a shared basement suite off whyte avenue in a small, old, smelly cold house. it was so cold that i slept fully clothed and routinely spiked my morning coffee with large glugs of bailey's (a likely excuse, i know, i know). sometimes, in a cruel parody of families gathered around a crackling fire, gail and i would stand in front of the open oven, warming our hands, hoping for something better. showers were long and hot, but flip-flops were necessary on account of years' worth of grime embedded grimly in the grout as well as the occasional centipede.

after a month or two of this, we found a basement apartment to share and moved out. although there had been no move in inspection, the slumlord bitch who owned the place refused to refund our damage deposit because we weren't fools and thus left the hovel as filthy as we had found it. instead of taking this to a landlord tenant mediator or threatening a lawsuit (remember, i was young and dumb) i snuck back after we had moved and cut every single last one of the bitch's glorious tulips. she had our hundred bucks but we had lovely fresh flowers to brighten our dickensian poverty.

we were poor but we had fun. sometimes when we felt like doing something really special, we'd split a bottle of beer and a can of corn. mm, mm good. we subsisted mostly on steamed veggies with molly mcbutter* and oatmeal. occasionally i'd crave mashed potatoes and mash them with a fork until a good friend took pity and bought me a real masher. thanks, f! eating out meant rosie's $4.99 palace, where we would order a beer and a $1.49 coleslaw. obviously, we were all about the balanced diet. sometimes we'd go grocery shopping, grab a small container of sherbet and two spoons from the deli and, at the end of our expedition, present the puzzled cashier with the empty. it made shopping way more fun. 

by then, both of us had given up on the whole religion thing (and by extension, the virginity) and so a curious cast of men (in her case) and boys (in mine) came and went, making things fun and interesting. there were occasional fights and tears but overall we got along famously. 

she told me she was moving to fort mcmurray about a day before i found out my uncle would be finally coming to canada and needing a place to stay. this worked out well for all concerned, except poor gail who, for all i know, is still stuck in fort mac, dispensing nutritional advice to fat nouveau riche newfies with horrifying haircuts, thinking she is happy. i never did see her there.

*she was a nutritionist and thus shunned real butter and, from what i remember, all foods except steamed veggies and oatmeal. 

23 October, 2009

it's a tradegy

tonight, watching the 1996 film, romeo & juliet:

scene - dumb teenage lovers overreact: romeo is too busy swooning to notice juliet waking until after he has taken the perfume sample poison. juliet overreacts and reaches for the gun.

mr. monkey: that's so sad. no, no, don't do it. no, don't do it. no. it'll be messy. don't do it.
moi: she's gonna do it.

juliet does it. falls onto romeo. problem solved.

mr. monkey: that's just the entry wound. there's a lot of brain on his shoulder. that's just not good. 
moi: it's romeo and juliet. it always ends this way.
mr. monkey: that's so sad.
moi: yes, yes it is.

22 October, 2009

women's work

clearly, making crepes is mister monkey's job. i am standing over the stove producing shoe-leather like discs of little flavour and high lumpiness where his crepes are delicate on the palate and lovely to behold. damn it all to hell. this is what i get when i try to do someone else's fucking job. grrrr.

cochlear cockroach

yesterday i woke up with my ears feeling stuffed with cotton. everything was muffled and as a result i spoke extra quietly to everyone because i didn't want to be The Annoying Loud Deaf Person like my grandfather who used to holler into the phone so that his voice could cross the atlantic and reach us all the way over here.

now there are many things you know about me, but one or two you might not, and one of these hidden gems is that i build up a lot of earwax. perhaps this is because my ear hygiene is not up to mister monkey's standards (he has more q-tips than he can ever use up in the course of one lifetime unless he starts growing ears in petri dishes, while i find the idea of sticking a q-tip in my ear revolting beyond belief) but i blame genetics. damn you, genetics, for my gummed up ears!

so when i woke up with cottoned-up earholes, i knew the time had come for my twice-in-a-decade ear cleaning. the first two times i went to actual registered medical professionals but the last time this happened, mister monkey and i were stuck in niagara falls which, as everyone knows, has no medical professionals of any kind, just touristy t-shirt shops and people sitting in barrels at the top of the falls, waiting their turn. so we went to the drugstore, bought some ear drops, and a rubber snot aspirator and mister monkey went to town on my earwax, gobs of which erupted out and into the tub.

yesterday, we repeated the performance and i must say that it is moments like these that really test the strength of your marriage. if the man you are with can calmly watch a rolled up cockroach sized wad of ear junk plonk out of your ear and still want to cuddle you in bed later that night, then your marriage has the strength to weather whatever life might throw your way.

and now i can hear, which is good. except, good lord, who knew this keyboard was so bloody loud?

20 October, 2009

speaking of giving the finger to soup

what is it with split pea soup? can anyone explain to me the allure of something that while marginally okay tasting, combines the attractiveness of a puddle of back alley vomit with the gas producing properties of northern siberia?

i made it, using the 1.5 cups of dried green split peas that were lurking among my dry goods. i can add it to my resume but i shall not make it again* and i most certainly will not consume it again. 48 hours of regular periodic ass bleatings produced by us in tandem made sure of that. 

*don't get me wrong, i'm a decent cook and my soup was as good as split pea soup can be. nevertheless, it remained split pea soup. 

oops, i did it again!

i did not get in trouble for greeting mister monkey with wine on my breath yesterday so today i'm pushing my luck.
because what i was craving, we didn't have (i didn't know what precisely i was craving, just that we didn't have it), i started going through our dry goods and, lo and behold, amidst the vast quantities of dried chinese fungus and various legumes, spicy cheddar shortbread squiggles! which are so good! especially when consumed with port! which we have! and so i did! yummy yummy supper. 

fuck you, gas inducing unattractive pea soup. fuck. you.

the lung bone's connected to the nose bone

today the air smells like ass, courtesy of the pulp mill. 

19 October, 2009

lipstick? pigs? was there a point? no! there was no point!

i am sitting here, drinking wine, reading whoopee and cooking split pea soup. the wine thing is bound to get me in a spot of trouble. whenever i am unemployed, you see, mister monkey comes home from his long day at the quarry, smells booze on my breath and figures i've been lying about drunk all bloody day long, accomplishing nothing. 

the thing is, i am a very organized person, far more so than average and thus i am able to complete complicated tasks in a fraction of regulation time, thus freeing me up to get sozzled while reading blogs. 

i don't believe in work places that penalize their workers for being efficient by piling more work on their shoulders and so i make my temporary place of (un)employment a good place, a place with a comfortable sofa to lounge on, a big box of as yet unpacked wine sitting in a box sending me sexy little winks, a nice little macbook and damn good music,* a place that allows me a good long booze break once dinner is cooked and important issues dealt with. if only the paycheque was a little more substantial...

*the Day of the Pickling featured polish rap and drum and base so prominently that i kept harbouring fantasies of stabbing out my ear drums with a robertson screwdriver. although mister monkey introduced me to some pretty cool music (garbage, portishead and others) overall our tastes are pretty different. i fear his increasing love for polish rap is a manifestation of early mid-life crisis mode which is, arguably, less undesirable than an italian convertible and teenage hookers.

17 October, 2009

the "lipstick on a pig" syndrome

today i put away our books (yes, alphabetically - is there another way? no, i didn't think so) while mister monkey pickled the shit out of pears and plums. it was a nauseatingly domestic kind of weekend and i liked it. a lot. i even washed the windows without any reason other than that they seemed a wee bit foggy and, damn, we gots a view out here with eagles and shit!

we stopped by home depot to pick up some sort of specialized screw type thingy to screw the shelves to the wall so that they do not topple and bury me under my complete secret danielle steele oeuvre* and as soon as we walked in - BAM! the smell hit us: the smell of wood, orange polyester aprons, tile adhesive and HGTV-fuelled aspirations of middle class north america...the smell of 3 years of our life lost into the spinning vortex of home renovation. 

mister monkey went on auto-pilot and spent a long time cruising the aisles looking for just the right screw until he shook himself, said "screw it!" and grabbed the first pack available before waltzing the hell out of there. we're so done with that shit...until the next time.

*i am so kidding about that. if even for a second you thought that i was serious, i am totally walking out of here and NEVER speaking to you again. 

16 October, 2009

glorious and revealing

are you the type of person who straightens crooked paintings or flips the toilet paper so it faces the right way? no? you know that i am, right? yeah. not necessarily a good thing, but it's my thing.

wishful thinking

yes, i do realise that the previous post was total wishful thinking. the only people doing any lurking around my blog are my three regular readers to whom i still extend a warm and heartfelt "hi! welcome, welcome..."

15 October, 2009

hi! welcome, welcome...

as we sat in the port angeles ferry terminal watching the crowds disembark from the victoria ferry, mister monkey kept muttering vaguely in their direction: "hi! welcome, welcome..." over and over again. when asked why, he calmly* explained that he felt these people required a proper welcome to the land of the free.

in that vein, if you are a lurking reader whom i do not know and of whose existence i am unaware, to you i extend a hearty "hi, welcome, welcome..."

feel free to leave me a comment.

*'cause you don't want to cause a scene at an international border crossing, especially in a country as paranoid and well armed as the us of a.

the eagle has landed

the house is sold. officially, as of today, the house is done gone and sold. oh yeah.

i informed my mother of this glorious fact and her immediate response was "so you can stop panicking now." 

why no, mother, now i simply have different things to panic about such as finding tenants for our vancouver condo, trying to keep mister monkey conscious and upright (at least in public), keeping my fingers crossed that the rodent-riddled roof remains relatively waterproof until possession date, and hoping that the little ping-pong ball i just found in a secret drawer of our borrowed antique table was used for ping-pong and not for some hysterical victorian spinster's vaginal exercises.

after that, i might take a break. unless they still don't have that climate change thing under control.

07 October, 2009

yay!(and not so yay)

i just found out that one of my closest friends will come and stay with us on friday and i am thrilled beyond belief. this sweetens an evening that was all manner of plaid:
  1. mister monkey came home really early (good)
  2. went driving looking for a hike, got lost (bad)
  3. spent too much time driving around the oddly circular and often twice-named streets of nanaimo (bad)
  4. found the hike and it was lovely (good)
  5. walked it at over 6km/h and got some honest to goodness cardio in (good)
  6. discovered a local farm market with decent live wednesday music and damn good pumpkin pie (good)
  7. got some news (simultaneously good and bad, though mostly good for us, maybe, in a bit, don't know yet, will wait and see)
  8. made some phone calls re: above (ditto)
  9. found out the missing tray of silverware is still in our old house in edmonton, totally missed by mister twitchy mcspastic mover guy in a drawer (good/bad - good it was found as it contained both of my 1. imported and 2. expensive garlic presses and i am sick to the DEATH of chopping garlic by hand like some medieval kitchen wench, yo! and mister monkey's grandmother's silver teaspoons, bad it was left behind but i will leave it to the moving company to deal with the consequences of their hiring practices (yeah, sure the drug-addicted and the mentally retarded deserve a second chance but not when it impacts me in a negative way in any way, shape, or form, y'all hear?!?!??))
  10. got a call from g saying they'll drop by and see us (GOOD!!!)

now to excavate the borrowed mattress from behind the tottering pile of boxes containing books. and find bedding. and purchase girly drinks that g will drink (can you even fathom a woman of the french persuasion who doesn't drink wine? that'd be like a polish chick who doesn't drink vodka...oh...wait...never mind.)

don't know what the final score is, but hot dog, tomorrow i'm going to victoria on business. see if i make it there and back in one piece.

06 October, 2009

animals, take note and cower!

i walked into my newly set-up living room and suddenly noted the following:

  1. leather sofa (cow skin, i presume? i don't know though, on account of all the important bits having been removed prior to sofafication)
  2. sheep wool rug (knitted, my poultries, knitted)
  3. cow hide floor cushions (ok, not knitted)
  4. newly acquired second hand gigantic sheep skin from, one assumes, a big fat north american sheep who lived (and died) on a diet of mcdonald's
i think that the only thing missing is a chandelier lovingly hand-crafted from antlers and beef jerky.

all this was purely unintentional but does not bode well for my soul searching at this dietary cross roads (to meat or not to meat). i used to say, when confronted by those aghast at my semi-vegetarianism juxtaposed with my penchant for furry neckwear, "i didn't eat the fucking thing." what, oh what, will i say if i do decide to take the bull by the horns and bite a chunk of his yummy yummy rump?

05 October, 2009

i like to move it, move it!

did i tell you about our excellent movers? i should have, because they were excellent. it is sad that the service industry has fallen so low that the minute one gets friendly service with a smile and a great degree of professionalism, one melts into a puddle and gurgles contentedly. this should be the way the world works most of the time! 

today the movers came and brought us our things, our boxes and boxes of books that i refuse to feel guilty about; our one dresser that is so unhinged that it can be wobbled frontways, sideways, backways and diagonally with little or no exertion; my gigantic tupperware filled to the brim with just my shoes, a testament to the psychological damage suffered from years and years of being too poor to buy shoes in my size; clothes! lots!; good quality kitchenware; unbroken stemware; and finally that gorgeous hand-made hunk of hand-polished walnut where we keep mister monkey's disturbingly large collection of pants.

of course unpacking, even  more so than packing, brings it home how much stuff we have. and there is something humbling (and very embarrassing) when you unpack stuff and realise that some underpaid pack-jockey wasted minutes of his life packing your rocks. yes, rocks. i was instantly overwhelmed with feelings of stupidity and shame that culminated in my finally giving up my shell collection that i've been lugging with me for years for no discernible reason, most probably harbouring some nasty kind of marine bacteria that's just waiting to pounce. 

already we have a large box of items to donate.

and tonight, i sleep in my bed. life is good.

04 October, 2009

bc parks guide to bear safety (paraphrased roughly but fairly accurately by yours truly)

black bears

you can climb a tree, but keep in mind the bear might climb after you

walk away slowly, and speak in a soft monotone, running and screaming might be perceived as signs of aggression

do not attempt to fight the bear, however as a last resort, you can attempt to hit it with a large object. this might not work. but it might. but probably not.


playing dead is a good option. which might not work. but what else are ya gonna do?

attempting to fight the bear has been known to result in more aggressive bear response but might also cause the bear to go away. but it might not. 

it's a good thing we read this after our bear encounter. as i saw the animals i do remember hoping like hell that they were indeed black bears and not grizzlies in drag. as it is, i don't follow directions well when i am panicking so had we read the directions prior to our encounter, i might have grabbed a stick and ran screaming toward the bears, only to recollect myself, drop down and play dead when i reached them. this might have worked. or not.

life is sweeter now...or is it?

as i sat typing the previous entry (see death, bears, fear etc.) mister monkey came out of the bathroom, scrubbed clean and glowing pink.

mr. monkey: you'll be happy to know that i just brushed my teeth with your toothbrush.

moi: ...

mr. monkey: we don't really need two toothbrushes, do we?

moi: minimalism, huh?

death after lunch, and other light tales of fear and woe

today i faced an enemy. outnumbered, outpowered, separated from my mate, i learned the true meaning of fear.* better yet, i lived to tell the tale.

mister monkey and i went to little qualicum falls today, a lovely (though altogether too civilised**) little hike close to parksville.  i had been there over a decade and a half ago and it stayed with me as one of the world's lovelier places. and it was. the lower falls especially. 
mister monkey and i ventured off the beaten path and started a little light rock climbing. at one point early on in the game i sat down and watched him continue to explore little pools and climb fallen timber. knowing my paranoid nature, he'd periodically wave to me to show me he was still in one piece and not bleeding out from an open wound behind a rock somewhere. i'd cheerfully wave back and go back to scratching the coating from my cheap (yet oh so fetching) sunglasses. 

at one point i looked up and there on the log where mister monkey had been standing less than a minute earlier, was mama black bear and her two well-fed cubs. 

panic feels like a punch to the gut. i stood up, hollered and pointed to mister monkey and then the rest is blank.  i do know that before running the hell out of there, i did turn around to take a photo of the furry trio, and then there is a blur of me sliding on my ass off a rocky outcrop, hoping like hell that mister monkey would somehow make it back to me (the log the bears were on, was the very log he took to get from where i was to where he was now). as soon as i hit the base of the path i heard his voice right beside me, urging me on, and he scrambled out from behind a rock safe and sound. the two of use ran like the wind up the path and away from big scary nature. 

when we got back to the parking lot, lo and behold, there was a completely useless guide to dealing with bears. one of the things it said was not to yell and never run, two of the things i did immediately. luckily there was nothing about taking the time for a once in a lifetime photo op.

and ok, granted the bears were never really THAT*** close to us, it was a hell of a lot closer than i've ever been to a bear (nevermind three bears) without a car around me. moving away slowly and speaking in a low monotone was clearly not an option.

neither one of us crapped out pants, though. ain't life grand?

* ok, total bullshit: i know the meaning of fear. its name is heights.
** yeah, the irony, i totally get that. what i meant was an overabundance of old people in chinos and sensible shoes, paved paths and fences everywhere. obviously bears don't mind old people in chinos and ditto on the infrastructure.
*** 15m, mister monkey says

03 October, 2009

there's more to life than a red delicious, ya know?

yup, having learned my lesson last night (i wasn't sick or weaving or dancing on tables or undressing in public or anything, just feeling a trifle overwhelmed by the first half of the second glass of g&t, though much of the blame lies at mister monkey's door what with his use of the creative ratio of 4 parts gin to 1 part tonic) tonight i am drinking rum and mango juice. 

hell, i earned it. we climbed a (smallish but steepish) mountain, got lost coming AND going, were overtaken by a family with 4 tiny children, a baby and a fragile looking old lady (on account of getting lost and, instead of taking the wide path, scrambling up the sheer cliff hanging on for dear life to clumps of grass and swearing uproariously (me, not mister monkey, he takes vertical climbs in stride. i, on the other hand, do not: just ask cher monsieur antoine.))

we saw a bit of the island today: ladysmith, chemainus, duncan and that mountain. saw signs to watch for in the future (wineries! lots!), visited a farm stand where they had apples i have never even heard of and fresh, homemade PIE! (i cannot help myself, each time i say it i say it with a deep southern accent really really loudly, like this: PIE!!!) and candied local salmon which was very very delicious and made our fingers smell fishy. this looks like the place to be, if you can ignore the clear cuts and the sheer bloodymindedness of overenthusiastic developers who see the untrammeled wildness of the rainforest and dream of the boredom of civilized lawns. 

overall a good day. would have been better if there was a couch to lounge on and music to listen to, but that is coming soon enough. we are grasping now what it is that we have been missing for the better part of the last 5 years, what with one reno and then another: life. we think we like it.

02 October, 2009

latest score

moi: 0 gin and tonic: 10

looks like that little "incident" in whitecourt roughly 13 years ago was a harbinger of a difficult relationship. ugh. 

can you remind me to stick to wine, next time, my little poultries? much obliged.

gin and tonic? ok, i'll have one...make it two...doubles? ok!

hi. yes, you know what time it is. it is drunk post time. i think, however, that it will be a tame one, lacking sexual confessions or dark and dirty secrets of a political nature. i know, i know, and i'm sorry.

tonight my husband and i went to the early show, then came home and he plied me with gin and tonics while he whipped up a simple yet delicious supper. we had drinks, good food and the odd bit of chit-chat. odd? not for the average person, for us, however, this felt like a milestone, as does the plan for tomorrow - starting with homemade breakfast and an island day trip. 

it just feels so very very strange to not have a day filled with various types of home improvements; so odd to have a wonky deck door that we do not have to deal with; bizarre to see mister monkey whipping around the kitchen making delicious things to eat. ah. this is what others call life, is it? nice. i could get used to this.

01 October, 2009

a steak through the heart

hi. i have a confession to make and i don't know if i should, but here goes it anyhow.

at a wedding bash last saturday, mr. monkey dished himself up a hefty helping of bigos, which, as everyone knows,* comprises cabbage, sauerkraut and various multitudinous kinds of meat. it is waaaay better than it looks or sounds, and in some sort of alcohol-fueled madness i got him to get the big meat chunks out of the way and feed it to me. it was good. it was, in fact, so goddamn delicious, that we spent what felt like the next several hours standing by the food table dishing out more and eating it. there were bits of meat in my mouth and i didn't mind. worse, i kind of liked it. 

yesterday we stopped for the night in the fraser valley and went to dinner at earl's. i had the salmon and mister monkey had the steak. in a wholly experimental mood, i asked for a small bite. i ate it with a great degree of pleasure and satisfaction. the second bite evoked a similar reaction. guilt? nope. given the fact that i routinely consume sea creatures great and small, i figure guilt at this point would be nothing but an exercise in self indulgent hypocrisy.

my dearest poultries, i hope i'm not lying to myself too badly when i say that i was never a preachy kind of lacto-ovo-pesco vegetarian. if i was, i apologize; i do believe that what one eats is a matter of personal choice. i think i always admitted that all those loopholes in my vegetarianism were a matter of deliciousness far more than philosophy. 

so, am i going to start randomly shooting passing cattle so that i can gorge on their still steaming entrails? no, i think not. but i think it increasingly likely that if i find a nice humane free range antibiotic-free grass-fed butchery, i might indulge in the flesh of dead things from time to time. suddenly my gastronomic horizons seem that much wider. bacon, anyone?


step away from that casserole

driving along the fraser valley, listening to some current events show on the cbc, something about food security.

moi: food security! that sounds exciting! i think that might be a really interesting course to take, a fascinating career path!*
mr. monkey: food security? huh..."step away from that pancake!"

yeah...something like that.

*no irony. i totally dig the whole local, healthy foodism movement. i also dig the highly intelligent programming on the cbc. i'm a nerd. i know it.