Today is Shrove Tuesday, Mardi Gras or Pancake Day, depending on your faith and/or geography.
So, this evening, I will be cooking up some pancakes.
In Newfoundland, we have a tradition where we hide things in the pancakes, like pennies, rings, or other trade related items. What you find in your pancake supposedly divines your future. A penny means you will be rich, a thimble and you will be a tailor, a ring and you will marry, etc. It is a fun tradition, especially with kids.
So, pancakes are on the menu. Personally, I prefer savoury to sweet in the evening so I may make some potato/zucchini pancakes, but having some fruit and berries around for the sweeter variety will invariably happen, too.
My question for all of you that I haven't alienated and still read this thing is, what kind of pancake would make you most happy on Shrove Tuesday?
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
things I didn't and did do with my girl on valentine's day
things I didn't do...
As an aside, everyone should check out the latest issue of Walrus. There is a really funny mock email chain between God and St. Patrick about Patrick's annoyance with how his holy day has become signified by people puking green lager. Also, St. Valentine gets a nod.
It is short so don't bother buying the magazine, just go to you friendly local bookstore or newstand and stand there and pretend to browse until some grumpy employee yells, "Hey buddy, this ain't a library!" Or just go to the library.
- make plans to do something special. ( my volleyball team came first I'm afraid, so we didn't make plans per se, but I was off work and she called in to work to tell them she was taking a Snow Day! So we get to spend the whole day together.)
- get her flowers. ( I got her flowers two weeks ago 'cause she was having a rough day. They are still in a vase at her house, somehow magically still appearing fresh and alive.)
- buy her a card. (Buy a card?!? I got out the crayons and glue and made her one! She says she wants to frame it.)
- take her out to dinner. (see #1 above, but I did make her dinner last night and gave her leftovers to take to work today which she can eat tomorrow [see #1 above again]. I did take her out for brunch today. We bundled up and trundled through the snow only to find that Tasty Restaurant is closed down so we went to Butler's Pantry and it was only ok, but the company was phenomenal!)
- get her chocolates. (ok, I did buy her chocolates. She loves these Hedgehog things from this Vancouver chocolatier called Purdy's. Strangely enough one of the few places you can get them in Ontario is in Oakville, go figure.)
- get her a present. (yeah, I did this one too. My cat snagged one of L's sweaters the other day and L was sad, because it was one of her favourites for work and stuff so I went out looking for a replacement. That, I couldn't find, but I found a couple that would look cute on her and that she could wear to work so I got them. She says she likes them, but the gift she got me was way better.)
As an aside, everyone should check out the latest issue of Walrus. There is a really funny mock email chain between God and St. Patrick about Patrick's annoyance with how his holy day has become signified by people puking green lager. Also, St. Valentine gets a nod.
It is short so don't bother buying the magazine, just go to you friendly local bookstore or newstand and stand there and pretend to browse until some grumpy employee yells, "Hey buddy, this ain't a library!" Or just go to the library.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
a few simple reasons why I like the girl that I like...
- When we barely knew one another she travelled half way across the country just to spend some time with me. Months later, her eyes still light up when talking about it.
- When she was sleepy and I sang her a made up lullaby she told me I was cute although we both knew it wasn't very good.
- She doesn't complain about the temperature of my house. She just just smiles and reminds me how much more fun it is to snuggle in the cold.
- She spent her lunch hour shopping for a down filled pillow to bring to my house. It is here in the bed next to me, all cozy and inviting, modeling her pyjamas, when she isn't.
- Lying on my couch, cuddling my cat, she pretends to have conversations. They seem to be discussing me, but neither one ever tells what was said.
- She has a bunch of pet names for me, each with a look and meaning, which she seems to use at exactly the perfect time, everytime.
- Standing at a concert, leaning forward on her tip toes to see, she brushed her hand across my leg to make sure I was still there.
- Her dresser has a whole drawer just for hats and mitts.
Friday, February 02, 2007
A long time coming...
I can't believe it took me this long to do this. February 2nd, ritual vermin worshiping and my brother's b-day, and I have yet to post by music selections of the past year. Shame on me.
All had a North American release in Aught-six, so here they are.
Top 10 Albums of 2006 (alphabetically):
Bonnie 'Prince' Billy - The Letting Go
Cat Power - The Greatest
The Format - Dog Problems
Girl Talk - Night Ripper
Grand National - Kicking The National Habit
Hot Chip - The Warning
Placebo - Meds
Small Sins - Small Sins
Sufjan Stevens - Songs For Christmas
Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Show Your Bones
Honourable Mentions:
Aberdeen City - The Freezing Atlantic
Band of Horses - Everything All The Time
Peter, Bjorn and John - Writer's Block
Sia - Colour The Small One
Shiny Toy Guns - We Are Pilots
Most Over-hyped Albums of 2006:
Arctic Monkeys - Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not
The Raconteurs - Broken Boy Soldiers
TV On The Radio - Return To Cookie Mountain
All had a North American release in Aught-six, so here they are.
Top 10 Albums of 2006 (alphabetically):
Bonnie 'Prince' Billy - The Letting Go
Cat Power - The Greatest
The Format - Dog Problems
Girl Talk - Night Ripper
Grand National - Kicking The National Habit
Hot Chip - The Warning
Placebo - Meds
Small Sins - Small Sins
Sufjan Stevens - Songs For Christmas
Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Show Your Bones
Honourable Mentions:
Aberdeen City - The Freezing Atlantic
Band of Horses - Everything All The Time
Peter, Bjorn and John - Writer's Block
Sia - Colour The Small One
Shiny Toy Guns - We Are Pilots
Most Over-hyped Albums of 2006:
Arctic Monkeys - Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not
The Raconteurs - Broken Boy Soldiers
TV On The Radio - Return To Cookie Mountain
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Tuesday, November 21, 2006
You can just stop talking, I get it...
New romances... new romances are a trip, no mistaking.
They are like a rollercoaster of fun and nightmare mixed into a ball of hope and desire. All energy and expectation with no tether to reality anywhere close by.
We all do crazy things when we are first falling in love.
No question.
Don't get me wrong. I don't live in a world that believes that every budding romance is a tidal wave of 'I'm in love! I'm in love! I'm in love!'. Not in the least. My world is a world of doubt, second guessing and overcompensation, but it is also a world of grand gestures, small sins and sweet nothings.
The world that I have trouble dealing with is a very small world called 'Regret'. This isn't your run of the mill regret. No that sad-sack of a beast is almost non-existant in the modern psyche, thanks to TV and self-help books. No, the regret that appears is generally a small form of regret that raises its ugly little head one of those sweet nights...
You know the one that I am talking about...
Yep. that's the one...
Out with your honey, enjoying a pint or a coffee, listening to every word they say; like life itself depends on it. When it happens... yup, it happens, they get through an anecdote or life story and you look up, aghast, not knowing whether it is jealousy or sheer regret, but one way or the other you feel small. Smaller than you have in a while, like you don't exist and everything you've done to date doesn't actually qualify you as a human being. You think they are too good for you; they have experienced something you have only dreamed off. Why couldn't that be you?!?
This can hurt and hurt big. Some don't recover from it.
The key is that this is another person. You have to remember that. Every once in a while you luck into seeing that reaction in someone else and then you know.
Yup, you get it.
We are all human. We have all had pasts, some of which we are trying to escape. So what. Some of us have had such glorious pasts that we are trying to relive them, but every cloud has a dark lining.
Buck up.
Sometimes we are the storyteller sitting around the fire, getting the accolades and recognition. Other times we are part of the audience, listening to the story, taking it in. Once in a blue moon we get the chance of being the one that figures out what it means and then goes out into the world and makes our own little narrative.
They are like a rollercoaster of fun and nightmare mixed into a ball of hope and desire. All energy and expectation with no tether to reality anywhere close by.
We all do crazy things when we are first falling in love.
No question.
Don't get me wrong. I don't live in a world that believes that every budding romance is a tidal wave of 'I'm in love! I'm in love! I'm in love!'. Not in the least. My world is a world of doubt, second guessing and overcompensation, but it is also a world of grand gestures, small sins and sweet nothings.
The world that I have trouble dealing with is a very small world called 'Regret'. This isn't your run of the mill regret. No that sad-sack of a beast is almost non-existant in the modern psyche, thanks to TV and self-help books. No, the regret that appears is generally a small form of regret that raises its ugly little head one of those sweet nights...
You know the one that I am talking about...
Yep. that's the one...
Out with your honey, enjoying a pint or a coffee, listening to every word they say; like life itself depends on it. When it happens... yup, it happens, they get through an anecdote or life story and you look up, aghast, not knowing whether it is jealousy or sheer regret, but one way or the other you feel small. Smaller than you have in a while, like you don't exist and everything you've done to date doesn't actually qualify you as a human being. You think they are too good for you; they have experienced something you have only dreamed off. Why couldn't that be you?!?
This can hurt and hurt big. Some don't recover from it.
The key is that this is another person. You have to remember that. Every once in a while you luck into seeing that reaction in someone else and then you know.
Yup, you get it.
We are all human. We have all had pasts, some of which we are trying to escape. So what. Some of us have had such glorious pasts that we are trying to relive them, but every cloud has a dark lining.
Buck up.
Sometimes we are the storyteller sitting around the fire, getting the accolades and recognition. Other times we are part of the audience, listening to the story, taking it in. Once in a blue moon we get the chance of being the one that figures out what it means and then goes out into the world and makes our own little narrative.
Friday, November 17, 2006
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad, so I had one more for dessert.
A whole bunch of years ago, before I moved to Toronto, I came here a couple times, mostly visiting pseudo family at Christmas or around those holidays we, as a people, deem travel worthy. During those trips, I met a bunch of people I would have never had to opportunity to. Some good, some bad, these meetings formed some of my earliest connections in this city.
You have probably all experienced them. Relationships by proxy. You don't so much become friends, but you are brought in to the fold because you appear to be someone held in regard by someone that is held, in turn, in regard by someone else. You are basically there because your hosts care about who you are sleeping with, not about you. Don't get me wrong, many strong friendships can come from such introductions, but just as many fizzle and disappear, following the relationship into oblivion.
Back to the memory at hand, I was in Toronto, maybe the second time in my adult life. Being driven all over by someone that 'kinda' knows the city, on our way to a small house party held by her 'best friend from high school' and her boyfriend. After parking on Eglington (to this day I still think it was Bloor and she just didn't know any better) and taking an elevator to god knows what floor, I was greeted by unfamiliar, albeit smiling faces peering out from around the protection of the aged wood and decades of white paint lacquered on their apartment door.
"Come in, come in", the male of the species screeched, holding out his hand in some sort of calming gesture. "Have a seat, have a seat. Can I get you something? A beer?"
Staring at the proffered chair, wondering if the metal bum-mechanism, like I saw in the glass case at Ikea, came with it when my ears perked up.
"Yeah, a beer would be great thanks."
"Is 50 alright?" he probed, heading across the six by six cell of a living room to what appeared to be half a door to the kitchen.
"Sure, a 50 would be great", I lied.
"You like 50? That's awesome. Not many people do. It's my brand, but all my friends think it's piss."
"50's great", I lied again trying desperately to live and breathe the untruth, if only for politeness' sake.
And so it began. The beginnings of my relationship with this guy. Off and on I would see him maybe once or twice a year for 4 or so years. And this was how we were defined.
A little while later, at some acquaintances wedding during a lull on the dance floor:
"Hey, I'm going to the bar, ya want anything?" he'd shout.
"Grab me a beer will you", I'd reply.
And back he came with a 50.
"The last two in the tub! What luck!" he'd gleefully declare handing me the bottle.
A barbeque at their new house:
"Grab a beer. I got a case of 50 'cause I knew you were coming."
And on it went. For a couple of years I was forced to live a lie. Not a big black one, but a little white speck of a lie and it hurt. It hurt like you wouldn't believe. Here I was drinking 50, a beer I couldn't stand. I don't do that. I drink what I want when I want. Domestic bottled beer is for people completely unlike me. Or for long plane rides. But not when you have a choice. Never.
Flash forward a few months or a year, and here I was sitting in a bar/gallery on Queen called 'Social'. Someone else picked it, but it was their day and I needed to make an appearance. Money was tight, the relationship long over, and I had just taken the bus down to Queen. Standing at the bar, pondering what to order, the barman explained the taps.
"Guinness, Creemore and Keiths are $6 a pint and we have 50 at $3 a pint"
Thinking quickly, I reasoned I need to stay for 4 hours, I can drink a pint every half hour, 45 minutes if I nurse. I can't afford $40 on drink. Not if I want groceries on Monday. Not drinking would be too embarrasing and I am sick of leaving early or not showing up at all.
Cinquante, je pense.
And then it began.
Everywhere I went it was a done deal.
"Wanna get a pitcher?" I'd ask on boys night.
"How about Keith's?" would be the universal retort.
"Screw Keith's.
How about 50?"
my id would blurt out.
Sometimes I won. Sometimes I lost.
Thnaks for readin'. I know it has been a while.
You have probably all experienced them. Relationships by proxy. You don't so much become friends, but you are brought in to the fold because you appear to be someone held in regard by someone that is held, in turn, in regard by someone else. You are basically there because your hosts care about who you are sleeping with, not about you. Don't get me wrong, many strong friendships can come from such introductions, but just as many fizzle and disappear, following the relationship into oblivion.
Back to the memory at hand, I was in Toronto, maybe the second time in my adult life. Being driven all over by someone that 'kinda' knows the city, on our way to a small house party held by her 'best friend from high school' and her boyfriend. After parking on Eglington (to this day I still think it was Bloor and she just didn't know any better) and taking an elevator to god knows what floor, I was greeted by unfamiliar, albeit smiling faces peering out from around the protection of the aged wood and decades of white paint lacquered on their apartment door.
"Come in, come in", the male of the species screeched, holding out his hand in some sort of calming gesture. "Have a seat, have a seat. Can I get you something? A beer?"
Staring at the proffered chair, wondering if the metal bum-mechanism, like I saw in the glass case at Ikea, came with it when my ears perked up.
"Yeah, a beer would be great thanks."
"Is 50 alright?" he probed, heading across the six by six cell of a living room to what appeared to be half a door to the kitchen.
"Sure, a 50 would be great", I lied.
"You like 50? That's awesome. Not many people do. It's my brand, but all my friends think it's piss."
"50's great", I lied again trying desperately to live and breathe the untruth, if only for politeness' sake.
And so it began. The beginnings of my relationship with this guy. Off and on I would see him maybe once or twice a year for 4 or so years. And this was how we were defined.
A little while later, at some acquaintances wedding during a lull on the dance floor:
"Hey, I'm going to the bar, ya want anything?" he'd shout.
"Grab me a beer will you", I'd reply.
And back he came with a 50.
"The last two in the tub! What luck!" he'd gleefully declare handing me the bottle.
A barbeque at their new house:
"Grab a beer. I got a case of 50 'cause I knew you were coming."
And on it went. For a couple of years I was forced to live a lie. Not a big black one, but a little white speck of a lie and it hurt. It hurt like you wouldn't believe. Here I was drinking 50, a beer I couldn't stand. I don't do that. I drink what I want when I want. Domestic bottled beer is for people completely unlike me. Or for long plane rides. But not when you have a choice. Never.
Flash forward a few months or a year, and here I was sitting in a bar/gallery on Queen called 'Social'. Someone else picked it, but it was their day and I needed to make an appearance. Money was tight, the relationship long over, and I had just taken the bus down to Queen. Standing at the bar, pondering what to order, the barman explained the taps.
"Guinness, Creemore and Keiths are $6 a pint and we have 50 at $3 a pint"
Thinking quickly, I reasoned I need to stay for 4 hours, I can drink a pint every half hour, 45 minutes if I nurse. I can't afford $40 on drink. Not if I want groceries on Monday. Not drinking would be too embarrasing and I am sick of leaving early or not showing up at all.
Cinquante, je pense.
And then it began.
Everywhere I went it was a done deal.
"Wanna get a pitcher?" I'd ask on boys night.
"How about Keith's?" would be the universal retort.
"Screw Keith's.
How about 50?"
my id would blurt out.
Sometimes I won. Sometimes I lost.
Thnaks for readin'. I know it has been a while.
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