If, or I am going to?

My homepage occasionally starts my day with an ad. Not usually a problem, as I frequently don't even notice what it is. Today, however, my day started with this in bold type staring me in the face:

If you die TODAY, life insurance could be your family's Prince Charming.

Kinda sounds like....they think it would be best all around for the family if I DID die today. Or are they trying to tell me that I am going to die today? And seriously - they wouldn't get any actual money until they're 18. So it would be living with their dad all the time, waiting to be old enough to inherit. And given how things are going at the moment I don't think my family would be all that thrilled. So forget it insurance ad, I am NOT going to die today. Not on purpose, anyway.

Opportunity may knock only once, but temptation leans on the doorbell.

When you’ve got energy you have to sublimate, temptations best left alone (murder, sex, arson, yodeling, bank robbery) there are things you’d think would work that just don’t. And because I’ve tried them out and know they don’t work I’m willing to let you know what they are so that you can try something else. Something more helpful.

Housework: this is the worst one. It gives you time to think about how to get rid of the body.

Gardening: ok, this is better, but can be dangerous depending on what’s tempting you. If it’s canoodling then hanging around fit shirtless men – or short shorts wearing women should that be your preference! – is not a good plan.

House Repairs: doesn’t work at all – just reminds you of how much easier it would be if the whole thing just burned to the ground.

Biking/Gym/Walking/Biking: similar problem to gardening.

Making Butter: No, that’s not a euphemism for something you’re trying to avoid. I mean actual butter, from actual cream. Doesn’t take long enough and while the result is yummy it can also lead to a boycott of anything but homemade butter. And that just increases your workload, so take my word for it and don’t even try.

Baking/Cooking: this one isn’t too bad. But it might explain the size that I am, so be careful with this one.

Canning/Preserving: This comes the closest. As a matter of fact, if you have boxes and boxes of fruit to can and/or jam, by the time you’re done you’re way too tired to do anything. But getting boxes and boxes of fruit is expensive and it means….

Shopping: Terrible, just terrible. I hate shopping, so the only thing that makes it moderately enjoyable is having fistfuls of money. Which I never seem to have. Which leads to the contemplation of robbing a bank which puts me back at square one.


I’ve been as helpful as possible. In return all I ask is to let me know if you find something that works. Please.

My Mother was a Circus Clown

For those of you who firmly believe that I never have even a moment of co-ordination, this is for you:

I was biking to church on Sunday. In a skirt and top, on a really lovely day. However...not far from home a spider that had been hiding somewhere decided to climb up over my hand. Which elicited a scream from me. And I didn't fall off the bike.

And because it was clearly out to kill me, I started flailing my arms in a panic, hoping to kill it first. And I didn't fall off the bike.

Said flailing arms hit the basket - which had baking, a raincoat and my only pair of glasses - which promptly popped off its hook. With one arm still flailing I managed to catch the basket before it hit the ground, and get it hooked on a handle. And I didn't fall off the bike.

The spider was either killed or disappeared on its own, I had my basket with all of its contents intact, and a shred of a shred of dignity and through the whole thing I didn't fall of the bike.


See? I'm not always a klutz. At least that's how I'm looking at the whole thing.

Sadly, that one shred of dignity melted away when we first went to stand during the service and I realized that the lining to the skirt (totally necessary, given the thin material of the skirt and the screaming fuschia of the underwear) was more or less around my waist. I tried surreptitiously pulling it into place but in the end had to scuttle past the couple holding hands, trying without an unsurprising lack of success to pull the hem of my top down far enough to hide the wardrobe malfunction. Still, it was a nice day and I enjoyed the ride home. No spiders, and I arrived home with all articles of clothing where they were supposed to be.

No, I didn't

You know how when you google something, or seach on a website sometimes (particularly if you type too quickly and spell things incorrectly) you get the "did you mean" message?

I was searching for "Cooking with Mint", and got this:
"Did you mean 'Booking with mintey'?"

I don't even know what booking with mintey would be so no, I didn't.

Millions of Peaches. Or Parcels.

I have caught the bug of online ordering. Not that I do a lot, but every now and then there is something, some ingredient or some pan or tool, that I can’t find locally that I end up ordering online. I always have whatever I’ve ordered sent to the office instead of the house, so there is no waiting around for a convenient time to take the delivery notice to the post office to pick up my package.

So far I’ve ordered vanilla pulp (twice!), a cookie cutter, a set of cookie stamps, some edible silver pearl dust for an upcoming wedding cake and some books.

After years of getting the same out-of-print book from the library every summer (yes, I’ve copied some of it but it isn’t the same), I’ve decided it was high time to buy a used copy for myself.

The book in question is a cookbook – what, me, a cookbook? I bet you’re totally surprised – called Canadian Country Preserves by Blanche Pownall-Garett. It is the book I get my recipe for spiced peaches*. A recipe that has the highest PIA factor of anything I do, including puff pastry and such. It takes DAYS. And I’m making some this summer. Just for me and those I love – it would be impossible to sell, the price I’d have to charge to cover the effort would make it un-sellable.

I really enjoy the book because she not only does she have recipes and pictures for the usual things like crab apples and peaches, but there is a host of things that grow wild that one never sees in stores. I’ll be in BC in August this year, so my hope is that the book arrives before I leave (I’m gone in three weeks). Then I can take it with me and look for island hidden treasures.

Since I was ordering one book anyway, I went ahead and got another book of scented poetry. I’d wax on about that too but I don’t know any other poetry readers. I know they’re out there, I just don’t know any.

*Spiced Peaches are an eight day task, but one ends up with sweet/sharp slippery cool peaches that are the BESTEST accompaniment to Curry. Or any other Indian food for that matter. One tends to question one’s sanity during the making, but during the eating it all becomes clear. You suffer during the making to enjoy the result. I haven’t made it in ten years, but this is the summer. No excuses!

What you see depends on what you want

I sometimes mis-read ads, generally because I've mixed up a letter or two, or because my brain read one word or phrase incorrectly.

Today, though, I read the subject line in a piece of spam correctly and yet got it completely wrong. Why? Because I'm not an older man, I'm an under-rested middle aged woman.

The subject line was "You too can spend more time in bed!"

And my instant thought was 'AWESOME. There is a way to spend more time sleeping, less time working, doing laundry, walking dogs, cleaning the house, cooking, driving, repairing things, working a second job blah blah blah. Oh. They're selling Viagra. Ok. I get it. Oops".

Shopping unzipped.

Why, when you're at a doctor's office going over an x-ray (where you had to get undressed and into that paper outfit thingy) would said doctor not mention that your dressed is still unzipped on the side?

WHY?

And if you're wondering why I wouldn't notice, well...it had a slip lining thingy, so there was no breeze or anything And it was a new Sunday-go-to-meeting dress that I wasn't familiar with. Didn't even realize it had a zipper until I took it off in the little x-ray booth thingy. Urgh.

You know it's bad when

So I haven't been blogging for a bit. I've been sick AGAIN. But now I've had a bazillion tests. Not to find out what is wrong (although that was what the doctor wants to know) but to find out why, (given my vastly improved diet, exercise routine and sleeping habits) I am STILL catching every cold that comes along. Pneumonia once, colds forever - is it possible that having pneumonia killed my immune system?

Anyway - back at work. I worked a half day on Wednesday, and that's been it for me for this week. And how did I know it was bad on Wednesday? I was in a meeting, a teleconference. I wasn't coughing - nor was anyone else - but at one point someone on the other end of the phone asked "is there something wrong with the line? We're getting a weird noise". Turns out the weird noise was me. Just breathing. Breathing that came out in whistles and rails. Hooray for liquid lungs.

"Come let us have some tea, and continue to talk about happy things"

People-ok, not many, but enough -keep telling me I need to get out there and meet someone. I’m fine with the getting out bit. I don’t want to end up as the crazy lady with all the teapots* and puppies, so I started a new plan last October:
If I’m invited to something and it is free, I have to go. If I’m invited and it doesn’t cost much I either go, or come up with a really good reason to decline. If it costs a lot, but I really want to go and the only reason I’m not is because I’m single then I go, and have fun because I’m somewhere doing something I really want to do.

That takes care of the going out bit. Meeting someone? Not so much. God’s going to have to plunk someone down right in front of me, and just to be sure I don’t walk past said fellow it would help if he was plunked down wearing a giant red ribbon. There is, of course, the possibility that the going-out part will lead to the meeting part. But given the places I seem to end up going to, that seems unlikely.

Take last night for instance. I was invited out to a craft class. Despite being totally non-crafty, I said yes. It’s a good thing the girl doesn’t read the blog, she’d be falling off her chair laughing at the thought of me taking a craft class. I am not glue-gun gifted. As it turned out, I was one in a class of twenty or so crafty, overweight, middle-aged white women - except I wasn’t crafty. I fit the rest of the profile, though! There was one thin woman in the group, and one young (say twenties or so) woman. And the only colour in the room came from the craft projects. Skin-wise we ran the gamut of colour from pasty white to pasty white with a sun burn.

I did have a decent time though and, most importantly, it saved me from my planned evening of housework. And if such a class comes up again, I know the girl would love it so I may end up going again.

*I collect teapots, somewhat unintentionally. How does that happen? Here’s an example:
Christmas 2007 I made the comment that it was odd that I didn’t have a Christmas teapot, given the number of teapots I DO have. In January, a co-worker dropped off a poinsettia teapot from the Monet collection. Then at some point in the summer, I saw the Water Lilyfrom the same collection. Both of these teapots are at work.

Last summer I bought a different co-worker some tea. It was a blend that we had both enjoyed but hadn’t been able to find. The next thing I know, there is a new teapot on my desk as a thank you. Two weeks ago, I came into work on a Monday to find a teapot on my desk with a note saying “this teapot called your name, so I got it for you. Happy Monday!”

Lastly, at a silent auction my girl ended up getting me a tea pot set. A lovely little boxed teapot with four wee cups. And somewhere in their Mayb gave me this lovely tea box. So now I have five teapots on a shelf at work, along with the tea box. Everyone that sees them assumes I’m purposely collecting teapots. Not that they’re completely off the mark – I do buy teapots myself sometimes – but I never started out to purposely collect them!

The title? Chaim Potok.

Karma.

That saying “what goes around comes around” doesn’t always happen. For instance, I was a typical – perhaps even worse than typical – veggie-hating child. I was ok with raw veggies, just didn’t like them cooked. Except corn, of course. Not liking creamed corn is like not liking puppies. If you meet someone who hates corn AND puppies, run. Run for your very life.

Sometimes Karma does catch up to one, though. When my girl was six, we got new neighbours. She took it upon herself to meet them. A feat she accomplished by marching over, walking into their house and announcing a) her presence and b) her intention of becoming best friends with them. And guess what? That line of chatter hasn’t stopped, not in the nine intervening years.

Not with them moving away to various locations. Not with anything. If she could phone the dad up – he lives in the Ukraine now – she would. And talk his ear off. Mayb bears the brunt of it, as she is the only one that hasn’t moved far away. Did they move to escape the chatter? Could be, could be.

So this spring we got new neighbours. New neighbours with small children. Three of them, and a fourth on the way. The little girl is five. Here is an actual conversation (it counts as conversation even if I only say one thing, right?) we had one day when I was leaving to pick the boy up from work:

Small Chatterbox:
Hi! What’s your name again?
Did you tell me your name before?
Do you remember my name?
Where are you going?

Me:
To pick A. up from work

Small Chatterbox:
Really?
Where does he work?
What’s his name again?
Why does he have to work?
Do you always have to get him?
Are you coming back?
Is he coming with you?
What’s your name again?
My name’s XXXX
Does he come outside?
Does he like to play?
Is he old?
Where’s that girl you had? (good question!)
What’s she doing?
Aren’t you taking her?
Does she get to stay alone?
When are you coming back?
Do you have a dad? (to be fair, I think she meant do the kids, but who knows)
I have brothers.
I’m five
How old are your kids?
How old are you?
Ok. Bye!!!
She then skips off, not one of her questions answered. Not because I wouldn’t answer, but because she didn’t even pause to take a breath between them all.

Buttery Tears

I don't know what y'all do when you're close to crying and really don't want to, but I bake. Pastry, generally. Something time consuming and fiddly, and completely distracting.

So tonight I made puff pastry. Roll, chill. Fold, roll, chill. Repeat. Until you have the required layers of cold butter and pastry. The problem with this method is that you end up with pastry. Oodles of buttery yummy pastry. Or, in this case, three dozen hazelnut Palmiers.

Don't get me wrong, I'd happily eat them all. But that would serve no purpose, now, would it? So I wrapped up three containers and delivered pastry hither and thither. Which may be weird, but at least I'm not as big as a bus. Yet.

Merci, Mental_Floss

I've been trying for years to explain my preference for across-the-pond humour over south-of-the-border humour. Not to mention my preference for spelling, grammar, world view, nudity and gun laws. Back to the point! Thanks to a bit from Mental_floss, I have the perfect line. The two shows they refer to are A Man about the House and Three's Company, by the by:


Despite the basic similarities between the two shows, the British version relied more on crisp writing and witty dialog than the slapstick and “jiggle” used to attract the American audience.

Row upon row of chairs, and this is the row I get.

Dear Woman Sitting Next to me in this long row of chairs;

There are things people shouldn’t assume. Not all squealing teenagers at a Hannah Montana concert will be girls. Crazy + Cat Lady don’t always go together. Very few people who ask "how are you?" actually want to know how you are. A man’s shoe size means nothing, or clowns would be more popular. Using a blackberry doesn’t mean the text is too small for someone sitting beside you to read. Please pay particular attention to that last one, ok?

You know what else? Don’t assume that I didn’t recognize a) your name, b) the name of your lover, c) the name of your lover’s wife and d) the name of your husband.

You’re right if you’re assuming that I wouldn’t stoop to blackmail. You’d be making a bad assumption if you think that most people would be above it. I don’t think the gentleman on the other side of you would stoop to it either, but the possibility of his having a heart attack reading the salacious details of your messages is, on the other hand, moderately high.

I get that sometimes meetings like this are boring. I myself understand wanting to nip out for a quickie – take note, striped blue tie guy in the back row – but seriously, in the men’s room? During a conference? Do you WANT to be caught?

Speaking of being caught…your insistence to online lover that your teenage son can’t possibly know what you’re doing is seriously misguided. Do you recall being a teenager? I mean, I have a teenager too, but I think even in his most self-involved moments he would notice late night arrivals/early morning departures. When this coincides with your Mr.’s out of town trips the chances that he knows go up to oh, say, 100%. For all you know, he may have his OWN late night arrivals/early morning departures going on. And if he does he either thinks you don’t know or has justly decided that what is good for the goose is good for the gander.

So…put the Blackberry away and start paying attention to the speaker. Or keep your thoughts in your head and off your easy-to-read blackberry. Thanks.

Shift your Gift

I generally like to mosey along when I'm at the office. I work hard, but I don't think I need to run to lunch, or jog to the bathroom or race to the other branch when the need me. However...

I DON'T like standing behind people who have stopped to think about what they're going to do next and have decided to have the conversation about that decision whilst they're standing in the doorway. The doorway I need to get to. Most people, when they see you waiting to get through move aside. Some politely, some with a hint of embarassment ( I do that) and some with a snort of irritation, as though their need to stand in the doorway outweighs your need to pass through it.

This afternoon, though, the two ladies in front of me weren't most people. They didn't move out of the way at all. Yes, they saw me, they just didn't move. So I said - quite politely - "pardon me" and went to move forward. At which point they stopped their discussion and one woman said "yes?" as though she was sitting at the front desk at a hotel waiting to check me in. Clearly, the only reason I would interrupt this important discussion was to ask them something. Something burningly important. Fine - you want a question, I'll give you a question.

"would you mind moving from the doorway that you're blocking? Great. Thanks".

I could have added where in the building they could find a woman's bathroom but decided against it. That's one door you don't want blocked in time of need. And her snooty "yes?" made me decide that she could use having to wander around looking for relief somewhere.

Of course I did.

I decided to take a tea break today, despite the work I need to have finished by the end of the day. I wanted to read a bit more of the current book. The current book that is with me, of course. Because I have one at home that I'm also partway through, and one in the car that is almost done. Anyway, as is my wont, I took the elevator so I could read on the way upstairs. And was joined by a guy, also going to the third floor. I know he was, because I asked. One always asks, if you're standing in front of the buttons, just in case the person wants a different floor.

The doors close, and I continue to read. And then I wonder if this is rude. I also found myself wondering if it was STILL raining outside. Day three of constant rain. So I took my glasses off and closed my book. Looked at the guy, who said "dismal day out there, isn't it?". And because I'm brilliant, I said this bit of insanity:

"I was just checking out your shoulders".

What I MEANT to say was "I was just wondering if your shoulders looked rained on, or if we were lucky enough to have the sun come out for a bit". Naturally, as soon as I said the first part, I realized how it sounded and froze, making it all that much worse. It took me until just before the doors opened to say "looking to see if you looked rained on. Not that I mind the rain. I like the rain. And it's great for farmers. The rain".

Yup, that's me at my eloquent best.

No title. My mind is a blank.

I may notice spelling/grammar/pronunciation mistakes, but I don't often point them out to the offender. Mainly because the one person I know who does it all the time is rude and irritating and nowhere near as clever as she thinks she is. Sometimes, though, I don't point it out because the mistake is just too entertaining to correct.

For instance, in pre-natal classes, the teacher kept talking about how men need to develop bondage skills. One night she actually said this: "dads-to-be might even think about going into the woods for a male bondage experience. You'd be surprised at what you might learn". Yes indeed, I bet they might! We were the only ones to find this funny, everyone else was so young and so earnest at the whole becoming parents adventure that they just nodded as though their lives depended on doing every thing she said. Or maybe they thought it was the correct use of the word, who's to say?

Today I decided not to correct the woman in the coffee room who was telling one and all (as if we wanted to know) about the surgery she is getting done to get help with her "vicarious veins" problem.

Wow. Absolutely you should get help if your veins are vicarious.

Coconut Mark II

Once again I am at work and all I really want to do is eat cake. I am still working on creating a coconut cake to add to the brochure. Fortunately, there is an office birthday today, so I was able to experiment and have some guinea pigs available to eat the thing. They're pretty good about testing, even on a birthday. I think that they're happy that there is cake, regardless of whether or not it works out.

I am anxious not because I'm hungry, or because I want cake*, but because a lot of this cake is new. I used one of my new cake rings, so I finally got to try the filling-the-same-depth-as-cake-layers plan and the filling...well, I may have a hit.

I have been working on the various parts of the cake since last week. Reduced coconut milk for the cake part, simmered with vanilla bean pod. Did that last Friday and put it in the fridge.

Ganache, made with white chocolate and coconut cream instead of the usual whipping cream. Did that yesterday afternoon.

Cake layers, made with reduced milk. They baked whilst we ate supper.

Filling. Oh, the filling. Here's where I went out on a limb. But I think it worked, if the boy's response to it was anything to go by. He doesn't often swoon over sweet things, but he swooned last night. I gave him some of the filling with three fresh raspberries folded in. He said it was the best thing I've ever done. So I said thanks. He looked at me and said "no, seriously mom I'm not being polite this is like, great".

Given that I made the cheese for the filling on the weekend -something I'd never done before - and then made the filling last night by beating the cheese with various things that occurred to me as I watched the kitchen aid do its thing, having a hit seemed unlikely. When I mentioned to the boy that perhaps, as he liked it, I should write down what I put in and how I made it before I forgot what I had done he said "go write it down. Right now. And try not to forget between here and the kitchen". Hmph. Am I that forgetful? Oh yes, that's right, I am.

*Of course I want to eat cake. Duh. It's just not the driving force here.

Long fuse

You know what is interesting about rarely getting mad with one's children? When you do actually get mad, they're astounded. And they TOTALLY listen and straighten things out.

I phoned the school yesterday and asked them to have the boy given a message in his last class. He was to come to the office when the class was over and that his mother would be waiting for him. And that he should meet her and return to class with her.

Oooh, I wish I could have heard what he was saying in his head. Because the look on his face when he got to the office was "s**t, oh S**t, I am so f*****g busted. Oh S**t". It was great. Not that I smiled, or anything because that would ruin in all. Dead silent the whole walk back to class.

Microsecond memory

I ordered something online today. A couple of things, actually. I wanted more vanilla and I decided to check the sale section. And found the most awesome thing to help with creating the wedding cake for Mayb. (that originally came out weeding cake, which I'm pretty sure is NOT what they're looking for).

I was so very excited but then, of course, the big question was do I tell her or not? I had to go and see her at lunch today, so I contemplated the question on the drive over. On the one hand, I really like surprises. On the other, I suck at keeping things secret, if the secret is my own. Tell me your secret and I can keep it locked up forever if you want. My secret? Every minute not telling is hard. Waiting for Christmas kills me, as I always want to tell people what I got for them before the 25th. Somtimes even before the snow flies.

I decided as I pulled up in front of her house that I'd tell her. And then rendered the whole debate useless by forgetting it altogether. Between the sidewalk and the front door, people. I forgot the entire thing in that brief partial moment in time. So either I'm losing my mind, or she has some weird cloud of forgetfulness floating over the front walkway.

No magic at all

So we finally got to try a bit of the cake. And it was....cake-ish. Not so terrible I'd throw it at passing strangers, but not good enough to spend one day baking let alone the marathon that it was*. So this week will be a new coconut cake attempt. A totally different angle of approach. No recipe, just improv on the spot. I suppose it could be worse than the multi-day cake, but only if I burn it or use salt instead of sugar.

*Big puppy liked it. But then I'm pretty sure even a bad cake is better than gimp and lightbulbs, yes?