BLOGG # 79 A VERY PROFOUND HOME ECONOMICS LESSON

The other day my friend was commenting on the joys of cooking breakfasts while camping-especially whipping up baking powder biscuits. I was surprised and said I never make them as they are too difficult and always fail as I well remember from my hated home economics lessons in grade nine. My friend made his usual comment about “Academia complicating the most straightforward subjects” and that this was a typical example. This started me reminiscing on that hated course.

Mrs. G.-the home Ec teacher was pretty, refined with elegantly coiffured white hair and with piercing blue eyes which ruthlessly sharpened as she ripped out my basting over and over again on the ugly white apron that took me four months of sewing classes to finish . She represented to me the typical pretty mother that I did not have –my idol being the mother of Dick and Jane from the grade one book- a pretty curly haired woman in high heels, hat and gloves who was always going out shopping and a father who always wore a suit and tie and was forever coming and going in a nice car. My mother, on the other hand, was a sturdy woman in a house dress, a homemade voluminous apron, Lyle stockings and sensible shoes. She presented a dour face to the puzzling “English world, wore an uncompromising tight bun on the nape of her head and was even known to wear a peasant scarf on her head when she had a headache. My father wore flannel shirts, braces and  long underwear summer and winter.  We did not have roast beef for dinner but instead had “halupsti, kneuffel and cottage cheese kuchen” for dessert.

The chasm broadened as the home Ec class continued. It seemed that “keeping house” was a complicated and disciplined task. Monday was washing day, Tuesday was ironing day, Wednesday was baking day and so on.  We learned to set a many forked table and how to iron and correctly fold a white linen table cloth as big as a bed sheet. I was appalled at all this and decided then and there to never marry and concentrate on getting good marks and choose carefully a good career to sustain me in my future life.

The cultural chasm deepened and bottomed out when the teacher told us we had to invite our mothers to lunch. My consternation was great as I tried to picture my mother in the same room as this pink and white teacher. The dreaded day came and true to life, my mother came in her house dress and Lyle stockings and bun pulled severely back at the nape of her neck. She sat dourly and never uttered a word as my partner and I struggled with our meal-her mother of course being young and pretty.

We served undercooked baked potatoes, burnt pork chops and a runny desert called “lemon snow.” The ordeal finally ended and Mom and I walked home- my mother silent and I with a red face feeling shame because of my uncool mother.  At one point my mother stopped, turned to me broke her silence and said  “Do you mean to say  that this woman went to University and that is the best she could teach you?” The light bulb went on over my head! Of course  mother wasn’t uber-welmed with the teacher  she was underwhelmed. Mother was a very good cook who not only cooked well but everything she put on the table was raised, grown and slaughtered by her. Not only that but my snow white cotton underwear was sewn by her from bleached Robin Hood flour sacks! I understood at last the value of my mother, smiled and never was ashamed of her again.

BLOGG # 78 LAURIE YOU ARE DOING WELL- EVEN WHEN YOU ARE NOT.

“Laurie-you are doing fine –even when you are not.”

I have just stuck the above affirmation on my bathroom mirror-a throw back to the seventies- those of you who lived through that enlightening time will remember that practice of putting “affirmations” on the bathroom mirror - such as; “I  always have confidence in myself”-or-“My life always works out successfully” or even superficial ones such as “My hair is always perfect” or my personal one “My neck length is the perfect length for me” in the hopes that this will somehow become so. These affirmations mostly didn’t work much to our chagrin and the practice faded along with bell bottoms and yellow –brown–green T-shirts. This morning I was having a particularly difficult time with everything I attempted to do and managed to chalk up at least six major blunders and it was still only 10 am. I overshot the coffee maker and spilled coffee grounds all over the floor and you know how hard that is to clean up with a sleepy head; walked into the bedroom three times in succession  to fetch something and forgot each time what I came for -my bedroom is three seconds from my kitchen; lost my place in the book I am reading and couldn’t find it again because ,quite frankly, I couldn’t remember what it  was I was just  reading ,and worst of all I  forgot to put my paint brushes in to soak thereby ruining them and my painting. I was tearing my hair in frustration at this point when I heard my wise “Inner Voice” saying clear as a bell “Laurie you are doing fine- even when you are not.” Dear inner voice!  I happily wrote it down realizing it was a gem and a real keeper, and taped it to the one place I spend a lot of disconcerting time-my bathroom mirror. An affirmation that covers absolutely every possible negative thing in my life was before me to look at and reflect on every morning.  To show you, my dear readers, my great generosity, I will give it to you. Take down all the other “affirmations” such as “My perfect life partner is waiting for me and I will meet him soon” and put this little gem up instead.. Use it in peace.

BLOGG # 77 SAVE YOUR BREATH TO COOL YOUR PORRIDGE

Save your breath to cool your porridge.

Lately I have introduced a new food to my healthy menu-a food I have religiously avoided in spite of it’s high recommendations by health gurus-you know, those knowledgeable interfering experts who keep on about the dangers of your favourite foods and recommending unappetizing ones such as  the bountiful “oatmeal porridge.” I have hated this dish ever since I was a child and really felt no reason to alter my opinion as an adult but I realized, being a mature woman of a certain age, I needed to include it in my diet.  My path of learning to cook this in an edible, appetizing way without it turning into lumps, cement or runny messes is fraught with frustration and much failure and I won’t bore you with it.  I have solved the problem of making it palatable by the simple solution of adding a dab of butter and a dollop of cream. Watching the butter and cream melting into the steaming hot porridge satisfies me sensually and I now enjoy eating this dish. The interesting offshoot of all this is that while watching the butter disappear and merge with the cream, I was  vividly reminded of the same sensation while eating porridge in my childhood-  being a farm child with a lot of memories  and culinary experiences with these two dairy products. The other thing that triggered my memory were the long hours I reluctantly spent churning butter and watching my mother mold and wrap the pounds of butter which she sold. My mother, an early feminist entrepreneur, supported and fed her large family by selling cream, butter and eggs- any grain farming profits being churned back into the farm. I also remembered the rare occasions when I was allowed to accompany my mother to town where she sold these products to Mr. Klein at his store in exchange for supplies. These were for me excruciatingly embarrassing and I cringed as I listened to my mother in imperfect English barter with Mr. Klein. “Mrs. F” he would argue “I know you have the best butter in the county but I can’t pay more” and my mother with her “No” [my mother’s “no” was very vigorous as I knew from experience] would barter with great strength. At last these two antagonists would come to an agreement and my mother would leave with her purchases muttering under her breath how “typically cheap he was” much to my judgmental discomfort and I was sure he was thinking the same-“typical hard-nosed farmer.” It was only recently I realized these  two had great respect for each other- understood good quality and each others' haggling expertise very  well and enjoyed the whole experience-a sort of  nostalgic trip for each to their native country and the time honoured business of bartering.  So you see dear readers, because I did this great stretch in introducing this undesirable food experience to my life, I inadvertently came to a new insight. I would advise you to do the same. You never know where a big adventurous culinary “stretch” will take you. Never limit your life to new adventures and see what insights you will experience, just as it did me with this long blog about porridge.  I love the expression “Save your breath to cool your porridge” and was pleased to finally find a way to use it.

BLOGG # 76 SPRING NEARLY PASSED ME BY.

Spring nearly passed me by.

Several weeks ago near the beginning of March, I was driving to one of my many health related appointments when I was jolted out of my foggy, cold infested brain by the sight of a mass of delicately pink-tinted blossoms on trees lining both sides of the street. “My god” I whispered “cherry blossom time and I almost missed it” Not only did I almost miss it but already they were just slightly past their first full bloom. Now we all know-especially us girls- about passing “first full bloom!” Don’t the poets warn us often enough of the speed of passing time, first bloom and beauty?—“gather ye rose buds while you may-“etc. Haven’t we all read the comment in Jane Austin’s “ Sense and Sensibility”  by Marianne Dashwood's stepbrother lamenting the loss of first bloom in her cheeks because of being heartbroken by that dastardly Mr. Willoughby, thereby losing her chance of catching a rich husband? I thought hard about all this and decided to ignore the misery of my lingering “Victoria Winter Cold” and venture out into the new spring and look up my favourite haunts with “full blooms”  Firstly, and thank goodness not too late, I found the mossy high bank by the old St Mary’s church next to the kindergarten where the shy crocuses bloom. There they were shimmering in the wind wrapped up in their fuzzy blankets. Next I ventured down the lane by the Elderly Gentleman’s perfect garden where I found nestled in the corner, two perfect beds of primroses in rainbow colours. I had, of course, seen snow drops in February but that seemed eons ago. Next I found the camellia tree in full lush blooms which were already turning into a death -like brown as decadent as only camellias can be. The heather in various rockeries around Oak Bay bloomed in their tweedy Scottish colours and a blanket of blue flowers covered a hillside along a rocky path I like to walk. The yellow daffodils were a month late this year and now they are waving bravely in the March wind. These are not my favourite spring flowers- unlike Wordsworth who “wandered through them lonely as a cloud”. The daffodil cannot replace my affection for the crocus which reminds me of the joy I felt as a little prairie girl discovering my first pale shivering purple one peeping through the melting snow-the harbinger of a delayed Alberta spring so looked forward to. Somehow I have overlooked the overblown rhododendron-thank god for spell-check- but I am still in the delicate state brought on by lingering winter illnesses and don’t think I can handle such passion. I have watched daily the wild apple trees in my back lane come to full bloom and yesterday I passed the elegant tulip tree-this gladdens and saddens me for this is the beginning of the end of early spring. Soon the tulips will open and then the blessed lilac- the Mother’s-day gift from nature will be here. This all sums up, for me, the spring that I nearly let pass me by. Let this be a lesson for me and you, dear reader, not to let the misery of physical discomfort such as the lowly cold for example, pass by the opportunity to enjoy life’s many gifts. Oh yes! My cold has disappeared. By the way,as a post script , "First blooms "are important but the poets have failed to write about the later ones which get better and more enjoyable and quite frankly, I am enjoying my latest "bloom" best of all.

BLOGG # 75 THE EYES- WINDOWS OF THE SOUL

The eyes-Windows of the Soul

A few months ago, at my grandson’s birthday while we were playing around and celebrating,  I picked up my son-in-law’s piano accordion and started playing it even though I hadn’t touched an accordion in thirty five years and then only one or two times.  I played, badly, “happy Birthday to you” and “The Tennessee Waltz.” We all laughed at my attempt and my daughter videoed me on her new fancy cell phone. When I saw this video I was amused and emailed it to my friends. My friends emailed back voicing astonishment at my “expertise” and said they even danced to the Tennessee Waltz. Unfortunately she noted that I did not look a “happy musician” and she was right. I also had noticed a very sad look in my eyes and was puzzled by it. My rational mind told me it was due to pain- I was recuperating from a frozen shoulder- and the irrational part of me said what I saw was the mirroring of a sad soul-perhaps mine.  I replayed the video. The look seemed familiar and then I recognized it. I had seen it in my father’s eyes. And now I will tell you a story of my father: He was a quiet somewhat stern man who said little but this is what he told me one day a long time ago when I was still a young woman. “I was once a musician. I used to play the piano accordion. I used to play for dances in my village and after the dance as I walked home softly playing to myself, people would throw open their windows to listen and say “John you play like an angel”. Once when I had to go to the city to buy out my commission (my father was an officer in the Russian army during World War 1) I met another soldier while we were waiting who had a new accordion and I asked if I could play it. I played all afternoon and the soldiers danced all afternoon in the square. When it was over I had made enough money to pay off my commission.” I asked him what happened as I had never heard him play nor did I know of this side of him. He paused a moment then said he didn’t know. “I just stopped” he said , looking at me puzzled. He said that years later in Canada while visiting a friend he asked to play his accordion and picked it up but started to tremble all over uncontrollably unable to play at all. Then he said “I   put the accordion down and knew I would never play again”. And that is when I saw that look in my father’s eyes. Now I wonder what other hard sacrifices were necessary for him  to give up by immigrating to Canada- his difficult life and the resulting traumas suffered by him like the sacrifice of being unable to play  an instrument he loved and  to give up this essential part of himself and I wondered also if this was so of many of our immigrants. I realize now this is a Canadian story-the sacrifices of giving up part of the inherent self of Canadian immigrants and indeed one of the basic ingredients in the tapestry of what makes up the Canadian character- another reason to be proud to be a Canadian. Thanks for listening to my father's story- your grateful blogger.

BLOGG # 74 ROB FORD AND THE LEOPARD CAN'T CHANGE HIS SPOTS

Toronto's Rob Ford and the saying “The leopard can’t change his spots”

Lately this very irritating saying “the leopard can’t change his spots” has been running through my head reminding me of my childhood when I had to endure my well-meaning betters who, with frowns on their faces,chastised me for my many faults and ending with this comment: "the leopard can't change his spots, you know"  You can imagine the effect on a small child of this weighty burden inflicted on it. Yes, dear readers I, even as an adorable child, had faults and they weren’t very nice ones. I will list some of them-laziness, slovenliness, a tendency to whine, lingering in bed in the mornings and worst of all, day- dreaminess. This last one was so pronounced that, as my sister tells me, my grade one teacher assigned a fellow classmate to poke me when she wanted my attention. I, being an intelligent child, always had my gaze out the window dreaming of India, Africa, lions and tigers. Why adults would repeat this saying to emphasize a child’s faults instead of his good points is incomprehensible. How refreshing it would have been to hear “You are very good at this or that and will always be so and remember, like the leopard, you can’t change your  spots” How reassuring  for the child. I was not happy with who I was  as a child but I did try to “change my spots” including my freckles which I tried with no success to rid with lemon juice as my grandmother assured me I would not find a husband with them. When it became time as a young woman to choose a profession, I decided against my first choice of being a missionary- I was still hankering after lions and tigers-and chose the nursing profession. Next to the Army, nursing school is the best place to change these spots- or so I thought and indeed, I spent the next three years getting up at six a.m. and spent days and years cleaning things wearing a sparkling white starched bib and apron  and ,I kid you not, black shoes and stockings-an impressive sartorial image. Did I succeed? No, I did not. I am not known for my domestic skills. I do not get up at dawn-much to the delight of my neighbours. Nothing stirs in my house before 9am and of course I still am a dreamer-after all I am an artist and this is an asset. I am now looking at my leopard spots with new positive eyes. And now I come to the purpose of this blog- For the past few weeks we have been beleaguered with the unsavoury story of Toronto’s mayor, Mr. Ford. Now there is a big leopard with bigger spots  who has never, will never, and has no intention of ever changing them. I am disgusted along with everyone else with this story, but must confess to, in a teensy way, feeling a reluctant admiration for him. He is not backing down, not stepping down, and though he says he is sorry, there are no crocodile tears. “I am sorry” he says “I don’t know what else to say, this happened but I am not stepping down no matter what” in other words, like Popeye the sailor man he says “I "yam"what I "yam" and that’s what I "yam.”  He stands firm with all his spots. So next time someone condescendingly points out your spots and pulls out this old saw, say “yes I know and aren't they great!"

 

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BLOGG # 73 THOUGHTS ON THE WORD LOVE FOR VALENTINE"S

Thoughts on the word “Love” for Valentine’s

A few weeks ago I was invited to dim sum lunch by a book club group. They were very intelligent and thoughts and ideas flew around the table. One of the group mentioned  a movie he had just seen about a man who had fallen in love with a machine. Apparently the machine and he had had a complex interacting relationship over a long and intensive time. I didn’t catch the nature of the machine but knew it wasn’t the obvious- a robot. The discussion branching out from this developed into whether or not one can have a love relationship with an inanimate subject like a machine. This became quite animated as examples were brought up. The computer with its ability to start a love hate relationship was brought up and of course the intense interaction between it and us in the highly competitive computer games we are all indulging in. Everyone decided that it would be terrible to lose the computer, and it would be badly missed and surely that was love. Also, one could love intensely an object; for example that special letter opener one bought in an exotic place -my personal love object. We all know the despair of having to throw out that beloved pair of perfect jeans mourning its demise, to say nothing of having to throw out the perfect white cotton T-shirt bought in Turkey in 1975. Examples of love flew around the table until I interrupted with “But does love of these things break your heart?” To my surprise a charming woman said “Oh yes –my first car. When it died I was heartbroken, we had had a tense ten year relationship, and she was so difficult always breaking down and gave me such a hard time” She looked quite wistful as she said “  I just loved that car.” So I became somewhat convinced and imagined our favourite god the cute naked little winged boy perched on a cloud with his bow and arrow looking down at someone in the process of buying a new car and aiming the arrow straight at the buyer’s heart. I refuse to believe he chooses to aim at the heart of the car! Evidently the outcome of the movie, sadly, was that the machine refused the heartbroken man’s advances proving again that machines have more intelligence than humans who are so  careless with their hearts as to fall into that lovelorn pit- or are they? And aren’t we lucky to be able to do so-- Happy Valentine’s day