A Material World

Today is a national holiday. It's the first Monday in August, a Civic Holiday, whatever that means, so banks/post offices/Government agencies are closed, there is no mail delivery, and some stores are also closed and others are open.

I had to go to the bank machine today (I actually had to go last week, but every single day I went up there the stupid thing was out of service -- another rant entirely), and the route to the bank machine takes me through one of those new Canadian consumer paradises -- the Big Box Store park. You know the ones: they're popping up all over our country in cities and towns big and small. They involve a handful of vendors building stores that are just far enough away that parking in one spot and walking to all of the stores is slightly inconvenient, meaning that people pop in and out of parking spots that are less than a two minute drive away from each other so they don't have to walk an extra five. The stores are always the same, the parking lots are always full, and stores are always busy.

Today, however, things were different. I guess the holiday had prompted one vendor to lock the doors for the day, so one parking lot was empty. The rest, it seemed to me, were fuller than ever. I got the impression that people who were not working on their holiday Monday had run out of stuff to do at home and went out -- and they all went out shopping. They were desperate; they swarmed to the stores, found one closed, and went directly to the one next door, even though they didn't actually need anything. Who needs to buy consumer electronics on a holiday Monday? Are we so incapable of entertaining ourselves at home that we need to go shopping just so we have something to do?

Later, I drove by the shopping mall, and the parking lot was jam-packed there, too. I should add that the weather all weekend has been absolutely gorgeous.

We are such a consuming, materialistic culture. As a critic of it, I am the world's biggest hypocrite. I love my designer duds and trendy gadgets as much as anyone, or maybe more. I love my jeans, but I hate that I love them. They don't make me a better person, and I probably could clothes to wear that look just as good and cost half as much, if I really wanted to, but I don't want to. They make me happy; I treasure them.

It's pathetic.

The other day on the subway, I saw a young girl of around ten or eleven dressed in designer yoga pants, carrying a designer backpack, wearing a trendy MP3 player, and drinking from a bottle of designer water. Now, this really bothered me, and not just because she had a better handbag than me. Again, hypocrite here, but I justify it by saying that I work, and the things that I purchase are with money that I've earned. When I was a pre-teen teenybopper, I had to beg my parents to buy me a piece of clothing that was even vaguely trendy (and they always bought me the cheap and horrible knock-off -- something that will haunt me forever. I hate the knock-off.) This girl does not work. Her parents buy her wardrobe, and maybe some of these things are gifts. I just wonder, if she's dressed like this now, what will she be lusting after when she's 30? And why do I care?

Uh-oh: Food Blogging Entry Numero Deux!

I fear what I'm becoming... it's one thing to blog about food in general; I happen to love the many food blogs I peruse on a regular basis and have picked up many ideas, hints, and tons of inspiration from them in the past. I've been baking lately for various occasions, and my obvious pride is unparalleled.

My first recipe was for an apricot and cherry upside-down cake from Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook (gorrrrrrrrgeous pics!), only I substituted for peaches and blackberries, because, well, that's what I had. I also omitted the almond paste and almond extract because I was serving the cake to a nut-allergic person, and upped the butter content instead. As a final touch, I added two split vanilla beans, scraped, to the batter. The recipe was simple but involved an extra step involving the separation of eggs and beating of egg whites to soft peaks. I don't mind this; I acutally secretly adore beating egg whites with my Kitchen Aid stand mixer because it does such a fan-freaking-tastic job of it. It's always a marvel to me... and with that statement, I become a giant nerd. I was just annoyed about the egg whites because I hadn't had the foresight to either 1. combine the rest of the ingredients in another bowl, or 2. buy another bowl for my mixer. As a result, I had to transfer said mixed batter to another bowl, wash and dry the metal bowl meticulously (egg whites won't fluff up in a dirty bowl, remember?), and THEN beat the egg whites. Oh, at midnight.

In traditional upside-down cake recipes, the fruit is first caramelized in a skillet. In our simplified version, the butter and sugar are creamed and spread into the cake pan; then the fruit is layered over the mixture and topped with cake batter.


Martha Stewart's Apricot and Cherry Upside-Down Cake:


Makes one 8-inch cake

ingredients
1 stick (½ cup) unsalted butter, room temperature, plus more for pan
1¼ cups sugar
5 to 6 medium fresh apricots (about 1 pound), halved and pitted
12 ounces fresh sweet cherries (such as Bing), stemmed, pitted, and halved
¾ cup all-purpose flour
¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons fine yellow cornmeal
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
¼ cup almond paste (not marzipan), crumbled
3 large eggs, separated
¼ teaspoon pure vanilla extract
½ teaspoon pure almond extract
½ cup milk
to prepare
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter an 8-by-3-inch round cake pan, and line bottom with parchment paper. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat 2 tablespoons butter with ¼ cup sugar on medium speed until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Spread evenly over bottom of prepared pan. Arrange apricot halves, cut sides down, in pan. Fit cherries into any gaps between apricots. Pack down the fruit slightly with your hands; set aside.

In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, cornmeal, baking powder, and salt; set aside. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat remaining 6 tablespoons butter until smooth, about 1 minute. Add almond paste and ¾ cup sugar, and beat until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed. Add the egg yolks, and beat until well combined. Beat in vanilla and almond extracts. Add the flour mixture in two parts, alternating with the milk and beginning and ending with the flour; beat until combined, and set aside.

In the clean bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, beat egg whites on medium speed until foamy. Gradually sprinkle in the remaining ¼ cup sugar, and beat until soft peaks form. Fold a third of egg-white mixture into the batter with a spatula. Gently fold in remaining egg whites.

Spread batter over fruit, smoothing with an offset spatula. Bake, rotating pan halfway through, until a cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean, 1 hour to 1 hour 10 minutes. Transfer pan to a wire rack to cool slightly, about 15 minutes. Run a knife or small offset spatula around the edges to loosen, and invert cake onto a serving plate to cool completely. Cake can be kept at room temperature, loosely covered with foil, for up to 3 days.

I was miffed by the grid-pattern left on the top of the cake by my pan, and also by the blackberry juices running everywhere, ruining my beautiful cake. However, I got requests for the recipe (here you go, Cat!) and enjoyed it too, though I thought it was a bit "eggy".

The second baking adventure this weekend involved two different kinds of biscuits (same reference for recipes): Cornbread biscuits and fennel-and-raisin biscuits. Yum.



























Now I promise -- no more food blogging for at least two weeks. It seems like a good time to start talking about going on a diet, though...

Things I Swore I'd Never Do That I Find Myself Doing

Along with Facebook and buying my underwear at Costco, food blogging is one of those things I swore I would never do. I love cooking (and more importantly, I love eating), but it agitates me to no end when everyone has to stop everything to take endless photographs of food at family dinners. It's probably because I just want to dig in and taking pictures takes away from precious eating time. I think I also fear that if I were to food blog, there would be whispers of, "Well, no wonder she looks like that, all she thinks about is food..."

Anyway. We had some lovely friends over for dinner last night, and along with the crab legs, the shrimp, the Korean beef ribs, the mango-peanut noodle salad, and the grilled vegetables, I made this nectarine tart.

The crust was meh; I made it in the food processor according to the instructions in my Joy of Cooking and found it tough, but I probably overworked it and I didn't let it rest, as I was impatient to get on with the day. Also, cutting up 8 nectarines into 1/8" slices and then arranging said slices in a billion rosettes in the tart crust can only be described as, hm, mentally fatiguing and a huge pain in the ass.

However, it was very pretty when it was done.














My compliants are as follows:

1. The tart was very thin because it was only as high as a nectarine slice, so maybe half an inch.
2. I had too many slices to fit into the tart shell before baking; however, the slices got thinner as it baked, so afterwards, it seemed skimpy on the fruit.
3. My crust sucked. A crumb crust with ground almonds in it would have been quite nice.
4. It took way longer than the 40 minutes the recipe called for to be finished.
5. The juices released by the nectarines totally watered down the custard.
6. Have I mentioned that it was a massive pain in the ass to make?
7. I forgot the ice cream.

There you have it! I wonder if you'll find me food blogging again in the future.

Some Things Just Shouldn't Be Allowed

(an ode to the ladies in front of me in line at the grocery store.)

The discount grocery where I shop
Has "No Name" that I dare to speak
The shopping carts are yours with change
But quarters not I had with me.

The store was crowded, full of folks
Short on cereal, juice, and chips
I struggled through with eco-friendly bags
To buy the food that we would eat.

Lineups were long and tempers were short
The ice cream I had was melting fast
But suddenly I saw with joy
The shortest line, in front of me!

I set my bags down on the floor
And breathed a sigh of sweet relief
Then saw with fear the over-stuffed cart
Without an owner, waiting patiently.

You and your friend, in her pink pullover
Arrived with pasta and armfuls of fruit
You used your cart to save your spot
And continued shopping in the store.

You returned to the line and went to purchase
As your friend continued her shopping spree
I waited twenty goddamn minutes
While she looked for Tang Crystals and olive oil!

When she returned again this third time
with bottles of root beer that where on sale
I smirked inside at her dismay
Because I had moved ahead in line.

The cashier was impatient, annoyed, like me
And voided her transaction immediately
Then moved on to my purchases while she waited
Revenge was mine, so sweet, so sweet.

Ooh, Fun Game, Fun Game!

Foxy, my favourite Vain Cookie, has absolutely insisted that I play this game.

I get to pretend that I have $5000 (USD, I assume) to spend at Bergdorf Goodman. This is my loot. By the way, I overspent on my budget by $71, but I don't care. I always overspend my budget.

Diane Von Furstenburg wrap dress, $495
























Chloe Handbag, $1635
























This entire outfit by Stella McCartney; top $395, pants $595
























Jimmy Choo boots, $885























Anna Sui dress, $541
























Jimmy Choo sandals,$525























I'm exhausted. I'm going to virtually model all of my new stuff, and then wake up from my lovely dream. Good night!

p.s. I made the pictures too big, so they're kinda blurry, but it's late and I don't care. Much.

p.p.s. Everything is beautiful, flattering, and in my perfect size. This is MY dream, remember?

Clear in Some Ways, Incredibly Fuzzy in Others

It's been eight days since my surgery and things are going well. I had my one-week follow up appointment today and I still have 20/20 vision, though I was secretly hoping to have improved to Superhuman 20/15 or so, just so I could be that much more perfect than I already am. My eyes are no longer bloodshot, meaning nobody's mistaking me for someone just coming off a bender. I can wear makeup again, hallelujah, so I feel more like myself than I have for weeks. Now, without glasses, with perfect vision, with makeup and looking relatively normal, I am bionic! People everywhere are asking me why I am so damn happy, and I guess this is why!

However, do you want to know what's kind of disturbing? I keep getting email replies to messages I sent the day or two following my surgery. I also am getting returned letters/cards in the mail and other indications that I was apparently reaching out and contacting people, ET-style, and I have no idea what I said or wrote in any of these missives. Yesterday I got a card returned to me that I had sent to a couple that we met on a vacation to South America a YEAR ago. We have had hardly any contact with them, and yet I sent them a mushy card and included pictures. What the hell? Someone else has thanked me for the card and pictures I sent, and I have no idea what I said to her, and I'm scared to ask. Apparently I emailed some nonsense to a bunch of family members and friends as well, and I have no recollection of that either.

I also have a vague memory of talking on the phone to someone while I lay in bed and also watching a TV show involving cave swallows, a really big fish, and about a billion cockroaches. The posts I made on my favourite chat forum make no sense to me at all. I had two visits from friends while I was recovering and I can't remember what we talked about.

I blame the Ativan. Oops.

Ah, Clarity

Sometimes it's almost impossible to believe how one little thing can make such an impact on one's life -- like, say, sight. In the span of 20 minutes I went from pretty much blind to having perfect 20/20 vision, and I must say that the psychological terror of that 0.33 of an hour was well worth the trouble.

The way it worked was like this. They herded three visually-impaired patients into a small, dark room. We had nametags so they would know what we'd ordered. We were scrubbed, given caps and booties, drugged, and soothed into a stupor. Neil Diamond was playing the entire time. Then, one by one, we were led into the surgery suite.

When it came to my turn, I was led by the pleasantly sarcastic surgical aide to the room. The surgeon guided me to the chair and I lay on my back. The first part was particularly terrifying. He showed me a clear plastic ring. Then he shoved said clear plastic ring into my eye -- hard. He said, "You might feel some pressure here. And then, more pressure." What I felt was that my eyeball was going to pop out of its orbit in my skull like a grape. And then I felt was that the grape might burst. I started whimpering a bit, I am ashamed to admit. However, the surgeon was soothing and held my head steady. At this point, my vision went black -- and that is when I began to feel like I might lose my mind.

This sensation of pressure and vision loss appears to have coincided with the cutting of the "flap" via intralase laser. Both right and left eye were done one after the other, the pressure was removed, and then he pivoted me in the chair and began the actual LASIK reshaping process.

Each eye was done individually. All I sensed was that there was something on my eye again, the surgeon was waving something gold-coloured around on one eye, and then I saw a flashing orange light. There was a loud clicking noise A soothing voice in the background started counting down the seconds from 37 seconds on my right and 41 seconds on my left. Then the gold-coloured thing again, and clear vision -- easy as that.

From outside the surgical suite, my husband could see what had actually happened and described it to me later. It corresponds interestingly with what I experienced. The gold coloured thing? A metal hockey stick-like device used to ease back the corneal flap (augh!) to expose my raw cornea (augh!) The orange light? Used to guide my pupil and keep me stationary while the laser (clicking thing) did its work. Then the metal hockey stick thing put the flap back on my eye, patted it down like putting icing on a cake, and abra-cadabra, I could see!

The first two days it was like I was looking through dirty glass. My eyes were somewhat sore and burny, but some sedatives and lots of drops took care of that. I spent two days in a drug-induced stupor, but every time I woke up, I was amazed how clear the world was. I've spent five days shaking myself out of the habit of reaching for my glasses. It's a wonderful habit to have to break.

Now my vision is perfect and clear. My eyes still get dry and tired if I try to do too much but it's better and better every day. Why did I wait so long?

Cancer Sucks.

The world is a sadder, emptier place today. A wonderful woman has succumbed to the cruelest of diseases, fucking cancer. Sarah was a kind woman that I hardly knew at all, but her strength of spirit and wise words touched me and many others in ways that she will never know. I wish she knew that she made me realize how lucky I am to have my healthy body. I wish she knew that I realize that my problems are banal and pathetic and really, very minute in comparison to what she had. I wish she knew that I realize now that I don't know pain.

Perspective is everything, and a little bit can go a long way. In all of her trials, Sarah remained optimistic and loving. She was so generous to share what she had with the world. She volunteered her time, she reached out and gave comfort to others, and she loved. She appreciated her world, her wonderful husband, and the times she felt good, the times she laughed, and her time alive. Her pain was staggering and she stayed strong through it. She's a hero, an inspiration. All of us should be more like her.

Rest peacefully, Sarah.

At the Five and Dime

Our fifth wedding anniversary was two days ago -- June 1st, 2007. We had the wedding date engraved on the insides of our wedding bands five years ago, but miraculously, neither of us has ever forgotten the event. Actually, I haven't forgotten, and he hasn't had opportunity to, because I drop heavy hints for about two weeks prior to the event, escalating in intensity and frequency as the date gets closer.

Five years and a few months ago I was all about the wedding. My concerns were about the dress, the makeup, the hair, the flowers, the invitations, the programs, first dance music, cake, bridesmaids, and registry. A tardy response to a wedding invitation was enough to send me over the edge into insanity, and I fretted for hours about placing every single invite and its accompanying paperwork into each hand-written envelope in the exact same perfect order every time. I had hair trials, makeup trials, countless dress fittings, regular facials, fake nails, padded boobs (surprise!), and contemplated fake eyelashes.

In the end it was a fabulous day. We got married -- obviously -- but marvelled for days about how truly wonderful it was to see all of our favourite people in the world collected in one room, happy for us, happy with us, and enjoying themselves. I don't know the last time I've been to a better party.

The actual act of getting married in the shortest non-Vegas, non-drive-through wedding ceremony of the century was momentous, but nothing in comparison to the actual state of being married. Nobody tells the betrothed that marriage is work. Your troubles are his, and his are yours. In fact, his troubles often amplify your troubles. The troubles you share are overshadowed by the troubles of others. The happinesses that you share are also, unfortunately, overshadowed by the troubles of others. Small annoyances become major crises, points of contention, and full-blown knock-down-and-drag-it-out-sulk-for-days battles. Each difference of opinion becomes a battle of wills. Sometimes there are power struggles. Sometimes mean things are said. Sometimes a sulking Val will toss out the most passive-aggressive withering comment she can summon and dare him to beat it.

I've realized that in order for us to survive another 50-odd years together, some changes have to be made on both of our parts.

For me:

1. It's not always about winning. Let it go.

This pertains to several categories, including but not limited to:

• Laundry
• Groceries
• Housekeeping in general

2. Stop saying "nothing" when it's not nothing.

3. Don't always assume the worst. Appreciate the best.

4. Be happy with yourself, because he's happy with you.

5. Be happier in the morning.

For him:

1. Close the bathroom door.

2. Pick up your socks.

3. And underwear.

4. Pay me compliments in excessive quantity.

5. Remember that diamonds really are a girl's best friends... meaning that they do better in groups.

That is all.

Rationalizing Ratios

We just spent the past 48 hours helping my mother-in-law move house. The senior Ms. F. is a wonderful, sweet woman with severe pack rat tendencies. Among the stranger things we moved were a large piece of smoked plexiglass that used to be the door to something, eight full bottles of propane (with accompanying lamp and stove), a circa-1984 microwave oven, an ab roller, and a large piece of sheep skin.

More significantly, we moved a three-seater couch, two wing-back leather chairs, two cane-backed chairs, a chrome stool, two lawn chairs, one random unmatched black leather chair with wooden legs, and a new brown leather reclining chair, and two desk chairs with wheels. Thankfully we convinced her to give away an additional four white moulded-plastic chairs that she proclaimed were "great for when the kiddies (what kiddies?) visit -- all you have to do is hose them down if they spill anything!"

She is one woman living alone. That's a ratio of eighteen places to park a butt -- and only one butt living there. Now the ratio is 14:1.

Upon reflection, I note that our ratio is somewhere around 18 chairs for 2 people, or 9:1 if you use that fancy new math. This includes a couch and a love seat, but not the car or bicycles.

We have a lot of stuff. People have a lot of stuff, and many of us hate to part with any of it for various reasons -- sentimental ones, practical ones, frugal ones. Somewhere along the way, humans have become collectors of material goods. We want more, and more, and more. We certainly don't need it, and I'm beginning to feel like this is a wasteful and indulgent state of being. Something must be done -- what, I don't know, but whatever it is, it doesn't include my shoe collection.

On Being a Lady

I recently completed a highly intellectual quiz where it was determined that I, ValGal, am 88% girly. This percentage was based on scientifically projected questions on the number of bottles of nail polish I own and whether or not I say, "That's hot", and whether I watch The OC or Grey's Anatomy.

Finding out that I am 88% girly is like finding out that I like chocolate. Who's surprised? Anybody?

At least if I'm 88% girly it means that I know how to sit in a knee-length skirt without flashing the entire subway car. Yes, fellow females, I am talking to you. I understand that sometimes in the morning we are sleepy because we haven't had that Starbucks latte. I understand that on the way home we're exhausted from a frantic work day. Sometimes we snooze, sometimes we drift. However, this does not excuse the six to eight inch gap between your knees, Ms. Underpants.

The First Rule of Skirt Wearing is this: Knees Firmly Together. (The second rule is: Full panties, please.) Don't Be Like Lindsay/Britney/Paris. Maybe that creepy guy over there wants to see your junk, but I certainly don't.

Next time we'll focus on another serious fashion crime: Shadow toes and sandals. The horror!

I've Been Around the World and I-I-I...

I have recently become obsessed with the BBC series entitled "Planet Earth". It's been on the Discovery Channel in the US, but alas, will not be played on their Canadian counterpart. The DVDs are available for purchase at Amazon.ca and I am seriously contemplating my first ever purchase of a NATURE DOCUMENTARY. This puts me officially in the following categories: old, boring, lame, and finally, my parents. When I was little, my parents were voracious followers of Jacques Cousteau, Sir David Attenborough, and the like. We taped (on VHS and Beta, remember Beta?) thousands of hours of nature documentaries highlighting the mating habits of dung beetles and watching a pride of lions devour a bloodied wildebeest carcass after an exhaustive chase. As a result, I have actively rejected the nature documentary... until now.

Even the mere snippets of Planet Earth that I have seen have only made me even more eager to see and experience this glorious planet that we live on. It was thrilling to see featured places we have already experienced -- Machu Picchu, the Galapagos Islands, the Great Wall, Kilimanjaro, lions and leopards on safari, the great cities of Beijing, Tokyo and Shanghai -- and realize how fortunate we have been already. It was even more exciting to see views of the Great Pyramids, Mt. Everest, Ayres Rock, the Sydney Opera House, Ankgor Wat, Emperor penguins in Antarctica, the Grand Canyon... I could go on.

The world is waiting.

If anyone's curious, take a look: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EuODA7jxvok

Also, if anyone already owns the Planet Earth DVDs and wants to lend them to me... you know how to find me!

My Momma Always Said...

That whole thing about how if you can't say anything nice then don't say anything at all -- for a while I haven't had anything really nice to say about anything anywhere at any time, ever -- so I haven't. Of course, I realize that I am not by nature what anyone would describe as "nice", but whatever. I had nothing good to say.

But now... life is good. Sanity has prevailed, and everything that is good in the world has been restored.

For example:

1. Sun is shining, skies are clearing, flowers are blooming.
2. I made the best Asian coleslaw-and-chicken salad ever tonight.
3. I'm knitting a pair of completely adorable thrummed (not a typo, it says thrummed, though they are also thumbed) mittens -- ON THE ROUND. People, do you know what this means? I'm knitting on the ROUND. And THRUMMING.
4. My sister bought me the most comfortable lounging pants in the world, and now it's finally warm enough for me to wear them.
5. New shoes.
6. New jeans.
7. New tops.
8. New dress. Uh... yeah. I could go on and on.
9. My family rules. I love you all!
10. My husband. My husband, my husband, my husband.

Now that I will theoretically have lots to talk about, I will be updating you on my meanderings more regularly. Lucky you!

One Two Three... Four Five Six... Seven Eight Nine...

There are as many pimples on my face as there are spots at the damn Ladybug Picnic.

If I was going to be stuck with the skin of a sixteen year old, you'd think I could at least have her boobs too. Grrr.

Cart Stalking

Do you ever check out what other people have in their grocery carts while waiting in line at the cash? I'm astonished at what people buy sometimes -- why is that man buying eight boxes of Bran Buds, for example? I also wonder if people do the same to me, and it makes me super-self-conscious on the days I'm buying for a party (I SWEAR!) and makes me want to justify the chips, the dip, the sugar, the pop. Worst was being in the store with my friend (I SWEAR! Not me!) as she bought tampons, laxatives, condoms, and yeast infection treatment all at once. I don't know how she could have topped herself.

Yesterday I watched as a woman purchased a massive 10kg bag of MAXX kitty litter and a bean burrito. She also had wanted to buy an apple, but didn't have enough cash, so she put the apple back. My question is, how does a huge bag of kitty litter veto an apple? Why not just buy a smaller bag of litter? Is it a kitty litter emergency?

Val's Virtuous Veggie Challenge

For a few months now, I've made it a point to try a new vegetable every time I go to the grocery store (so, about once a week. Okay, exactly once a week, on Thursdays, right after spinning and boot camp are done at 9:00... what can I say? I'm a creature of habit.)

Most recently I've tried the following:

Napa cabbage (meh, but I probably didn't cook it properly)
Kohlrabi (meh)
Pattypan squash (not exactly new, but reintroduced after a long hiatus, and yum!)
Collard greens (yum, but they don't count as a vegetable if they're cooked in BACON FAT)
Chinese yard-long beans (also not new, but I've never cooked them myself -- and yum)
Rapini (yuck the first time, yum the second)
Fava beans (yum!)
Fennel (yum!)
Leeks (yum, after a lifetime of loathing)

I like almost all other vegetables with the exception of the poor eggplant, which makes my tongue itch. I adore brussels sprouts.

Last week there was a challenge on another website I visit (and shall remain anonymous, because I'm about to mock them) where members were asked to try a new vegetable that week. I was shocked by the results.

One member tried asparagus, which she had had before, but only in butter and garlic, and this time she had it with balsamic vinegar. She thought it was okay and might try it again.

Another member had broccoli, but this time she added it to her pasta, and normally she just makes it on the side. She really really liked this.

Oh, and a third member had sweet potatoes for the first time and counted that as her new vegetable.

There are actually people in this world who do not eat vegetables as a staple part of their daily diet. There are people who count iceberg lettuce on a hamburger as a veggie serving. Some people never eat anything that once had roots, grew in soil, gathered sunlight and nourishment from the earth, photosynthesized, grew seeds, grew leaves, or was harvested, unless it comes in the form of a loaf of white bread or a potato chip.

The Canada Food Guide recommends five to ten servings of fruit and vegetables per day. One serving is half a cup of fresh, frozen, or canned vegetable or a medium piece of fruit. Even a half of a cup of juice counts as a serving. How can so many people fall so desperately short of these guidelines when it's so easy and tasty to meet them?

I wonder what delights await me in the produce aisle this week! I challenge everyone to do the same: try something new, keep an open mind, and let me know how it went!

Hey Momma

This weekend I trundled down to Woodstock, ON for an early celebration of my mom's birthday (a lady never reveals her true age, you know!) This was a particularly joyous occasion for us, because she's been on vacation and we haven't seen her for six long weeks while she sunned herself, relaxed, and enjoyed the company of her family.

So, happy birthday, Momma, we love you so much!




Christine and I are big dorks:






So is Jake.

Everybody's Favourite Game Show

Every few weeks a relative stranger will say to me: "Where are you from?" I know what he or she's asking, but I play stupid. "What do you mean?" "I mean, what's your ethnic background?"

Here we go. Sigh. Tonight's version was, "You're either Japanese or Korean, right?"

Nope!

"So what are you, then?"

I bristle at that phrase. So what are you, then? Animal? Vegetable? Tuberous root? Why is it okay to interrogate me about my ethnic origins? And why do people even care about that?

Anyway, because I have what my friend Colleen calls, "brought-upsies", I will answer politely and say that I am mostly of Chinese descent, which brings on a flurry of more questions: Really? You don't look it. Chinese and what? Where did you get the freckles from? Do you speak it? Why not? Were you born here? Will you walk on my back? Do you play the piano or the violin?

Back to the original point -- why is it okay to ask me what I am because I look a certain way? I certainly wouldn't think to ask it of anyone.

No brought-upsies from those types, clearly.

As an aside, you would not believe the amount of snow that has fallen in the past ten hours or so. It's up to my knees, people.

The Coldest Capital

This weekend we went to Ottawa to see my wonderful sister Christine and her wonderful husband Jake. A good time was had by all as we ate, worked out, ate, went shopping at the Byward Market, ate, played Nintendo, ate, and went skating on the Rideau Canal. Did I mention that while at the Market we bought chocolates and other miscellaneous treats? Did I mention that we ate the following: crepes, raclette, lemon meringue pie, sausages, home-made char-siu pork tenderloin, baklava, lemon scones, chocolate, Cheerios, fruit, yogurt, broccoli, rice, and dried mango?

Is anybody else hungry?

Thanks for the eats, sis -- it wouldn't be a weekend with family without indigestion.

A special mention also goes out to Kit Kat, who takes the prize as the world's largest pizza cat.

My Three Bestest Friends

Yes, Christine's head is partially cut off. That's right, I'm not looking the right way. Yes, Karen is wearing velveteen reindeer antlers. I know, Judy's perfect.

To my sisters: What would I do without you? Please, let's always be our wacky, crazy, hilarious selves. XOXO

Guess What I Just Did!

I got booted! At camp!

Actually, I just went to my regular boot camp class and sweated my way through a series of aerobics ("Grapevine left!"), weight training, step class ("Vee step right! Ham-curl three! Vee step left! Jack it up!"), abs, and jumping around in general for approximately sixty minutes. The point of all this is to make onself look like a complete ass for an hour and hopefully make oneself hot in doing so.

Of course, the instructor is an incredibly chiseled and attractive young girl with arms reminiscent of Madonna and true Buns of Steel (but, I note with bitchy delight, a touch of cellulite on her shapely thighs.)

And of course, she does not do boot camp to make herself look that way. She is basically a career athlete who teaches classes, does some personal training on the side, and oh yeah, competes in triathlons, marathons, and Ironman races regularly. The way she looks is secondary to what she accomplishes, and that's the way it should be.

I, on the other hand, spend three hours a week spinning, one in boot camp, one in martial arts, one weight training, and another two to four hours weekly on a variation of the human hamster wheel so that I can look like I compete in triathlons, marathons, and Ironman races.

Hm.

Meanwhile, if anybody's interested in truly blitzing himself or herself in the name of fitness, check out: www.crossfit.com and be truly blown away.

All the Colours of the Rainbow

Today was quite a chaotic day at work! In ten minutes, four different codes were called over the hospital loudspeakers:

Code Green Horizontal (evacuation of the floor)

Code Brown (chemical spill)

Code Red (Fire)

Code Pink (infant or child cardiac arrest)

The first three Codes were related, obviously. Elevators and stairwells were closed off, people were prevented from entering the hospital, and the fire station was called.

The ruckus lasted most of the afternoon. We had no idea what was happening, except that we were told to keep working "as usual" unless instructed otherwise.

Contrary to popular belief, I had nothing to do with this one. Hah.

Heaving Bosoms and all That

I went clothes shopping today, whee! One of the big attractions was the recently-opened Abercrombie and Fitch store at the Eaton Centre, so I headed over there knowing full well that I am way too old to wear that stuff.

Imagine my surprise when I was greeted by an absolutely gorgeous, muscled, sinewy young man clad in nothing except a pair of extremely low-rise jeans. He was standing under a spotlight, for god's sake! I blushed, giggled, and ran through the store JUST IN CASE there was something age-appropriate for me -- but all that was to be found were denim short-short-shorter-than-short-shorts, so I left. I didn't mean to look again, but Mr. Naked Torso was clearly enjoying the attention and specifically said good-bye to me (I don't know, maybe I reminded him of his mother?), so I looked. Then I looked again.

Then I found a reason to walk by the store two more times.

I am somewhat disturbed and/or amused at this whole situation. A&F is notorious for pushing the limits of appropriateness in their clothing ads and catalogues. First of all, the clothing is clearly targeted to a very young crowd -- perhaps too young for all of this blatant sexuality. This man was very, very blatant in his sexuality. This greeter, though somewhat different than the ones at Wal-Mart, was present to entice people into the store, and he was also very young -- no more than 22, I'm guessing. The saleskids (and believe me, they were kids) were also provocatively dressed. The girls wore mini-minis, and the boys had their shirts unbuttoned to their navels. It makes me wonder, do they dress like this of their own accord, or is the "dress code" dictated by management?

It was also amusing that the object of desire in this case was a fine young male specimen. There was not a scantily-clad female greeter anywhere to be seen. I wonder if this was deliberate. We're allowed to ogle the young men, but I'm willing to bet my new boots a nearly-adolescent female greeter would have sparked outcry.

I think I need a reason to go back to the mall...

You know you need the weekend when...

You try to use your Visa card to get into the subway station instead of your MetroPass.

Three times.

Have a great weekend, everybody!

I'm such a gentleman.

Last week as we got up from our lunch table I noticed another building worker leaning back in his chair, ogling my coworker's denim-clad ass with a look in his eyes that said that he was filing that particular image in his brain for future use. I snapped. "What are you looking at?" I asked indignantly. "Nothing! I was looking at you..." he dwindled. I'd caught him and called him out! Props for Val! I felt great. I'd saved the day and my friend's dignity from the probing eyes of a local Neanderthal.

Today he came up to our door and spoke to my coworker. "Please pass on this message," he said stiffly. "Tell certain people that they should find out what they're talking about before they speak. My wife was at that table with me. I was not looking at anything I should not have been looking at. I had to go home to my wife and deal with her. Tell people they should think before speaking."

I felt bad for about 2 seconds.

However, a few facts came to mind.

1. He was leaning back in his chair with his arm flung over the back, a wolfish leer on his lips, eyes pointedly focused below the level of our belts.

2. I did not say, "Stop looking at my friend's ass, you lech!", though I wanted to.

3. If his wife wanted to take from my comment that he was looking somewhere he wasn't, well, that's not really my problem.

Plus, he was totally looking. There's nothing wrong with looking, but the drooling kind of ticked me off. And now I have to deal with this guy on occasion -- I can't wait! I guess this is yet another one of those opportunities where my mouth speaks before the brain filter kicks in.