Roast Beast

It's said that every child born into this world is gifted by another world with three blessings or talents. But when I was born, while three wee fairies appeared, only two gave me christening presents.

The first fairy waved her wand and said, "She'll be pretty enough but not too pretty so she'll never suffer the envy of others."

The second fairy waved her wand and said, "She'll be smart enough but not too smart so she'll never curse the world with another invention like gunpowder or the nuclear bomb."

The third fairy sneezed, "Ker-chooo! Bless me," she said, by way of excusing her hay fevered self then added, "And bless her too but I don't think she'll be needing any help from me. Have you seen that family of hers? Why that's a thousand blessings right there and I dare say she'll be spoiled already." So, instead of waving her wand she merely tucked it behind her ear so she could blow her nose on a lilac petal.

And of course the sniffling fairy was quite right and very wise and, even if she had been about to bestow me with my very own kingdom, it could never have meant as much to me as my family. 

I am endlessly amazed at, among other things, my family's generosity, love, ingenuity, good humour and good graces even in the face of one of my outlandish schemes. So, when I proposed a pig roast to fete a visit from my American cousins and their Brazilian friends and my own farewell/birthday, it was not a surprise, though it was a relief, when Uncle A polished, painted and donated his spit, and Uncle D donated a week of his life to building a cover for it in case of rain, and Leona offered their farm and dishes and a million other details to the cause.

There were a lot of moments of doubt-like when the affair blossomed to double the guests long after I'd already ordered the pig, then again when, upon seeing the wee tininess of the piglet, I realized with certainty there would not be enough meat and yet again when my roiling stomach convinced me the pungent briny marinade I'd concocted would ruin the meat before it ever made it onto the spit- but my family was there at each turn, reassuring me everything would be just fine and roasting up "plan b" chickens, just in case.

There were other moments where I felt like a serial killer, driving around with a carcass in my trunk, talk of clean rubber gloves and fluid catching tarps, not to mention suturing the skin - so humanesque it was easy to see why pigs are used in med schools- after stuffing it. "Quit thinking about it," Uncle D demanded at one point, but really, once the thought strikes you, it's nearly impossible to shake.

Then too, as a vegetarian recently converted back to a carnivorous diet I had much explaining to do regarding my decision to roast a beast, which I won't essay today except to say I don't eat pork on a regular basis but in this situation there was tribe and ritual to consider, a belief in roles and purpose for all living creatures fulfill and our own place in the these cycles.

In the end there was laughter and love, new friendships made, however brief, and more than enough pork for everyone. And there was that moment when, coming out of the main house I stood on the back deck looking out towards the torch lit summer kitchen where everyone had taken shelter from an evening storm round the wood stove. The laughter and chatter rising from it was so great it drowned out the thunder and, as lightning lit the charcoal sky beyond the meadow I thought, There, in the midst of this puddling mess and mud, is my family sharing food and wine, stories and jokes and, because of them, I am the most fortunate soul on earth.

Plautdietsch Word of the Day: Gummshoo = galoshes (or rubber boots)

;)

Dear Chef,

You know I adore you. You know I love and relate to your ad hoc cooking philosophy, the way you teach how to cook not necessarily what to cook and, mostly, and your spice pantry. But today, when you alluded to the reasons chickens no longer require marinade for tenderness with nothing more than a wink and a smile and a "Let's just say today's chickens aren't the same as grandma's chickens" well, let's just say I lost a little respect for you -wink smile.

I don't think the fact that chickens no longer have room to move and are, in fact, engineered to not be able to move, is anything to wink and smile about. I think glossing over issues like this is irresponsible. I appreciate that you only get a half hour which is certainly and absolutely not enough time to provide in depth analysis of our current food crisis but surely if your goal is to educate viewers about food you do everyone a great injustice by refusing to address it all.

I know you're not averse to editorializing about food choices. I've seen you advise against high fructose corn syrup, sweetened juices and unhealthy frying practices. You promote fresh, whole ingredients. So why would you not advocate for free range organic chickens? More likely to be ethically raised, nutritionally and ecologically superior free range chickens are just like grandma's chickens were and, while they may be more expensive, do offer an opportunity to exercise our right to nutritionally sound food.

The word idiot comes to us from the ancient Greeks who used it to describe a private person who refused to do his duty and take part in political life. Obviously, Michael, we no longer live in a democracy like the Greeks. Democracy has shifted to a corporatocracy and our political arena is not parliament but the marketplace. The most effective political action and protest we can exercise occurs not at city hall but the shopping mall and, while every product is opportunity to assert our political and social ethos, the most important and, I would argue, efficient place to vote is in the produce aisles. After all, most of us eat three or four times a day, even the most dedicated activists can't say they attend that many protests a day.

But, every time one of your viewers opts for buying a chicken who had room to walk, nest and live with dignity in a natural environment instead of a creature tortured in a factory barn that's exactly what what they're doing. Protesting. And it is an option, and you had that option but you chose not only not to exercise it but not to acknowledge it. And that leaves all of us, including your progeny, one step closer to eating frankenfood. Do you have a recipe for that?

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a pig roast to plan. Let's just say, you don't want to get me started. ;)

Regards,
Me

P.S. Pizza soup? Best. Idea. Ever.

No Rednecks

I spent the weekend covered in paint while my mother played with power tools. My father even stopped by to fix the plumbing and swing a hammer for a few hours but we're still not quite done.

Today however it was back to what passes for civilization.

Within hours I find myself stuck in traffic wondering how I am supposed to feel compassion for the fellow ogling me from the next vehicle. He has made a point of flaunting his ignorance by paying to have "No Fat chicks; they'll scrape the paint on the my truck" and "No granny panties" stenciled onto his truck; as though proud of proving Darwin's theory of evolution wrong. To quell the hate, I tell myself he has borrowed the truck from his brother. This is the closest I can come to compassion-not hating, not punching him in the face.


Later I see an infant t-shirt with the slogan: Boobie Addict. Still later I see a bag of organic cheezies. Seriously? I loathe this culture.

How do I get back here:

Islands in a Scream

I went scouting for a good swimming spot today. It’s going to require crossing a most fickle and tempestuous part of the lake but, after only an hour, I found the perfect spot.  It’s a tiny island with an easy access landing spot and rocks like perfectly contoured armchairs in the sun. There are two of these rocks but that’s not what reminded me of you. What reminded me of you were the otter droppings.

We fought about the canoe rental. We fought about the tent (“Fine,” you yelled, “bring the tent but I’m not sleeping in it!”) We fought about the food and, by the time we left the city, it was dark. We fought about that too, as we drove through the night. In the morning we woke up in the van, made up for all of yesterday’s fighting, then began packing in the gear to the lake.

Nightlife

Tired today. Was up most of the night dealing with faulty plumbing, flooding and bats. Am hoping I didn’t wake the campers across the road with my unbridled spewing of profanities. Am also hoping no one saw me dashing about outside in my underwear.

Update: Apparently the bat was actually a bird sized insect and I killed it when I swatted it away. That’s me; killing bird sized creatures in one desperate flail.

When Beavers Go Bad

I have always thought it silly to be afraid of sharks. The odds of a shark attack are something like .000006% if you like to play in the surf or absolutely none if you stay on dry land. It’s a waste of energy to worry about sharks.

 Beavers, on the other hand, are terrifying. People make fun of Canada for having the beaver as it’s national animal but, if you’re not at least a little afraid of an amphibious rodent with engineering skills, you deserve to be enslaved by beaver overlords. Laugh all you like but unless they’ve forgotten (and I doubt they have, what do you think they do for entertainment in those lodges if not tell stories) that little episode in history when we were turning them into hats, it’s not going to be pretty.

I paddled out to the creek this evening and sat by the dam listening to the nature chorus when I saw a beaver disappear underwater. I hauled out my camera and waited. And waited. And waited. I did a little cloud fishing the fruits of which I will post next week when I have a faster, more reliable connection.

I waited some more, then a little bit more but nothing more notable happened so I started to head back. I was about to round the final bend back onto the lake when a canon shot rang through the marsh. A hundred pound beaver issuing a warning with a slap of his tail. All hail the first of our beaver overlords.

Five  minutes later, with my heart still racing from my narrow escape I was back on the lake proper when a beaver cut me off. Literally. Swam right in front of my kayak. I barely stopped in time to keep from hitting him. He did not flinch. He did not waiver. He did not disappear to swim under water. He was unabashed and quite casual. Nerves. Of. Steel.

 I, meanwhile, did the thing where I snapped a dozen pictures in the wrong mode so I have no proof of this encounter, but  take heed people. They’re getting bold.  It’s only a matter of time before they start urbanizing; felling traffic lights, hydro lines and telephone poles. Let this serve as my equivalent tail slapping canon shot warning to all of humanity. They’re coming. And Jaws is going to seem like a birthday party ...

Zen and the Art of Roofing

“Imagine,”  he says, “you’re a raindrop.”

This is the essence of shingling. Imagine you are water wanting to get inside the invitingly warm, dry dwelling. Now, you are the inhabitant ; prevent the raindrop from getting inside. Here is the hammer. Here are the nails. Here are the burning hot asphalt shingles. Here too,  are the neighbourhood men unwilling to watch your mother and you on the roof unsupervised.

“You needn’t feel obligated,” you say, secretly wishing he might climb off the roof with his helpful hints and helpfulness. Why is help so hard? You so contrary? So difficult?

“I don’t,” he says, picking up a hammer, “but I know your mother will bake me a pie.”

So together you measure and hammer and debate which pie might be your mother’s  blue ribbon specialty. He orders a rhubarb and strawberry (smart man, it’s in season) and with each row completed, you’re more grateful he stayed.

When another neighbour offers to help he says , “Nah, we’re doing fine.”

“Oh sure,” you tease, “ You just don’t want to share your pie.”

So  the second neighbour climbs the ladder and now there are four; the three of you hammering, measuring, being a raindrop- while your mother cuts the ends- until, just before the sky turn a violent purple and threatens a storm, you are done.

But the neighbours are not. After dinner yet another neighbour stops by with his toddling son shyly proffering a bottle of homemade wine for the hardworking women and still later there are free drinks in the coffee shop.

Today you learned to shingle a roof.
Today you learned you are a raindrop.