East Meets West

When the mood to cook strikes me, especially these days when it’s less often, I try as much as possible to take advantage. Like today – we were having friends for dinner and an hour before I was expecting anyone to arrive, I ushered Taylor and Clara (and Terry, who arrived back late this afternoon) out the door with instructions to go to the park.

Basking in the peace and quiet of the house, the cool spring air coming in through the patio doors, the sun on the counter tops, I cooked. There’s something about creating something from scratch, especially these days, that’s so satisfying. The fresh ingredients, the sharpness of the knives and the cutting boards beneath them as I chop, the sizzle of spices in hot oil.

I’ve been obsessed with a layered dip I love to make and that was first on my list.

Mine isn’t exactly like the one pictured above (from top to bottom I do cilantro, shredded cheese, salsa, guacamole and a cream cheese/sour cream combo) but it’s as good as that one looks.

Dave, who was coming tonight, was bringing chicken tikka, spicy hot and already seasoned from the Indian place he buys it. It only requires 5 or 10 minutes on a hot grill and it’s done.

I woke from napping with Clara thinking about the tikka and suddenly craved cucumber. With red onion. And a vinaigrette. A quick google search produced this:

Peeled cucumber, red onion, cilantro. Dressing made from ginger, rice vinegar, sugar, fish sauce and red chili. The whole thing tossed with sesame seeds. It paired perfectly with the tikka.

The chicken was going to be too hot for Clara so I also made a chick pea curry – the coconut milk keeps it mild and slightly sweet while ginger, onion and just a bit of jalapeño gives it a subtle flavor. Normally when I make this dish I’m also making my own chicken tikka from scratch and as a veg dish, the chick peas are upstaged. Not the case tonight, I gave them my full attention and it showed.

Fluffy basmati rice and I was done, dinner was served.

And because I took my time, cooked with care and precision and with (yes) love, it was the meal I’d expected. Indian with a slight Thai twist. East meets west. The unexpected Mexican fiesta (in a bowl). Simple but not.

Sick Days

I knew something was up a week ago Friday, when I woke up, got ready for spinning, and 15 minutes before I was supposed to walk out the door, I picked up a wash cloth and started washing dishes. In an angry rage that lasted all day.

On Saturday, I woke to my mother-effin-period and partly sobbed in relief, because I had an explanation for my day-long rage the day before that was not, simply, me losing my mind as I had seriously considered.

On Sunday, I woke to a sore throat and terrible cold and a morning spent arguing/bickering/discussing that left me drained and in tears and Clara hugging me and patting me on the back and saying, “There, there.”

(For the record, it’s not your job to comfort me, sweetest girl).

(There’s more to all this, an emotional climax that’s been building in the past few weeks and has derailed me in so many ways, I’ll post more later).

The day before, I’d taken Clara to the Apple Factory:

And I had intuitively picked up some breaded chicken cutlets from the butcher counter, so that I could make this:

My go-too meal when I’m short on time or feel like crap. It’s as easy as quickly frying the chicken in a bit of oil, covering the entire thing with pasta sauce and cheese and baking for half an hour. Served alongside whole wheat spaghetti and it’s chicken parm. Done and done.

On Monday, I still felt like crap. We hung out on the couch, and I alternated between dozing and knitting while Clara watched the Backyardigans. She didn’t seem to mind:

On Tuesday, it was more of the same except I treated Clara to a snazzy fun lunch, inspired, of course, by Pinterest:

I did some more knitting on what slowly is going to be a quilt for Clara:

On Wednesday, we napped in the basement. It’s insane how dark I can get it down there with a couple of strategically placed blankets over the one troublesome window.

On Thursday, I was well enough to get to yoga, with a little help from the Get Better Fairy:

On Friday, I dragged my ass to spinning and was glad I did, because new bikes!

I spent part of the day on the phone with my pharmacy and doctors office because as much as I prefer to not be putting a bunch of hormones into my body (remember we eat organic meat as much as possible) I can’t handle being mother-effing crazy for a couple of days every month, not to mention doubled over in pain, so it’s (unfortunately) time to go back on the (effing) pill.

On Saturday, I drove the couple hundred kilometers or so with Cathy (and Clara, who LOST HER MIND when we arrived) to pick up the poodle that she was adopting from a labradoodle/goldenoodle breeder. Within 5 minutes I had an assortment of noodles and poodles curled in my lap but none were as beautiful or as charming as the delightful Charlie, who we brought home with us for the night, much to Clara’s delight:

(I’m suffering from insane puppy envy).

Late Saturday night, just before i crawled into bed, Clara woke up puking and proceeded to cover the entire house in her steaming, rancid puke and Taylor and I alternated staying up with her as she puked from just before midnight till 7 the next morning.

(Dealing with your own puke is nowhere near as disgusting as dealing with someone else’s. I love you sweet pea, but I don’t care for cleaning up your puke. Not at all.)

She napped (and puked a bit more) throughout the day:

We tried to not feel too sorry for ourselves:

I derailed and sunk a bit further into my self-pity-party and defrosted and ate leftover birthday cake that’s been in the freezer since September. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t overly tasty then, and certainly not today, and yet? Didn’t stop me. Gross.

By late afternoon, Clara was feeling better and i convinced her to play blocks with me while we waited for Taylor to come home with dinner after being out all day.

We built this:

Which she promptly tried to destroy with a giant yellow smiley face ball:

And that photo? That photo pretty much sums up my week.

My Soul is Singing

This is the farmhouse.

If all goes as planned (and fingers crossed it does) I’ll be renting this 6 bedroom farmhouse near Lunenburg and off Mahone Bay with my sisters, brother and mother when I’m in Halifax this summer. 6 bedrooms, sleeps 10. Just enough space for family and the friends my sister is bringing from England.

It reminds me of my grandmother’s house in Newfoundland and far surpasses my hopes for a beach cottage somewhere.

Across the meadow, in front of the farmhouse, there’s a beach.

I’m not sure if THIS is the beach in front of the house or if it’s the beach that’s a 5 minute stroll from the house. Either way.

There’s muskoka chairs, for watching the sunrise, the sunset, or the stars. Hopefully all three.

There’s kayaking and bikes and a row boat for fishing. A fire pit. Deers and pheasants and (I’ve heard) llamas that are tame and run free. I’ve also heard the owners welcome their guests with homemade bread.

Eco-tourism at its best, the retreat has a Audubon Green Leaf™ Eco-Rating of four out of five leaves. Solar panels. Well water. Bedding dried on clotheslines, smelling of the sea air.

My senses are tingling in anticipation, my heart is full, my soul is singing. A place for my family to be together, the east coast with my favorite girl.

From their website:

“Twenty-seven acres of green meadows and forest capture the peace of unspoiled nature. The property, located near Mahone Bay, slopes gently down to 1400 feet of private waterfrontage. The smooth sea breeze may inspire you to test the new kite with your children on the grassy headland stretching out into the bay. At the tip of this headland you will find the boathouse and the wharf. This is the perfect place for a sunbath after a refreshing swim in the glittering water. Look out on the ocean and imagine nothing but waves across to France. For later in the day, you will find plenty of firewood for a campfire on the shore.”

My soul is singing.

Compromise

I’ve never gone on a beach vacation where the daily to-do list consists of laying on the beach, drinking beer and margaritas, napping and doing the occasional physical activity like swimming, snorkeling or kayaking.

The closest we’ve come is a disastrous trip to Acapulco almost a decade ago or one of two cruises that included minimal time on the beach either due to weather or time constraints. The cruises were substantially better than Acalpulco which was dirty and noisy and dismal food-wise. On our first cruise, we did a day excursion where I got to swim with sharks. And on our second cruise, we had an afternoon in Cozumel where we had an incredible lunch then snorkeled off the beach while just a little bit drunk. And, of course, there was the overnight trip to Key West a couple of years ago which included spending a day on the water and using the boat as our base, we snorkeled and kayaked.

Hours of perfection, of bliss near blue blue waters but never long enough. Never the lazy week of doing nothing, where all you really need to pack is a swimsuit, a couple of sundresses for dinner, some flip flops and a Kindle and iPod.

I’ve campaigned for trips like this but my constant travel companion has always resisted. Not one for spending hours doing nothing, or for eating resort food, I fear our awful trip to Acapulco has ruined him forever. I’m going to go by myself, I always vow, but I haven’t yet, because it doesn’t seem fair. Not that I won’t someday, because it’s going to happen – with or without him.

Even our couple of trips to Florida, so inexpensive when you factor in the free accommodations, free use of a vehicle, air fare paid for airmiles and cheap golf and cheap booze, have fallen short. The pool’s a 5 minute walk away, the beach a 10 minute drive, and there’s groceries to be bought, meals to be prepared, dishes to wash.

We discussed a tropical destination for our holiday this year, and looked specifically at St. Lucia. His same concerns still exist though and my concerns are a result of his – because I don’t want to spend my week on a beach worried that he’s not having a good time.

So we’ve compromised. A road trip to Halifax in the summer where Taylor will stay a few days then fly home and I’ll drive back with Clara a couple of weeks later, giving me a chance to spend time with family and get in some beach time (especially if we rent a cottage) and hopefully a visit to Mersey River. A lazy drive back with my favorite girl, stopping to see family along the way.

And then, for a destination get-away, a trip for just Taylor and I – we’re off to (wait for it) Vegas again, this time (like many times before) for our anniversary. Predictable in that we always go to Vegas (like many anniversaries before) and yet, it remains a fair compromise. I lay by the pool or shop at Ross Dress for Less, Taylor plays poker or hangs out with me and in the evenings, there’s exquisite meals at exquisite restaurants and cocktails at our favorite cocktail bar (Vespar) at our favorite new hotel to hang out at (The Cosmopolitan).

And using our airmiles and MGM players card, our desire (need) to do an inexpensive trip is achieved when we managed to book a newly renovated room at the MGM for $49 a night. It’s not the West Wing, which I love, but it’s new and it’s renovated and it looks like this:

And it’s $49 a night.

Twist my arm.

It’s a compromise, but a compromise that’s fair and I’m comfortable with and can actually be excited about. Because it’s Vegas. It’s the MGM pool. Vespar bar for thoughtfully mixed cocktails, L’Atelier for those miniature truffle hamburgers and the greatest fries in the world. The Patisserie at Bellagio for crepes and coffee, Lotus of Siam for what’s considered to be best Thai food in North America.

And Ross Dress for Less. How could I forget the two stories of crazy good deals on brand names (it’s like Winners but Ross is on crack and needs to sell the goods for cheap to buy some more).

I’ll get my beach holiday some day, and when I do, it’ll be worth the wait. But for now? Vegas in just over a month from now, and Halifax in the summer? I’m good with that. So good with that.

How Do Parents Do This?

We have a fenced in backyard and last summer, I remember commenting to people that it wouldn’t be long before Clara would be coming and going through the sliding back doors while I did whatever needed doing in the house.

That time has come, brought on prematurely by the unseasonably warm weather and it’s unsettling for me to be at the stove, making dinner, and to hear the door behind me slide open. And in she walks, my daughter, to find a teddy bear or a doll to join her on her adventure, or to show me a new rock she found. Today, dressed in her plaid shorts and t-shirt, she added a knit hat, her sunglasses and a pair of bright pink slippers and off she went. Slide went the door. It was a humid day, and the evening called for thunder showers that had passed so I thought nothing of it at first when Clara came to the door, a funny expression on her face and said, “BRRRrrRrr! Cold!”

“It’s not cold,” I told her, because it was anything but, and walked over to the door regardless because she was rubbing her arms, still looking quizzical, still saying, “BrrrRrrr!”

It had started to shower again, a light, almost summer like rain (in March). A new experience for her, to be out in the rain, willingly (we’ve been caught in enough of it unwillingly).

I brought her inside, hugged her, rubbed her dry. It’s been a busy week for her, of learning new things and making new friends. At Costco, she looked at the man seated at the table next to us, noticed his hot dog and exclaimed, “Hot dog party!” Because each and every hot dog is cause for a celebration, a hot dog party.

Costco also has dog houses. Hidden off in the corner, where nobody ventures except us, walking the perimeter of the store to avoid the crowds.

She’s obsessed with wanting to drive the car, and stands at the drivers door, waiting (and posing) as if she seriously thinks I’m just going to hand her the keys and let her take it for a spin.

This is her now, at two. I can’t imagine her at sixteen, with a driver’s permit in hand, and yet, when I look at these photos, it’s not so hard.

(And ignore our ghetto walkway, the garden was torn up and plans to redo the walkway put on hold last summer when redoing my bathroom took precedence when I left the province).

At the park, just yesterday, she began, out of the blue, to climb this:

And climb it she can, unassisted, but knowing very well that she’s only allowed when I’m standing behind her, my arms encircling her just in case she falls (call it helicopter parenting if you must, she’s two. When she gets to the last rung, and it’s a bit of a stretch to step onto the platform leading to the slide she throws herself across the expanse of air where she lands, and using her hands in the holes on the platform floor she pulls herself the rest of the way.

Each and every time, I have a minuscule heart attack but I don’t show it, I don’t want her to be afraid of anything, not if I can help it.

And then, tonight, as I was putting her to bed, she announced her need to use the “potty”, and, not one to discourage her from using the toilet, off we went to the bathroom where I sat patiently with her until I could no more. “I’ll be in your room,” I told her. “Let me know when you’re done.” I was half-joking, she hasn’t really used it yet but then, a few minutes later she called to say she was done and I checked (just in case) and oh dear god, she had, both things, and I became one of those parents that get excited by their kid’s use of the potty.

In one week, I’ve caught sight of the many, many ways she’s growing up and tonight especially, while watching a tv show dealing with death and dying and how short life is, I thought about Clara and how fast everything is happening, so much of it passing us by.

I wished, in those few moments of timely awareness, that we could be like this forever. Her, tiny and perfect and innocent and unharmed and me, young enough and healthy enough to keep up with her and so fiercely protective and able to keep her safe. And I asked myself, how do parents do this? How go they let go, give them the freedom to grow and become their own, make mistakes and inevitably get hurt?

My heart hurts, thinking about it. It hurts.

The Maturity of A Sixteen Year-Old

We joined our friends on St. Patrick’s for a fish and chips fondue and Bailey’s Irish ice cream that my girlfriend made from scratch. Despite the green eyeshadow, I was decidedly un-Irish with my Strongbow preference throughout the evening while everyone else drank beer like Guinness and Kilkenny.

I kept laughing spontaneously however, as the night progressed, and each time I was asked what I was laughing about I refused to answer until the last time I was asked and I began to laugh even harder as I tried to describe this:

I’d seen this photos days earlier and every time I thought of it (often at random and inappropriate times), I laughed. Because it’s funny. And my hysterical description did not do the photo justice and once I’d composed myself (with much difficulty) I began to try and figure out where I’d seen the photo. And could not recollect.

“How do you even Google that?” I questioned, terrified by what a search might potentially bring up.

Within minutes, Tay had found the photo, fearless is he in his online search of running shorts and guys jutting from them.

Sometimes (but not often), I have the maturity of a 16 year-old. This was one of those times.

Because Skinny Girls Can Be Mean

On Pinterest earlier this evening, I saw this:

The person pinning it said in their caption something about the say no to being a zero campaign and suggested that women should forget the scale and focus instead on healthy nutrition and trust the body to take care if itself.

And a responding comment? “Jealous fat girls.”

Is it at all possible that there are women and girls out there that don’t want to be skinny because ummm, guess what? There’s an awful lot of skinny girls out there that are mean, in an ugly way. And their meanness makes them ugly. Regardless of how small a size they are.

The pin is trying to raise awareness for a media campaign that UK model Katie Green launched in 2009 to “to put a stop to the fashion industry using size zero models or models with an unhealthy BMI (under 18.5) on the catwalk, in major advertising campaigns and in fashion in general. Having been told to lose weight myself, I feel that I have a duty to fight for the curvier woman. Fashion designers and clothing brands target young impressionable teenage girls and make them feel uncomfortable about their weight and this can often lead to eating disorders.”

At 5’10″, Katie Green weighs 165lbs (according to Wikipedia) and wears a size 12. She’s considered, by the fashion world, to be a plus size model, because she wears bigger than a size ten. According to some of the mean skinny girls out there, we should consider her to be fat.

I advocated on here early in the year about my concern about bigger girls being accepting of themselves regardless of their size and arguing that they were healthy. In light of the mean skinny girls out there, I’m starting to gain a new perspective and understanding a bit better the defense mechanisms being built by bigger women against society and the constant ramming down of the throats to be even less than a size ten, to be a zero. To be nothing, to basically non-exist because what is zero after all?

I found this a few weeks ago (also on Pinterest) and it’s suddenly changed how I see things:

This is the first time I’ve seen suggested weights for specific heights to have a 30+lb variance. That say, yes, it’s ok (and healthy) to be on the lighter end of the scale but guess what? It’s also ok (and healthy) to be on the heavier side of the scale.

And yes, I get it that there’s going to be people that look at that chart and will still think it’s ridiculous and unreasonable and bull shit. But I’m not talking about what’s sexy or desirable or beautiful, because trust me, there are women out there that fall outside these ranges that literally ooze sex appeal and I’m in serious awe, mostly because I know just how hard (and rare) that kind of self-confidence is to have.

I’m (still) talking about what’s healthy and what’s perceived to be healthy and I, personally, am grateful to have a set of numbers that seem realistic.

I’m not going to lie either. Since seeing this chart, I’ve been feeling better about myself and that silly and rather irrelevant number on the scale and I’m sure I have that luxury because I’m falling into the healthy range regardless of whatever height I choose to be on whatever day (depending, of course, on what pair of Fluevogs I’m wearing and the inches they give me).

I think people should be happy, simple as that. Happiness is more important than being skinny (and there are a lot of miserable skinny people who I want to tell to eat a goddamn cupcake and loosen up) and life is too short to not be happy. But I also think the healthier a person is, the easier it is for them to be happier. I know a few women who have made the decision in the past few weeks to eat better and do more physically and I applaud their efforts so vigorously and yet, a lot of my vigor is on the inside because I want them to know I accept them no matter what, regardless of size. And that’s true.

A friend recently reminded me of the JK Rowling quote in which she says, “Is ‘fat’ really the worst thing a human being can be? Is ‘fat’ worse than ‘vindictive’, ‘jealous’, ‘shallow’, ‘vain’, ‘boring’ or ‘cruel’? Not to me.”

There’s really so much truth to that. If given a choice, I’d rather be ‘fat’ and kind, then skinny and mean. I’d rather my friends be ‘fat’ and kind, then skinny and mean. Same goes for my daughter, my sisters, anyone I love.

In the interest of full disclosure and to prove I’m not ashamed, I’m 5’8 and 165lbs, and depending on the brand, I’m a size 12. I don’t need to be at the lower end of the healthy weight range, I don’t want to be 130-135lbs. I wouldn’t be happy at that weight because I’d be hungry. A lot. And I’m guessing it’d make me mean. So no thanks. I’m a plus size girl and I’m healthy. I see myself at the gym and know what I’m capable of so I know this to be true.

I don’t want to be a size zero. I happily say no to say zero and think others should do the same. It’s better to be something than nothing.

It’s better to be kind than mean.

Interesting reading:

Katie Green Official.com

Women getting real about weight. (Take the time to look at the photos of different women, who are different weights and heights).