Off the Cliff

2013 was generally better than 2012 which was infinitely better than 2011 which was arguably better than 2010. 2013 still wasn't outstandingly good in any way. Have probably reached the age when 'outstandingly good' doesn't happen much anymore- bar unlikely strokes of luck like winning the lottery- and one must be grateful for 'not outstandingly bad'. Spent it reading: must be happy that I *can* still read.

Buddhism however seems to have started to stick, in patches: am a lot less irritable than for most of my life and am learning to deal better with the nipping dog of anxiety. Would still love to be a dynamic effective vibrant person who gets what they want through sheer blind charm, but that's even less likely than winning a million dollars.
( It's still Wednesday )

I'm not a fan of the strollers they make for little babies. They're basically frames for holding hard-edged baby car seats: they're heavy and unwieldy and I can't believe they're at all comfortable. In my day we had old-fashioned baby carriages that let infants lie on their backs on a comfy mattress, swathed in blankets, looking up at the parental unit and/or the sky, as the case may be, while the carriage rolled smoothly on its way.

I've always wanted an adult version of a baby carriage: something that lets you be both in bed and outside and moving at the same time. Bath chairs are no longer in existence, so it's not going to happen. The closest I get to it is when I wrap up in neck warmers and scarves and such and go out to face the bitter wind, and can pretend I'm still in bed under the blankets.

incandescens has made me a scarf in lavender purple shades that is *exactly* like being wrapped up in a blanket. It's soft and warm; it keeps the chill off but I can breathe through it, even double layered; it's beautiful and I love it. I've been wearing it all day-- inside the house, you understand-- just for the cozy comfort.

Thank you, incandescens!

1. Slippers found in dark corner of living room behind the bicycle. No, I don't know how either.

2. Sidewalk is clear right to the corner. The remaining block to the bus stop is slightly impeded by a large tree branch, but hey-- twigs give traction.

3. Unfortunate Canada Post employee, sent out to deliver parcels on a Sunday, in the ice, uphill both ways, nonetheless delivers my quilt from incandescens. And it is, as always, far more gorgeous than the pictures can show. I gloat over my two gemlike downstairs quilts.

4. Except that I'm upstairs for the evening because ow, shovelling ice all the way to the corner... Ativan and beanbags are us.

First the mittens, then the hat, now the crocheted slippers. In the house, because trust me I didn't go outside after 5 pm except to throw some salt on the walkway when the rain got shiny. A vague memory of taking them off and thinking Possibly not the best place for them... Indeed. Not in the study or kitchen or side bedroom or front bedroom or living room or dining room. Which leaves the bathroom (no), the basement (hardly) and the mudroom (hardly again.) Must have kicked them under some furniture, I suppose.

Mindfulness is a full-time job but I know of no other fuzz-buster.

It occurred to me to wonder how epsom salts work. I googled and at once came across a Canadian page telling me they don't and can't. Like acupuncture, you know? Like acupuncture, best damn placebo I know of, because a saltless bath doesn't make me unhurt the same way.

Virtue is its own reward dep't: it snows every night, half an inch, an inch, enough to get trodden into ice. So every day I go out with the trusty ice chopper and scrape away the new accumulate from my block. Was doing it yesterday before work when a voice calls me from the porch of whatever house I was in front of. Is Mama Paisani next door, with a bottle of Valpolicella wine for me (bought, a rarity in this neighbourhood.) Ah, pseudo-boeuf bourguignon, here I come.
( Read more... )

Peter O'Toole is gone. Though (cough cough) he lasted many more years than I'd have given him back in the late 70s.

Otherwise spent a healthy four hours shovelling snow here and there. One 'there' was my local coffee shop whose shovel had mysteriously disappeared from out front. In thanks got a free unhealthy ham and cheese crepe. Virtue pays, occasionally.

Also made those sweated leeks the guy was talking about. Butter, a little oil, cover with parchment paper, very low heat. For several hours, actually-- forget that 40 minutes unless you want to strangle on a piece. (Leeks are the devil unless chopped fine, I conclude.) Turns them very sweet indeed; add fingerling potatoes, grate Swiss cheese on top, food of the gods. Alas that leeks are so surprisingly expensive: $2 for three, that melt into nothing at all when cooked.

Oh, yes, this. Thank you very much for saying what I've only vaguely felt. Especially after that 'Susan becomes an American and has a fulfilled life battling social injustice, which she couldn't have done in Narnia or England neener neener neener' story that was going around FB, and seriously cheesed me off.

Otherwise, read Geisha, a Life until 2 am and then prudently unplugged my phone. Thus I didn't get the dolorous phone call until 10, five minutes after I got up, and missed the 8 am one. Still had to cancel an acupuncture appointment for 90 minutes of work, which barely covers the cancellation penalty. Could have had a further three hours in the afternoon, but was feeling scratchy and shifted it about so I only had to do another 90 minutes and got to bicycle home in semi-light. Did however go out to Starbucks on my break, in Birkenstocks (-16C windchill) and rejoiced in the ease of walking. Bicycles and Birks will end Saturday with the return of snow. Can't complain: it's still not 2007.

I have finished The Difference Engine and must echo Kara's reaction of 'Errr- what?' Maybe if I knew more of the period and its figures I might be blown away, or just amused, by the alt.hist aspect; but as a narrative with a plot, it was a tad lacking.

However, this morning I discovered missing mitten under the front porch table. No idea how it came to be there, but now I have a pair and my hands are toasty warm again.

Otherwise I ache severely from walking everywhere in boots and (possibly) *not* working eight consecutive hours a day in Babies (bodies are weird that way.) So shall have epsom bath and curl up with a good book and sleep in tomorrow (ha ha) which I didn't get to do Monday or Tuesday.

1) Wotta week. Four early mornings and a coupla 8-6 or 9-6 days. But! Yesterday I took the babies for a stroller walk! And am *not* in agony, or even pain, today!! First time in a good three years for that. Let us hear it for acupuncture, chiropracty, and very focussed mindfulness, because pushing heavy loads (sorry, Ms. Canoe, but you *weigh*) requires keeping shoulders down and back straight and never unthinkingly over-doing it.

2) My Canada ID card ('We promote diversity! We even have ID for those strange people who don't drive!') arrived this week. Now must be mindful to always set a little smile on my lips. Forgot at the bureau and the resulting photo... looks like certain corpses I have seen.
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Ah well, posted 29 days out of November's 30. Not perfect but respectable; especially in view of LJ's tendency to give error messages ('the connection has been reset') whenever one tries to access LJ.

To mention, I also made that leek carbonara recipe I posted a while back. Organic leeks to be on the safe side, but a disappointment. For sure they need to be blanched more than 30 seconds or else sliced much finer than my knives can manage, because leeks are hard to chew and will choke you given half the chance. Being six inches long counts as half a chance in the leek mind. Pancetta is much saltier and crispy than bacon, but also a pain to slice. And the sauce doesn't stick as it does to real pasta. So not likely to repeat.
( Cut for November stats )

Missed yesterday's entry on account of drunken stupor. Slept twelve hours after same, which gives me hope that I may be unwell, and not merely so unacclimatized to wine that half a litre sends me to sleep for twelve hours.

Walking home two nights ago, mused that the grey damp mild night was so very much like London or Tokyo's version of December. Sighed a bit for the sweet long ago of the late 90s, when end of November generally saw me in grey mild Tokyo, taking exams and buying manga in quantities that then required me to get another suitcase to hold them. Then sighed a bit more for the sweet not so long ago where November saw me in New York, visiting paleaswater and, um, buying manga in quantities that then required me to get another suitcase to hold them. Manga- how last decade.

In an obvious attempt to end this soggy nostalgia, TPTB arranged for today's 'snow flurries' to be periodic white-outs and the mild temps to become record-breaking lows. Am in boots, can no longer bicycle (slick invisible skin of ice on roads and sidewalks), took an hour to get to my aunt's, who is 12 minutes away by bike; and as an extra chiz curses, unaccountably lost my subway token to come back by and had to buy seven from the machine instead, it being too cold, windy, and slippery to walk the long three blocks to the manned subway entrance.

I shall undoubtedly be using them in the days to come. But still.

In the Eat More Veg It's Cold dep't, I made this recipe for sesame beets today. Of course, putting toasted sesame seeds on anything makes it delicious. Unless the seeds are rancid, which they so often are. But I bought mine from the Korean super at the bottom of the street, guaranteed fresh, and have forcibly put the rest of the dish away because my system won't take eating half a dozen beets at a sitting. (I baked, not boiled, the beets, which added two hours to the prep time, but I wasn't going anywhere today...)

...on account of it was a drizzly grey mid-teens outside and the rotted Santa Claus parade had taken over the neighbourhood. I did wander down to look before it started because the bands line up on Christie St and practise while they wait. (Nice, once the silver flutes stopped playing The Twelve Days of Christmas.) Yes, the thing is tacky and commercial, but the kids like it. The rotted part comes anywhere north of the parade, with slavering drivers trying to get in to park (impossible after 8 am) or out to go home (impossible until 3 because the streets are unmoving: too narrow with traffic calmers to let cars pass each other even ordinarily, let alone when both sides are clogged with illegally parked vehicles.) And of course being Torontonians they lean on their horns, as if that will make gridlock vanish, and the actual residents of this area hem-hem long to heave a brick at them damned furrners.
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That all with one consent praise new-born gauds.

(That's the bit from Ulysses' speech no one bothers to quote.)

That article on why Japanese webpages look the way they do had the techogeeky sneer 'they're so behind the times they still use XP!' Mh yeah. So do I. When I got this computer almost five years ago Vista had just come out. No one in their right mind used Vista. When Windows 7 came to correct the situation, my XP still functioned just fine. Why would I replace it? especially for a new-fangled 'let's change stuff that works just because we can!' system. I know where the start button is; I know what it does; why hide it and expect me to figure out again how everything works?

And of course no one in their right mind would buy Windows 8 for a desktop.

But Windows will stop supporting XP next year. I suppose there are things I could do to maintain the security on this thing. But I'm not letting it go, because I'm damned sure the version of Word I prefer (2000, I believe) will not run on anything later than XP. And no, I can't use Open Office: it mucks up Word 2000's spacing something awful.

So I suppose I'll have to buy a Win7 system for internet browsing, which is already becoming bumpy. (Then again, that might be my outdated Firefox.) But still, I resent it very much. Build it once and build it right, Mr Gates, she says bitterly.

It would have been nice to have had three days of well-paid full-time work, but I know what my body does when presented with that scenario. So I gave away four hours of my shift today, and it made no difference. This morning left knee decided to do its Gloria Gaynor 'I'm gonna crumble, I'm gonna give out and die!' routine, as it did in August and for exactly the same reasons. And as I did in August, I shall see the acupuncturist about it day after tomorrow, and maybe once again it will clear up in a few days.

Is a nuisance still. Also percocet does nothing but make me sleepy.

(Using my carpet of gold icon while there still is a carpet of gold out there. Most leaves fell in yesterday's high winds following night before's frost.)

This year was notable for the abundance of fruit from any fruit-bearing tree in the neighbourhood, starting with my unfortunate bumper crop of cherries. Also the lateness, which is true of the vegetables as well, when they bothered to grow at all. My dilatory zucchini were still growing new uhh 'swollen ovaries' at Hallowe'en (did you know courgette is actually a fruit? Me neither.) The tomato plants in their front yard boxes four doors down seemed to *start* bearing in September, and for weeks I watched the many heavy green tomatoes that never ripened. The crab apple round the corner has bright red globes still hanging from its still green branches. They may still be there at Christmas, quite conveniently.

Today walking along the main drag I saw a pile of small yellowish fruit at the base of one of the doomed trees planted in concrete boxes along the way. (Doomed because it's the main drag and exhaust fumes kill the city trees there on a regular basis.) City trees don't usually run to fruit-- and then I saw it was a gingko.

Now this is amazing, firstly because no one in their right mind would plant a female gingko tree anywhere, and secondly because the dog-shit smell of the fruit (the reason you don't plant female trees) was absent. I wondered if they were edible, so came home and googled. That doesn't inspire me to go back for the fruit. Also this piece of lore: "Only the female trees bear fruit, and they need to be in proximity to a male ginko to make the nuts." I see no other gingkos around, so I fancy all there is there is toxic flesh.

Because otherwise I'm sure the passing Koreans would have grabbed the lot.

It's not just that The Guardian is telling the world about our disgrace of a mayor (did they blow the whistle on the Montreal mayor(s)? They did not); it's not just that they file it under 'humour'; it's that they ran the article last August and are now reminding people about it in case they didn't notice before.

OTOH it's a British newspaper, so plenty of people are weighing in with Boris Johnson remarks. This is cheering. Just ignore the Torontonians slugging it out in the comments, they think they're still at the Star.

I never assigned a foreground colour to my friends list, but LJ seems to have arbitrarily changed it to black in all cases. Have manually coded it to white, user by user; luckily I have few commenting friends.

A few maples started turning red in mid-September. Those maples are still red, and the leaves are still on the trees. Everything else is, at best, a yallery-green, nice enough when the sun shines; or at worst, a green green, and the leaves are still on the trees. I've nothing against a protracted autumn, but experience says the leaves had better fall before the snow does-- well before, so they can be swept up and carted away. The street drain clogs that result from heavy snow trying to melt through an inch or more of compacted leaf matter are not pretty. 'One good rain will bring them down!' people say. (Worked last year.) Had the rain. Didn't work this year. 'One good frost!' Had the frost- oh the poor zucchini leaves, how they wilted- but the leaves are stuck to the trees. Except my cherry, of course, which was bare when the maples started turning red.
( Cut for Wednesday meme )

1. From the FFL, an animated flyover/ flythrough of Elizabethan London. I wish it had been slower so I could see the details.

2. Possibly my evening habit of reading by insufficient light out of one eye, but I didn't notice until yesterday afternoon that A Novel on Yellow Paper is actually printed on yellow paper.

3. Definition of shamanism, out of Kendall though not hers:

William Lebra provides a useful working definition of shamans. Shamans wield recognized supernatural powers for socially approved ends, and have the capacity to enter culturally acknowledged trance states at will.

Shall apply this at need to Kate Griffin, who I think has already taken liberties with it.

4. Illness is kind to the pocketbook so, with money left over this week, I decided to buy some Happy Steer stewing beef (not called that, but the label does eulogize the family farm the meat came from) and try a slow-cook recipe for beef stew out of the Guardian. (Actually a slow-cook gratin, but I'm adding veg to it, so stew/ boeuf bourgignon it is.) Doubtless slow-cook (*and* that bottle of wine they call for) would make even unhappy steer edible, but these days I'm antsy enough about beef to want to be sure my animal had a happy life before going to his useful death.

I used a de-alcoholized wine (was raining y'day and I didn't feel like tramping up or down to the wine store.) It works, but the real thing would have been better. I could have drunk some for the back pains cooking gives me.

S-i-l mentioned the proper/ Julia Child method of cooking mushrooms before adding: very hot frypan, very little oil. End results seems OK. But now I remember why I've never made stew in my life: my mother used to put kidneys in hers. Poking among the veg I kept expecting to encounter that awful offal taste. Luckily it's only a firm mushroom every time.

5. I'm really tempted by that quince recipe in the Guardian article, but quince doesn't grow in NAmerica "due to its susceptibility to fireblight disease caused by the bacterium Erwinia amylovora." Suggestion is that Whole Paycheque may carry them. Hmm....

'Oh sweet it is in youth and May to see the sun arise.' Except this is the tail end of October with daylight saving still hanging in, and Environment Canada tells me the sun won't rise until fifteen minutes before I have to be at work.

So there is (wait for it) a dark side to daylight saving. Evidently I've never been up before 7 at this time of year in all my life.

(Straps on bicycle lights and fares forth into the shadow world.)

Dear feverish person who wants me to work for her: I live a fifteen minute bike ride from work. It's really not necessary to call me at 6:30 for a 9:30 shift. Still, it beats your personal best of 5 am for the same. We learn, little by little.

I can see why London would halt the construction of infinite sub-basements in private houses. The advantage of history and astronomical real estate prices: you can't just knock down four houses to put in a swimming pool and tennis court, and yes, Heather Reisman, I *am* looking at you. Still, I wish the builders of monster houses here would go that route rather than pressing their faux-palladian monstrosities or cubist horrors (thank you, petronia) to the lot line with no grass artful ground cover and no trees.

Mind, half of downtown TO sits on underground creeks, so you dare not even lower the existing basement; OTOH, half of London seems to sit on underground rivers where you'd assume the same to be true.

Autumn really is a lovely time of year. The air smells beautiful; the leaves are yellow in the sun; the days are warm and the nights are cool and one gets as close to perfection as this earth is capable of.
( Cut for Wednesday meme )

There is a visiting petronia in my house, occasionally, when she's not at Ai Weiwei exhibits or mooching about Nuit Blanche (which in Montreal evidently involves stuff besides weird art installations, like yanno *food*.) Alas, I have la malaise, spent the day on the sofa, and didn't feel up even to going out to dinner with her. Which is a waste of a visit from my end, except that it *is* nice to see distant friends even if you can't talk to them much. Also my house is rather cleaner than it normally is.

My quilt arrived from incandescens. It's beautiful; it matches the living room colours to perfection; and I want another one, or possibly two. Buddha was right about possessions engendering desire for more possessions. Yeah, well, Buddha didn't get the deep satisfaction beautiful possessions bring either. Then again, he wouldn't have understood the pleasure of a hand-made quilt 'cause everything was hand-made in his day, or the joy of being wrapped up cozy and warm, because he lived in flipping India.

Should the markets not tank in the wake of the current American situation I umm might consider adding to my collection. Thank you, G!
( Cut for September stats )

I used to furnish my house from yard sales, but that was back in the palmy 80s when people sold good stuff for reasonable prices. Got two handsome sets of Made in Japan crockery that way, plus odd kitchenware and sheepskin rugs and occasionally sheets as well. (That black and white flower patterned set, for instance.) But those days are gone, and the first-hand stuff now is geared to the grey neutrals that Someone has declared to be fashionable, which are not for me. So mostly I get things from the front lawn dollar store aka the gomi-- which is not quite the garbage, or not always.

(I never went gomi-hunting in Tokyo, which is where the term comes from. In the palmy 90s the Japanese would discard your choice of electrical goods, and all the foreigners would happily grab them. Beat paying full price, especially when you couldn't take it home with you. Japan seems to be the only country in the world to run on 100 volts.)
( About this peculiar institution )

Given that I'm working on a cold-- or working on not having a cold, which involves sleep, dope, water, and bowel-tolerance levels of vitamin C-- imagine how happy I was to show up at work and discover three guys away, including the Logistics Baby, and two of the remaining seven acclimatising with their mothers. No need for a fourth body, so the fourth body took herself down Huron for more dumplings and afternoon reading.

(The Logistics Baby is the happy shrieker whose logistics mess up our ratios, since he needs to feed and sleep when he needs to feed and sleep and not a moment later. Otherwise he shrieks unhappily, which actually sounds the same, and sets all the other children off. I love him, but if this were repeated tomorrow, I should not be sorry.)
( About those Lovecraft Holmes stories )