Santa Booby

Ah, the holiday season. We've nary finished with Hallowe'en and already the stores are decked out for Christmas. With such a rush to get to market, Christmas is now competing for shelf space with ghosts & goblins and this year's favourite monster costumes. But whatever, recession be damned consumerism is still alive and well, and as far as I can tell, living on PEI.

So back to Christmas. This year our family has decided to cut back on all the Christmas chaos by reducing the amount of presents we give and receive. We've decided the adults get to pull one name from a hat and that's the one person (besides the kids & spouse) that we'll buy for. Given the distance between us, this not only makes good economical sense, but logistically it works really well too because there's nothing worse than spending $120 to mail a $60 gift. You know what I mean? So, this week my niece put our assorted names into a hat and did a virtual draw and now the real work begins; which is figuring out what to get my lucky recipient!

Now, I've been making up Christmas lists for years - all the better to ensure I don't get a stocking full of coal, but mostly to ensure that hopefully, if people are careful readers I won't get duplicates of anything AND I'll be guaranteed to get at least one or two things that I'd really like to receive. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck people...I like to make giving me a present easy on the people doing the buying.

When I was 13 my Christmas list looked something like this: new figure skates, a polaroid camera, some books and even materials to make a craft or two. But the really big item on my Christmas list that year was a chest. Not a wooden chest. Not a jewelry chest. Not even a hope chest. Nope. The chest I was looking for would sit about 6 inches below my collar and 6 inches above my navel. That's right, I asked Santa Claus for some boobs.

It's true!

I come from a long line of let's just say, less then endowed women. I thought if there was a Santa Claus and if I asked really nice, I'd be gifted with something other than the 30AA training bra I had been sporting for a couple of years.

Well, let's just say Christmas 1975 was a bit of a disappointment. Oh, I got my shiny new, white figure skates and while I didn't get the polaroid camera, I got lots of other things I wanted. It was a white Christmas and everything was just perfect. Except. Well except for one thing. It was the year that it was confirmed for real. There was no such thing as the Man with the Jingle, 'cause, that's right - I woke up Christmas morning completely boobless...just like I was on Christmas Eve.

I would remain boobless until my mid-twenties.

But, better late then never, suddenly, long about the age of 25 or 26, I started to get some shape north of my navel and south of my neck. No padded bra for me anymore...suddenly, I had a rack! This is the part where we're not going to focus on the fact that along with my ample bosom, I also gained a significant real estate on my ass, but whatever, boobs are boobs and I don't care how you go about getting them. I had them, and I planned on keeping them.

So, stay with me here people, I will eventually get to the point.

About 9 weeks ago I embarked on a serious quest called No Crap for Kim - The Redux, Return of the Apocalypse or better known as "I really mean it this time I have to lose some freaking weight!" Campaign. Nine weeks ago I was 15 lbs heavier than I am today. Nine weeks ago I was several inches bigger than I am today. Nine weeks ago I still had a rack. Today? Not so much.

Aside from working out 6 days a week and measuring & counting everything I put in my mouth, the rest of the plan is to weigh-in once a week and then once a month I take my measurements. I took mine today and while I am ecstatic at the pounds and inches I've lost, I am less then happy about where I'm losing them. I've lost a total of 7 inches from various points around my body. THREE of those inches I've lost from my boobs.

The lesson here? Now we know that aside from there not being a Santa Claus? We also know that Mother Nature is also a total bitch!

Bud the Spud from the Bright Red Mud

It's potato season here on the sandbar! Yukon golds, bakers, russets, white and plain old "table" potatoes are being harvested from Tignish to Souris which means we've been on the lookout for the farmer that works the field behind us because, this year, instead of a field of rag weed, they planted potatoes.

We watched and we waited. And we waited and watched. It poured rain almost every day for three weeks which put a bit of a damper on the whole pull potatoes out of the field thing. I guess it's hard to move those big machines on a field of mud.

But this week it finally happened. I came home from the gym Saturday morning to the sight of a harvester, a big potato truck and what looks like an earth-mover roaming about our back field. Potatoes being root vegetables grow underground, so first they have to dig up the top of the plants. Despite standing at the window and watching for what seemed like hours, I still couldn't figure out how the potatoes got from the ground through the harvester and into the truck because at no point did the truck ever approach the harvester. And yet, when it finished up yesterday, there was a big truck full of spuds pulling out of the field. So, beats me.

The crew worked two whole days and long into the night on Saturday. It reminded me of the Carol Ship Parade at Christmas in Vancouver, this ginormous machines, lit up and beeping their way around the pitch-black field, pulling potatoes. If only we had music to accompany them, it might have looked like a ballet of sorts.

One of the weirdest things in this whole harvesting of potatoes though? The weirdest thing was the sight of seagulls and shore birds that were dogging the harvester like they do deep-sea fishing boats at sea. With every yard the harvester moved, the birds swooped and soared, landing on the freshly dug field, foraging for food. I don't know about you, but it kinda makes sense to me that a seagull would tail a deep-sea fishing boat hoping to catch some bait or even a fish...but to tail a potato harvester? Really? Is there not enough fish in the sea for you? Is the sea too far away? I mean, we can see it from the front porch, why can't you birds? Why scavenge in a newly harvested potato field?

I don't know. But in an effort to keep our grocery bill in line, I'm going to take a bag and make like a seagull and go forage a few potatoes my own self!

Quintessentially Canadian

It really doesn't get much more Canadian than this. Trying to compete with our neighbours to the south and all those "reality" competitions, this Fall the CBC embarked on their first foray into the "reality" realm. Their entry?

The Battle of the Blades!

The concept is brilliant and really, just couldn't be more Canadian unless you included an igloo building competition followed by a dog-sled race.

When I was growing up you really only had two choices of recreation in the winter - if you were a girl you took figure skating lessons and if you were a boy, well - you played hockey. So how smart was it for the CBC to capitalize on two of Canada's most time-honoured sports by combining both in one competition?

Every Sunday night, live from Maple Leaf Gardens, the CBC has paired former NHL hockey players with some of our country's most award-winning figure skaters for a skating competition. They've taken big lumbering hockey jocks out of their pads and onto their picks to glide around the ice to music of Barry Manilow and Frank Sinatra trying desperately to keep their rhythm without dropping their partner.

Buzz and I are glued to the show every Sunday night at 8pm. We love it. Watching Ty Domi shake his groove thing or Ron Duguay shake his coiffure out of his eyes while he lifts Canadian sweetheart Barbara Underhill over his head is something to be seen. With guest judges Don Cherry and Lanny MacDonald, and host Kurt Browning they've secured a cross section of Canadian sports hall of fame, not to mention an Olympian or two.

I think there's probably only 3 or 4 weeks left and my money is on Stephan Richer and Marie-France Dubrueil, but I have a sneaky suspicion that our most recent Olympian Jamie Sale and her partner Craig Simpson will win the popular vote.

If you're not watching tune in tonight at 8:00pm for the results show. You'll get a brief snapshot of last night's performances before finding out who's eliminated. I promise you - if you have an ounce of Canadian pride, you'll love this show!

Just Shove(l) It

It's supposed to snow today in the Maritimes. Yes. It's only Oct. 21st and we can expect our first "significant" snowfall. Oh joy.

A couple of weeks ago while listening to the island's evening news broadcast the weatherman, "Boomer" Gallant (that's his real name folks), informed us that there's an old island saying that goes something like this: "Rain in the Fall means no Winter at all."

It's been pouring for weeks here and I'm guessing old Boomer's got it wrong if we're expecting snow in October and thus an early start to winter.

Time to dust off the shovel.

Redemption

Just because I haven't been writing as often as I usually do doesn't mean I'm lost for something to say. Oh, ye of little faith - you should know me better than that!

So here's a little update:

The Great Turkey Disaster of 2009

If you missed the original story you can read about it here. It was less a disaster and more like a massacre. Seriously. Upon further research and reflection we discovered what we had done wrong. No, it wasn't too much salt. In fact, we had every single ingredient for the brine correct. Well, except for one. The recipe called for a cup of brown sugar and my husband being my husband, and that is a man who worships all things savory but not sweet, insisted we not include the brown sugar because hey! HEY! He didn't want a sweet bird! So, okay, we left out the brown sugar. Guess what adding brown sugar does to a brine? That's right people, it helps to balance out the salt. Ahem. So yes, the great turkey disaster was our own damn fault. Oops.

To rub salt into the wound (ahem), last night Buzz informed me that although he likes the occasional drumstick, really? Really, he prefers the things you can make from the leftover turkey than the actual turkey dinner itself. People, we've had turkey every Thanksgiving and Christmas since I've known the man and I'm only learning this little tidbit now? Now?

At the end of the day, that salty bastard of a turkey did redeem itself...in a big pot of turkey barley soup and last night in a decadent but not fattening turkey pot pie. I followed the WeightWatchers recipe to the "t" but omitted any reference to salt and guess what? It was delicious. And by using no-fat condensed milk, it was thick and creamy and rich, but NOT fattening. Oh the joy!

I Said Doctor....

Remember last week when I was lamenting here about the health care system here on the sandbar and how it's been two years of living without a family doctor? Remember saying how frustrated I was? And the lengths I'm going to in order to secure medical treatment for my long-suffering, but quintessentially male husband who, when I try to get to see a doctor I think it would be easier to get healthcare reform through the US Senate then to get my man on an examination table? Well, guess what? Soon, his ass will be draped in a tiny white gown sitting on a cold slab of paper because ladies and gentlemen, this weekend I received a letter in the mail from the department of health informing me that our file has been sent to Dr. Jamal who will gladly see us for an interview for family doctor. That's right folks, my plea to "Janice" seemed to have worked. Or maybe it was because "Janice" was so mortified at "Claire's" initial response to me that she felt the only way to rectify the situation was to assign us to a doctor, but I DON'T CARE because WE WILL SOON HAVE A DOCTOR!

I don't really know how else to end this other than to say...it's about damn time some things started turning around on this island. Hopefully this is just the first step. The next step would be for me to have a full-time job. Would I be tempting Fait too much by asking for one more favour? Just one!

Doctor Doctor Give me the News!

I finally reached it. The end of my rope. For over 8 months I've been walking around with a hitch in my get-along - a pain deep in the nether regions of my Soaz, that because no pain ever wants to hurt alone, ignited an ache deep in my Iliotibial Band that runs the length of my left thigh. Add to that a healthy dose of searing pain in my lower back, upper butt region and you've got an ache that can only be quenched with a cocktail of Extra Strength Tylenol, an anti-inflammatory med and an almost daily round of stretches that, while offering temporary relief, never really seem to fix what's ailing me. Ouch-ee-wa-wa is all I can say.

I finally reached my tipping point on Tuesday after a weekend of sucking back over the counter pain meds like they were Hallowe'en candy. It was time. I figured I should see someone about it.

Of course since we live on a sandbar in the middle of the Northumberland Strait we don't actually have a family doctor. So, rather than sit in the walk-in clinic for 3 or 4 hours before seeing a doc in a box, I decided to call a chiropractor. There was no science in how I chose my chiropractor. There are only 4 to choose from on the whole island. So I picked the guy closest to both school and the gym and rang him up. He was able to fit me in the next day. Imagine that.

So, I went to visit this guy who, after a thorough review of all things achey, diagnosed me with all sorts of things that would be easily taken care of with some stretching, a few adjustments, getting hooked up to some electrodes for a few shots of electricity to the affected area and, best of all the "thumper" a bit of a vibrator on steroids that pounds your affected areas into submission. As in most things it has to get worse before it gets better and so when I left his office yesterday I felt battered and bruised and thought if this was "better" it couldn't get much "worse".

But here's the thing. While I was laying on the table with the Chiropractor draped across me, adjusting my less than cooperative spine, we were having a lovely conversation about the state of healthcare on this island and the fact that I do not have a family doctor. He was appalled when he heard that we've been on the waiting list for two years and still no doctor. Being a helpful kind of guy he offered up a suggestion for getting one. He told me to do what he did when he came back to PEI. He called the department of health every week for almost 3 months until he became such a nuisance they gave him a doctor.

I thought to myself "I can do that. I can be a pain in someone's ass." And so motivated by his story I went straight home and hauled out the phone book.

After a brief wait on hold, where you don't actually know if you're on hold because there's no music or message, I was connected with Claire. Claire sounded like a pleasant enough lady when she introduced herself. In turn, I introduced myself by saying I was inquiring about my status on the wait list as I've not heard anything since enrolling two years ago. Her reply: "You're probably exactly where you were when you signed up."

Are you kidding me?

Two years of going to the walk in clinic and seeing a different doctor every time. Two years of putting off going to the doctor because I didn't have half a day to sit in an office waiting room in the hopes of being seen before they close for the day. Two years of Buzz hobbling around on one leg because his arthritis and bursitis in the other one was so bad he could barely stand on it, yet, when he'd go to the walk-in clinic he'd barely be prescribed an anti-inflammatory before being pushed back out the door. Two years of wondering what my hormone levels are, because without a family doctor here one cannot have blood work done. Two years of listening to Buzz's snoring get so bad that I think he's choking in his sleep, but yet, cannot do anything about it because in order to see a sleep specialist one has to be referred by a family doctor. Two years of wondering if that spot that showed up on Buzz's forehead last spring is something to worry about.

Two years. And this was the answer I got?

Those of you that know me well can only imagine my response. Oh I was calm. I was cool. I was very clear with Claire that her answer was in no way appropriate and that I wanted to speak with her supervisor.

After a bumbled apology of "I don't mean to be flip" Claire connected me with her supervisor who, upon hearing the story uttered a more acceptable apology on behalf of her subordinate and then offered me a suggestion. She suggested that I reapply for my status on the wait list. "What will that do?" I asked. "Oh, depending on what the issue is, they may elevate your case and assign you a doctor right away."

So while I waited for Janice to pick up the line I was scrambling to think of an illness that was severe enough to get us the attention of a family doctor, but not catastrophic enough that we should have sought treatment at the emergency room, in the absence of a family physician. This is the part of the story where I introduce Buzz's career-altering leg injury. The kind that has been treated to no avail at the walk-in clinic. The kind that might just cost him his job if he's not given proper, effective treatment.

It's not a total lie. He is suffering. He has been in severe pain every day for the last six months. One leg is larger than the other because it's constantly swollen. So, no, it won't cost him his job, but I'm here to tell you if we can't get the basic care of a family doctor here soon, it will impact our desire to stay here on the sandbar.

So. Now I sit and wait. I sit and wonder. Was my story good enough? I won't know unless I hear from a doctor's office. That's how it works. Janice would plead my case to her manager. The manager would decide if it was worthy of being assigned a doctor. If it is, they won't call me back to let me know. They'll send our file to a doctor's office and the doctor's office will contact us when they can see us. That's how it works here.

I hope my argument was successful. If it wasn't I'm calling back next week. And next week my issue will be something like I'm showing the signs of diabetes. Or perhaps Buzz will develop another rare but chronic disease. Whatever the case, I will become such a large pain in someone's ass they'll need a team of chiropractors to fix what ails them.

Breaking with Tradition

I've never really been much of a traditionalist. I mean, when all my friends were going off to post-secondary school I went to work. And as often as I was a bridesmaid in my 20s and 30s I waited until I was almost through my 40s before I took my own long walk down the aisle. If there was a hard way or easy way to do something, 9 times out of 10 I chose the hard way. It's just the way I'm wired.

So this time of year, when everyone's traditionally busy gathering with their families and celebrating all that they're thankful for, I've usually been on an airplane to some far reaching destination in search of a cheap getaway, a couple of thrills and a swim-up bar. Not this year though. This year, Buzz and I decided that although we have no family here on the island, that wouldn't keep us from enjoying a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. You know, turkey, root vegetables, home baked pies. The whole she-bang. Because, you know, if we waited until we had family with us, we'd never do anything here on the sandbar.

So we planned and plotted the whole meal. Buzz's big request was for root vegetables. Smelly, nasty root vegetables. Turnips and parsnips. I happily complied and it wasn't until I was at the Superstore and scouring the vegetable aisle that I realized for the first time that rutabegas and turnips are the same thing. Who knew? Not me, and did I feel stupid when I asked the store's vegetable guy where I could find turnips and he quietly informed me that I was standing right in front of them. That's how often I cook these things. My lesson? A turnip by any other name still stinks when you boil it.

In the grand scheme of things the smelly turnips & parsnips where a highlight of the meal.

Earlier in the week we stumbled across a little TV show called Chef at Home where the host (and local island chef) was lauding the joys of a turkey that was first brined before being roasted. Buzz and I looked at each other and said "Hey! We should do that!" The recipe was simple enough - two pounds of seasalt and about 10 gallons of water with the turkey immersed in the solution for twenty-four hours prior to roasting and you would enjoy a succulent, juicy, flavourful turkey for your Thanksgiving feast.

Ahem.

Before I get to the great turkey massacre of 2009 let me tell you about my potatoes. We don't eat potatoes very often here. We're more like rice or couscous people. But it's a freakin' potato, so what could go wrong you might very well ask? Plenty! Especially if you decide that in order to add a little flavor you combine a few teaspoons of sour cream to the mashed potatoes. And if I had just stopped at mashing I'm sure they would have been perfect. But I didn't stop at the mashing. No. Being a gooor-may, I decided to whip out the immersion blender and proceeded to pulverize the potatoes. And did you know that if you combine a starchy vegetable like a potato, with high-fat sour cream and a 1000-rpm immersion blender you end up with a glob of home-made glue? That's the secret recipe people! I've been cooking for Buzz for over 3 years now...breakfasts, lunches, dinners. He is a charter member of the clean plate club. But not tonight. Tonight, even Buzz couldn't choke down the potato glue on his plate. He decided that if he was going to crap again this week he best not bung his entire system up with potato glue.

Now, a traditional Thanksgiving Dinner must include all the fixings like cranberry sauce and gravy, right? I was going to make a home-made cranberry sauce using a recipe from this same TV chef, but once I realized I could buy a can of the no-name stuff for about a tenth of what it would cost to create my own recipe from scratch, I decided we weren't too good for canned cranberries.

But! We were definitely too good for canned gravy so as the turkey was resting and the turnips were boiling I set about making the gravy. I did it exactly the way I've seen my mom, my friend's moms, my mother-in-law and my aunts do it time and time again. I made a slurry with flour and water from the giblets, combined with the drippings from the turkey pan and began whisking in water from the vegetables. This was when I had my first indication that something might be up with the turkey. When I dipped my spoon into the gravy to taste-test for seasoning I about choked. Up until this point I had not added any seasoning - no salt, no pepper, nothing - just simply giblet water, vegetable water, flour and pan drippings. The cows in our neighbour's field would have loved the gravy - that's how closely it resembled a salt-lick.

"HOLY Shit!" I hollered to Buzz. "If the turkey is a salty as the gravy is, we've got a problem!"

While I continued trying to save the gravy (I threw a piece of potato in to try to absorb some of the salt), Buzz began to dismember the bird. You know those beautiful Butterball TV commercials where the platter of turkey is a golden brown, glistening ball of turkey goodness? Ours - not so much. I followed the cooking instructions of 12 minutes per pound (so for an 11-pound bird I roasted it for 2.5 hours) but this time, this time? Instead of smooth slices of moist turkey meat ours came off in something I will generously call bite-sized chunks.

It seemed the Brining had not only added "flavour" it also robbed our bird of any hope of moisture and juiciness it might have otherwise had if I had simply rubbed it's little body with salt & pepper and shoved an onion up its wazzoo and stuck it in the oven. No, people, our turkey dinner featured a dry, haggard old salty bastard of a bird that I'm hoping will redeem itself when I put it in soup tomorrow.

But I'm not done...oh no! Just like those Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock our traditional Thanksgiving dinner also featured corn. Okay, so ours was frozen corn, but still corn none-the-less. And you know what? That's right! I wrecked the corn too! I put it the microwave not only too long, but without enough water. So you know what I ended up with? Damn near popcorn is what I ended up with.

If there is one thing I could say was a huge success it would have to be the apple gallette I made with apples we picked today at a nearby orchard. Think of it, folks. At one o'clock today those apples were all still on trees and by seven o'clock tonight they were in a tart that was so damn good, I should have just had that for our traditional Thanksgiving dinner.

You know, I take great pride in being a good cook. Friday night I made an outstanding pork tenderloin with a mushroom risotto recipe I made up on the spot. It was delicious. I made chili con carne for dinner yesterday that included smokey chipotle peppers and three kinds of beans and was so flavourful I thought I could open my own cantina here on the island. Let's don't even talk about my interpretation on oven fried chicken.

But, ask me to create a traditional meal that cooks on this island have been making since time immemorial and I can't even get the potatoes right. I've already advised Buzz that if we're home for Christmas he's in charge of dinner, because this traditional stuff? It's not my thing.