Mork Calling Orson, Come In Orson

I think it happened this week. It must have. I have way too much compelling evidence to suggest that it didn't. Oh, there were no headlines on the front page of the Globe & Mail. CTV Newsnet didn't carry the item either. Nor did CNN. Unless you lived on an island in the Strait, in the heart of the OBB you might have missed it too.

But despite the empirical evidence that is so sorely lacking, I am 99.99% sure it most certainly must have happened.

I am convinced the one whom I adore has had a lobotomy. Or that little green men from Mars have scooped down upon the OBB and taken what was formerly the cerebral matter that occupied the space between my husband's ears. That, or he's concussed from the fall he took last week, I'm not sure which.

It started innocently enough. As is his usual practice he emailed me from the office with a mid-day flash - an update on his day and the state of our financial forecast for the next quarter. He included some thoughts on how he was spending the evening, on the John Deere, trimming up the acreage. Buried deep in his email, somewhere between the state of our finances and the fact that he would be cutting the grass he casually, almost imperceptibly mentioned he'd like me to leave out some sunscreen so he could protect himself while cutting the grass. I fell over from the shock. I gasped so hard I needed to take a few hits on my inhaler to restore normal breathing patterns. When I crawled back up to my chair, I gave my head a shake for it could not be so! My eyes must be deceiving me! He wants me to leave out sunscreen? To protect himself? From like, The Sun? The man to whom I am married? This same man who has never willingly worn sunscreen in his life? You can understand my confusion, I'm sure.

We don't argue much in our house. But when we do, you can count on one thing and that is his patented refusal to use sunscreen is likely at the root of the issue. This man is a sun worshipper. No matter that too many ultra violet rays can give you skin cancer. No matter than he has spent untold hours basking in the sun, here, there, in the tropics, in the mountains, wherever there's a sunbeam, you can find my husband baking. No matter that at the tender age of five years younger than me he's beginning to get all leathery from too much sun. No matter that after every sun-baked afternoon he spends the next day picking flecks of peeling skin from his cheek. No, none of this matters. Not to he who bakes.

So, yes. I was taken aback, just a little.

That same day, the day the aliens invaded and sucked the very brain out of the one whom I adore? The very same day this same person volunteered to actually throw something out. Oh, it might not seem like such a big deal to you, but you try living with a man that attaches sentimental value to every little thing he's ever been given, whether he likes it or not and then packs it away in a box, never to see the light of day again, but yet, never to be thrown away either. The personalized golf balls, personalized with his name on them? Yes, they reside in our basement. He loves them and yet, there it is, he'll never use them. What about that pair of boxer shorts? The ones I lovingly refer to as "Holy Underwear"? I am forbidden from disposing of these in their rightful place. We won't even talk about the 20 boxes of "stuff" that sits in our storage room. Those same boxes that sat in a storage locker in Jasper for two years. The same ones that admittedly sat, unpacked, in boxes in his bachelor pad for five years prior to that. THOSE ONES? I'm not allowed to dispose of those or their contents either.

So, the other night, when he volunteered to actually throw something out of his own accord? Without my asking? Something that could maybe, in say, oh 20 years or so prove to be useful? Something that might save us 99 cents - someday? Throw away? You can understand why I ran for the digital thermometer, because obviously the guy was running a raging, hallucinogenic fever.

Here's the thing though, given that I am the housekeeper in our humble abode and given that I hate anything that resembles clutter (because having to "dust" is a big enough bitch without having to move a bunch of chachkis) and the words pack-rat will never be used to describe me...well, you've got to wonder how we two get along? I do too. I mean, it's not like I don't have some faults (very few) and it's not like I haven't been known to schlep stuff from one home to another, to another (countless photos that have to be archived in an album, but yet I can't find the time to do it...even as an under-employed with way too much time on my hands former professional). It's not like I don't have a pair of underwear or two that haven't seen better days and therefore could and probably should be thrown out. It's just that, really? Really? I hate clutter. So unless the next place we live has equally as much storage space as living space, all I know is, that before we leave this island in the Strait (should we ever be so lucky) and before I enlist the aid of a moving team (should we ever sell this house), there will likely be a showdown in the OBB, for we will not transport useless, dust-collecting, never been used nor will be used junk from these crimson shores. No fucking way. No way. No how.

And, if I have to use our two satellite dishes to guide those brain sucking aliens back to the OBB to help me with this task...well, nothing's too much to ask in the name of purging, now is it?

Diamonds Aren't a Girl's Only Best Friend

Just about a year ago, the only bright, shiny and sparkly thing I was focused on was buying my wedding ring. With a mid-August wedding quickly approaching, the one whom I adore and I trudged to the jewelry store in mid-July to begin the negotiations. It proved to be fairly painless when he who manages money for a living realized the jeweler was having an early summer sale...besides me, he loves nothing more than finding a great deal. I chose a classic, all the better to offset my solitaire engagement ring. Not one for overly flashy jewelry, I chose an eternity band with diamonds spanning the bridge. Timelessly elegant. Elegantly timeless. Classy even. And, for the benefit of the one whom I adore, on sale!

A year later and the shiny thing I'm focused on?

That shiny disc hanging from my cherry tree? An aluminum pie plate. It and many others are hanging there to dissuade the ravens from ravaging my cherries. Now that sounds a bit naughty, doesn't it?? Ahem. When we bought our little piece of paradise in the OBB we were informed that we had several apple trees, a pear tree and one cherry tree. Well, the apple trees were pretty easy to figure out - the grizzled old trees take up much of our side yard and what with the dropping of fruit from July to October, we most certainly knew where they were. Ditto the pear tree. The pear tree actually looks a lot like an apple tree and in fact it sits amidst our apple orchard. But the fruit is most definitely not apple, rather nasty little woody baby pears that never seem to grow bigger than elf-size. Whatever, I like my pears from a can anyway.

Our cherry tree was a tad more elusive. The one whom I adore informed me the other day that we have over 100 trees on our property! I didn't believe him until I counted for myself (under-employed, I like to keep my mind sharp with strategic and mathematical exercises throughout the day) and he's right - a hundred trees! So yeah, finding one cherry tree amongst 100 possible candidates was more difficult than I would have imagined. Especially because being a city gal, I had never seen a cherry tree that was anything but ornamental with champagne pink blossoms that bloomed every spring...helloooo. We definitely did not have one of those on our property.

One day last summer I was in the garden picking the daily harvest of never-ending zucchini when I looked up and what to my wondering eyes did appear? One bright little cherry hanging in the tree by the shed! One. Cherry. Alone. By itself. With no others. I quickly called to the one whom I adore "Hey! I've found our one cherry tree! Here it is. With one cherry on it!" From that day forward it was forever known as our One-Cherry Tree.

That is until this summer when early on we noticed that our One-Cherry Tree had LOTS of cherries on it. We weren't the only ones to discover the bounty of our cherry tree - so had those ravaging ravens. On the advice of my sister-in-law, a farm girl from way back, who suggested stringing a series of bright, shiny aluminum pie plates through the tree to help keep the bird population at bay. It worked and last weekend we were able to harvest a bunch of cherries from our One-Cherry Tree! Voila!

I made a delightful cherry galette with ground toasted almonds to give it a bit of a it's good for me and really it's not crap healthful benefit. It was mighty tasty. I would make it again if we only had more cherries.

The other bright, shiny and sparkly thing I've been focused on lately?

That's right, ladies & gents, it's a bright, shiny and sparkly Kitchenaide.

I have lusted after this machine ever since I first saw the Barefoot Contessa whipping up her blueberry coffeecake muffins in a Kitchenaide in her beautiful home in the Hamptons. I just knew that anyone worth their weight in cookie dough would have a Kitchenaide. I'm not only worth copious amounts of cookie dough, but maybe brownie batter too, and so the longing for this "grown-up, maybe even slightly professional" mixer began.

I longed and I longed. I had hoped that last Christmas Santa would deliver one under my Christmas tree, but alas, Santa was obligated by the price limit imposed on gifts and the oft-stated criteria of "no appliances for gifts" that has so ruled our household since we two first became one...and so... with lips parched by my thirst for a Kitchenaide, I continued to knead bread by hand and whisk by wrist.

You know what they say about good things coming to those who wait? Well, last weekend, I must have waited long enough because the bright, shiny thing for which I longed for, thirsted and lusted after? It went ON SALE. The eagle-eyed financial guy I'm married to found it in the weekly sale fliers. And just because I've been good and patient and had GIVEN UP MY DREAM of ever owning one, he suggested that perhaps now was the time.

It's not a diamond. It most certainly isn't an aluminum pie plate. But it is bright, shiny and very, very sparkly. And it's mine.

(okay, yes, so not my "best" look, but I was just fresh from the shower and ready to christen my Kitchenaide when it occurred to me I should document it in all its bright shiny-ness before I made my first batch of bread - just to ensure I remembered what it looks like with all its sparkleness once it becomes well used)

Gettin' Ready for Spaghetti!

What now looks like this:

...started out looking like this:

So yeah, I guess all that freaking rain has done some good.

This is my spaghetti garden - full of everything you'd need to make the perfect putanesca sauce - lots of different varieties of tomatoes, peppers, celery, carrots and fennel. We even have spaghetti squash in our spaghetti garden!

We're on day three of sunshine and I dare not bring it up for fear of jinxing it and having to endure 30 more days of rain like last month. There's an off chance that summer might just have made the long trek from the tropics to rest on our crimson shores a while. Just in time for us to leave on vacation. The irony does not escape me.

The Fat Bastard & His Chubby Little Sidekick

He's a handsome lad...but he's a Fat Bastard!

I'm not talking about the one whom I adore (but if I don't lay off making butter tart muffins, he might just become a Fat Bastard)!

No, I'm talking about the other one whom I adore, my constant companion for the last 11 years, my own Maui Boy, Snickers Cameron.

Last week we went to the Atlantic Veterinary College for his annual check-up and vaccination update. We LOVE going to the AVC - their level of healthcare for animals is second to none. The AVC is a teaching hospital and as such, you are always surrounded by keen, eager to learn residents and animal lovers. Usually, you are met by two 4th year residents who do a thorough work-up, taking history, doing a preliminary physical exam, discussing any behavioral issues, identifying anything you may have missed but might be worth mentioning to the teaching vet.

This year, though, our annual visit coincided with summer reading week, so there were no 4th year residents on hand. Instead, we spent three hours - yes, three hours, with the senior teaching vet who went over every hair on both dogs heads, not to mention every lump, bump and slightly smelly ooze coming from one little dog's ears.

Three hours!

I do not joke.

Three hours! To have the dogs examined, toe-nails trimmed, and vaccinations administered. I ask you - when was the last time you went to a people doctor and spent three hours one-on-one with the doctor?

For me, the answer is - NEVER! (and I've spent a considerable amount of time in the hospital!)

I am not complaining that it took three hours - indeed, I am overwhelmingly impressed that a doctor of any sort would spend that kind of time with a patient.

You would think that it took three hours because there is something seriously wrong with one or both of them. Nope. They're both healthy as can be. Which given that Snicks has had a leaky ass, thus leaving identifying ass prints wherever he lay for the last month, I thought for sure he had anal cancer. Turns out, he just needed his anal glands expressed. And the Gidge? She's been making herself and everyone else crazy scratching at her right ear for the last month. Turns out the poor thing had an ear infection. Both of them have rotting teeth which need some follow-up surgery, but other than that - we can expect the Snick Dude & the Gidge to hang around for quite some time.

So yes...three hours to learn they're healthy. Three hours to be granted piece of mind that all the things I thought might be, could be, probably were wrong with the dogs are all fine...normal even. That was until the crucial moment when it came time for them to be weighed.

I don't know about you, but the worst part of any doctor's appointment for me is that moment when I'm asked to step on that scale to update my charts. No matter that I hold my breath, or lean this way or that, the damn scale always comes back with a number higher than I think it should be. But, when it was time for the dogs to be weighed I was confident that each would be within a few ounces of where they always are. Gidge, although large for her breed has always hovered around 10 lbs and the Snick Dude, he's been a consistent 51-lbs for over 10 years now.

So imagine my surprise when the vet came back with Snicks weight at 66 lbs! That's a 15-lb jump in one year! Gidget wasn't much better - she jumped 3 lbs in the last 12 months. I'm sorry to say, sad to report, the spreading ass disease I've had for the last 20 years has now gone viral and spread to the dogs.

Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. They are about the laziest animals I know. They spend their days following sunbeams around the house and flopping down for an endless series of naps. In between naps, they snooze. And when they're not napping or snoozing, they're catching some zzzzz's, curled up in a dog bed, of which there are no less than 3 in our 2000 sq ft house. When they're not napping, snoozing or catching zzzz's, they're lounging about, lurking around the dinner table...hoping against hope that a little something-something might magically jump off our plates and come their way. Their routine is only interrupted to go outside to chase a mouse or explore the potato fields out back. Then, in for dinner and more napping, all the better to help with digestion don'tcha know. When they're tired of napping they go upstairs to bed, where after a good 9 or 10 hours of sleep they get up and start it all over again.

I don't know why in the world they've put on weight, do you?

Suicide is Painless

We've been on a suicide watch for the last few days here in the OBB.

Snickers started it all. Every time he'd go out he'd make a bee-line directly to the window well at the back of our house where he'd stand and stare...stare and stand. Occasionally he'd lift his front left paw and cock his head. He'd always have a string of spit hanging down from his lip as he'd sit, ears pricked, head cocked and whining at the window well.

Curious, I finally sauntered over to the window one morning and that's when I discovered we have a little field mouse (or shrew, I'm still not sure) hunkered down at the bottom of the well.

The one whom I adore and I have an unstated deal. I will take care of most things inside the house related to the maintenance, cleaning and cooking while he gets domain over the great outdoors... mowing, shoveling, trimming of hedges, etc.

It hasn't always been this way. We didn't used to have such a 'traditional' marital arrangement...back in our Jasper days it was equal opportunity when it came to keeping of the house and cooking of the meals. Each of us had our areas of expertise and preference and so, with equality for all, we divided the chores.

But here, on the island in the Northumberland Strait, my asthma has risen to a twenty-five year high and as such, I can no longer mow the grass. I used to enjoy riding the John Deere all over our property, over hill and dale, around trees and shrubs. It was a great way to get a tan without actually having to sit out and soak up the rays. But, given that my asthma is exacerbated by mowing of the grass, I have been forbidden to mount the JD. So, by attrition, we slowly migrated into this arrangement whereby I take care of things indoors and he does the manly stuff outside.

Which is why, when I spied the mouse seemingly stranded in our window well, the first thing I did was call the one whom I adore. "Honey, we have a MOUSE! And he's trapped in our window well! He's making Snickers crazy! Can you do something about it?"

Now, the one whom I adore is a busy guy. Not only does he have all this land to maintain, but also? He's the one with the big career down here, so understandably, getting "right on it" might not have been his first priority.

The next day both Snickers and I checked and there it was...our little buddy still at the bottom of the window well. Well. What to do...what to do? I thought he was dead, afterall, he was laying there burrowed into the dirt and not moving, with a fly crawling over his prostate little body.

"HONEY! The mouse is now dead...can you do something about it? I don't want the smell of rotting rodent permeating our windows and stinking up the house!"

This time he got right on it. But instead of disposing of a dead mouse carcass as I thought he would, he came inside with the news that the little guy wasn't dead at all - he was alive and well, albeit stuck at the bottom of the window well, and so the solution? The solution was to give the little mouse a hand up as it were. The one whom I adore took a wooden plank and constructed a mouse pedestrian walk-way so he could scale the heights of the metal well and escape. There was no food down there in the well, so if it was going to have any hope at survival, he'd take some mighty mouse initiative and climb the path to freedom.

You've heard of the road less traveled? It's a plank in our basement window well. That mouse ignored freedom's path. Instead, he just burrowed in deeper to the other side of the window well. You know the old saying "you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink"? It also holds true for field mice.

It was still alive yesterday morning, but surely to God with all the rain, he was cold and hungry... but probably not thirsty.

Now, I'm all for saving animals and such, but if a mouse sets up shop in my window well, whether by accident or by design, I'm not about to feed the little booger, because remember last January? Yeah, some cousins and maybe an uncle or two of this mouse had set up shop in our kitchen. So, yeah, not going to help the little varmint, not me.

Last night Snicks and I did our usual check of the window well. Buddy was still there. So was his walk-way. Untouched.

I picked up the plank that was his road to freedom and gave him a tentative little poke. I did the same thing the day before and he scampered right onto the window sill while I jumped back ten feet and checked if I needed a pair of "Depends". So Saturday, he was alive and well. But not last night. Last night when I lifted the plank he did not respond when I poked him. Instead, when I poked him he rolled over on his back, stiff, with four little mouse feet sticking straight up in the air. Dead.

I really do believe he committed suicide. He may have fallen into the window well by accident, but his staying there was most certainly not. Instead of a life running the abundant fields that surround our property he chose to starve himself in a dirt hole at the bottom of a window well. We gave him ample opportunity to scale the heights of that window well and attain freedom. He chose death.

After last January's incident and yesterday's suicide the score is now Kim 2 - Mouse 0.

The Real Housewives of...

First it was the Real Housewives of Orange County…with their dark tans, blonde highlights, botoxed beauty and let’s don’t forget size DDD breast implants.  Then it was the Real Housewives of New York with the Yenta, the Social Climber, the Countess and the requisite Single Girl Making it all Work, followed closely by the Real Housewives of Atlanta with their big hair, long acrylic nails, enormous houses and an even bigger affinity for drama. 

Topping it all off is this year’s entry in the series…The Real Housewives of New Jersey.  This one is by far my most favorite and I really I don’t know why.  Yes, their houses are bigger than the wives of Atlanta and their fortunes appear bigger than the wives of both NYC & the OC.  But I think what intrigues me most about the The Real Housewives of New Jersey is that they are just soooooo over the top and yet, are completely oblivious as to how their excesses are perceived by those of us not fortunate enough to have a lifestyle funded by mafia money.  Their days are filled to the brim with such things as getting their hair done, renovating their mansions, pushing their exceptionally untalented children into acting careers or making pasta for their spoiled and still at home 20-something kids.  Boy do they make a lot of pasta on this show.  I haven’t seen all the episodes because Bravo TV has not yet imported the series into Canada, so I can only speculate on what I’ve seen while traveling to the US.  Suffice it to say, I was hooked on the first episode and just like when I am craving something salty or sweet or starchy, I just cannot get enough of this show.  Please, Bravo, please - ditch the 3 year old reruns of the Housewives of the OC and bring us the Jersey girls!  I'm begging here!

So, while I was ruminating on The Real Housewives Of (fill in the blank) series, it occurs to me, that what with my under-employed status, that really? what I am?  Yes...you've got it.  I'm The Real Housewife of  Oyster Bed Bridge.

Here in the OBB I don’t have a big house…just a ghost.  I don’t have DDD breast implants but I do have enough excess baggage on my ass, that if it were transplanted to my breasts would make them EEE.  Here, I don’t believe in acrylic nails, instead I spend my time cleaning the dirt from the garden out from under my nails.  In the OBB the biggest drama I have is whether or not the one who rides the John Deere can get the grass cut before the next rain storm.  In the OBB I don’t have hair and make-up artists at my beck and call.  Instead, I roll my own. 

Hell's Kitchen - Hell YEAH!

I interrupt this regularly scheduled posting for a quick question or two:

Q.  How does someone from Andhra Pradesh, India even find my blog in the first place?  A.  I don't know, but he did.  And it wasn't  a referral from Networked Blogs, either...he just landed directly on my blog.  Very strange and yet exciting too, because if someone from Andhra Pradesh, India can find me, who knows where this will go next? 

Q.  Just who the heck is my Port Coquitlam reader?  And while I'm at it...who's reading from Fergus?

***

Okay, now that that's out of the way, we now continue with regularly scheduled blogging.  I'll tell you right from the get-go, it's not my best work...but it's all I've got today.  Hopefully you'll come back here tomorrow and there will be something scintillating.

***

It started on Tuesday.  If you haven’t watched it you should.  I’m talking about the latest installment of the quasi-reality show “Hell’s Kitchen”.   Are you familiar?   It’s the kind of show that I hate to/love to/hate to/love to watch.  I’m so not kidding.  I am quintessentially Gemini about the whole experience.    

First of all you’ve got the star of the show, super-hot in a he-just-rolled-out-of-bed-with-tousled-hair-after-a-mad-evening-of-passionate-naughtiness, Gordon Ramsay.  This guy kills me!   (in a good way)  For sure he’s a talented chef, but have you seen the way he intimidates  motivates people?  I watch in abject horror as he dresses down one chef contestant after another for doing things such as throwing out pasta that’s been over-cooked (instead of serving it, whereby the chef would then get reamed a new asshole for serving something so vile as over-cooked pasta).  All night long, at one chef contestant after another he screamed, ridiculed, shamed and did I mention screamed at to the point where the vein above his eyebrow looked as though it was going to explode!  Holy smokes, you’d think this was life or death rather than a contest to see who can withstand working under his tutelage for a grand prize of being the executive chef at Whistler’s Araxi Restaurant.   

So yeah, you’ve got Gordon who is just a tad bit short-tempered.  But honestly?  He’s nothing compared to the chef contestants!  I mean, it's not like you don't know what you're getting into when you sign up to be a chef contestant on the show.  Ramsay's rants are well documented throughout various mediums - this show, his Kitchen Nightmares show and such.  His temper and foul mouth are all part of his schtick.  So yeah, shouldn't be a shocker to the contestants that his a bit of an asshole.  

But remember, the whole premise of this show is to showcase culinary skills to Ramsay in the hopes of surviving until the end, to be awarded the position of executive chef at one of Whistler’s finest (and I do mean super-finest) restaurants.  So this whole thing?  It’s a JOB INTERVIEW on steroids, broadcast on national television for the whole country to see.  Yes, yes, yes...it's also a TV show and without all the ensuing drama of Tuesday night you're right - we probably wouldn't tune back in to see if Ramsay knocks the tar out of that little twerp who told him to go pound salt...but...really people?  Some decorum, please!    

You would think that given that, people would oh, I don’t know,  be a tiny bit aware that the guy you’ve just told to go “pound salt,” is in fact the one who will ultimately decide your fate – whether you will cook another day in Hell’s Kitchen, or whether you’re hanging up your chef’s whites and running out of town with your tail between your legs.    

I’m just saying.

"C" is for COOL and Also for CLEAN

The other day, the one whom I adore and I were having an email exchange about what constitutes "cool".   A friend had emailed me about a job in Vancouver - the city I dearly love and would move back to in a moment's notice.  Said job was  the Director of Sales & Marketing at the Opus Hotel, one of the city's uber-hip and swanky luxury hotels in the heart of Yaletown.   While I could easily do the tactile work required of a Director of Sales & Marketing for a luxury hotel, because, hey because I've done this very successfully once in my career already, I don't think I would qualify for the opportunity at the Opus because I do not believe I have the one requirement that would likely not be negotiable.  

Oh, it's not listed on their job posting.  It's one of those unsaid qualifications, like the ability to be both creative and analytical and a warm/fuzzy people person.  How many people do you know that are all of those things bundled into one person?  My point exactly.  In my experience one is either creative or analytical.  One is either analytical or a warm/fuzzy people person.  You can be both creative & a warm/fuzzy people person, but.  But, it is the rare being that embodies all those characteristics, which is why those HR gurus that write job descriptions have to dance a fine line between the "perfect" candidate and the one they'll have to accept.    

Anyway, where was I?  Oh, yes, the one qualification for this role that I do believe I am lacking in is the Cool Factor.  I  believe that of all my many attributes, coolness is most decidedly lacking.   While it is not specifically stated in the job posting on their website, indeed a key factor for the winning candidate will be their Cool Factor. Let's get real for a second.  There is no way the Director of Sales & Marketing for this uber-cool hotel could be anything but cool, because the whole property exudes an air of cool that makes you wonder if you  are really still in the lower mainland, or if indeed you've been teleported to say Los Angeles or some such place.  

The one whom I adore strongly disagreed.  Which, of course, is one of the reasons why I totally adore him.  He clearly has no clue, but thinks he does and then tries to convince me of same.  Who wouldn't love a guy like that, I say?

Anyhoo - he maintains that "cool" is a state of mind.  If you think you're cool, then, ergo, you are cool.   I, on the other hand believe that "cool" is a state of being...as in you either are cool or you are not cool.  And if you are cool, then everyone knows you're cool.  He believes, however, that if you believe you're cool then it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks.  See the quandry?

Now, don't misunderstand me.  There was once a time in my life where I was cool.  Not only did I think it, but so did others.  It was a long time ago, in a land far, far, away...back when I held a powerful position that swayed much influence and garnered me global recognition as a leader in my industry.  So, yeah, I was cool.  Or actually, I represented a lot of business that people wanted a slice of and that therefore made me much sought-after and also?  Cool.   

The one whom I adore believes I still have a Coolness Factor, but if I don't believe, no one else will either.  He couldn't be more wrong and I'll tell you why.  If you are cool, you seemingly go through life with an air of ease about you.  You aren't awkward or sloppy.  You are successful at all you do.  You have many talents that are abundantly obvious not only to yourself but to everyone around you.  You have what other people want.  You are the epitome of grace and suave-ness.

I am none of these things.  Clearly.  You can tell.  Just look at my shirt after spending part of my morning yesterday baking a tasty treat for the one whom I adore.  Yes, that's right.  What you see smeared all over the front of my shirt is a combination of cocoa powder and lord knows what else.  

When I discovered it I was mortified.  You see, between starting the said sweet treat for my honey and finishing it I discovered I was out of a key ingredient for the recipe.   I had no eggs.   Ever efficient, I decided that I would make the best use of my time and just go ahead and do my week's grocery shopping while I was out picking up the eggs.  So I quickly made my list and off to town I toddled, secure in the knowledge that while I had no make-up on, I still looked pretty darned good for a rural housewife.  An hour later I was home, finished whipping up the "from scratch, not a box-mix" brownies, popped them in the oven and set about making some guacamole to accompany tonight's dinner.   I followed that up with a quick bite of lunch, a sample of the brownies and washing-up of the dishes.  Then, I had to pee.  I know, far too much information but it was here that I first discovered the stain-covered mess that was my tank top.  It was here - a full two hours AFTER I had used cocoa powder that I discovered I was covered in it.  A full two hours AFTER I went to the great Atlantic SuperStore to go grocery shopping.  In public.  Where people are.  With a shirt covered in brown stuff.  Stuff so brown, you might mistake it for something else.  Sloppy?  Oh, yes.  Cool?  Ummm...not even close.

And he wonders why I don't think I'm cool?  Honestly.

Channeling my Inner-Julia Child

Have you seen the commercials?  I'm talking about the upcoming movie Julie & Julia - it's the story of two women set 50 years apart...one is Julia Child who is featured  during the years she and her husband lived in France and where she discovered the joys of French cooking.  The other is a gal from NYC who was in a dead-end job and decided that in a year she would cook every single recipe from Julia Child's book Mastering the Art of French Cooking (a cookbook Julia Child wrote in 1961!).  Aside from cooking over 500 (complicated) French recipes every day for a year this young cookie wrote a blog about her experience as she went along.  It's hysterical.  

I cannot wait for this movie.

For a couple of reasons:

1)  I've read Julie's blog and I think she's brilliant.  In fact, you might say I'm more than just a little tiny bit jealous of her.  Her idea was brilliant and while her writing at first is merely average, as you move through each entry about the trials and tribulations of finding beef marrow and then extracting it from the bone - well, her writing gets decidedly better as does the results of her cooking.  You can read it here:  http://www.JuliePowell@blogspot.com.  Click on the archive called the Julie/Julia Project and read back to front.  

2)  I'm in the process of reading Julia Child's biography of her time at the Cordon Bleu.  She really was a bit of a whack job, but I find in her a kindred spirit.  Like me, she married "later" in life.  She was like 35 and I was like 46, but you know, really, today's 46 is like yesterday's 35.  She and Paul had no kids.  Ditto that with the one whom I adore.   Also?  When her husband took a job in Paris she says she went with him as excess baggage and frankly somedays that's how I feel about our move to PEI.  In Paris she was at odds with what to do with herself.  On the island, I am more than odd...er, I mean, at odds with how to spend my time.  

I love both of these women.

I want to be like these women...talented, creative, get a book deal...

Now, I just need a really great idea, a publicist, an agent, the book rights and a movie deal.  

In the meantime, I'm off to the kitchen to channel my inner-Julia and create a decadent dessert for the one whom I adore.

Drugs in My Pocket

This morning I learned something new.  I learned that here, on the island in the Northumberland Strait, in the land of minimal healthcare and definitely NO preventative medicine I learned that refills on prescriptions expire if they are a year old.  Who knew?  I certainly didn't.  So in between asthmatic gasps on the one inhaler I currently own, I was able to sweet talk the pharmacist into giving me two of my last three refills on my inhaler just because he could hear I was on my last breath!

Have I talked about the stellar healthcare here on PEI?  Probably not, because it is a subject that so angers me that my typing becomes so fast and furious I nearly always break a nail when I do so much as even consider writing about it.  So I tend to avoid the subject altogether.  But I am here to tell you, this place?  The "gentle island"?  It's medical system is in a word:  FUCKED.  (sorry mom)

There really is just no other way to describe what goes on here.  Consider this:

When we first moved to the island and secured our healthcare cards I was told in order to get a family doctor  one had to register with Health PEI where a doctor would be assigned to you just as soon as one came available.  Naturally, my response was "and that will take about how long?"  to which the lovely lady at Health PEI said, "well, it could be a while."  I replied with "I've heard rumours that it could be a 3 year wait, that can't possibly be true, can it?" to which she said "uh, er, ah, well, yes, it could be that long."

You may well be wondering what does one do when one cannot secure a family doctor?  Well, we go to the walk-in clinic should there ever be something wrong with us.  But see, here?  For those of us unlucky enough to not have a family doctor there is no such thing as preventative medicine.  So that little spot in the middle of the one whom I adore's forehead?  Yeah, until it develops into something malignant, we can't get it checked out.  

About six months after moving here I called Health PEI again.  What does a woman do when she needs her birth control refilled?  Because of course no doctor worth their weight in cotton swabs would issue a prescription for birth control without first doing an internal exam and hey, guess what?  Yeah, the walk in clinic doesn't do those types of exams.  So yeah, what to do, what to do?  My lovely friend at Health PEI directed me to the women's clinic in nearby Parkdale where I could have both an exam and a prescription written.  Yeah, a glimmer of hope!

So I call said clinic and surprisingly get an appointment fairly easily.  The day comes and I go to the Doctor's office with a complete list of questions in my hand.  Can I get some blood work done?  I'm a little concerned about hormones.  And my asthma is decidedly worse than it has been in 25 years, so is there anything I can take to help with that?  Oh, and there's this tweek in my back I'm wondering about.

Her response?  "I'm sorry, I can't help you with any of that.  I only do vaginas."  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this doctor could only prescribe blood work if she found something questionable in my va-jay-jay.  Oh, and if I didn't hear back from her in like 3 months, then the results of my wellness exam were fine.  THREE MONTHS to get a pap result and THEN you'd hear back only if there's an issue?  What kind of healthcare is this I ask?

Recently, the one whom I adore had a familiar ringing in his head...the beginning of an inner-ear infection.  Uncharacteristically he high-tailed it right to the clinic to have it checked out and while he was there, he took it upon himself to ask some wellness questions himself.  Like, hey, it's been 15 years since he'd had a physical - how does one go about getting one on the island if one doesn't have a family doctor?  And what about blood work?  He was curious as to his cholesteral count what given that his wife insists on cooking with butter and not that chemically processed within one dna link to plastic that is margerine.  So, yeah, Doc, what about those things?  How does a guy get checked out?

Do not be surprised when I tell you the answer.  "PEI's healthcare system is not set up for preventative medicine."

So there you have it.  We better hope nothing happens to us before 2011 when we MIGHT get a family doctor.

In the meantime I'd best get the balance of my prescriptions filled before their time is up.

Melange, Hodge-Podge, Mish-Mash

Don't say you weren't warned by the title of this one that today's entry is a little, um, unfocused...but hopefully entertaining none-the-less!

As I do every morning, today I am perched on my sofa, with a tea beside me as I peruse my daily news on-line.  In the background I have The Today Show on the TV and the story they're currently covering is about a little chihuahua that was impaled with a BBQ fork in his brain.  The owner is soooo southern that I cannot understand a single word he is saying.   Now, I've been schooled in the language of the south, what with having spent way too many years living in Atlanta.  With enough vodka, wine or beer in me I can channel my inner-southern-belle, so yeah, generally speaking understanding people from south of the Mason-Dixon Line is usually not an issue for me.  But this guy?  This guy, in addition to being very southern, obviously has marbles in his mouth - or maybe it's a pinch of "chew" in his cheek - I'm not sure which.  But the long and short of it, the dog survived - had the fork removed from his brain - ugh, the visuals on this story were not what you'd want to be looking at over your morning muffin, is all I can say.  

As I sit here typing away the large dog is laying in a sunbeam at my feet.  The sun is out now...but at 6 o'clock this morning, not only was the sun not out, but it was storming again and that was enough to send this 50-lb wuss flying into our bed, shaking and quivering at the sound of yet another thunder storm.  Oh, and now that the storm's over and he's calmed down?  He stinks.  It's a residual left over from his stress attacks.  He gets so wound up with nerves that he gets the dog equivalent of B.O.  Not very pleasant at this hour of the day and it will likely take the balance of the day to dust the smell off him.  In the meantime, I'm going to spray a dose of my perfume on him!

Yesterday, I was stepping into the shower and as I am want to do I took a cursory glance out of the upstairs bathroom window where what to my wondering eyes did I see?  That's right a whole flock of Mo-Fo ravens sitting in a tree gorging themselves on our newly ripening cherries!   The day before I had taken great pains to string pie plates throughout the tree's branches in the hopes that the clanging sound of the tin plates blowing through the wind would discourage those fucking birds from eating our cherries.  I was wrong.   This is when, I believe, I first channeled my inner-crazy lady.  I whipped up the window and stuck my head out of it and with all the might I could muster I screamed "Get out of my tree you Mo-Fos!"  Except that I didn't use the (somewhat) polite abbreviation.  No, I used the full, nasty, potty-mouthed mother-f**king word.  My mother would not be proud.  My husband would not be surprised because I have been on a mission to rid our yard of both pigeons and ravens since we got to the island and I don't think I'll win the battle unless he lets me have a shotgun.  Which he won't.  I don't think we are ever going to enjoy a cherry from that tree - there are way more ravens in the OBB then I have pie-plates.  

Today, when I checked my email I had a message from a friend who often sends me little tidbits she finds on-line...interesting articles, websites, newsletters and such.  Today she forwarded a newsletter called "Goop" with an article that poses the question:  “What does it take to sustain a happy and successful relationship or marriage?”  As we approach our one-year anniversary next month, the timing of this little newsletter couldn't have been better.   I love that my friends, no matter how near or far, keep me in their thoughts and when something strikes them that Kim might like this and then they send it to me?  Well, it makes being stranded on this island just a little more bearable.  Thank you Bella!, my faithful reader and even better friend, for keeping me in your thoughts!

Yesterday I wrote about the joy of a butter tart...and more specifically the new recipe I discovered for Butter Tart Muffins.  They were so good that the one whom I adore took a couple to snack on with his afternoon coffee.  It always tickles me when I find something new that he loves...which clearly he did, because this is the email I got yesterday afternooon:

      

I’m having a butter tart muffin and it is ABSOLUTELY FREAKING FANTASTIC.  There is no way I’m stopping at just one.  As tempted as I am to show-off your baking there is no way I’m sharing. Here goes muffin #2.

He even asked for two more to take to work today - very sweet, but not as sweet as those damn muffins!

I haven't been off our property since Monday, so today?  Today I'm venturing to town...to (wait for it)...Walmart!  Yes, it's a big day here in the OBB.  I hope yours is nearly half as exciting as mine will be!

Ode to a Butter Tart

So, this whole "not baking" thing is "not going so well".

Ahem.

It was a quiet Wednesday on the island.  The laundry was done, the house was cleaned.  The books were read and the garden didn't need weeding.  Although, that being said I did spend a considerable amount of time stringing tin pie plates to stakes to keep the critters away from my pepper patch and my cherry tree.  So yeah, by 9:30 I was at loose ends as to how to spend the rest of the day.

Oh, sure, I did some research on the internet and I wrote a paragraph or two on a project I'm working on, but really?  Really?  By 10 my loose ends had unraveled like a skein of wool being bandied about by a newborn kitten.

My cousin recently opened a coffee shop in Ontario cottage country and every day she faithfully posts on Facebook what fabulous concoctions she's baked for that day.  One day it's cheddar cheese & bacon biscuits and the next day it's pina colada muffins.  One of her most regular menu items, however, is this little sweet treat known as the butter tart muffin.

Now, my Canadian readers know all about the joys of a butter tart which is as Canadian as hockey, beavers and Tim Horton's donuts.  But for those of you that read from south of the border let me just try to explain the joys of a butter tart.

First you must know that a butter tart is a pastry.  Fluffy and flakey it melts in your tongue, but the best part?  It isn't the light, fluffy pie-like crust....oh no, the  best part of a butter tart is the filling - all buttery and sugary and full of plump vanilla and butter soaked raisins.  Sometimes butter tarts have a medium bodied filling which can be both thick  and chewy.  But the best, very best butter tarts are runny butter tarts.  Those are tricky to eat - the filling is all gooey and runny and liquid-y and it leaks out of the tart with your first bite and then the challenge is to eat all that gooey goodness before it runs all over your face.  Yes, a butter tart is a thing to behold.

Every grandma I know north of the 49th parallel has their own recipe for butter tarts.  Each recipe has a slight variation - some with nuts, some without.  Some with raisins, some without.  Some runny, some not so much.    Pastry recipes are handed down generation to generation and butter tarts are the prized dessert on just about every Christmas buffet I have ever attended.  I've even been known to take more than my fair share and hide said booty in an undisclosed location just so I could enjoy eating another one when I had room in my belly!  I have no shame when it comes to butter tarts!

So you can imagine what runs through my mind when I see my cousin's daily menu featuring butter tart muffins.  A muffin that tastes like a butter tart?  How can that be so?  Curiosity killed the cat and I am here to tell you, it damn near killed Kim too.

So, yesterday in my sheer boredom I did a Google search for butter tart muffin recipes and lo and behold, I found several, but one recipe was listed on a Canadian Food site, so I decided to go with that one, being Canadian and all.  I mixed up the ingredients - butter, sugar, raisins, milk, vanilla, eggs, flour, walnuts, etc., etc., etc.  I scooped the batter into individual muffin tins and set them in the oven to convert into mouthwatering goodness.

They did not disappoint.  The fact that I only ate ONE yesterday is perhaps a sign that I am winning the willpower battle.  The one whom I adore enjoyed his so much last night that he asked me to pack him up a couple to enjoy at the office this morning with his morning coffee.  He never takes "to go" food to the office, so I'm thinking, yeah, these are pretty darned good.

If you find yourself in Huntsville this summer, stop by the newest coffee shop in town, Mugzy's and try one of these tasty little Canadian creations yourself!

Or, google the recipe.

A Day in the Life

Back when I worked for a big hotel company in the mountains our General Manager had this brilliant idea that those of us that worked in executive positions should spend a day every quarter working in colleague positions.  Something about "walking a mile in the colleague's shoes so that we can appreciate where they come from."  Whatever.  What it actually became was a method by which you could determine if you were on her good side or bad side that quarter.  If you were on her good side, you got a cosy position such as answering telephones at Royal Service which is what I did for my first day in the life.  But, our poor Director of F&B who was permanently affixed to her "bad side" well, he got to clean toilets with the housekeepers.  So, yeah, lots of fun for me...not so much for him.

During the course of this exercise over the years, I worked as a bellman - okay, bellperson in February...when it was minus-35 C on the thermometer - couldn't really tell if I was on her good side or bad side with this position - afterall, there wasn't much going on for a bellmen when we only had 20 rooms occupied, but, it was minus-35C so, yeah...good side or bad you be the judge.   Also, you try running for valet cars when you have eight layers of clothing on and can barely bend over for fear of splitting your uniform because you have eight layers of clothing on!  

On one particularly painful day in the life, we all had to work an overnight shift - you know - so that we could appreciate how hard it was on the colleagues that had to work overnight.  I was definitely not sitting in favoured status at this point because I was assigned to work as a PA attendant (public areas attendant) which meant that I spent the hours between 11pm and 7am on a Sunday night no less, polishing the brass doorhandles in the clubhouse, vacuuming the Great Hall carpet and dusting the the baseboards in the Beauvert Promenade.  It begged the question - what value is there in having your Director of Sales become a housekeeper?  Two years later I still don't know.

But last night, as I was drifting off to sleep, wondering what the hell am I going to blog about today I thought, hey!  I can write a blog about a day in my life NOW!

So here goes:  Try not to fall asleep when reading this:

6:30am - 7:00am

• Up and at 'em.  Strip the beds and load up the laundry basket.  This is our big project for the day.
  
• Stumble downstairs, trip over the little dog who doesn't know if she should head to the back door to be let out like she is EVERY morning or if she should just dance under your feet until you almost fall down the last stair.
• Let the dogs out
• Fill up their breakfast bowls, let them back in to inspect whether or not they got filet mignon for breakfast.   Sadly disappoint the dogs.
• Let the dogs out again because the little dog forgot to pee when she was just out 2 minutes ago
• Kiss the one whom I adore goodbye with a bag of garbage in my hand.

7:30am - 12:00pm

• Begin the Great Debate:  Bran Flakes or peanut butter toast for breakfast?  Decide on Bran Flakes because it was more in keeping with the No Crap for Kim Redux
• Sort laundry and begin the wash
• Empty the dishwasher 
• Post blog - pitiful entry about poor pitiful me and my inability to bake because I am weaker than a string of spaghetti after an hour in a pot of hot water and I cannot refrain from eating whatever I make.  Wa, wa, wa.  
• Fluff & fold first load, load the colours
• Think about a shower but cannot get the big dog off my lap as it continues to pour outside, now accompanied by THUNDER!
• Pay mid-month bills.  Wondered when we'll win the lottery?
• Watch Live! With Regis & Kelly.  Marvel at the sight of her arms which are sculpted to perfection.  Actually they look a little masculine to me...but, given that the only definition I have in my arms are the wiggly bits on the underside, I guess I'm not really one to judge.
• Finally extricate the dog off my lap and jump into the shower. 
• Make lunch, a lovely toasted tomato sandwich on "calorie-wise" bread, a banana and a no-fat pudding cup (gotta get that dairy in some how)
• Fluff & fold load 2, start load 3

12:00pm - 1:00pm

• Watch "The View" and wonder why I tune in most days to listen to these ladies scream at each other about stuff I really don't care about anyway?  
• One final review of the sales fliers and finalize the grocery list.  This week's goal:  one week's groceries for two people for less than $70.
• Make the beds with freshly laundered sheets...mmm...smells Downey fresh!
• Fluff & fold load 3, start load 4
• Head to town to begin the great grocery quest.  Get stuck in the construction traffic on Rustico Road and wonder why they can't do this next month when I won't be on the island for two weeks.

1:00 - 4:30pm

• With list in hand make a stop at 3 - yes 3! - different grocery stores in order to maximize our grocery dollar.
• Realize that the sale on Palmolive liquid isn't really a sale at all so skip it altogether and head to SuperStore for the bulk of our grocery purchases
• Whip through the SuperStore only to be trapped in the check-out line for 20 minutes because evidently there are not enough cashiers for the volume of customers.  Think to myself - hey!  maybe I should apply to work here?  Rethink it when I realize that when I self-check-out at Walmart it causes me such great anxiety that I always leave either my wallet, my car keys or my purchases at the check-out stand - so yeah, probably not the career for me.
• With mere minutes to spare, load up the car with groceries and make my way down Queen Street to my monthly massage appointment.
• Sit in traffic on Queen Street, behind a horse & buggy AND a double-decker bus watching people jaywalk, and wonder if it will take the 10 minutes I have left to get to my appointment to actually travel the TWO BLOCKS to my therapist?
• 8 minutes later, I get to my parking spot and go visit my massage therapist with my stress level now through the roof because I had to actually DRIVE.  IN.  TRAFFIC.
• Ahh...soothing massage.  I leave the appointment decidedly greasier than when I came in, but who cares?
• Home to unpack groceries, dodging the big dog who is convinced each grocery bag will reveal a TREAT!  Just for HIM!  For the second time in the day I sadly disappoint the dog.

4:30 - 6:30pm

• Start dinner preparations - homemade cabbage salad, left-over fennel & orange salad and left-over roasted chicken.  So yeah, dinner takes 10 minutes to make!
• Fluff & fold load 4, begin load 5 - who says the art of doing laundry can't be a zen-like, day-long activity?
• Watch the Young & The Restless.  Yes, I admit I watch this crap.  And let me tell you what level of crap it is...It's like watching a car wreck - you want to look away...but you are compelled to keep watching.    I'm hooked.  I have great shame about this.  But not enough to stop watching it.
• Once again disappoint the dogs as I feed them not filet mignon for dinner, but instead dry dog food.
• Watch the first half-hour of island news on CBC.  Big story:  the weather.
• Welcome the one whom I adore home!  Yeah, someone to talk to!  
• Serve dinner, bowing after the rave reviews I receive for serving Leftovers!

6:30pm - 10:30pm

• Clean up after dinner.
• Check out the garden after the day's rain.  Discover some new weeds.  Pull those mo-fos out by their roots - they will NOT ruin my garden this year!
• Discover the ONLY pepper I had growing has now been partially eaten by some critter.  Fuck.  Devise a plan to foil the a) skunk, b) racoon, c) birds that are snacking on my peppers.
• Retire to the couch for an evening of TV with the one whom I adore.  Up first:  Triple Sensation followed by The Great American Road Trip and then a dose of the CBS Monday night comedies which I  watch between naps.

10:30pm

• The one whom I adore convinces me I'd be more comfortable asleep in bed.  So I head upstairs where I lie awake for 2 hours.
  

And now?  Now that it's the next day?  Now I'll start it all over again.  Except without the laundry, grocery shopping or massage.  Today's big job:  cleaning bathrooms!  So maybe being a public area attendant is paying off after all!

 

No Crap for Kim - The Redux

I've been trying to get a posting up for the last 2 hours, but it's proven more than a little difficult when one has a 50-lb dog quivering on my lap.  Yes, it's Monday!  And yes!  It's raining!   Again!  This time with thunder!  

Reading yesterday's posting again this morning it strikes me that I'm more than a little pissed off at this whole No Crap for Kim thing because if I'm to have any measure of success I'm going to have to give up something I need almost as much a breath itself.   I'm not talking about giving up alcohol or a specific food or even an entire food group.   I'm talking about having to give up baking.  It is one of the few ways I fill up may days here on the island in the land of the under-employed.

There's only so much laundry to be done.  My house has NEVER been cleaner and let's just say my vegetable garden has nary a weed.  Nor do any of my flower beds.  So yes, finding ways to fill up my days often takes a creative bend and if I'm not writing here at this blog, I can generally be found in my kitchen playing with ingredients to concoct a new dish, or experimenting with a new recipe I've either found on-line, on tv or in my antique cookbook.
And now, as I struggle with the eternal battle of the bulge, I have to give this up too.  It seems so unfair.

Oh, I could keep on baking, sure.  I could make mountains of macaroons and countless cakes.  But the problem here is that while I can be very headstrong, I simply do not have the willpower to say no to sweet treats if they are in my vicinity.  The one whom I adore made a crack last week about how much he enjoyed the two macaroons he got out of that last batch - so yeah, there's an indicator of what happens when I bake.   And don't even suggest that I set up a little bakeshop and run it from my house - I don't like to bake in volumes...I just like to make a batch of this or a loaf of that every once in a while (and then I like to eat it).   That would hardly sustain a home-baking business.  But thanks for the suggestion.  

So, what's a gal to do?  Any other suggestions?  Hello?  People?  I'm talking to you!

Since I'm obviously not going to be making this anytime soon, I share with you my recipe for orange cake.  Someone might as well enjoy it, if I can't!

Orange Cake

375 ml (1 1/2 cups) unbleached all-purpose flour

5 ml (1 teaspoon) baking powder

250 ml (1 cup) softened unsalted butter

250 ml (1 cup) sugar

Grated zest of 3 oranges

3 x eggs

60 ml (1/4 cup) orange juice

For the Strawberry Coulis

500 ml (2 cups) fresh or frozen strawberries, thawed

60 ml (1/4 cup) sugar

For the Garnish

1 L (4 cups) fresh strawberries, hulled

60 ml (1/4 cup) sugar

Zest of 1 lemon 

DIRECTIONS:

For the Cake

With the rack in the middle position, preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F). Butter a 10 x 20-cm (4 x 8-inch) loaf pan. Line the pan with parchment paper, letting the paper hang over the long sides.In a bowl, combine the flour and baking powder. Set aside.  In another bowl, cream the butter with the sugar and the orange zest using an electric mixer.  Add the eggs one at a time and beat until smooth. With the mixer on low speed, add the dry ingredients, alternating with the orange juice. Pour the batter into the loaf pan. Bake until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean, about 1 hour.Let cool partially. Unmould onto a cooling rack and let cool.  If the cake is for a picnic, wrap in a clean tea towel or place in an aluminum cake tin.

For the Strawberry Coulis

In a blender or food processor, purée the strawberries and sugar until smooth.

Refrigerate until chilled, about 2 hours. 

If sauce is needed for a picnic, transfer to a Mason jar.

For the Garnish

In a bowl, gently toss the strawberries with the sugar and zest. Refrigerate for 15 minutes.

Serve slices of cake with the sauce and macerated strawberries. 

NOTE:  I didn't actually do the coulis - instead I made a simple glaze with the zest of one orange, 1/2 cup plus 1 tbsp icing sugar, juice of one orange whisked together until thick and smooth.  YUM.

No Crap for Kim - The Crisis

Shit.  Seems like No Crap for Kim has gone into a gigantic skid.  It all started with that weekend away to Nova Scotia where to feel like I was contributing to the community table, I made a copious number of things to snack on.  Not that they were completely unhealthy - homemade hummus, fresh guacamole and black bean salsa.  Full of fibre and flavour  - and if you're going to snack, why not on beans and fresh vegetables, I say!  So yeah, nothing bad there!

No, the black beans, avocado and garbanzo beans weren't the problem.  The problem really began with the homemade cinnamon rolls I made for the Sunday Hangover Breakfast.  I had never made homemade cinnamon rolls before...but you know my theory - if you can read, you can do anything so I cracked my faithful Better Homes and Gardens cookbook from 1971 and looked up a recipe.  I had about 20 to choose from.  I chose the one that had the most ooey-gooey components and holy moses, were they ever good!  Light, buttery, cinnamon-y, and full of caramel and walnuts.  The Colonel had nothing on these buns because I am here to tell you they were finger lickin' good!

There were two left over, so of course I brought them home and once they were in my kitchen I couldn't bear to see them sitting, lonely, in their little tupperware container.  So every time I walked by, I lifted up the lid of that little container and took just a pinch.  A pinch here.  A pinch there.   Here a pinch, there a pinch and before I knew it, I had pinched both of them into oblivion.  Well, thank God, really, because honestly I didn't need THOSE hanging around the house.

But then, then I was cruising the Foodtv.ca website and right there on their home page was a glorious looking orange cake.  It looked so good and hey, I needed to figure out a dessert recipe for the dinner party last Thursday, so, one quick look at the recipe and another foraging mission in the pantry and lo and behold, I had all the ingredients, so of course I had to try the thing.  Holy shit was it ever good.  Moist and flavorful with little flecks of orange rind running through the cake, with a light orange glaze on top.  Being that a main ingredient was orange, it was almost enough to convince myself that this wasn't really a bad dessert after-all...well except for the half pound of butter in it.  Ahem.

In between the cinnamon rolls and the orange cake I made a batch of coconut macaroons.  When I die and go to heaven (hopefully) I dearly dream that those clouds will be stocked with unlimited coconut macaroons.  Before they were completely cooled I ate 3.   The rational side of my brain eventually returned and I put the remainder in the freezer to save for another time.  Do you know how good frozen macaroons are?  I'm here to tell you...even better than a frozen Snickers bar!

Our friends came to dinner on Thursday night and in honor of their visit I made homemade herb be provence bread, mussels, lobster, and for dessert that incredible orange cake.  The  macaroons only made it 'til Friday - I had to get them out of the house - their mere existence was too tempting.

Last night, we went to the drive-in movies.  One of the things we love about going to the drive-in is that we can bring our own treats and so we spent the latter part of the week discussing what exactly each of us would have for our special treat at the drive-in.  By this point, the treat has taken precedence over the damn movie.  The movie is merely the conduit by which we can indulge in junk food.  And that we did.  The one whom I adore ate salt & vinegar peanuts - if you can imagine anything so vile, while I noshed on Smart Corn.  Have you ever read the label of Smart Corn?  Despite its name it is considerably less than "Smart" for your waistline.  In fact, it has so many calories, I'm ashamed to admit, I ate most of the bag.  The resulting bellyache kept me up half the night and if I were to ever look back on this episode it should be enough that I won't ever eat Smart Corn again....but I'm not holding my breath.  I love the stuff despite how it makes me feel.

Which brings me now back to today.  Today is the first day of the rest of my life.  And the first day of No Crap for Kim - the Redux.    With all the baking eaten and the junk food now gone, I stand a fairly good chance of getting back on the wagon...if it isn't rolling down the hill at breakneck speed without me.

Black Bean Salsa

2 Cups black beans, rinsed & drained

2 tomatoes, seeded

1 red or yellow pepper, diced

1 red onion, finely diced

2 cups Cilantro, finely chopped

1 TBSP Olive Oil

2 TBSP Each Lemon Juice & Balsamic Vinegar

1 clove minced garlic (about 1 tsp)

Combine beans, tomatoes, peppers, red onion & cilantro.  In small bowl whisk together vinegar, lemon juice, oil & garlic.  Pour over bean mixture and toss to combine.  Refrigerate 1 hour prior to serving.

Guacamole

2 to 3 ripe avocados

1/3 cup finely diced red onion

1/3 cup diced & seeded fresh tomato

2 tbsp mild green chilis

Pinch of kosher salt

Juice & zest of one fresh lime

1/3 c fresh cilantro

Dash of hot sauce or tabasco sauce (Frank's Hot sauce preferred)

1 tbsp ground cumin

Cut avocados, remove pit and using a potato masher, mash into chunks.  Add tomato, chilis, diced onion.  Mix in lime juice, hot sauce, cumin & chopped cilantro.  Taste & adjust for flavour - add more cumin, hot sauce, lime juice as needed.

Hummus

1 Can chick peas, rinsed & drained, reserving the liquid in a separate dish

2 garlic cloves

7 tbsp Tahini paste

4 Tbsp lemon juice

4 tbsp olive oil

1 tsp ground cumin 

to taste - salt & pepper

In food processor combine chick peas, garlic, tahini, lemon juice and olive oil.  Add cumin, salt & pepper.  Depending on the thickness, add liquid from the chick peas and continue to blend until smooth.

Garnish with olive oil & paprika.