I've Got My Eyes on You

It's been a bleary day here in the O.B. B.  The rain that started yesterday has not let up one drop.  Good for the grass and flowers, but not for my mood.  Or my writing.  Or my productivity.  Or my desire to do anything other than nap lazily between bursts of activity.

The day began in its usual way, me at the kitchen counter hunched over a bowl of all fibre cereal, him, taking his regular position up in the kitchen doorway, staring at me, imploring me with his eyes to take action of some sort (but no-one, least of all me, really knows what action he wants me to take).  For 10 minutes I dutifully paid our monthly bills on-line, surfed a couple of job sites I peruse daily and finished my morning tea while he was 3 feet away boring holes into the side of my head.  He didn't moan or whine.  He simply stood and stared.  Stared and stood.  He didn't blink.  He occasionally stamped his feet.  Stood and stared.  Stared and stamped.  

This might make sense if he had been looking for some food, but he'd just finished wolfing down his morning quota, not to mention what he stole from she who rules this house's bowl.  I'd understand if he had the burning need to venture to the great outdoors, but both he and I knew he'd been outside 3 times in the 1.5 hours he'd been up.  It might even had made sense if he was say, begging for some of the left-over milk from my bowl of cereal.  But he'd already had that too.  This morning ritual is at the top of my list of things that make me go hmmmm.  Another one of life's little mysteries that I'm not smart enough to figure out.

And so began another day in my life in the O.B.B. 

Wordless Wednesday - Sort of

Today's a busy day here in the O.B.B. so I'll leave you with a few snapshots from my garden - the same daffodil photographed last Friday, Sunday and Tuesday.  Boing!  Spring is here!

And then there's this little treasure I came home to on Tuesday.  He was sitting right at the front door waiting for me.  Of course I waited for the one whom I adore to come home to deal with it.  

What I Learned at College

This week is the first time since March that I won't be going to school.  I recently taught Business Communications at our local college to a group of first year students in the Culinary Arts program. Imagine their level of interest being force fed the 3 x 3 writing process when they came to college to learn how to cook!

I wasn't sure I would be able to pull this off.  After all, I never went to college, so how was I qualified to teach anything to anyone?  Well, it's not the first time I've taken on a job I didn't think I was qualified for and just like that last time when I went to work for a big hotel company, I put my shoulder to the grindstone and just kept pushing through. 

I pushed through hours of speaking to a group of people that would rather have had to peel 10,000 potatoes than sit through one more lecture about the alluring 3 x 3 writing process.  I pushed through the arrogance of some of the students who felt that by simply showing up and paying $10,000 they should get an automatic pass, regardless of the quality of work they produced.   I pushed through having to chase students down to submit their assignments.  I had to push through those that demanded a "do over" because they didn't get a perfect grade the first time.  I pushed through the moments of self-doubt that left me wondering who was really there to learn; them or me?  I pushed through days when I thought I wasn't getting through to them  at all.  I pushed through.  And through.  And through.

Some days I would come home feeling as though the very life had been sucked out of my veins.  Days when the very thought of doing anything other than lying in a soggy heap on the sofa was more than I could imagine.  Days when  I wondered whether I was really giving them anything of any value.  After all, they wanted to learn how to cook - so how do you make Business Communications exciting to that group?  How do you make it relevant?  Interesting?  Meaningful.  I lost a lot of sleep over that one.   I worked hard to find meaningful ways to reach them.

Toward the end of the contract I learned the most important lesson of my teaching career and it is this:  It isn't a reflection of my worth if these guys passed or failed.  It was a reflection of the students and their willingness to learn.  I could facilitate the discussion.  I could be available to help them before, during and after class.  I could encourage good work and redirect those veering the wrong way.  But at the end of the day, it would be up to THEM if they passed or failed, not me.  

The day I learned this lesson was day I entered their final grades and realized that all but two passed with high marks.  The two that failed had also failed to show up to half the classes; failed to hand in assignments when due or at all; failed to participate in classroom discussions; failed to succeed because they thought the world owed them something.  I wonder how long it will take them to learn the lesson that real life doesn't work that way?

Where All the Dicks Hang Out

View of naked man on street 'not very tasteful,' says hotel manager

This was the headline on the CBC PEI last week.  The hotel manager quoted is the one my husband works for.  The incident took place outside the hotel’s cafeteria windows.  It was a simple case of a drunk wandering out on his own balcony within full view of the guestrooms of the hotel.  Police were called.  Man was asked to get dressed.  Headline news on PEI.

A Certain Sign of Spring

After a cold and nasty end to the week, Mother Nature graced us with a day that very much resembles spring.  Bright, blue sky.  Temperatures SOARING above 15-degrees.  A warming breeze to dry the morning dew.   You can just smell spring in the air, and on Prince Edward Island that means everything smells like shit.  I’m not talking about the you can just smell things growing earthy smell here; the kind where you cannot wait to put trowel in hand and begin working the soil.  No.  I’m talking about the pungent, grab your nose hairs and don’t let go smell of liquid manure that is currently being sprayed in the fields all up and down the road where we live.  Ah, the smell of spring - brought to you by Cow Shit.

Spring on PEI also means lots and lots of furry animals out and about, looking for love or just a meal.   Of course this means the road kill ratio is quite a bit higher than in winter.   Raccoons and ravens, hedgehogs and even a beaver last week all smeared the pavement near our home. There is no more popular road kill on the island, though, than skunk.  Competing directly against liquid manure for worst olfactory experience EVER is the ever-aromatic odor of freshly squashed skunk.  Mmm, mmm GOOD!

Once, when we lived in Vancouver I took Snickers out for his last walk of the evening.  A walk is never just a walk for that dog.  A walk is an opportunity to scavenge and forage, to pee on every tree we pass and to dive into every bush in the hopes that his great reward will be a cast-off crust of something with mould.  On this particular night he dove under a bush in pursuit of something that was rustling the branches (maybe it’s a steak! was his thought).  For his efforts he was richly rewarded with a double shot of skunk juice right in the face.  OMG, I have NEVER smelled anything as bad (before moving to PEI and experiencing liquid manure, that is).  My eyes watered as I fought my gag reflex and struggled to get the now very freaked out dog home. 

Of course the problem when we got home was what to do with the dog?  How do you get skunk off the dog without infecting your apartment, not to mention yourself?  Mothers have the answer to everything, so while I locked Snickers outside in the vestibule, I made a panicked call to Mom to ask what I should do with him.  She quickly came up with the recipe to bathe him that was guaranteed to work.  A concoction of dish detergent, hydrogen peroxide, baking soda and something else.  Well, I only had two of the four ingredients I needed and, desperate to get rid of the stench that was now permeating everything within a 20-km radius, I hightailed it to my local grocery store. 

It was 10 o’clock at night and thankfully, unlike PEI, Vancouver has 24-hour, 7-days-a-week grocery stores.  Anyway, while I’m there I think “Hey, I’m also out of bread and gee, I could also use some butter, eggs and maybe some of those Dad’s cookies”.  So while I’m looking for hydrogen peroxide and whatever that fourth ingredient is, I also picked up some other things. When I hit the checkout stand a little Latino guy is manning the cash.  Please know, that when I lived in Vancouver I lived in the West End, a neighborhood that is completely safe for single women, because every guy that lived there was totally gay.  I’m not kidding.  So, there’s this handsome, Latino, gay cashier scanning my items and as he hits the total button, he wrinkles his nose as he says in the most “Chico & the Man” voice you can imagine “ooh-ooh, something STINKS in here!”  I looked him squarely in the eye and said, “Why do you think I’m buying all this gear? I’ve suffered second-hand skunking by my dog.” 

I skulk home, hoping against hope that I don’t encounter anyone else, walking directly past the scene of the crime (which still stank by the way).   I proceeded to wrangle the 50-lb Beast into the (antique, claw-foot) bathtub for a thorough scrub down.  Bear in mind this is a dog that does not get bathed on a regular basis, so any mention of the tub is pure trauma for him and subsequently me.  

The recipe my Mom gave me worked as promised.  In a matter of minutes Snickers was (mostly) odor-free.   Realizing after my conversation with Chico & the Man that I also stunk of skunk I jumped in the shower and doused myself with what remained of the recipe. Head & shoulders, knees & toes, I scrubbed.   As soon as I shampooed the last of the recipe into my color-treated hair I knew something had gone terribly wrong.  As I washed that skunk right out of my hair I could feel every strand begin to contract.  A quick rinse and towel dry, I looked in the mirror and to my absolute HORROR saw that my once luxurious mane of chestnut brown hair was now a mop of yellow, brittle straw, the recipe’s active ingredient, peroxide, having done what bleach does. 

So, what lessons did we learn that day, dear Internet?  We learned that the Beast doesn’t get more than a 2-foot lead, so as not to have access to unseen varmints.  We learned that when your dog gets skunked, he shares the wealth and so do you.  We learned that when you shampoo with hydrogen peroxide you bleach you hair.  We learned that paying your hairdresser $125 to correct your mistake is worth every. single. penny.

Now, go outside and breathe in some spring!

 

 

 

 

When Pigs Fly

Those little pigs sure do cause a lot of trouble.  First it was antagonizing the wolf with their straw, twig and brick houses...then it was that little wee, wee, wee... all the way home thing.  Now they very well could have started a full on pandemic.  Power to the PIGS!

Then there's the poor pork producers...a public relations disaster if ever there was one...a global pandemic in the making is grinding the pork industry into, um, er, sausage.    You have to wonder about the collective IQ of North Americans if they think that by eating a link of sausage, a piece of bacon, a chop or a tenderloin that they run the risk of contract H1N1.  Stop and just imagine this for a moment...death by bacon.  I can think of worse ways to go!

Pigs & swine and pork have been filling the airwaves, internet and headlines all this week, but they have all played a central role in the relationship I have with the one whom I adore.   We love pork here in the Oyster Bed Bridge.  The sound & smell of bacon cooking is part of our Sunday morning  ritual, and at least once or twice a week I'll whip up a roasted pork tenderloin or a big feed of chops.  Pork, it's the OTHER white meat.

Two years ago when we were in Florence I snapped this picture of 4 little pigs enjoying Chianti and what one can only assume is good Italian slop at a local enoteca.  Look closely...there really are four stuffed pigs sitting at this table. 

It shocked me at first, but then we realized that the WHOLE place was full of HAM.  Rows and rows and rows of ham curing on the walls.  So OF COURSE I had Dwayne pose amongst them.   PICTURE OF DWAYNE IS MISSING - TOO BAD, IT WAS REALLY A GOOD ONE! 

We had read in one of the guidebooks that at Florence's central mercato was a bronze statue of Il Porcolino and if you rubbed its nose it would bring you good luck.  So, after our first swine encounter in the city, of course, we set out immediately to find the big bronze pig and then we snapped THIS picture of me going in for a kiss on the snout.

Perhaps my best pork story, however, takes place during the very earliest days of our relationship, on our first joint grocery shopping expedition.  A simple pork chop could very well have ended our relationship before it ever began.     Have I mentioned that the one whom I adore is a financial guy?  A financial guy who is never happier then when he has discovered a DEAL?  Did I mention I'm a marketer?  A woman who will whore herself out to stay loyal to a brand she loves?  Our very first fight went down in the meat aisle at the local Safeway.  We were shopping for pork chops for dinner.   I found my favourite brand of chop and casually tossed them into the cart.  Meanwhile he had found a package of chops that were twice the size and thickness of the ones I had selected and cost less money!   He simply made a mild suggestion that perhaps the chops he had located were, ahem, a better value  then mine.  Forgive him Lord, for he knew not what he did.  Either did I, actually.  Hormones must have been raging that week because I took my pack of pork chops and threw them at him.  Yes, I chucked chops right at his head, right there in the meat aisle at the Hinton Safeway.  As I stomped away I (not so mildly) suggested it would be best if he did the (insert expletive here) shopping from now on.     

It is testimony to the patience and understanding of the man that I would one day marry.  He took my pork chop outburst in stride.  He put my expensive & thin chops back in the cooler and carried on his merry way, checking us out and loading the bags into the car.  He didn't flip out at me, although he would have had every right to, given my infantile fit.  He didn't punish me by acting all hurt and put out.  No, he simply filed the incident away in his memory and carried on as though nothing had happened.  That, my dear Internet, is a man worth marrying. 

So, the moral of this story, dear Internet is this:  not every swine you encounter is a pig and not every pig will give you the Swine Flu.  Do your part for the pork producers everywhere and put a little pork on your fork.  Or at least between two slices of bread.

Kim's Pork Tenderloin

Ingredients:

1 pork tenderloin, silver skin trimmed

Garlic

Salt

Pepper

Herbes de Provence

Balsamic Vinaigrette

Method:

Stud the trimmed pork tenderloin with chopped garlic, salt, pepper an herbes de Provence at least one hour prior to roasting.  Roast at 375-degrees until meat thermometer reads 165 at the thickest part of the tenderloin.  Remove & rest five minutes.

Before serving glaze with Balsamic Vinaigrette (recipe below) and serve.

Balsamic Vinaigrette:

1/4 cup Balsamic Vinegar

3 Tbsp Olive Oil

2 Tbsp honey

1 Tbsp dijon mustard

1 Tsp Herbes de Provence

1/4 Tsp Salt

1/4 Tsp Pepper

Combine all ingredients and glaze tenderloin prior to serving.  Also serves as a great salad dressing.

Overhead

Her "I just wanna be mad for a while"

Him  "What are you mad at?"

Her  "Nothing"

Him "Then why do you want to be mad for a while?"

Her "I'm not, er, I don't."

Him  "But you just said I just wanna be mad for a while!"

Her "um, it's called singing"

Him "hmm, hard to tell"

Her  "now you're making me mad"