Little Lies

I can't seem to load up a picture, and I'm on call so I am drinking green tea and eating digestive cookies, not making a cocktail, so there's really not much relevance to this entry, but I do have a few things that I'd like to say. First of all, alcohol for me is a food, as it tends to be for Europeans, and for first generation Italian-Americans, according to a study I read in The New Yorker, whereas by the second and third generations even Italian Americans begin to behave as if it's a tool of the devil, a precursor to loud, raucous behavior, indiscriminate sex, and violence, as is the American way. It is calories, it is sugar, it is more enjoyable than water or juice or milk, healthier than pop, enhances the flavor of food, projects an atmosphere onto the evening. Last weekend we ate farmer sausage and new potatoes at Grandma's cabin and there was beer in her fridge belonging to my uncle and Grandma pointed it out just to say that she didn't know who it belonged to and she wasn't offering us any, though she knew perfectly well that it belonged to my uncle and that he'd willingly share, which he did, when he arrived. She just wanted to make it very clear that in her opinion, it was a poisonous, sinful thing that had somehow made its way into her fridge, and she did not condone it. Forbidden fruit.

Secondly, I'd like to say that parents should not lie to their children, ever, about anything. The children will eventually find out, and when they do, their feelings will be hurt, their faith in the essential goodness of humanity will be shattered, and it will be all your fault. This happened to me yesterday, with Caleb. Last year for his birthday I promised to bake him a coconut cream pie, which I had every intention of doing, but my week got way too busy with a couple of crazy call days and the morning before his party I still hadn't found a good recipe or shopped for ingredients and was lamenting such to a co-worker who pointed out that Wendy Tutkaluk bakes a mean coconut cream pie, and phoned her up, and she said she'd have one ready for me to pick up at five. So I went for it, and Caleb raved about the pie, and Pat said something like, "Yeah, isn't your mom a good baker?" and Caleb agreed, and I said nothing. So this year I again asked Wendy to bake a coconut cream pie for Caleb's birthday, and he enjoyed it with his friends, and had a second piece yesterday evening, and said, "Mom, you make the best coconut cream pies." I felt guilty, and told him the truth, whereupon he was unable to look me in the eye, and cried, and took himself straight to bed. For a whole year he believed that I was an amazing baker of coconut cream pies, and then to find out that it wasn't true... it shattered him. Think how much worse it would have been had it gone on until he was older, a teenager, off to university and bragging to his friends about my abilities, only to find out that it had all been a lie... Thank God today he is speaking to me again. It is hard, failing one's children, falling off one's pedestal as it is chipped away, piece by piece by piece.

I damaged Jule's sense of security yesterday as well, when I commented on the oil that continues to gush into the Gulf of Mexico, saying something like, "They're going to destroy the whole world with this one." Jule burst into tears and exclaimed, "But I haven't even had a chance to grow up yet!" That after watching America's Next Top Model and deciding that it's his new favorite show - the bleached-out blonde girls, especially, he found irresistably pretty.

And lastly, I would like to wish Bono well following his emergency back surgery. I was anxious all morning on Friday for no good reason, then suddenly around noon felt better, probably, though I did not realize it at the time, because Bono was finished up in the O.R. I am a little bit psychic, and I believe that he is too, and we communicated. On Monday, for the first time in months, I checked U2.com for an update about the tour, and they had just that afternoon announced that the whole North American leg was being postponed until next year. I am hoping this means new songs, maybe even a new album before they come to Canada again. It definitely means no trip to Edmonton this June, which is disappointing, but then I really could use those vacation days this fall, when Patrick's back at university and I'm alone responsible for the kids. Perhaps the three of us will take a quick trip to Paris, for a U2 concert, if I decide I can't wait until 2011. Just kidding. Can't do that. Jule's too young. Also the cost. Etc.

Darn.

Gimlets and Goop

This is Caleb, aged 6, building a city out of cans and half-lemons. Today he baked a cake without a recipe, and it actually became cake, pale chocolate and coconut and chocolate chips, a bit goopy but basically edible. I could never do that.

My stomach and chest and back hurt, possibly from jogging this morning, possibly from sleeping on the hide-a-bed at the hospital. It has been brilliantly warm outside - people are swimming in the lakes already - and being post-call today I am euphoric, restless, anxious and tired all at once.

As for drinks, I have made, in the past twelve days, a Gimlet (very easy - gin, lime cordial, and water), an Arthur Tompkins (gin, Grand Marnier, and lemon juice), a Spiced Raspberry Daiquiri (not worth mentioning, really - Captain Morgan's spiced rum with raspberry goop and some other liquids), and today, a Cuban Sidecar (easy, drinkable, rum and triple sec and lime juice shaken up and decanted into a martini glass - I could do that again, but will I?). I will definitely drink Gimlets in the future, and forget about the other two.

Speaking of goop, Gwyneth Paltrow's website's quite nice, makes a person want her life, the restaurants, spas, Chris Martin and all. She's 37, only a year older than me. Reese Witherspoon and Kate Winslet are about my age as well, which comforts me somewhat - as I age, so will they, and I can observe them. Kate Moss, too. The Kates, particularly, I love.

We'll be in Winnipeg this weekend, and may see Shrek 3 in 3D, or Iron Man 2, definitely not anything aimed at adults, but such is my life, and I must be thankful for it.

I am thankful.

I have too much, I don't appreciate it all, I am afraid.

We bought the Cadillac of fridges last weekend, and I can't wait to have it delivered, have it glowing there on the new hardwood floors, to open its smooth steel doors, its LED lights welcoming me home.

Ciao, Cielo

I spent an hour at the farmers' market in Hamilton last weekend searching for cocktail ingredients and found only passion fruit juice, not that I wasn't thrilled with that, and bought a tote bag at Roots that was filled with bubble wrap so that I'd have something to cushion the bottle of juice in my suitcase, and did not buy the sheepskin rug that I wanted at Ikea because I wouldn't have room in my suitcase due to the bubble-wrapped juice, and I got it home and discovered that there are no recipes in "Cocktail Genius" containing passion fruit juice that do not also call for a whole passion fruit, muddled up, or passion fruit syrup, or some other impossible-to-find passion-fruit-containing thing.

Also, the juice was best before mid-April, so I had Pat open it for me, sniffed it (musty), and poured it down the drain.

I made a Cielo instead this afternoon, containing vodka and creme de cassis (which I own), and lime juice and ginger ale (easy to obtain), and it was very good.

Oh, yes, it also has Peychaud's bitters, which I found in California. Bitters contain 35% alcohol, something I did not know, and Peychaud's bitters, which are anise-flavored, originated in New Orleans. People would add them to their brandy or cognac, to enhance the flavor. Did you know that?

Do you care?

I keep dreaming about living, or vacationing, beside the ocean. It is crucial that I do this for some reason. I must not stay in a cabin a few blocks from La Jolla Shores and surf for a few hours and photograph flamingoes at SeaWorld; I must not take the kids to Universal Orlando Resort to the new Harry Potter Theme Park, stay at a hotel, and go to the beach for the day. I must reside beside water, for weeks, for a month; I must not leave.

We discovered today that there is a very nice year-round home for sale on a perfect lake near Atikokan, where we could launch our boat, swim, eat nachos and salsa on the dock, jump in the sauna. Only it's worth the same as our house, and we're in the middle of installing hardwood floors, and houses take years to sell around here, so it's useless even to think about relocating. I get so restless. Nothing is ever good enough. We have a great place here, only it's not on the water, so I must dream, nightly, about living on the water, to foster my dissatisfaction.