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.

Zombie Prince

Rum, orange juice, grapefruit juice - blah. That's a recipe for gastritis if anything is. Jule tried a sip and was not impressed - hence the frowning "o" in "zombie.

I have a bottle of pomegranate juice in the fridge, which I purchased thinking surely at least one cocktail in my book must require it, but no. So I'm drinking a lot of pomegranate juice with soda water, which is refreshing, but does not contribute in any way to this project. I've just recently realized that fruit juices really shouldn't be kept opened in the fridge for more than a few days - they go bad. Grenadine, also. There was a murky white tornado in my grenadine when I swirled it, and it stank; very disappointing, as it's expensive and only comes in huge bottles, for some reason. I hate wasting food. Nothing much gives me more satisfaction than using up the last of some unusual ingredient, or the last of the vegetables in the crisper, not having to throw anything out.

Nothing worse than freezer burn.

That's from Saturday Night Live. Nothing worse? Cancer? Nope - freezer burn's worse. Etc.

I found out my TSH and CBC are normal, as of last week, so that's a pretty good indication that I'm not losing weight due to illness, which means I must be losing weight due to my lifestyle, diet and exercise! I eat continuously, and for exercise, I walk and do a few sit-ups and push-ups now and then, so that's pretty good! Or it's stress. Or the celexa. Or maybe gastritis, PUD? Hopefully not.

Bored and busy and tired and restless all at the same time. It's been a good weekend, though. I jumped on the trampoline with Caleb and Jule, with the sprinkler underneath drenching us, and took them garage sale-cruising, and grocery-shopping, and packed for Hamilton next weekend, and hoed the garden, and ate and drank with friends at the Old A, and watched "New Moon" (for Caleb), and "The Hurt Locker". "War is a drug". Sort of makes me want to give my life to the army. No, not really; I'm a pacifist. To something so pure and dirty, though, so focused - walking The Pilgrim's Way, for example - that would do it, I think. Flagging on construction - the hot, dusty monotony.

I dreamed that I was living with an old man in England, I was scheduled to be there three months, and spent my time sleeping, dusting cobwebs from the corners, cooking over a wood fire. I realized I could take a few weeks to walk the stony hills with my sleeping bag on my back, and decided to do it, and could hardly believe my luck.

Sweet Pearl Onions

Icelandic poppies at the Bellagio. I had a sweet meal of crepes and salad out of a styrofoam container, rushing past this garden on my way back to the ER course at Planet Hollywood, a month ago in Vegas.

A month ago?? How can time move like that?

I have been working and trying to sleep, not drinking much alcohol because my stomach's so often upset. A few days ago I gulped down a Gibson Martini before Jule's hockey wind-up at the Legion; it fit perfectly into the day, gin and vermouth and pearl onions, sweet pearl onions on a skewer, yum. The whole day was perfect; it was my day off, and I had nobody in hospital to round on; I got up at nine, had a bath, drank coffee, tidied the kitchen counter which had been packed with random papers for way too long, ate a healthy lunch, organized the tax stuff with Pat without a major argument, bought used books at Wildwood Country, attended an appointment with Dr. Hwang who ordered the bloodwork that I requested, walked across the river and past Centennial Park and over the river again with my family, drank a Gibson Martini, had spaghetti and wine at the Legion, talked animatedly with Doug, drove Caleb to karate and smoked a cigar, the sky heavy with clouds, watched Jule receive his first hockey trophy, spent an hour at the Friends of the Library book sale and bought four bags of terrific used books, read a short story by Evelyn Lau, ran twice around the block, ate a night snack with the kids, and went to bed, slept soundly. The ideal mix of family and alone time, rest and work and exercise; and the weather was good, too.

My stomach did not hurt that day.

Kumquat May

I have not made a Kumquat May and probably never will. I did not even look for a market in the San Diego area that might possibly carry kumquats this time of year. It was so hectic; it always is, traveling with kids. I attended my resuscitation course in Las Vegas, we went to Legoland, where they've built a miniature Las Vegas out of Lego, and to Seaworld, where Patrick was thrilled to see Shamu in action, and Caleb had a blast on the water rides. We drove around San Diego in the rain one day wondering what to do, and ended up at an air and space museum, followed by Borders, where I bought three Agatha Christie mysteries that I may or may not have previously read - I did not even think of shopping for kumquats. I was kind of out of it the whole trip, dissatisfied despite the fine weather, the successful surf lesson, the comfortable king bed at the Desert Rose Resort, the cozy ancient cabin at Redwood Hollow a block from the ocean. Now that I'm back at work, on call for 48 hours straight, I feel better. What's with that?

It could be existential despair, and I've been reading my horoscope and praying intensely trying to discover what to do, what to change. It could just be PMS, though, which is over now, and the fact that I had strep throat again, third time since January, the last two days of our trip. I was feverish and dysphagic in Winnipeg, so managed only to keep my hair appointment with the lovely David at The Vault, and did not look for passion fruit at an Asian grocery store as I'd planned to, either.

No kumquats, no passion fruit.

What I discovered so far, praying and so on, is that I am to make peace with my relatives, and also I figured out what my ideal lifestyle would be: work three days per week, no call, lots of time to read and write and walk and swim and garden and cook, with four weeks per year of walking (ie. The Pilgrim's Way in Spain, Coast-to-Coast trail across England, The Appalachian Way, etc.), four weeks per year of writing (hidden away in a cabin or camper near water so I can take breaks to swim or surf or kayak), plus a week or two at the lake in the summer and a week or two of CME. So that means ten weeks off per year, and a practice with no call, which means less income than I have now. It also means eight weeks per year away from home essentially without kids, because what I'm talking about is walking all day, or writing all day, focused activity, marathons of meditation, which I think is what I'm missing in this life of work-home commotion and family vacations... so really what I'm saying, I suppose, is that this is what I should be working towards for the future, like ten years from now, when Jule is 16 and I am 46.

So what for now?

Marathons of call instead, and a blog, I guess.

Gin Sour

This is Caleb on Thursday at Mount MacKay. Today he is sick, vomiting repeatedly, his skin grey. He is almost a teenager. I just realized that when my mother was the age that I am now, I was sixteen; or, the other way around, when I was sixteen, my mother was merely the age that I am now. It seems like only a few years ago.

We are watching the scene in Star Wars where Annakin becomes Darth Vader. Sad pregnant Padme is dead. Shadow is kneading the blanket, the laptop, my knee. She is either annoyingly affectionate or scarily violent, this cat - she has no in-between moods.

So, between vomiting episodes today I made a Gin Sour, which also contains a raw egg white, not too bad shaken with lemon and gin and orange juice - a little like Caesar salad. For supper I had scrambled egg yokes (had to use up the second half of those eggs) and avocado and arugula salad and rice pudding, while Caleb nibbled on a rice cake.

I am trapped in my wreck of a house, the sky darkening, wind bending the trees.

I hope we are all well for Las Vegas, and I hope the outdoor pools are open.

I suspect I need to supplement zinc - or start eating oysters.