I like the pot. It’s a beauty. It’s cast iron with an enamel coating. The pot’s a nice size and it cleans up like a dream. I’ve baked cabbage rolls in the pot. I’ve roasted chickens stuffed with garlic and rosemary. I’ve spent hours simmering beef bourguignon. Last December the pot helped grace my table with the prime rib roast I make for Christmas each year.
The pot was a wedding present. Not my wedding mind you.
I have a lovely friend. She met a man and fell in love. They threw caution to the wind, picked up their lives, and moved across the country. They bought a house. They made new friends. They got married. They received the pot as a wedding present. The marriage ended. The house was sold. They divided the things they wanted and gave away what they didn’t. And now I have the pot.
I was okay to take the pot. I’m always up for new cookware. Well I was okay until someone mentioned that the pot was high-end Le Creuset cookware. A quick internet search revealed what I was calling a roasting pan was in fact a pot referred to as Dutch oven and the one taking up space in my cupboard had a suggested retail price of $380.00 …plus tax. Of course I called my friend and tried to return it. She just laughed and said she’d known it was an expensive item but didn’t care. She wanted it gone. It was a mystery to her why her ex in-laws had bought it as a wedding gift as neither she nor the man she’d married were big home cooks.
Eating together is one of those traditions that strengthen the ties that bind. You sit and talk. You share yourself as you share your meal. Perhaps that was what the pot was supposed to represent as a wedding gift – the opportunity to build, in part, the foundation created when lives are experienced together. I don’t know. Maybe my friend’s ex in-laws are the kind of people who like to spend hundreds of dollars on vaguely unsuitable gifts. Or maybe the pot wasn’t only a pot but instead a best wish for a happy future together.
The pot isn’t the most expensive item that Le Creuset makes. I found a goose pot on Amazon selling for $674.00. If you believe the online reviews it’s worth every penny. I can’t even imagine spending that kind of cash for a pot or a pan. That being said, chances are I’m going to own the pot longer than my friend was married. Longer even than the sum total time of her relationship.
Le Creuset cookware is warranted to be free from defects in material and workmanship at the time of its purchase. If it’s broken when you buy it they replace it. I spoke to my friend last week. She moved back across the country earlier this year and she’s still trying to figure out where it all went wrong. It’s never easy. People aren’t cookware. Relationships don’t come with any kind of guarantee. The strength of the promises made between two people is only equal to the will and intent of the parties joined together. And what you see (or choose to see) isn’t always what you get. If someone is broken, a bad fit, or just wrong, you don’t get to simply reset. You either decide you can live that way or you move on. It’s much easier to fix a pot.
I’m going to make something warm and bubbly this weekend. I’m not sure what yet but it’s going to be one of those dishes that fill the house with a marvellous smell. As I sit down to share my meal I’ll spare a thought of thanks to my friend for her friendship as well as the pot. I think she’s going to be okay. It will take more of letting things go but she’s well on her way. And like the pot her heart might even find a new home.
Because the pot and the marriage contract are the promise and the meal and the relationship are the fulfillment the music for this post is the Wilder Adkins song When I’m Married
*A brief note of explanation to avoid confusion – This passage was written in mid December. Life being what it is (busy/unpredictable) I wasn’t able to post it until now.
It’s night and the house shudders in the wind. Today’s snow has turned to sleet. Freezing rain is a burst of pellet spray against the windows. Something heavy thuds down outside. There’s a hum before the furnace kicks in with a comforting rumble but cold air still finds a way to creep in through the lath and plaster walls. For the first time this year I hear a plow pass by out on the highway. I miss November.
Normally by this time I’ve seen enough snow to last me the season. This year there’s barely been a dusting (until today). December’s brought a lot of rain mostly. It was a brief reprieve before the inevitability of a Canadian winter. The gravel drag of the plow blade as it meets pavement can’t be denied. I am nostalgic for November.
I don’t remember such a November. Maybe it seems singular in that every warm beautiful day stood in startling contrast to the rain and sleet and snow of Novembers past. Along the lakeshore the wind that ushers in the end of autumn is stinging, bitter with the winter to come. The wind that came this November was silken and warm. It was still strong but smelled of clean earth and sunshine instead of the damp and rot of a dying season. What should have been skies of pale tones of cornflower or dead slate gray were draped in summer shades of magnesium blue. The light was such that the early sunsets of short autumn days came as a surprise. Rather than frost-bitten brown, the fields and lawns wore green velvet expanses of fallow, moss, grass, and winter wheat.
The night sky was the most remarkable thing. On clear nights, a low ceiling of stars blazed over head so bright I swear you’d think twice before reaching out your hand for fear it could burn in that cold fire. The moon, in part, and in whole, was like no other moon. Early in the evening it rose as a titan figure gigantic on the horizon. Often crowned in a halo, at its zenith the light of even a sliver was bright enough to give pause. One night in particular, at its rising, the moon was a Cheshire grin of golden caramel scooped out of black velvet skin. By midnight the crescent above was hard white, so brilliant that the moon was outlined in a diamond silhouette. That night I dreamt I lay sleeping within a curved arm of golden skin sheened in silver light. I sheltered in that languid embrace until the break of day. When I awoke I swore a scent lingered in the linen, the crisp smell of fallen leaves and something else indefinable.
The wind is howling now.
It’s so cold and dark.
I miss November.
I hike nearby trails and the shoreline for inspiration and pleasure year round. I stop often to take pictures, draw in my sketch book, wade out into the shallow waters of Lake Erie in summer, or brave the ice bound shores in winter. There are times though when I want to walk without any purpose other than to walk, think a little (or a lot), and feel the ground move beneath my feet. During the winter poor weather and snow banks force me inside to walk for kilometres on a gym treadmill. Early spring brings the thaw but not good walking conditions. The snow banks are dark with dirt and crusted salt. As the banks melt, brine bleached trash and frozen roadkill are laid bare. Sometimes the snow under the dead animals takes longer to melt and the bodies seem to sleep curled up on snowy biers sporadically marking the gravel shoulder. Summer has now arrived and with the fair weather I can finally walk along the roadside. I set up little routes for myself so I’m not gone for too long (or too short- I want to take a WALK not a little stroll). I use Google maps to pick a distance and direction. Seven to ten kilometres does the trick, the points of the compass are variable.
I walk mostly in the early evening to avoid the sun and the heat. I try not to start too late as nightfall on a rural road is a singularly isolating experience. I don’t mind being alone. In the dark though, walking along the unlit gravel shoulder, the lights of distant farm houses take on a mysterious aura. You can hear an approaching car from far away but the sudden interruption of the headlights is still blinding. It must be startling to see a woman at the side of the road caught in the beams, stark against the darkness of the fields. A glance into the rear view mirror would show me melting from the red cast of the tail lights to fade back into the darkness. Last month I did walk past the village boundary very late to try to see the Aurora Borealis. It was well past midnight, still and clear. I didn’t go far though as the coyotes were sending up a full chorus that echoed round the fields to come back from the darkness all around.
So I walk in the early evening where I often encounter the golden hour. The quality of light is such that everything is bathed in a warm glow. The growing darkness under the hedgerows is velvet soft. My shadow stretches out away from me, a thin giant, elongated by the rays of the sinking sun. Walking along the roadside I can take the time to see things. I acknowledge birds on barbed wire fences, deer off in the thickets, all of the sky with the setting sun and the rising moon opposite each other, and everything else around me. I listen to the wind and the sound of my feet crunching on the gravel. I think about everything and nothing. It doesn’t free me from the cares and concerns that mark any life. It’s true that you take yourself with you wherever you go. But for ever how long it is that I am walking I enjoy the act of being where I am with nothing else to do but move forward and be.
The song for this post is The Talking Heads ‘Road to Nowhere’ because I’m walking but I’m not really going anywhere other than exactly where I am.
I’ve been on Facebook since 2007. My account currently indicates that I have 440 Facebook friends. Some of the people on my Friends List are family or individuals I actually know. Others are people who I have common interests with, or I “liked” something on a page we both frequent, or we play the same online game. I occasionally go through my Friends List to clear accounts that have been abandoned or were added for games I don’t play any more. I don’t always remove former game players as I sometimes develop an online relationship that I guess would translate to a kind of neighbourly liking of each others’ posts or commenting on happy or sad statuses. Recently whilst cleaning up my account I discovered that two people on my List had passed away. We’d played the same Facebook game. Neither had popped up on my feed for a while and when I checked their accounts there were messages of condolence, outpourings of grief and disbelief, from people who actually knew them.
One account belonged to a young man who had died of complications following a car accident. The other account belonged to a woman who, along with other members of her family, had been murdered. The postings on their account pages clearly spoke to the tragedy of these deaths and that the deceased were well loved and held a special place in the hearts of those who knew them. That, more than anything else, was why I deleted their accounts from my Friends List.
I didn’t know either of these people in real life but I felt a twinge of guilt removing them from my Friends List. For several years I’d seen their family/friends photos as well as status postings about life and family events. We’d liked some of the same things. But that didn’t make us friends. Perhaps that twinge of guilt had to do with sympathy for lives lost to violence and lives ended too soon. Or maybe it had to do with that overlapping of our online interactions that provided an illusion of connection. I’m not sure. I do know that for me, maintaining access to those two Facebook accounts, where their friends and families were posting heartbreaking messages, felt like an invasion of privacy. Facebook is a public forum but the few postings I did read made me feel as if I was eavesdropping on a very personal and painful conversation that I had no right to hear. Even though they will never know, deleting those account connections seemed like the very least I could do to honour the loss, and respect and acknowledge the right of their friends and families to grieve.
Music for this post – I went back and forth trying to decide what would best suit this post and I finally decided on Warren Zevon’s ‘Keep Me In Your Heart’ . I hope the friends and families of those who passed on will hold close to any good memories they have.
A quick bit of research revealed that most online organizations have, or are in the process of implementing, policies that deal with death and the internet. I think they still have a long way to go. Perhaps in the future instead of sifting through ancient tombs to explore history, archaeologists will have to recreate ancient operating systems and applications to access first hand knowledge of life (and death) during the birth of the digital age.
Lola always likes to “help” with the laundry but here she decided to take a break and enjoy the spring breeze coming in through the basement window.
I have water in my basement. I don’t mean a sink with a tap (though I have that down there as well). I mean I have water leaking into my basement which led to someone asking me why there was a sock in my toilet. At first glance the “toilet sock” and a leaky basement wouldn’t seem connected but there are. Normally I can attribute things out of place to Lola. Out of my 2 cats she’s the one who likes to carry things around. Once I saw her walk by with a ring box clenched in her mouth. I’m not sure where she was going with it but I made sure she didn’t get there. She is fond of the toilet in a butt in the air head below the rim sort of way but to my knowledge she hasn’t been storing stuff in there.
I most likely dropped the sock in the toilet while I was sorting laundry in the bathroom. My washer is in the basement so I’ve been sorting laundry upstairs because of the puddles downstairs. Thank goodness someone saw the sock before using the toilet. I’m pretty sure it would have created a clog if flushed down. I would prefer to have zero puddles inside so the prospect of an overflowing toilet on top of the already wet basement was very unattractive.
My house was built in 1910 so it wouldn’t have been constructed with a full basement. Here’s a picture of my house (probably taken 1940 to 1950-ish).
Back in the day, with no electricity or plumbing, a basement wasn’t important because you didn’t need to make sure you had a warm space to protect your infrastructure from the elements. My basement shows clear signs that it was a work in progress for a number of years with a hodgepodge of older and newer bits formed from different materials. There’s a room in my basement that’s not completely dug out and we do our best to pretend it doesn’t exist because it’s kind of creepy.
So where is the water coming from? Well something called hydrostatic pressure is pushing ground water from the spring thaw up through any little crack it can find in the foundation. We have a sump pump pit but it can only do so much. It wasn’t a problem when we first moved in but when the municipality updated the drains along the road, the change in the elevation of the shoulder resulted in increased snow and rain run off onto our property. I’m sure it didn’t help that we went awhile without cleaning out our eaves. Last summer we had the roof re-shingled and the roofers took care of that for us. It was quite timely as there was a sapling growing up there that needed to come out before it got much larger.
Daily vacuuming helps to keep the water under control but it gets a bit disheartening to have to jump puddles in your basement. To add insult to injury my dryer broke down last week. The basement is too wet to have a repair tech come and fix the dryer right now. I do have a clothes line outside but it’s April and April means spring showers which makes hanging clothes out to dry an iffy proposition. Alas my laundry is beset both inside and out by the forces of nature. Hopefully everything will dry out soon. Eventually I’ll have to take care of the basement puddle problem permanently as a leaky foundation can lead to a whole host of other serious problems. It’ll be expensive …what house repair isn’t? But it would be even more expensive just to leave it. In the mean time I’ll do my best to keep my feet dry and my socks out of the toilet.
Music for this post;
Al Jolson – April Showers
MC Tracky-Dactyl – Laundryman
It’s -12°C right now (that’s about 10 °F for you Fahrenheit users). I think the coldest it’s been here this winter has been – 22°C. The drifts of snow are so high in my backyard that the dogs are having trouble finding spots to comfortably do their business. The cats act as if it’s a personal insult every time the kitchen door opens and a blast of winter air rushes in. It’s cold outside and I have ladybugs in my kitchen.
When the crop rotation behind my house is beans, come harvest time, we’re inundated with ladybugs. They cover the back of the house and creep in through cracks. You have to give the back door a good shake before you open it all the way or ladybugs will drop off the screen right onto you like nasty little assassins (despite the “lady” in the name they certainly aren’t ladylike – they bite). Because they range in colour from light brown to red, I accidentally ate one once thinking it was an un-popped kernel of popping corn. It wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever eaten but it was pretty close.
Two weeks ago a big fat fly flew into my head. It ricocheted off and landed on the floor all winter sleepy and easy to catch. A couple of days later I watched one of the dogs lick a spider off the wall. It wasn’t even a regular house spider but one of those stilt legged monstrosities that lunge along like the alien machines in a H.G. Wells novel. The other night I was lying in bed and I thought I heard a mosquito. Maybe I was dreaming, or it could have been a delayed concussion from that fly whacking me in the head. On reflection it couldn’t have been a mosquito. It could have been the hum of a dying light bulb or a fly induced ringing of the ears. The alternative would be to have to wonder about the why/ how of a mosquito in my house – in FEBRUARY – in ONTARIO – CANADA. And I’m not willing to do that.
Fall is long past. It’s February which is the time of year that all the creepy crawlies and antennaed thing-a-ma-bobs should be hunkered down into whatever crevice they’ve opted for to avoid the deadly grip of the season. Having bugs around in winter is definitely something I could do without (especially the ladybugs). If I had my way the fact that it’s cold enough to freeze our pond outside should mean it is cold enough to keep the bugs down and out. Here’s the thing- Summer and fall it is warm so you put up with the bugs. Winter you put up with the cold so you shouldn’t have to deal with the bugs. It makes perfect sense to me. Now if I could just get the laws of nature to fall in line-that would be great.
Music for this post is Weezer- Go Away ft. Bethany Cosentino (Live Acoustic KROQ Soundspace)
Or if you prefer (in deference to the title of this post) here’s something from Ray Charles Hit the Road Jack
I can’t tell if this plant is dead. It looks dead but maybe it isn’t. Things do seem pretty dire but this plant has a history of fading only to suddenly spring back to life; quite on its own with no help from me. It’s never looked this bad though.
I’d like to say that I try really hard to keep my house plants going. I’d like to say it – but I can’t. The truth is I don’t. As long as the weather permits they’re outside on the porch under the auspices of Mother Nature. The spring, summer, and early fall are a great time for house plants on the porch. It’s winter inside that’s the kicker.
It’s not that I don’t care. I try to position them out of draughts and close to light sources. I cover the soil with tin foil and rocks so the cats can’t dig in it. But I don’t have that green thumb thing going on. I don’t always remember to water or I over water. I’ve tried plant food but with limited success. I don’t talk to my plants. My mother talks to her plants. My mother has the touch. She is the reason I have house plants. I’ve never bought a plant for inside (plenty for outdoors- they seem to respond well to my plant ‘em and leave ‘em alone approach). For my mom a house isn’t a home without plants therefore I have house plants.
My mom’s house is full of beautiful, healthy plants. She collects plant clippings and she’s not shy about it. Public gardens, shops, doctors’ offices- if she sees a plant she likes she grabs a bit to take home. Once whilst attending a family funeral she snapped a sprig from a plant in the funeral home lobby. She wasn’t the least bit discrete about it. It was after the service and everyone was drinking coffee, expressing their condolences, sharing memories of the deceased. She dampened a napkin with water from her drinking glass, grabbed some Saran wrap off a sandwich tray that was being unwrapped, and packaged up her clipping to keep it fresh for the trip home. There’s no way that this situation I currently find myself in would ever happen under her watch.
I just read a story about a guy who was in a vegetative state for 12 years. They thought he’d never recover. Well he came to and now he’s right as rain and happily living his life.* It wouldn’t make a lick of sense to compare an individual’s life journey to that of a plant. It’s not the same thing at all. But there is some kind of parallel in that things aren’t always the way they seem to be. I could be wrong obviously. After all, my mother does steal plant clippings so my world may be a little more grey (or green) than black and white. I think I’m going to tuck the plant back on the shelf and see what happens. It can’t hurt it and relatively speaking spring is not that far away.
Music for this post
Frank Sinatra and Eddie Hodges High Hopes
*. Well he does have quite the hate for Barney the Dinosaur. Turns out that he was aware but trapped inside his body for 10 of those years and they didn’t know it. Whilst in care they would prop him up and pop a Barney tape into the old VCR for hours at a time. They probably thought they were doing a bit of kindness when in fact they were irritating the snot out of him.
Windows Technical Support called me this morning to inform me that my computer was in “danger”. I had just gotten up, which is not a great time of the day for me. I’m not particularly “verbal” or clear-headed before I’ve finished my first cup of coffee. Rather than hanging up immediately I said “no”. I then proceeded to say “no” every time he paused to take a breath during his spiel. He eventually realized I wasn’t responding in the appropriate/hoped for way and asked me what I meant when I said “no”. He became a little testy when my first full sentence included the words “everyone knows this is a scam”. Once again I know I should have hung up but in my defense I was still half asleep. He then expressed interest in the intimacy of my assumed marital status. “I hope your husband fucks you”. Um -no you don’t but thanks…I guess. Not content to stop there he took it one step further and informed me that he “wanted to fuck me”. Actually what he said was “I want to fuck you ma’am”. I should add here that the caller had a South Asian/Indian accent. One could assume he was calling from India so rape from afar wasn’t much of a threat. Perhaps I should keep an eye out during the next week for someone stalking me wearing a fake Windows Support Team polo shirt and a South Asian complexion. At that point I did wake up a little more and hung up the phone after wishing him a future filled with prison bars. What a lovely start to my day.
Now that I’ve had a chance to reflect 2 questions come to mind that I have no answers for;
#1-Threat of rape “ma’ am”(Don’t get me wrong –I’m not traumatized by some douche on the phone being an idiot) – Is that a cultural “go to” thing threat wise? Is that a racist thing for me to wonder? I know sexual assault can happen anywhere so that’s not the point. I live in North America where, I think, you’re more likely to hear fuck you or go fuck yourself (at least over the phone). Rape is a big media headline for South Asia/India so would I be making a judgement via a cultural bias (admittedly based on actual events) emphasized through media exposure?
#2- WHO IS BUYING INTO THIS SCAM??? I mean they wouldn’t do it unless it was making money so it must work. The idea that “Microsoft” or “Windows Support” individually monitors every one of their products purchased and calls you when there’s a problem is so outlandish. In addition this one has been making the rounds so often that my 74-year-old mother has sent me a “FWD: FWD: FWD” email about it (along with a number of others concerning –not flashing your headlights at another car, not pulling over for an unmarked police car, not accepting business cards from strangers…etc-Lord love her). I’m not saying there aren’t sophisticated scams out there that could fool even literate/savvy computer users but this one doesn’t come close.
The call made me a little nostalgic for the Nigerian Prince scam emails… at least they were sometimes addressed to “My Dearest”.
Music for this post- Lowest of the Low “Salesmen, Cheats and Liars“
This post was written mostly off-line and discusses 2 separate events approximately 3 weeks apart~
I have no home internet access as I type this. Today so far I’ve missed out on learning how to keep avocados from ripening too quickly, finding out what Seals and Crofts look(ed) like, downloading a template for jumping jacks, as well as the usual things I look up on a regular basis like email, on-line newspapers, and the weather. I live in a rural area so internet access can be a bit spotty. Well maybe not for those who have mucho dinero to spend but I’m just a regular Joe so I have to take what I can afford. When I first moved out to the country the only thing available in my area was dial-up so what I have now (satellite internet) is an improvement. Though it claims to be broadband I seriously have my doubts. It’s a trade-off; Beautiful country living- mostly craptastic internet. There was a storm last night and today is Canada Day so chances are the internet will be down until tomorrow. It’s usually down for a day or so though several weeks ago it went down for 3 days. That one wasn’t an area outage though. It was just my account. My Internet Service Provider had no idea what the problem was. They were going to send out a technician but it would be a 3 day wait. In a strange turn of events the next day my land line stopped working. The phone company assured me a technician would be there as quickly as possible… in 3 days. Cue the scary music as those 2 combined events felt a bit like the beginning of a slasher flick with the main character slowly being isolated from the outside world. I used my cell phone to text my family to let them know and admonished them to “avenge my death” after my bloodied corpse was discovered.
The land line wasn’t a big deal as I still had the cell phone. I often go without internet access when I travel but three days of being at home with no internet was a big deal. I found myself wandering around the house unsure of how to proceed. Apparently I check my email over and over again each day given the amount of times I found myself trying to access my account to see if the internet had magically reconnected. Recipes for dinner, movie reviews, random fact checks that usually lead to hours of website and Wikipedia searches, life hack tips, funny cat pictures, and guitar tutorials were no longer at my fingertips. How many sticks of butter make up a cup? What do the lyrics of Pink Martini’s Sympathique translate to? Should I be concerned about this mole(help me WebMD!)? For an individual who once spent a summer as a child reading encyclopaedias, the internet information highway is a heady place. Then there are the blogs and newsletters I subscribe to as well as daily or weekly updates from YouTube channel subscriptions, galleries and theatre groups I follow or am associated with. Oh and of course my 2 blogs, my 3 email accounts, Pinterest, Facebook and the on-line volunteer work I do for a local non-profit (website updates and production promotion) Yikes it’s a lot! And it all happens on the internet. Maybe it’s a good thing it does go out every once in awhile-AND I’m just kidding about that.
When the 3 day outage was finally resolved by my ISP (frankly it sounded like someone accidentally turned it off at their end) I had almost 200 emails in my primary account and pretty much the same in the other 2 plus all the other flotsam and jetsam It took me a couple of days to get through the backlog. When this stuff happens I start thinking about the amount of time I spend on-line. Other than woefully staring at my router multiple times a day when my connection is unavailable I actually get quite a bit done, work and home upkeep wise. Lines of thought about quality versus quantity and simplifying my internet scheduling, maybe a little less Pop Urls and random surfing, start to arise. Honestly though as soon as I get back on-line those thoughts seem to fade away faster than droplets of dew in the morning sun. Chances are when the signal is back up I’ll head right back to Imgur or Wikipedia because you know…funny cat pictures and information.
Well the latest internet connection interruption has been repaired (obviously as I’ve been able to post this). First order of business after a little over 30 hours of no web access; Google search engine query “How long do squirrels live for?”
Music for this post- Seals and Crofts “Summer Breeze” because Wikipedia says they are still alive and members of the Baha’i faith (I couldn’t tell you much about the later as I only made it through the first paragraph on that page) and of course Pink Martini “Sympathique“.
Sigh- What a time to be alive…