Author: carin

passing it on

~ carin ~ Leave a comment

Thanks to to whoever gave away these books (found on discard/share shelves at my public library).

What My Father Gave Me, anthology edited by Melanie Little, with work by Lisa Moore, Melanie LIttle, Susan Olding, Saleema Nawaz, Cathy Stonehouse, Shannon McFerran, Jessica Raya

Belle, by Florence Gibson

In Green, by Robin Blackburn

“In my hands I’ve got a jar. A large one, the kind my grandma uses for canning. I’m here to fill it. Then I’ll stuff it in my knapsack. And tomorrow morning I’ll cart it to the woods, where, with forty giggling, hiccupping, and wise cracking petty thieves just like me, I will chug its contents before my first class of the day, arriving at school glassy-eyed, rubber-kneed, and instantly popular.

“My best friend, Brenda, has agreed to bring orange juice for the mix.

“I stare at the bottles. The bottles stare back. From the rec room downstairs, my parents’ voices rise and fall in staccato bursts, punctuated by the clink of ice cubes as they set down their tumblers or raise them for the next sip. I need to time this perfectly, before my mom comes upstairs to start supper, before the doorbell rings, and one of them comes to answer it, before their next refill. The time is now.

“I reach for the vodka. Goes better with orange juice, I tell myself. Vodka’s so much better for the morning.

“But the truth is different. In fact, I’d never be able to go through with this plan if I stole the rum. Rum is my dad’s drink. Rum and Coke. Sticky and sweet. It hardly tastes like alcohol at all. It’s a liar’s potion. A denier’s potion. The smell of it makes me vomit. A few years from now, when my friends and I start going to bars with fake ID, they’ll suck back the Daiquiris and the Pina Coladas—bright, like liquid cotton candy. But I won’t order those. Give me Campari and soda or a gin and tocnic. Something bitter. So I remember what I’m doing.”

—from ‘Thirteen Answers for Alateen’ by Susan Olding, from the anthology What my Father Gave Me, edited by Melanie Little, Annick Press, 2010

~

mud pies and pure design

~ carin ~ 5 Comments

“What I Want to Say”  by Pat Schneider

Well, I was playing, see,
in the shadow of the tabernacle.
I was decorating mud pies
with little brown balls
I found scattered on the ground
like nuts, or berries.
Until some big boy came walking by
and laughed. Hey,
don’t you know you’re puttin’ goat doo
on your mud pies? I bet
you’re gonna eat ’em, too!

That day I made a major error
in my creative life.

What I want to say is this:
I liked those little balls
on my mud pies. I was a sculptor,
an artist, an architect. I was
making pure design in space and time.
But I quit
because a critic came along
and called it shit.

—from Another River, by Pat Schneider

cars

~ carin ~ 4 Comments

It was once explained to me that those rusted clunkers you see in farm-yards are the modern day equivalent of the horse put out to pasture.

Supposedly a habit passed down through generations—when a faithful, hardworking nag gets to a certain age and can no longer pull that plough or take you by buggy to the general store, you don’t put it down, you retire it in a field of buttercups and give it all the fresh water it can drink.

Once cars began replacing horses, and it was the old Buick that was packing it in after years of loyal service, the car, so legend has it, was given the same kind of respect: a place in the backyard rather than the scrap yard.

True or not, I love this theory.

I get attached to cars.

From my first—Tommy, a gold Dodge Dart who I bought from an old boyfriend for a dollar and loved despite a broken tortion bar and fallen off exhaust, who my niece still remembers riding in as I drove her to Toronto for a week’s holiday. Good old Tommy had broken windshield wipers and no shocks and every bump made my niece’s head hit the roof but she was too young and too happy to be on this adventure with her eccentric aunt to suggest anything might be weird in a bad way.

Then there was Ernie. A dark green Volvo when I lived in England that drove me through the alps blasting David Bowie through all those claustrophobic tunnels. And the Datsun that played Joan Armatrading and Simply Red and which I drove into the ground. And the Camry, Peter’s car, which became our first ‘family’ car. Compared to what I’d been used to, I felt like a movie star when I drove it.

I should mention it’s not only my own cars that I form relationships with, but rentals. I take pictures of them at the end of holidays. Years later the picture means nothing. Silver Taurus. Blue Honda. Who cares? But at the time, I’m so grateful for the thing not getting a flat or overheating, for getting us around safely, that I find it hard to walk away without at least a silent nod of thanks.

~
This morning our old Nissan (unnamed, though in a certain light might be taken for an Edwin or Marcella), too old for re-sale, was picked up by the auto wreckers. When Peter saw my face he reminded me that they were going to “recycle” it, which, however sweet of him, sounded like what my parents said about Tipper the lunatic cat who no one but my ten year old self loved, who finally flipped his last lid and became ferocious, attacking indiscriminately, and who was taken away in a cardboard box one day “to go live on a very nice farm”.

The last time a car of mine was picked up by the wreckers, I convinced myself it was not going to be crushed or even recycled, but kept as a service vehicle for the scrap yard. Living out its last years in a dignified and useful way by shuttling workers to and from coffee breaks and shift changes.

And frankly, short of looking out the kitchen window and seeing the Nissan there in the garden amongst the rusting hulks of Tommy and Ernie, the Camry… amongst cedar saplings and blackberry vines and the memory of Bowie’s “Heroes” rattling round my brain… this is the happy, deluded image I choose for my most recent, faithful, and dearly departed friend.

what, you think this is easy?

~ carin ~ 7 Comments


Holy jeez, is that what I think it is?

And with a side of dust. My favourite.

Might get a better run at it from this angle.

It’s all about angles.

Actually, this was good.

Okay. This is where the rubber meets the road. Say goodnight little spider guy because I am an uncontrollable hunting machine—it’s in my DNA and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s not sad, it’s nature, I’m wired to stalk my prey, roam the dark and horrifying wilderness all night if necessary; it’s either that or starve to death. It’s the foodchain, brother. Nothing personal, but you are one second away from being history…

What? Did somebody say dinner??
~

to name but a few

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“… The Female Body has many uses. It’s been used as a door-knocker, a bottle-opener, as a clock with a ticking belly, as something to hold up lampshades, as a nutcracker, just squeeze the brass legs together and out comes your nut. It bears torches, lifts victorious wreaths, grows copper wings and raises aloft a ring of neon stars; whole buildings rest on its marble heads.

“It sells cars, beer, shaving lotion, cigarettes, hard liquor; it sells diet plans and diamonds, and desire in tiny crystal bottles. Is this the face that launched a thousand products? You bet it is, but don’t get any funny big ideas, honey, that smile is a dime a dozen.

“It does not merely sell, it is sold. Money flows into this country or that country, flies in, practically crawls in, suitful after suitful, lured by all those hairless pre-teen legs. Listen, you want to reduce the national debt, don’t you? Aren’t you patriotic? That’s the spirit. That’s my girl.

“She’s a natural resource, a renewable one luckily, because those things wear out so quickly. They don’t make ’em like they used to. Shoddy goods.”

—from ‘The Female Body’, by Margaret Atwood; Good Bones, 1992, Coach House Press

~

sweet: the rest of the story

~ carin ~ 6 Comments

Things didn’t start well.

I’m referring to yesterday’s great sour cabbage experiment.

Frankly, I didn’t think we’d ever get past the sauce issue. Peter and I were in two camps from the get-go. One of us (who shall remain nameless) wanted tomato, the other opted for a gorgeously rich and traditional meat sauce. But as I hadn’t previously considered details such as ingredients, we found ourselves sans the required ham hocks and smoked sausage and were forced to settle on the tomato version. Which, as it happened, we also didn’t have the ingredients for but running out to No Frills for a can was easier than going to the ham hock purveyor much farther afield. (The ridiculous thing is that normally the cold room is filled to the rafters with jars of homemade tomato sauce but without a bumper tomato season in the past year or so, the shelves are bare. Plus I recently did a serious thinning of old preserves after remembering a scene in Larry’s Party where the mother-in-law dies from eating some home-canned green beans…)

Did I mention we were out of paprika?

I will say this, the eight dollar pickled cabbage head was a joy to work with. Not too salty nor too sour, just the right size, and the leaves were nice and loose, easy to fold and tuck.

Unfortunatley it wasn’t until I’d made about half a dozen that I remembered they’re called cabbage rolls for a reason. Mine looked like cabbage hambugers. Peter said not to worry, they were fine, he preferred a meatier version anyway; we’d simply rename them, he said. We’d call them cabbage packages.

Right.

I was just thankful we’d already given up on the Moroccan element.

I rolled the last few into a slightly more recognizable shape, bunged them into a pot—or no, sorry, I carefully layered them between more of my sour cabbage leaves, then slopped on the wretched tomato sauce (I firmly believe it’s all about the sauce; that’s what flavours the meat and the rice, no? And if you’re using a can—a can for pity’s sake—well how on earth can anything good come of it?? But we were in a pinch so I’ll shut up about it…), then Peter poured us each a glass of wine while they cooked and by some miracle my mood improved and the package/rolls actually turned out tasting much better than they looked.

Much, much better.

In fact, I’m suggesting you don’t look at them too long…

Okay, that’s probably long enough.

~

sweet

~ carin ~ 5 Comments

I know it looks bad.

It looks (slightly) better in person. Mostly I’m (very) hungry when I see it in the veggie aisle at Soeby’s.

A pickled head of (sour) cabbage. Product of Ontario. This alone makes me happy, being as how there’s little at this time of year that’s from this part of the world. Still, I’ve never seen anything like it and have no idea what to do with it. I assume it’s a version of sauerkraut, which I happen to love but have only ever seen in a jar—I’m thinking I could cut it up and use it the same way. I don’t see a price but how much can it be? It’s cabbage.

I add it to the mesclun and mushrooms, the avocado, bananas and Canadian shallots in my basket and then at the check-out the cashier says, um, you know this stuff is very expensive, right?

What, the cabbage?

Yeah, she says and offers to weigh it and tell me the price before she rings it in.

Okay. Should I sit down? I ask.

Eight dollars and forty-seven cents, she says.

Eight dollars for a head of cabbage?

She smiles apologetically, nods. I can tell she’s been through this before; there have been unpleasant words uttered about the price of this cabbage in previous lines.  She waits for me to utter a few myself but I’m completely intrigued by now—what is so magical about this cabbage that makes it this pricey? I have to taste it for myself.

I’ll take it, I say.

She looks concerned, but rings it in. Then: what are you going to do with it?

The question feels like a test, like if I get it wrong, a mechanical arm might descend and take it back.

Well, I tell her, hoping for the best… I thought I’d cut it up and saute it with onions and butter and bits of bacon. Like sauerkraut.

She tilts her head and politely refrains from saying what she’s so obviously thinking.

What, is that a bad idea? What should I do with it?

It’s for cabbage rolls, she says. That’s what people buy it for.

(Remember I’m very hungry.) I smile.

I love a chatty cashier. Love it when you get recipes while you’re looking for your Air Miles card. Cabbage rolls! Of course. I’ve never made them before but I get home, look up some recipes. Settle on the Yugoslavian version in my Old World Cookbook, only with a Moroccan twist that I’m leaving to Peter.

So, tomorrow (unless a probably necessary intervention takes place): Moroccan Yugoslavian cabbage rolls with Italian tomato sauce and Canadian shallots and  mushrooms.

—To be continued.

~

things i saw

~ carin ~ Leave a comment

An older couple in a green van eats lunch and throws bits of things to seagulls at the lake. When the guy notices me watching, he smiles, starts showing off, tries tossing the bits so that the birds will catch them mid-flight. When they do, he looks at me, beams like he’s just performed a circus act, like maybe I should applaud. Take a picture of that, lady…

A young lad, fifteen maybe, sits on the edge of a bench at the library, earbuds in place, arms resting like dumbells on thighs, body hunched forward as he texts madly, seemingly unaware that his bright blue plastic library card is in his mouth…

A full grown deer dead at the side of the road. Police and animal control people hover. I don’t stop, don’t want to intrude, appear nosy. How stupid. Because I’d like to know what happened, pay my respects. It’s a stretch of road where speed couldn’t have been an issue. But what else? Who would intentionally hurt a deer? I keep seeing that beautiful face, the lolling tongue.