You're Hot, then You're Cold!

Aside from its tendency to freeze up from time to time, I have another bone to pick with our shower. It's temperature-adjustment knob is just not user-friendly. Allow me to illustrate.

While it has a wide range of movement, there is only a very tiny wedge where the hot and cold water merge in perfect harmony. To make matters worse, it's not so much a dial, which would turn smoothly, as it is a ratchet, which hops from one position to another whimsically, while I stand shivering on the tile floor.

With persistence, however, it does eventually reach a satisfactory temperature. Then comes the getting out.

My problem here is not unique to this shower; I experience it with every shower: I hate stepping out of the warm, humid cocoon of the shower into the cold, drafty bathroom. Again, allow me to illustrate.

Steve has often said that he finds this transition "bracing" and that it wakes him up in the morning. (Is this how self-flagellating monks feel?)

I, however, have gone so far as to bring in a portable heater. But what this bathroom really needs is a heated ceramic floor, and a towel warmer. And possibly a heat lamp. Ah, can't wait for summer ...

Cheap Like Borscht

Have you ever noticed that some of the best foods are actually "peasant" foods -- meals that are made of whatever ingredients are handy? I'm thinking of Lac-St-Jean tourtiere, for example. It's basically whatever game the hunter brings home plus some seasoning, water, and root vegetables, tucked under a crust and baked for a few hours.


(We ran out of sour creme.)

 Borscht is another one: shredded beets and other root vegetables and - if the hunting's good - some stewing beef. What better meal for Valentine's Day than borscht? It's dark pink and when you add a dollop of sour creme, it turns sweetheart pink. Plus, it just tastes delicious, sweet and salty. (There are many recipes available online, but, as with most peasant foods, it's open to interpretation.)

I had never heard of borscht before I met Steve. But he spent some of his formative years in Edmonton, where he became close friends with a family of Ukrainian descent, and they introduced him to some delightful foods, like perogies, kotlety and borscht. [Blogger's spelling checker does not like those words.] He was also introduced to their three charming daughters, but that's a story for another day.

I benefited from that friendship because, before Steve left home, he created his very own cookbook:

The Steve Sibbald Famous Recipe Book

In that cookbook, he wrote down all his favourite recipes, including family favourites like Dad's Riz Biscuits, Aunt Carol's 7-Layer Casserole and Mrs. Hostyn's treasures:

Mrs. Hostyn's Recipes for Borscht and Kotlety

Over the years, we've added to the cookbook. Some pages are a little worse for the wear.


Quiche à Odette, given to me by a neighbour in St-Jean-sur-Richelieu,
was one of our long-time favourites: meat-free and ready in 30 minutes.

The Steve Sibbald Famous Recipe Book has become an heirloom in our household. Some of its pages are transparent, the ink bleeding through to recipes on the reverse, some pages have fallen loose and are unceremoniously shoved into the book before it is crammed back into the cupboard after each use. We keep saying we'll type up all the instructions ... one of these days. Maybe a retirement project?

In the meantime, we enjoy the recipes.

Oh, and in case you want to try making borscht, which I highly encourage you to do, I should warn you that the preparation is very messy: you have to peel and shred all those beets. Don't wear white. And do be prepared for some lingering evidence, as Emily sports this evening:


I guess you could say she was caught red-handed.



Trial and Error and Error and Error

Our vintage single-lens-reflex (SLR) camera

Last weekend we popped into a photography store to have our passport photos taken. While there, I fell in lust with a nice little digital SLR camera kit (body and 18-200 lens).

For a while now I've been thinking about upgrading to a camera that allows me a little more artistic control. I love my point & shoot for its ease of use. It's small, it allows me to capture the moment with next to no fuss, and it still allows me to compose a decent picture. But it doesn't let me play with depth of field very much, and I would like to, especially on macro shots. I'd taken four semesters of photography back when I did my advertising diploma and wanted to be able to do more with my pictures.

The price tag on the sweet little kit was beyond my means, however, so it stayed in the store.

Coincidentally, we stumbled across the analog SLR that we had bought Katie way back when she was in high school. I decided to play with it while saving up for the digital one.
Using a "real" camera is like riding a bike, I thought, once you get your hands on it, all your skills will come flooding back. Right?

Wrong.

Here are a few tips to help those of you who venture backward in time or technology. (Also: don't forget to crank the advance lever after pressing the shutter release; allow time to focus your image; and bring extra film with you.)

Tip Number One: Make sure there is film in the camera. Those old-fashioned cameras do not alert you to the fact that you are shooting blanks, so to speak. That shutter will happily click away [Isn't the sound of a camera shutter just delightful?], the winder will wind. All to no avail. Thirty-nine shots later (undoubtedly overexposed and unfocused, but still), I realized my error.

Tip Number Two: When you do put film in, make sure it is actually gripped by the pins on the little turny-bobbin-thingy*. Twenty-six shots later, I conceded that the film was not moving through the camera. I fixed that and took another 24 pictures.

Tip Number Three: If, after taking all your pictures, you try to rewind the film into the cartridge and the rewinder stops moving, do not force it. The film WILL snap off of the cartridge. If you then open the back of the camera to confirm that this is what just happened, your spool of film will be exposed and useless.

Tip Number Four: If error number three has happened to you once, doing the same thing again will result in the same situation.

This time, however, I left the back shut and brought the camera to a photo store with a darkroom. There, the salesperson patronizingly asked me if I'd pressed the rewind button conveniently located on the bottom of the camera and without any label.

Um, nope. Didn't see that. Didn't think it was important.

She then instructed me no fewer than five times that I needed to press the rewind button before turning the rewind crank. After the fourth time and while she was reiterating for the fifth time, I said (somewhat rudely, I confess), "Yes, I get it: I need to press the button."

I guess I wasn't scathing enough, however, as she told me a sixth time, when she brought the camera back out to me after retrieving the film. Or maybe she was just being passive-aggressive.

So here I sit, having "taken" more than 100 pictures, with nothing to show for my efforts. It's a little anticlimactic. Sure, in three days, I'll have 24 of my pictures, but heaven only knows if any of them are any good at all. I've become accustomed to instant gratification.

I suspect I'll be investing in that digital SLR sooner rather than later. Stay tuned.

*The correct term for the turny-bobbin-thingy is "film transport sprocket." Totally useless information.

The Short Way's Fast, but the Long Way's Pretty.



Highway 417 in Ottawa. Source: Ottawa Citizen, We failed in the snow

I don't think anyone enjoys commuting. It's just drudgery. On the day that the photo above was taken, I drove along the Ottawa River Parkway instead of the 417 (also known as the Queensway). It was slow, indeed, but not two-hours-late kind of slow.

What's more important, it was scenic. I feel very blessed that my daily commute takes me along the parkway - one of the city's secret treasures. It isn't the shortest route for me to take, but it is definitely beautiful. These past few weeks as the snow has accumulated, I've been captivated by the play of monochromatic hues: white, grey, blue.

Taken with my BlackBerry while traffic was stopped.
I did NOT take any of these pictures while actually driving.

I've seen trees dusted in white frost, each twig outlined as carefully as if it had been dipped in powdered sugar. I've seen mist rising off the river as the sun weakly breaks through clouds. I've seen tree limbs carrying eiderdowns of pristine snow.

Yes, I've seen a good bit of traffic, but while I'm going slowly or even stopped, I get to look at this!

And each day, I thought: I need to bring my camera. I need to go out some Saturday morning and just take some pictures. Well, today, as you can see, I decided to use what I had at hand. The pictures are not fine art, but I hope they convey a little of what brings joy to my mornings.

And, as I'm not a morning person at all, a little joy is very much appreciated.

P.S. The title of today's post comes from "Katy-Make-Sure" a story in Terry Jones' (yes, THAT Terry Jones, the one from Monty Python) children's book, Fairy Tales.

In our house, we think this book is magic because every time we open it, we find a story we don't remember ever having read before. Well worth reading or giving.

The Insomnia Cycle

Here's how it happens.

3:00 p.m. (That's 1500 hrs in mil-speak.): post-lunch hypoglycemia kicks in. If you are in a location where you can become horizontal, do so. Bus stations, fainting couches, mattresses at Sears ... find something soft and grab some Z's. Failing that, go to the restroom. Rest your forehead on your crossed arms and pray you don't fall off the toilet. (Just in case: make sure you wipe before you fall asleep.)

4:00 p.m. (1600 hrs): Attend meeting in overly warm conference room with dim lighting and poor ventilation. Ensure it is on a topic to which you have no real input. Allow your eyelids to flutter at half-mast while gazing at the speaker, but don't actually allow your eyes to shut (if you do, you are doomed). Amuse yourself by zig-zagging your eyes horizontally. Stab yourself in the palm of your hand with a mechanical pencil.

5:00 p.m. (Enough of this mil-speak crap; it requires too much Math.): Shut down your computer, throw out all your lunch leftovers, pack your bag, wrap yourself in umpteen layers of wool, Goretex, and fur (if it's winter) and trudge through the sleet/snow/-30 weather and head home.

5:20 p.m.: Hope you are lucky enough to get a seat on the bus, rather than having to grip a virus-laden steel pole all the way home. If you do get a seat, sleep lightly while gripping your purse/backpack/briefcase/iPod tightly lest it be stolen. Try not to let your head touch the Brylcreem smudge left on the window by the previous passenger. Pray that there are no perverts in arm's reach.

6:00 p.m.: Dinner.

7:00 p.m.: Remind yourself that, if you can just hang in there for One. More. Hour. you will be able to simply go to bed early and wake up refreshed in the morning.

8:30 p.m.: Brush teeth, put on jammies, climb into bed with a good (but not TOO good) book. Allow your head to feel heavy. Practice the horizontal-eye-movement thing.

9:30 p.m.: Turn off your e-book. Make sure alarm is set. Put on sleep mask. Put fluffy sock on your hand because warmth helps soothe arthritis. (It really works. Would I lie to you?)

10:00 p.m.: Snuggle up to your Lord and Light of Your Eyes, who miraculously generates more heat than the Large Hadron Collider, even though he could have been mistaken for a 24-hours-dead corpse mere moments before. (Note: heat-generating ability of the LHC is speculative, but surely you can't make that kind of mess - with mini-bangs and all - without generating a little heat?) (Note: that was not meant to be a naughty allusion. I really was talking about the LHC, not the Bone of My Nose.) 

10:05 p.m.: Have hot flash. Move away from Lord and Treasure of Your Soul. Sprawl.

10:07 p.m.: Start to drowse. Lord and Regent of Your Existence twitches. Violently. Enjoy the rush of adrenalin coursing through your veins as you tell yourself that you are not actually under attack.

10:10 p.m.: Toss.

10:15 p.m.: Turn.

10:20 p.m.: Throw off blankets.

10:25 p.m.: Pull blankets over head to compensate for chill as house temperature drops to night-time setting.

11:00 p.m.: Stomach grumbles.

11:05 p.m.: Remember that there are two Mallomars left. If you do not eat them tonight, the kids will get them tomorrow. This is not acceptable. Clearly. Two Mallomars cannot be easily divided between three children. Someone will end up angry.

11:15 p.m.: Stomach grumbles again. Mallomars send telepathic message that they are feeling unloved.

11:20 p.m.: Remove sleep mask and fluffy sock. Sneak out of bedroom so as not to disturb the Lord and Light of Your Eyes.

11:21 p.m.: Sip hot chocolate spiked with Bailey's while nibbling on Mallomar and booting up the laptop. [WARNING: You have now committed a fatal error.] Check e-mail. Check Facebook. Check bank accounts. Pay bills. Visit favourite blogs. Visit favourite humour sites.

12:00 a.m.: Realize you've reached the bottom of the Internet. There is nothing funny or enlightening left for you to discover.

12:01 a.m.: Click on a new link on one of your favourite blogs. Discover NEW favourite blog. Read ten pages of the blog. Click the "older posts" link Just. One. More. Time.

3:00 a.m. (That's zero-three-hundred in mil-speak. The zero is important.): Glance at clock. Smack self on forehead. Realize you will never read the entire blog in one night and that you now have only four hours left for your beauty sleep. Go to bed.

7:00 a.m.: Hit snooze button.

7:03 a.m.: Stumble downstairs to turn off the alarm on your cell phone. (Purposely left downstairs for this reason.) Make coffee.

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We won't go through the rest of the day, because you know how it ends up, don't you?

Welp. I'm off to bed (again) now. Still a good six hours left to get my beauty sleep.