Haikus For You-kus

A few autumnal haikus for your (and my) enjoyment:

Drinking tea inside
Loud raindrops falling outside
I'd rather be here

Wool socks and slippers
Homemade gifts for winter time
Lost in arts of yore

The dogs are anxious
I dread a walk in the rain...
Blue skies spell relief!

And, of course, it wouldn't be a blog post without something kitten-related:

Kitten sleeps deeply
A perfect feline circle
Warm, soft, and purring

A Figment of Your Imagination

GP can't go grocery shopping with me without getting thoroughly frustrated and, oddly, sweaty. Actually, it might not really be odd that he gets sweaty. My grocery shopping style, much like my approach to life in general, is disorganized, indulgent and highly irrational. Some days I will want nothing but pea shoots and falafels. Other times my attention to good nutrition (ha! The kitten just pounced on my typing fingers from afar; what a little scamp!) goes out the window and I will eat an entire wheel of Gorgonzola and a loaf of olive bread for dinner. That's no joke. It has happened more times than I care to divulge.

It's not just my shopping mindset that is frustrating. The reason why GP gets sweaty, as I didn't really fully explain in the previous paragraph, is that I don't even physically approach the shop from a systematic perspective. My travel pattern around the store is an erratic zig-zag. I'll go to the individual sections of the shop many times before leaving, and even after that, I'll probably return because I usually remember what I've forgotten to get as I sit down in my car.

The point of all this rambling would be wholly irrelevant if it weren't for the fact that, in a recent haphazard voyage to the shop, I bought two wonderful looking figs on a whim. I love figs. I love the taste of them, I love the look of them, and I especially love the feel of them. They are much heavier than they seem, but their skin is so soft and fragile. I know what you're thinking, you pervert, and you're completely correct- they do look like that and my description doesn't help.

Here is what I did with my figs:
I cut them both in half, spooned some ricotta on top, spooned some unpasteurized local honey on top of that and then topped the whole thing with walnuts and stuck it under the broiler. This is what they looked like before:











And this is what they looked like after:

Pretty delish.




I actually didn't realize the fruit was in the same position in both photos until I uploaded the photos just now. I must've really been on the ball!

The Scatterbrain Bird Alights

Maybe my repose away from blogging wasn't very brief, but if you know anything about me, you know that I am not one to apologize for not writing on my own blog. So I hope, if you're reading this, you're not here because you thought you'd read some pathetic groveling prose making impossible promises about how I'll never leave you again, dear readers. It is very likely that I will leave you again. Just so you know.

Predictably, much has happened since my last, very sad, post. GP and I had to say goodbye to our dear Friskies. On Friday, July 24th, I took the afternoon off from work so we could hang out together. It was a lovely sunny warm day, so we went outside. She had been hiding under the bed for most of the week, but she knew that this was a special opportunity, so she came out and enjoyed the sun. We sat next to the roses on the edge of the lawn and watched bugs in the grass. Greg also left work early to spend some time with her. Then we took her in to the vet's, where they have a room for goodbyes, painted in soothing colours with a nice little table with soft padding. She was injected with painkillers and I petted her until she fell asleep.

I doubt I'll ever be able to talk or write about her death without crying, but I know it was the right decision. I will always miss her and she'll always have a special place in my heart. I know she'd be happy, too, that GP and I now have a new cat to keep us on our toes. Her name is Reese and she is both a delight and a little beast, at 15 weeks old tomorrow. As I type this, she's half sitting on my lap. The other half is slowly sliding off the sofa as her tiny oblivious body shudders from the depth of her purring. The only thing keeping her on the sofa is my arm. How adorable, she just yawned and stretched! After a few months, it really was time for us to get a new feline friend. Reese is short-haired, so GP has less of an excuse to complain about allergies, although I'm sure he won't let this stop him!

Work is going very well. In my time at the company I've already seen a new person in the same position as me be hired and fired, so I believe I'm doing quite well. Two weeks from today will mark the end of my three-month probation period, at which time you won't have to guess who's going to work in her pajamas. Yesterday the boss man asked me into his office to show me a new advertising tool we're going to be using for our clients. He gave me more instruction on it today and I thought it was going well until I stepped out of his office and realized I had enormous gaping holes in my knowledge and I don't really know how to go about putting together my client's campaign at all. I think he and I have an understanding, though, so I doubt asking for extra help will be an issue.

Another fantastic thing about work: they support my cat-loving ways. I'm not sure whether or not they're just humouring me, but everyone I've shown pictures to (90 percent of the people at work) has ooh'd and aah'd over Reese. The chances that they all call me a crazy cat lady behind my back are pretty good, but I came to terms with that part of myself a long time ago.

Other happenings: my birthday, GP's birthday. We went to Quadra Island to celebrate our aging and had a lovely time, despite our progression into senility (especially GP). My mum made me a cake, but I don't think she realizes my birthday isn't at Christmas, because, well, you can see from the icing. Not that I complained; it was delicious. My garden is still growing, even though I've been mostly neglecting it. When my broccoli raab was still edible, I was using it for killer dishes like the pasta salad to the right, upon which a delectable piece of baked halibut is perched, with pesto from my basil.

I don't want to make any promises, but I have a few awesome blog post topics up my sleeve. So expect more soon. Or not.

Good Grief

I've debated whether or not I should plague my readership (however small it may be) with what is undoubtedly the most difficult thing, emotionally, I've had to struggle with in my short life. I have decided that I definitely should. It is my blog, after all. And you don't have to read this post (although I think you should, because everything I write is gold, naturally).

Friskies has been my friend and confidante since I was 10 years old. Although I was the one who got to choose her rather unfortunate name, I never personally took it upon myself to claim her as my cat. She, however, took it upon herself to claim my bed as hers and so our relationship grew. She watched (actually, maybe napped is the better verb here) while I awkwardly made my way through middle school, high school, and puberty in general. When I came home from university she was always there, ready to provide cuddles and gentle indifference. She got kicked out of the room the first couple times I kissed a boy, and she dutifully stood guard at the door until she was welcomed back. Soon after a somewhat resentful chirp and some annoyingly slow stretching and chin-rubbing on the threshold of the door, she would reliably be right back in her middle-of-the-bed station, purring as though she were part 1969 Ford Mustang, muffler-free.
The only time I've had to deal with anything bad happening to her was when she was six or seven and she had to have a small operation to remedy a bladder issue. Now I have to deal with something of a more sinister nature. She has become increasingly rotund through the middle and bonier in the shoulders and hindquarters. Not long ago her appetite started dropping off, so I made an appointment with the vet. I took her in on Thursday and, after having x-rays done, I was told that there was a mass of some kind in her abdomen. It could be either a tumor on her spleen that has just become very large or a tumor that has formed around her intestines, making digesting food difficult. The former possibility is what we are hoping for, because spleens are superfluous organs for cats. The latter is, in most cases, inoperable. Either way, she is in pain. We won't know exactly what the problem is until an ultrasound is done. Hopefully that will be tomorrow.

So this situation is, understandably I think, the only thing I have been thinking about since Thursday. I've had a bit of time to mull it over and get used to the idea of her not being around anymore, although that is obviously the last thing I want. She has been my friend for so very long and I have been so lucky to have her in my life. In fact, we've been friends for most of my life. Normally not a particularly sentimental person, I am surprised by how many things trigger an emotional breakdown for me. On Friday at work before my shift, I was reaching into the cupboard for a mug. A co-worker came into the kitchen and said "Hi, how are you?" and I burst into tears. He was completely stunned and said, after a pause "Can't find a cup?". I then exploded the whole cat story onto him and he stood there, very kindly, listening to me, likely thinking "Wow, that new girl sure is a fruit loop". I doubt he'll ever ask me how I am again!

Friskies has an ultrasound tentatively scheduled for tomorrow, although I haven't a confirmation heard from the vet's office. She is barely eating anything and today I had to actually place her in her litterbox for a pee because her energy is so low that I was afraid she might not make it. She is definitely not herself. It's a very sad thing to witness, the slow decline of one of your best friends. I don't give a fuck if people think I'm crazy for calling her my best friend. They obviously, and unfortunately, have never had the incredible experience of becoming close with an animal. It sucks that I have to make these kinds of decisions now, and deal with this overwhelming sadness, but if this is the payment I have to make for the unconditional love I have received from her throughout her entire life, I think it's more than worth it.
Please, friends, keep positive thoughts for Friskies in your mind. If you're the praying type, I'm sure she'd appreciate that too.

On the Job

Better late than never to announce to blogdom that I have a job. Yup, I now have a real grown-up person job as a copywriter/search engine optimization expert at a local business that creates websites for real estate companies. I started on June 27th and I'm really enjoying it. There's a lot to learn, but there's always something new to be done, which I can totally appreciate. Plus, they call the "behind the scenes" stuff of websites the "back-end", and I find that absolutely hilarious. Today I brought in pictures of Friskies and GP and me in a little frame to make my desk more homey. I regretted it almost immediately; it's difficult to focus when there's a photo of the most adorable cat on earth staring up at you.

My coworkers are fun. We had Sports Day today (it's a weekly thing) and we played soccer. I suggested starting up a running group and they were completely into it. We'll see how long it is until I've instigated a composting program. It's a very different work environment compared to the last place; they seem to actually like their employees here. There are medical/dental benefits, a gym membership incentive, a new computer payment/loan program, a lunch program (the fridge is completely stocked and we just make lunch with whatever we like) and once a month there's a cake day, to celebrate the month's birthdays. What more could you ask for?! Oh, and there are potlucks every so often, with prizes for most tasty food and best presentation. Needless to say, I'm in it to win it. I think I'll be making lemon meringue cupcakes, with meringue roses to top them. I've already started testing the recipe and I think it's going to blow everyone else out of the water.
It's a crappy photo, but you can still see how pretty they are. I think the only thing prettier than meringue roses are real ones.

General life things have been going smoothly. Not much to report, other than an excellent (albeit drizzly) camping trip to Tofino on Canada Day long weekend. So good, in fact, that after three vigorous washings, my hair still smells like campfire smoke.

My garden is growing at warp speed. I harvested all the broccoli raab (aka rapini, brocoletti, and/or broccolini) yesterday and we had it with dinner today, just steamed. It has so much more flavour when you grow it yourself: broccoli, yes, but with a hint of mustardy spiciness. Man, was it ever delicious. I'm hoping the new shoots come quickly.
There's really no taste like a fresh strawberry straight from the garden, with that shiny tight skin. I can't wait for the similarly sweet taste of the cherry tomatoes I've got growing. They need to get their butts in gear and set fruit already. Same with the sugar snap peas. So much to look forward to!

Floating Islands

Sometimes I feel like spending hours making roses out of meringue. No, really, that's not sarcasm. When one doesn't have a job, one must find ways to fill in the time. For Mother's Day I made a cake for my mum that was "iced" with an entire meringue rose bush. I found this absolutely gorgeous recipe and couldn't resist making it. Unfortunately, I don't have the proper icing tip (mine is too short and stout; must remember to get one very soon), but it still came out beautifully:
I changed the original recipe a bit. It seems like I can't just leave anything well enough alone; I always have to have my two cents. Except for switching up orange for the lemon, I followed the cake recipe verbatim (and wouldn't use it again; it wasn't as fluffy as I thought it'd be), but the filling is orange curd and blackcurrant, instead of lemon and raspberry. It sounds so much fancier than the original! Here's a cross-section:
In the same vein, last night I made iles flottantes on a sea of cardamom-lemon custard with some fresh first-of-the-season organic peaches. I love peaches and I love the way they taste with a little cardamom. Oh hell, I'll say it, I love cardamom with anything. It turned out well!
I only had time to take one picture and it's sideways, unfortunately. After the first picture, the urge to eat it all in one mouthful overtook me and I became powerless against it.
Anyway, it was delicious. Not too sweet, all the textures and flavours worked so well together: the airiness and slight chewiness of the meringue and the firm juiciness of the peaches as well as the smooth creaminess of the custard. I wonder how many batches I can make and eat before GP gets home... My recipe follows, if you're interested. Make the custard first so it can cool; I like it slightly warmer than room temperature. Since the meringues are shaped (as opposed to haphazard blobs), I couldn't poach them as usually done for Iles Flottantes. This way works well, though.

Custard:
4 cardamom pods
6 egg yolks (or five if you spill some down your front like I did)
1/3 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cup milk (any kind is fine; I used skim but whole would taste better)
zest of one lemon, preferably un-sprayed
a few drops of vanilla extract

In a medium-sized saucepan, whisk together yolks, sugar and salt. Separately, heat milk and cardamom pods. It is important not to boil the milk, otherwise when it is poured into the egg yolks they will seize and you'll be eating sweet scrambled eggs. When bubbles start forming around the edge of the milk, it is ready to pour into the egg yolks. Whisk slowly as you pour and then place over medium-low heat. Stir slowly and constantly, making sure it never comes to a boil. When the custard has thickened, add the lemon zest and vanilla and set aside to cool while you make the meringue.

Meringue:
3 egg whites, room temperature
2/3 cup superfine sugar

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Whip egg whites until soft peaks form. Gradually (one tablespoon at a time) add sugar until entirely incorporated. Plop the meringue into a pastry bag and pipe into roses, then place on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Bake in oven for 3 minutes; any longer than that and the meringue starts to burn. To get the roses off the parchment, lightly grease a rigid spatula and slide under each flower.

When the meringue has been baked, it's time to assemble the dessert. Slice the peaches and arrange them on one side of the bowl so that they will be visible above the custard. Pour the custard into the bowl, then float the meringue roses on top. Eat it with a small spoon so you can enjoy it as long as possible.

The Burbs

So, it's official, I live in the 'burbs. Yes, they could be the very same ones as in the 1989 blockbuster of the very same name. I think growing up on idyllic and tiny SSI gave me a very romantic idea of what the suburbs were about. Where I lived we didn't really have neighbours. You can't on a 22.5 acre farm. I mean, we obviously had people who lived next to us, but not in the same way I do now. We couldn't just walk across the street to borrow a cup of sugar; we actually had to walk down the hill, over the bridge, and up through the forest. Really. We had no garage and couldn't see our neighbour's house.

The sounds of the place I grew up were as follows: birds, llamas occasionally doing their weird braying when something suspect was afoot, and frogs. The sounds of suburbia, as I've been noticing are: birds and frogs, but also automatic garage doors and lawnmowers. The latter item brings me to the real reason I'm writing this post: lawn care. More specifically: maintenance. More specifically than that, even: push mowers.

GP's mum's gas-powered lawnmower is not working and has not been since we moved in and, since GP has a full-time job and values hanging out with me in his spare time more than fixing lawnmowers (and I wouldn't even know how to go about fixing it if I did), it has been sitting un-repaired for a while. Long enough that the grass grew embarrassingly high and I grew frustrated with it and decided to take matters into my own hands. Little did I know that those very hands would be aching and blistered by day's end. I can write more about this ordeal in a handy how-to format for your future mowing (dis)pleasure.


How to Mow Your Lawn Manually or So You've Chosen Suicide: A Guide

Phase one: Preparation. Prepare yourself as though you are running a marathon. Heed the immortal words of Ice Cube: "[lawn-mowing] ain't a track meet; it's a marathon".

1. Clear out your schedule for the day. If this doesn't take you at least three hours, you're doing it wrong.

2. Fill a water bottle but remind yourself it is only to be used in a life-or-death situation, seeing as if you take a break you will never ever want to get back to it.

3. Make a playlist for your iPod. This will keep you motivated like nothing else. Avoid songs by artists like Sarah Mclachlan and Coldplay. If you're anything like me, I suggest you go for angry gangsta rap or anything by ABBA.

4. If it's a sunny day (which it most certainly has not been for the most part in my part of the world), protect yourself as needed. This goes doubly for my fair fellow frecklies.

Phase two: Work. This part is fairly self-explanatory.

5. Under no circumstances once you start mowing are you to take a break. Not a drink of water, not to check to see if anyone has called, not to bandage up your hand blisters, not for ANYTHING. The only time you stop is if you are on the brink of death, if you finish the job, or if a slow song comes on in your music shuffle. Stopping will make you realize how foolish you are by undertaking this gigantic endeavor.

6. Get into a rhythm. If you're a first timer, like I was, you'll realise there is a definite method to the madness. If you get the blades going at the right speed and the right angle at the right time, you'll be able to cut the longer grass down so you can go over it directly again afterwards. That probably doesn't really make much sense. Oh well. Just don't let your lawn grow to jungle-tastic lengths and you won't have that problem.

7. Silently (or not) curse your neighbours who walk past and do not offer to let you use their motorized mowers. Really, is it so very hard to say "Hey, I noticed you're sweating your tits off and this is taking you hours. You are more than welcome to use my fancy schmancy LawnMower 3000 for the rest of the lawn"?! No, it most certainly is not. If someone had offered I would've even chipped in a few bucks for the gas. Oh well, we'll see who is somehow out of sugar when they come knocking for a cup...

Phase three: PME, or Post-Mowing Euphoria/Exhaustion.

8. Once you're finished, don't bother looking at your neighbours' lawns. Your lawn will not look as good as theirs. Comparing will just make you frustrated. Your lawn will likely look similar to my grandpa's head: bald with a few tenacious bits sticking up that you can't hack down no matter how hard you try.

9. Pry your hands off the mower. They will be curled to fit the shape of the handle; that's perfectly normal. Wrap those mitts around a beverage either hot or ice-cold, depending on the temperature of the day.

10. Get your motorised lawnmower fixed as soon as possible.