…mead.
A drink I associate with the Vikings, but this bottle was made in Australia.
Blog
hey genius
Open letter to whoever it was driving a green car headed west on Van Horne at about 70 km/h today just after noon:
Slow down.
As you can’t help but know, you almost hit me. Notice how your brakes didn’t do the slightest thing to slow your headlong travel? That’s because it’s winter here, with snow at the intersections, and fresh snow everywhere. These things impede friction, which cars need in order to stop.
You should be thanking God—as I am—that there was no traffic in the lane I had to pull into to avoid getting smashed by you. Even if you’re an atheist you should be thanking God. Also you should be thankful that you didn’t hit the minivan behind me either.
You should be thankful that I didn’t get your license plate number. I was too busy veering out of my lane, and then after that I was in an adrenaline haze, and then after that I was shaky and just wanted to get home. If I’d gotten your plate number, I’d be on the phone to the police right now. I kind of hope the people in the van got it, but I doubt it.
I hope, too, that you wet your pants, and drove home in a puddle of cooling piss. Not very Christmassy, but then neither were the names I called you, either.
If you’re feeling remorseful about how you nearly ran me down today, I have the solution: Go to the police station. Ideally have someone else drive you, since evidently you have no clear idea what you’re doing. Hand over your driver’s license, and tell them you won’t be needing it anymore, at least for a few years. Get a bus pass. Sell your car.
There’s no excuse. Winter didn’t just start today. Even if you’re new to this country, or even this part of this country, you’ve had a few weeks to practice your winter driving. The STOP sign was clearly marked. The speed limit is well below how fast you were going.
Well, I guess I’m done shouting into the wind. I hope you learned something from this. If not, I hope I never, in all my life, encounter you again.
Thanks for not killing me, no matter how hard you tried.
Gramma J
My last remaining grandmother died last week. It was fast; she went in her sleep the night after she’d been admitted to the hospital.
I delivered the eulogy, presented here in edited form:
Ladies, gentlemen, friends, and family:
We gather here today to mourn the loss of my Gramma, Jeanne Johanneson, but more importantly, we gather to celebrate her life.
Jeanne Olwen Gilliam was born March 24th, 19XX. Orphaned at a young age, she was raised by her aunt, Inez Kingdom, in Tenby, Pembrokeshire, Wales.
During her nurse’s training, Gramma met George Johanneson, a soldier who had been wounded during the Second World War. They were married in Sussex, England, and moved to Canada, where they lived.
(If you don’t mind, from here on out, I’m going to call them Gramma and Grampa — I don’t recall ever calling them Jeanne or George in my life.)
Gramma was an avid gardener. Mom was always impressed by–not to say a little envious of–her flowerbeds, especially her roses. I remember one year when Gramma grew a rose in such a dark purple shade it might as well have been black.
She always seemed have a pet, too. At least one. She was partial to Siamese cats for reasons I don’t think I’ll ever understand — they seemed to like her, but I never got anything from them but grief. She was also fond of Welsh Corgis — the Queen’s dogs. I remember her little dog Taffy, playing endlessly with that slobbery ball of his. I also remember Rex, the first dog of hers that I can recall.
Gramma loved her British humour — Monty Python, Fawlty Towers, Benny Hill, all the old classics. My sisters and I shared this enjoyment, though my dad doesn’t. My sisters and I would sometimes joke that maybe that particular gene skipped a generation.
A lot of my memories of Gramma centre on the Christmas season. I remember Gramma’s trifle — such a delicious dessert that I eventually learned to make my own — and what we refer to as Gramma tarts, which I’m informed are really “maid-of-honour tarts”, and the ham she’d cook. I remember the Christmas lights she had, the ones with water in them that would bubble once they’d got hot enough.
Gramma was a fan of the Royal Family, too. Sometimes it seemed like half the decorations in her house were green Wedgwood; half of what remained seemed dedicated to Queen Elizabeth and her family.
I still have the big black-and-yellow wool blanket that she bought in Wales for me when I was just a wee one. It’s great, and so-o-o‑o warm.
Jeanne Johanneson has gone on ahead of us, at the age of XX. She will be missed. She will always be loved.
Godspeed, Grandma J
The last few days
On Thursday we went to the Corb Lund concert at the Westman, and it was fantastic. The opening acts were quirky and alt-country, so they meshed well with Lund and his band. The headliners played a lot of my favourites, which made me happy. All in all, there was near enough not to matter to three hours of live music. We sat 7th-row, stage right, which were fine seats.
Friday we got invited out to a “black tie” martini party at Lady of the Lake. I got gussied up in a suit, K put on her new Little Black Dress, and we ventured forth with X and X (no, I’m not kidding, I know two people whose initials are X, and they were both in the back seat of my car on Friday night). Live music by Poor Boy Roger, a local blues/swing band, dancing, martinis of all descriptions (including one with a chocolate-covered espresso bean at the bottom like a prize), and delicious appetizers. It was a hoot.
Saturday we ran into The City so I could take part in the U of M’s weekend judo class. An hour of warmup left me sweating profusely — I thought I was going to die during the handball game — and then I was shown the first two sets of ju-no-kata, along with some help finding the kata’s narrative, which helps. I also had one of the senseis drop a pearl of wisdom in my ear that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since: “All throws in judo come from sumi-otoshi or uki-otoshi.”
Sunday: off to MacG for family fun times with T, A, and their new boy B. Having a cold, I felt it was unwise to hold the baby, so K ended up with my turn. Not that she complained one whit.
Tonight: Watched a cow-orker’s copy of The Fall, which was a fantastic movie, in all senses of the word. It was visually stunning, well-shot, it captivated my attention, and it provided an interesting look at the process of creating a story. It was also a moving drama, and brimful of fine actors in fine roles.
And then, tonight as well, I submitted two more stories to magazines: “After the Missile Rain”, a <1k “flash” piece, to Flash Fiction Online, and “Neither Bang nor Whimper”, 2700 words that I wrote in under 24 hours for a contest, to Fantasy Magazine. Wish me luck!
And with that: good night.
Pseudo-auto-portraiture
So is it a self-portrait if you take a picture of a photo of yourself? No? Didn’t think so.
At any rate:
My hair has aged 18 years since this photo was taken. So has the rest of me.
Also, by the time I got rid of that Batman shirt, it had gone heather-grey from repeated washings. That remains my favourite shirt ever.
Lazy Sunday
Today I sent away a story, previously published, to a podcasting site in the hopes they’ll want to make it an audio story. Not sure if they’ll bite — I really don’t know if it’ll translate well to the audio format — but nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Then we went over to our friends’ place and made supper there. We had planned to make it at home, but they were going to be putting up their Christmas tree, so we brought over the ingredients and used their kitchen instead. Mmmm, homemade chicken pot pie.
The Recipe:
(from Chatelaine, Feb. 2006)
3 skinless, boneless chicken breasts
1 carrot, thinly sliced
1 red or green pepper, chopped
1 celery stalk, thinly sliced
1/2 onion, chopped
2cups (500 mL) small broccoli florets
1/2cup (125 mL) frozen peas
vegetable oil
3tbsp (45 mL) butter
1/4cup (50 mL) all-purpose flour
1 1/2cups (375 mL) milk
1tbsp (15 mL) dried thyme leaves or rosemary or 3 tbsp (45 mL) finely chopped fresh thyme or rosemary
1tsp (5 mL) salt
1/2 397‑g pkg frozen puff pastry, thawed
1 egg, beaten1. Preheat oven to 400F (200C). Cut chicken into 1‑inch (2.5‑cm) pieces. Prepare vegetables and measure out peas. Lightly coat a large frying pan with oil and set over medium-high heat. Add chicken. Stir often until lightly golden, 3 to 4 minutes. Add carrot, pepper, celery and onion. Stir often until onion begins to soften, 2 to 3 minutes. Remove chicken and vegetables to a bowl.
2. Return pan to burner and reduce heat to medium. Add butter. When melted, gradually whisk in flour until evenly mixed and bubbly, 1 minute. Slowly whisk in milk. Whisk until thickened, 2 to 3 minutes. Remove from heat. Add broccoli, peas, 1 tsp (5 mL) dried or 1 tbsp (15 mL) fresh thyme and salt. Return chicken and onion mixture to pan. Stir to evenly coat. Mixture will be very thick. Turn into an 8‑inch (2‑L) square baking dish or dish that will hold 8 cups (2 L) and place on a rimmed baking sheet.
3. Cut pastry in half to form two small pieces. To cover 8‑inch square dish, on a lightly floured surface roll each piece into a 10-inch (25-cm) square. It’s OK if edges are uneven. Brush one square with egg, then sprinkle remaining 2 tsp (10 mL) dried or 2 tbsp (30 mL) fresh thyme overtop. Cover with remaining square. Press together.
4. Carefully pick up pastry and lay over filling. Tuck in any overhanging edges. Press edges of pastry onto rim of dish. With a knife tip, pierce middle of pastry in 3 or 4 places to allow steam to escape. Lightly brush top with egg. Bake in centre of preheated oven until golden and filling is bubbly, 30 to 35 minutes. Let stand 10 minutes before serving. Sauce will thicken as it sits.
It’s really forgiving — we used almost twice the veggies, made a bit more sauce, and put it in a rectangular casserole dish, and it was f‑i-n‑e.
Then, after supper and tree, we watched the tail end of Home Alone on YTV, and then we came home.
Weird and sad
A girl from my home town who was about, what, four or maybe five years younger than me has died. She had a heart attack, apparently.
Wow.
And I found out by the magic of Facebook groups. I don’t even know what that says about the world. Are we more connected? Less?
Rest in peace.
Music I’m enjoying tonight
Baddd Spellah featuring MC Frontalot, “Rhyme of the Nibelungs”:
…the music’s hella stupid, it don’t got no beats
and that’s the twenty-second time I heard the leitmotiv
and I cite no grief but opera ain’t for me
it’s for the type of people who listen to the CBC
Corb Lund*, “Brother Brigham, Brother Young”:
Now I believe your revelations, Brother Brigham, Brother Young
I now believe your revelations, every one
Even the ones beyond all reason, Brother Brigham, Brother Young
Even the ones beyond all reason, Brother Young
Peeping Tom, “We’re Not Alone”:
We’re not alone in this psychodrome, and I don’t wanna lose ya
Our love is made like a Starbucks chain and we’re takin’ over this neighbourhood
Tragically Hip, “At the Hundredth Meridian”:
Drivin’ down a corduroy road
Weeds standing shoulder-high
Barenaked Ladies, “Helicopters”:
This is where the allies bombed the school
They say by mistake
Here nobody takes me for a fool
Just for a fake
Terror of Tiny Town, “Burkina Faso”:
Mr. Thompson was overqualified
So he offered to poke out his extra eye
You should’ve seen it, it was quite a show
But then I had to let him go
And so it goes…
___
* Whose concert I will be attending.
I need to buy this album
Tom Fun Orchestra: “Watchmaker”, from You Will Land With a Thud.