Epic Childhood # 1: The Facts of Life

Let's just say that, from a very young age, I was a precocious child. I was curious about everything (which, in some cases, got me in trouble); to this day, in fact, my mom likes to say to me, "If you were in the other room and things were quiet for two minutes, then I needed to be worried because you had gotten your way into something." In fact, in one instance, she found me making stairs out of a chest of drawers -- pulling them out at smaller and smaller intervals and using them to climb to the top -- blissfully unaware that this was the perfect prescription for it to tumble down on top of me. Thankfully, she caught me before the crash, reprimanded me, and sent me on my merry way. She tells me that I was a toddler at this point. Things only got more interesting from there.

One of the many conversations my mother had to deal with over this exciting childhood period of mine was, of course, a description of the birds and the bees. According to my mother, when you're raising children and they start asking where babies come from -- and they will do this at a surprisingly young age -- you must answer their questions as broadly as possible. In other words, you never go any deeper (no pun intended) than you have to: if they ask where a baby comes from, you say it grows in the mother's stomach. Simple as that. No more, no less. If they keep asking questions, you keep answering; until that point, you keep as mute as possible while still feeding their inquisitiveness. And, in most instances, when you answer in the simplest manner you can, your kid finds he or she is quite satisfied with the response and then drops the whole matter entirely (for the moment).

Now, in some cases -- ahem, mine -- this lack of deeper information causes children to formulate their own back stories to make up for the ... ahem, HOLES... in the story. I, for example, didn't get past the "when two people love each other very much, they decide to have a baby and the woman gets pregnant" part of the story. For the longest time, I remember thinking there was some strange biological, chemical reaction that happened when two people loved each other and wanted to have a child. I remember being so confused: how did the world know when people wanted to have a baby? Did they have to both sit down and just think really, really hard about it together? Was it just, like, an instant snap and suddenly you had children? How did this magical universe-baby-making-power decide how many you got? It all seemed so strange. In my theory, it looked something like this:

By extension, of course -- at least in my form of childhood logic -- this also meant that, if two people that both really wanted a baby (or happened to be thinking really hard about it), got too close to each other in the exact moment that they were both contemplating children, then the woman could accidentally get pregnant as a result. I spent many a night wondering just how many pregnancies occurred as a result of an accidental, brief encounter between two people who had never met. (I know look back on that sentence and realize the irony of my young intuition. Oh, the glories of alcohol.)

Now, when I was young, one of my favourite nighttime past times was having my mom come in and read my book to me. She would come in, lay next to me on the bed, and read a chapter to me (which usually ended up turning into at least two or three, since I always begged for more and never wanted to let her stop reading). She tells me that, on this particular night, I was maybe six or seven at the time. Somehow or another we got to talking about the facts of life -- she doesn't exactly remember how -- and once again I started asking her questions she didn't really want to have to answer.

My mom says that, after close to half an hour of her dancing around the truth, I finally asked an inescapable question and she was forced to tell me "the gritty details". I'd like to think I made it sufficiently awkward for her up to this point, and forced her to use the most clinical terminology throughout.

She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and "explained". She says she used maybe three or four sentences at most, but that it was more than sufficient to explain the basic mechanics of what apparatus was used, in what manner, and for what purpose.

There was a long pause after her response. She said I sat in silence for several seconds, digesting the information. My face flickered from expression to expression, trying to determine my opinion on the matter.

Even my mother, though -- with her wealth of experience as to my strange, and often exceedingly mature responses, was not prepared for what came next.

She says I made a shuddering noise like I was retching, and flapping my hands in the air, exclaimed:

All credit to my mom, she kept her composure. There was a moment of silence before she responded.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is one of many reasons why I love my mother.

It's a Me Thing #4: I Hate People.

There’s a phrase of mine – a personal tagline if you will – that I toss out at random occasions. It’s something akin to a catchphrase, but not quite; it’s a generalization, but with rather specific context; it’s an opinion, but it’s solidly based in proven fact. I say it off-handedly, or on occasion with great gumption, but I never realized the real truth of it until early this afternoon. Elaborate, you say? Oh, why, certainly, my dears. I’m a writer, after all – long-windedness is what I DO.

You see, I woke up this morning – at an early enough hour that, in all honesty, I was already somewhere south of pleasant – and opened our patio door to grab a pair of shoes from the outside rack. At this point, I noticed a casual buildup of cigarette butts strewn like confetti outside our window. The gentlemen in the ninth floor apartment, you see, suffer from a combination of nicotine addiction and idiocy; and, as a result, their collective diseases afflict them with the inability both to quit smoking and to use an ashtray. Our quiet little first floor patio, therefore, has become what they believe to be a surrogate trash can – and I, with my heavy broom and frustrated scowl, their magic pick-up-my-garbage-fairy.

Irritated, but not yet spastic, I tidied up, packed my things, and drove up to campus for a workout. Now, you see (and I’m not sure if this is the same where everyone lives), in our city there are a handful of long, black, windy things called highways that zip about from place to place. And on these highways (I know, it seems complicated, but bear with me) there are sloping ascent lanes called on ramps. When one utilizes an on ramp, one must accelerate to match the speed of the cars on the highway, then “merge” (yet another automotive term, this one meaning to “become one with” by “joining the driving pattern, placement, and speed of the cars on the highway”) with the rest of the traffic and drive in kind. What is difficult, of course, is when the people who make use of the highway do not in fact know how to do so in a productive, or for that matter CORRECT, manner: examples including, but not limited to, the man going 50 in the fast lane; the young lady occupying half of two lanes at once, gently swerving and effectively blocking traffic in both; the gentleman who had been in a recent farm accident (he was missing three of his four fingers! Poor thing!), who waved genially at me with his remaining digit as he purposely blocked me from merging into his lane; or the senior citizen (of the fairer sex, I might add – women drivers really do give women drivers a bad name) who, in the middle of gridlocked traffic, stopped on an on ramp, waved other drivers past her, then performed a near-perfect three point turn and drove the wrong way back up in the direction from which she had come.

Now, these were not all in the same day, mind – I only met with two of them this morning – but two was more than sufficient to bring me near my boiling point. It was at this juncture that I decided that my best course of action would be to grab a latte and a cup of fruit to calm down. I waited in line (despite some awkward and unpleasant stares from a woman in front of me), ordered my drink, and paid for it. I waited at the other end of the bar for perhaps a minute or two at most – noticing the awkward woman’s agitation with me appear to grow with each passing second – then collected my drink from the tired (but refreshingly jovial) barista. It was at this point that awkward lady snapped.

“THIS IS ABSOLUTE BULLSHIT!” she screamed, flailing her arms and very nearly knocking my drink out of my hand. “I have been waiting FIVE MINUTES and this chick gets her drink BEFORE me? She was AFTER ME IN LINE!”

Needless to say, I didn’t stay long enough to witness the (likely embarrassing and curse-filled) completion of her tirade. I strode, yet composed, back to my car, sat down inside, and closed the door. And then I let my face fall into the steering wheel in a display of utter defeat.

Truthfully? Today just killed it for me. I seriously hate people.

Honestly, that’s the brunt of it. I hate people. I joke about it sometimes – you know, I throw it out when a random encounter makes me shake my head in disgust – but when it comes down to it, it’s really more true than false. Whether it’s retail customers hurling abuse at innocent staff, or asshole drivers deciding their priorities are more important than everyone else’s, or the person who keeps letting their dog shit in front of our patio gate and refuses to pick it up, people just drive me up the wall. Honestly, sometimes – okay, a lot – I think I prefer the company of animals. Or a good book. Or a hot latte. Or all three, and absolutely nothing else.

It’s the person who takes books at the library out to a table to study with, and then puts them back in some random spot or not at all. It’s the inconsiderate jerk who leaves their garbage laying most any place and just assumes that someone else is going to pick it up for them. It’s the pampered, spoiled, over-indulged preteens that strut around in too-short skirts and too-tight tops with Coach purses and Ugg boots and complain about how difficult their lives are. It’s the people with umbrellas who hog the awnings and point them down and forward so they can’t help but smash me in the face as they push by. It’s the egotistical dickwad who parks his “fancy” car (I’ve seen a maroon PT Cruiser convertible with an oversized spoiler do this – believe me sir, your “vehicle” is about as awesome as the maggot in the bird shit left on your windshield) across two spaces so no one can park next to him. It’s the person who pushes through the door (without a thank you!) as I stop in my path to open it for them and let them out first. And, most recently, it’s the brilliantly bright and intuitive mother who decided her giddy two year old’s erratic screaming and seat-kicking was funny, not inappropriate, throughout the entire hour-and-a-half flight I took home to Alberta this week. I mean, honestly – after an episode like that, birth control becomes unnecessary, because I’m pretty sure the uteri of myself and all six of the women near me physically curled up and expired in response to her hypersonic squealing.

There are the people that forward junk emails, or the people that cannot stop talking about themselves, or the people that take a bath in their perfume and then leave the toxic fumes intentionally to choke me as I take the elevator down to my parkade. There are bigots, and racists, and homophobes, and religious zealots; there are slow walkers and grunting gym-goers and people that talk with their face far too close to mine. There are change-counters at the front of a long grocery line, and people who don’t cover their mouth when they sneeze or cough, and those asinine individuals who like to loudly point out how tall I am to their friends, comment on how strange and awkward it must be, and pretend like they’re quiet enough that I don’t hear them.

I really don’t know what to do about it – from the man who bumps into me as he’s walking across the bar and decides I want to take him home, or the cab driver who tries to circle my block four times to rack up his meter, or the interviewer that quotes me a response date then doesn’t talk to me for a week and refuses to answer my phone calls – people just straight up suck. I hate them. I like my friends, and my family, and my boyfriend (okay, I love them – I’m just in on a roll here), but as for the general population: I really and truly hate them. They are egotistical, and inconsiderate, and gross, and smelly, and I do not like them. I don’t like people, not one bit – I’ve finally gotten sick of it!

I do not like the way they walk; I do not like the way they talk.

I do not like them in their cars; I do not like them out at bars.

I hate the way their pick their nose, and go to school in slutty clothes.

I hate them smoking at the door; I hate them at the grocery store.

I hate them with their screaming kids, as blissfully they all pretend

Their toddlers are not screaming – there’s no problem for them to attend.

It tears me up inside to see a person let their garbage rot

Beside a busy public road, as if it is the perfect spot.

I hate when young men spray themselves with half a bloody can of Axe—

When they walk by, the viscous fume’s enough to give me sneeze attacks.

I hate when people stuff themselves with half a pie, and not a piece

Then loudly moan to all nearby, “I just don’t get why I’m obese!”

I hate when douchebag guys decide they want to pick a public fight

As if that is the formula to help themselves get laid that night.

I can’t stand people on the train; I really hate them on a plane.

I hate them when they’re far too loud; I hate them when I’m in a crowd.

I do not like them, everyone – I do not think they’re any fun.

I wish that they’d just go away, and leave me to my own dismay.

And yet, in truth, I can’t deny, that coast to coast, and earth to sky

The world is full of different nations, stuffed with giant populations.

People live across the earth: of different creeds, and different girth

Of various race, and varied height; with hair that’s black, or blonde, or white,

And most are assholes – most are jerks, who think the planet only works

To serve their good, and only theirs – to merely fix their own affairs

And so they feel that they can voice their own opinion – make their choice

Based only on their needs; not mine, or yours, or his, or thou, or thine

To which I say: hold on, and take a single pause before you make

A choice – I beg, be not so dense, and think about the consquence

Of action; what you make or say could be a dangerous choice today

For anything you say or do could end up coming back to you.

So when you end up next inclined, to hold your problems over mine,

Just keep in mind this strong advice: 


I’m twice your size, and half as nice.

Bitchin' Kitchen #3: Olfactory Baking

Anyone who knows me well will tell you, artificial pink grapefruit is my favourite scent. Actually, real pink grapefruit is delicious as well: in fizzy drinks, in body sprays, in scented lotions and lip glosses. The only thing I can't stand about pink grapefruit, ironically, is its taste: it is a nagging dislike that I've maintained since childhood and cannot manage to get rid of. So, while it is extremely unlikely that you will ever see me begin a grapefruit diet or drink a glass of grapefruit juice, pink grapefruit flavoured diet soda frequently occupies my fridge and the distinct, fruity, refreshing scent wafts daily from my bathroom.

In fact, were a person to take a cursory look through my apartment, they would find pink grapefruit of the following varieties: body lotion; deodorant; body spray; body butter; lip gloss; body wash; candles; bath bombs; bubble bath; kitchen cleaner; scented room spray; diet soda; sorbet; and, most importantly, concentrated perfume. For the better part of the first year of our relationship, boyfriend insisted that pink grapefruit was "my smell": any time he caught a subtle whiff of it he thought of me, as it was the only scent I ever wore.

Lately, though -- while my love of pink grapefruit has not wavered -- the appeal of other aromas has steadily grown on me. Jasmine, for example, is delicious in tea and relaxing in the bathtub; vanilla is delicious when mixed into conditioner; and lavender is so sweet and refreshing in room spray and frothy hand soap. Lavender, in fact, has been popping up everywhere lately: lavender meringues (which are my new favourite cookie); lavender body spray (which is nice in small doses); lavender-freesia room deodorizer (again, within reason); and lavender-rosemary lamb loin (which is a recipe I'm convinced I must try). And so, when boyfriend's mother's birthday popped up this weekend, I threw caution to the wind and decided to mix lavender into my baking.

The following is a recipe for a basic vanilla angel food cake, into which I have mixed lavender and vanilla bean. The result is a light, subtle, and still deliciously fat-free cake that is equally fabulous alone or covered with fresh berries and thick whipped cream.


Hawaiian Lavender and Tahitian Vanilla Bean Angel Food Cake

You will need:

3/4 cup flour

1/2 cup icing sugar

1/4 tsp salt

3/4 cup granulated sugar

1 1/2 cup egg whites (about 12), at room temperature

1 tsp. Cream of tartar

1 tsp. Vanilla extract

1 whole vanilla bean

2 Tbsp dried lavender blossoms

Vanilla beans can be purchased from any grocery store with a decent spice section. Lavender can be a little harder to find, but it is usually available in bulk in most tea shops, where you can buy it to mix in to various teas to your own preferred concentration.

Preheat oven to 325F. 

Sift flour, icing sugar and salt into a bowl. The sifting process is important as it removes large chunks from the flour and sugar and ensures a light, fluffy consistency (which prevents the egg whites from being bogged down).

 In a food processor, process granulated sugar until fine, about 20 seconds. What I've done, however, is used berry sugar: it is a finer grind than regular sugar (used in jams and delicate desserts). This avoids me having to process regular granulated sugar and generally make a mess.

Separate egg yolks from whites. Normally, you can buy cartons of egg whites from the grocery store and simply use these; I, however, had a blonde moment and completely forgot. So, boyfriend will be eating a lot of yolk-based pastry for the next few days.

 In a large mixing bowl, beat egg whites with cream of tartar until soft peaks form. 

Gradually add finely ground sugar a little at a time (about 1/4 cup at a time or so), beating at high speed until whites are stiff bit not dry. 

Blend in vanilla extract. 

Using a rubber spatula, gently fold in flour mixture about 1/4 cup at a time, just until blended. 

Using a sharp knife, cut the vanilla bean pod in half lengthwise. Holding a half, open side up, against the board, scrape the knife along the inside with enough pressure to remove the black seeds (but not enough to scrape the fibrous bits of pod onto the knife). Repeat this process with the other half.

As a side note, the pods can be retained and used to make your own liquid vanilla extract: just chop them coarsely and drop them into a fifth of brandy. Seal tightly in a jam jar and keep at room temperature. Once you have at least three chopped pods mixed in, and the mixture has sat for at least two weeks, you can use the liquid part as a brandied vanilla extract (the brandy makes it creamy and fragrant). Don't remove the pods as you are using the liquid, as this will alter the quality of your product.

Now, the one difficult thing about mixing in vanilla beans at this point of the recipe is that they are quite wet and oily and tend to stick together. Mixing brusquely would spread them through the cake batter, but as this is angel food cake mixing would ruin the consistency (you need to fold only at this point). What you can do is spread them out on a plate and let them dry for a couple of minutes, then rub them between your fingers to sprinkle them over the surface. This tends to work well (just make sure you don'd let them dry out completely as you'll lose all of your flavour).

Sprinkle the 2 Tbsp of lavender blossoms over the top as well. Fold in just until combined. 

The batter should be very lightly spotted with vanilla beans, with no obvious patches or heterogenous portions.

Pour batter into an un-greased 1” tube pan and smooth the top. It is important that you try to drop the batter in to the pan as evenly as possible, as it is quite thick at this point and you want to touch it as little as possible.

Use a knife to gently cut through batter to remove any large air bubbles. 

Bake on the middle rack for about 45 minutes, until golden. Immediately invert cake pan onto its raised feet (or hang it upside down over the neck of a bottle). Let cake hang until completely cool.

To serve, turn cake pan right side up and gently run a knife along all sides. Repeat this process, pushing very gently against the cake as you go, without squishing or ripping it. Invert it again over a plate (the cake should fall out gently in one piece). If the cake doesn't fall out, resist pulling at it as it is likely to tear. Instead, repeat the knifing and flipping process until it comes out.

Serve alone, or with ice cream, whipped cream, drizzled melted white or dark chocolate, and/or fresh berries.