ONE OF MY SEESTERS

When I was at Joan's, we talked nonstop. 

We went for a couple walks. Kelowna has the most rich air, moist -- I like it. 

We did some clothes shopping and she bought me two tops, a thigh-length sweater-vest and a flannel shirt even longer to wear over leggings. These are my Christmas and birthday presents, she insisted, not fooling me for a moment because sure as shit she'll send presents anyway, being a person who dotes on her sisters. We are lucky, aren't we, Karen?

We stopped at a grocery store where, just outside the glass doors, we donated a few dollars for poppies ("I don't know if you've ever been pinned by a vet before," said the gentleman in uniform, fastening the flower to my collar. "Does this mean we're going steady?").

We took a new piece of Joan's art to JoeBud's Coffeehouse, the café that has been hanging it. Her airbrushed caricature of David Bowie sold quickly, and she had recently completed one of Jimi Hendrix that the café owner had no doubt would also be purchased soon. After that she finished her pic of Mick Jagger, and she has just posted one of Slash on FB. If you're connected with me on FB you might've seen these, as I share the posts. I'm very proud of her, not to mention amazed at her talent. Not that she isn't good at everything she does. It would be one thing if she'd been drawing and painting all her life, but this seemed to come out of nowhere, when she was already a fully fledged adult, so it's been surprising and her artistic output continues to delight all who know and love her.

I'll ask her permission to post photos here. Why haven't I done that already? So much to do, so little time ... no, really! Life is full. The days pass so fast, and the evenings are over before I know it. 

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What I'm making today, following this recipe Joan photographed for me. I don't have quinoa but there is bulgar wheat in the pantry.

      

SPEAK UP

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                                Reply to Comment

Steve Reed has left a new comment on your post "Curtain Blind": 

Maybe Scott thinks you accidentally washed the curtains with the drapes and is intentionally not saying anything? :) 

Ha! :)

CURTAIN BLIND

It's been almost three months since Scott's dad passed away. During the days following his passing, I decided to dye the dining room curtains from white to wine, closer to the colour of the living room drapes.
I forgot to check the fabric label, alas, and ended up with pink curtains. I was chagrined but hung them back up anyway and will try again with even more dye, and will soak them a lot longer, as per Cathy's advice.
I wondered how long it would take Scott to notice the curtains had changed colour. Usually he doesn't miss a thing.
But he still hasn't said a word. Maybe he's curtain-colour-blind.

Dining room window

Living room drape

It's been a cold day here in SaskieLand, but I dressed for it and walked three miles anyway, listening to CBC radio podcasts on my iPhone.

New recipe at Stubblejumpers Café: KILLER MARINATED TOMATOES, a good way to use the last of them.

We've been watching the Soundbreaking music series on TV the last few nights. It's on again now so I must away.

MEMORIES LIKE EARWORMS

Something that reminds me of Mom pretty much every time I do it is making the bed, because she told me to “Do it right.” None of this careless pulling-up-the-covers for my mother, oh no! Each sheet, each blanket, the whole kit’n’kaboodle must be lined up just so, nice and flat, tidy, pretty. I’ve come to appreciate this sentiment because now I too like to walk into a room with a nicely made bed. It’s more inviting.  Not that I do it "right." I just do it.

Another thing that makes me think of her is whenever I am working with bread dough. I don’t add flour to avoid stickiness in the loaf-shaping process; instead I dip my hands into lukewarm water and spread a layer of it on the countertop. 

“You can’t do that!” she said, watching me. 

But I do because it keeps the finished product as light as possible. 

Mom only ever made white bread, as I recall. If you tried the water trick with dough made of white flour, it would probably be a helluva mess.

If Scott dies before me, I’ll surely think of him whenever I run hot water into the kitchen sink. When preparing food, I rinse my hands often and wipe my workspace frequently and sometimes, while waiting for onion and other vegetables to sautée or for a pot to come to a boil, I’ll wash the dishes that have already been used. Sudsy water in the sink is quite handy then, and there is less mess to clean up later. Scott says this is inefficient and all the dishes should be washed at once, after the meal. I say keep schtum, buddy, or do it yourself. If he is dead first, this will probably be an amusing memory and I'll wish he were around to nag me about my heinous ways.

Then there is Grandma Benson, whenever I flatten a used plastic bag and turn it onto an empty cardboard roll for storage, then fasten an elastic around the outside. Can’t beat it for a way to keep bags for re-use.

When I wash the dishes and put them into the tray, and consider leaving them to drip dry, I hear Grandpa Benson telling me to “Finish them.” I’d had one of many meals with my grandparents and done dishes afterward, but not completely. He meant dry them too and put them away.

Anytime I play rummy, I think of Grandpa Johnson: “Be a deuce!” 

Hours upon hours did we spend at his kitchen table in Margo. We played cribbage too.

When sweeping off a step and sidewalk, I remember Grandma Johnson doing the same in front of their house in Margo. I was four years old and headed down the street in search of excitement. I could go to the café on the main street, she told me, “but don’t ask for candy.” Of course I did, and got it too: Smarties.

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I’m reading June’s blog entry, http://byebyepie.typepad.com/bye_bye_pie/2016/11/the-mother-and-childish-reunion.html, amused as ever, and as always there are many comments. I don’t usually read them, but this morning I’m still eating toast and drinking orange juice, so what’m I gonna do till they’re both gone? I decide to read the comments. And they’re hilarious! I’m laughing out loud.

Imagine what I’ve been missing all this time.

Then there is the lovely Stephen Fry:

http://kenlevine.blogspot.ca/2016/11/american-comedy-vs-british-comedy.html

VINDICTABLE ME

I like to think I’m not vindictive. I wouldn’t deliberately hurt another person to punish them or make my point. I see grudges held and figure that is a shame and thank goodness I’m more forgiving.

But is it true? Or do I, too, hold onto my anger?

People rarely do me a bad turn, so my evil traits don't frequently present themselves. But when they do? I can be a grim miserable cuss, and can continue hissing and spitting long enough to surprise myself.

Sure I may be civil, but will cross the street to avoid an irritant.

We are advised to imagine the “wrongdoer” as a small child, lonely, frightened and crying. This is to soften our anger, awaken our empathy. “Anything that isn’t an expression of love is a cry for help,” it is said. It's best for us, we're told, if we meet assholes with our compassion rather than bitterness or contempt.

When you're pissed off, though, it's difficult to bring yourself to do this visualization. Anyone else stubborn this way?

When anger fuels change, I tell myself, it's best to acknowledge it. Respect it. Be willing to let it go, and figure out how. Then do it.

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The rural municipality came out and installed a culvert under our south driveway. 

Looks like a hand shovel had to be used. 

We're hoping this will help get some of the water away from our property, as flooded-out trees have been dying for several years.

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WHAT'S THE STORY

We’re having some warm sun in recent days and if you’re out of the wind your ears won’t blow off. Cathy with a little chuckle called it Indigenous Summer.

What gives political correctness a bad reputation is that people usually just slip up, not even knowing we have or only suspicious we might’ve. We didn’t intend our words to be damaging to anyone, yet we are being corrected and we’re not sure what the reason is. It’s no wonder some think political correctness has gone too far. What are we supposed to say now? When did it change? Why?

Often people don’t even ask those questions. We aren’t particularly interested in the answers. We might have to practise empathy and respect in an unfamiliar way for someone whose experience we do not share or understand. We might have to admit that we didn’t already know everything about everything; that we weren’t, ourselves, above reproach. We might have to think about one more damn thing. Sheesh, don't we have enough on our plates already!

And then there’s cultural appropriation, a practice considered harmful and yes, politically incorrect: a fancy term for being pissed off over nothing, you big whiner. That’s the attitude.

Recently I could not adequately explain why it’s now politically incorrect to call a ball team, for example, the “Indians.” I only knew that many First Nations people found it offensive, and that was good enough for me. But why does it offend them?

I did a brief internet search for an explanation. HERE’S WHAT I FOUND. 

Let’s be open-minded. Let’s educate ourselves instead of insisting that demanding political correctness is little more than a platform for too-thin-skinned complainers. Let's listen and be willing to adjust our perspective.

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These youngsters stared me down at the gate while their elders hightailed it to the place where Scott was putting a fresh bale out. They're curious about anyone new. They're not hostile but I'm nervous anyway. 

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My day so far has consisted of reading while drinking my morning coffee, mixing up a batch of bread for our household (the last two batches were sold and we were down to half a loaf this morning), doing yoga in the living room once the dough was on its first rise, making marinated tomatoes (that's the last of Scott's garden produce dealt with) and the inevitable dishwashing which, by now, goes without saying so why do I keep saying it. Maybe because it takes up so much time. 

The wind on the step is nasty but I'll go out anyway as soon as the six loaves of bread come out of the oven. When I get back it will be time to think about supper. Oy. I don't want to. I might have food-prep overload.

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Doc MacLean is touring over in South Africa for the first time in his long career as a blues musician. He doesn't always have access to the internet but he's posted a good collection of photos at his blog: http://zuluskies.blogspot.ca/ .