Cake Catastrophes in Winnipeg

I got the colours right, just don't look at it too closely

It never fails. Every year, in December and January I am faced with the monumental task of baking a birthday cake.

Some moms revel in this time of year when they can amaze their children, impress their friends, and feel all-out smug about their baking abilities.

Yeah, that's not me.

Every year I start out with a positive attitude: "This year is MY year. I'm gonna do this! WOOT WOOT!" I find my recipe. I shop for ingredients. I start thinking about the design a few days in advance. Then before I know it, the day arrives. I can't find the one baking pan I need. Panic. Swear. Find it. Move on to baking. The cake's not rising. Panic. SWEAR. Did I overbeat it again? Damnit, I used a gentle hand. Stupid recipe.

Take it out of the oven. It's lopsided. Damnit! Panic. SWEAR LOUDLY. I curse society's expectation that mothers have some kind of innate ability to do this. I try and cut the the bubble off the top. Now it's all crumbly. GREAT. Now what do I do?! Swear! Yes, that always makes me feel better.

From beginning to end, it's a struggle

On to the frosting. This I got. Piece of cake (no pun intended). I start the beaters, I add the icing sugar and *POOF* it all blows out the bowl and into my face. DAMNIT! DAMNIT! DAMNIT! Eventually the cream finds its way to the bowl and the dust storm is under control. I eventually get some kind of frosting to congeal and attempt to ice the cake. It's more crumbs than slick icing. *Ding Dong!* There's the doorbell with the first guest arriving early. Panic! Swear!

I slop it on as fast as I can. It looks like hell. I throw sprinkles and silver balls at it. That helps camouflage its hideousness, right? My darling girl wanders by and gives me her annual pity pat on the back "That looks nice, Mom. Good job! Good for you." Smile. Swear under my breath.

I don't enjoy baking and baking doesn't enjoy me. I'm not ashamed to say I've looked elsewhere for cake love. But this year, a little miracle happened. I took a little more time. I relaxed a bit. I swore less. And I didn't get a pity pat this time. Nope. This time I got an enthusiastic "GREAT JOB MOM! Wow! This is the best cake you've ever made. Way to go!"

Smile. Pat myself on the back. Take some photos as proof.

Wildfire!

Since summer, I've been fearing winter. I've feared the culmination of our tree pruning exercise. I've feared the giddy fire play of a former farm boy, passed off as a legitimate way to deal with tree detritus. "Seriously?" I say to Jay. He nods. He's sincere in his belief that this is a necessary evil, sanctioned by even the rubbish removal guy who told us to save our pennies and burn it.

I wrestle with my conscience. For more than two years I actively worked to convince friends, family, and the public that burning was BAD. All those presentations by toxicologists who told us that despite the high level of carcinogens contained in woodsmoke, we'd never break the love affair that people have with fire.

Oh the testosterone rush of a gigantic, life-threatening blaze.

When it came time to light the pile, I was a nervous wreck. Furtively surveying the surrounding foliage: would that catch on fire? Jay's full of manly assurance: It's winter. Everything's wet. This is why we're doing it now. Still, my heart's racing. There goes our cabin. And the surrounding cabins. All the way down the road the raging fire is consuming all of Lester Beach. The next day we're featured prominently in the community newspaper: "Family Burns Down Cottage Country."

While I entertain thoughts of mass destruction, Jay's busy setting brush on fire. He barely gets around it before it goes WHOOSH! A gigantic, 12-foot fireball. Licking at the top branches of a neighbouring apple tree. My heart races. My 8-year old son inches closer, oooh-ing and aaah-ing, congratulating my husband and fellow testosterone monkey, for an "epic" fire.

Meanwhile, my 10-year old daughter paces. She frets. Like her mother, she loudly announces her disapproval of a fire so big. Neighbours drop by to check and make sure we're "okay". I continue to pace. Higher and higher the fire goes.

Curiously, in between the fretting and pacing, I do take time to take some pictures. Wow, those gigantic flames make for good photos. Phew, the apple tree isn't catching fire. Oh look, the cabin is still intact. And yes, the flames are indeed dying down, as Jay predicted. I relax a little. By this time, daughter's left the crime scene and retreated inside where her safety bubble is preserved.

I feel relieved. It's all okay! The fire was rather exciting, wasn't it? Thrilling, in fact!

Then I get a message from a friend. From back in the day. A friend who, in no uncertain terms, suggests I've clearly abandoned my air quality principles of yesteryear. I hang my head in shame. He's right. I DID enjoy that near brush with death. The thrill of a heat so intense I thought I'd singe my nose hair. Is it any wonder fire's a habit we just can't break?

My Kingdom for a Bagel

Jay's little circles of bagelly sunshine

Winnipeg's Jewish community has a sizable, prominent and influential presence here. So why can't a girl get herself a decent bagel in this town?

Gee, I hope that didn't sound cliche.

But seriously. When we were moving to Winnipeg, I was beside myself with excitement over my bagel prospects. I couldn't wait to find the famous North End. Surely here I would find the Mecca of Bageldom.

Nope.

I found one local baker who made a New York style. But again, seriously? Anyone who loves their bagels knows full well that Montreal-style is the ONLY style. And here, I've found out from my reputable Jewish friends, there is NO Montreal-style.

Gaaaaah.

So. Cut to scene: since we can't go to Bageldom, henceforth Bageldom shall come to us. Our street cred is that Jay's a lab rat. He tinkers with test tubes, mass spectrometers, and gas chromatographs for a living. So really, could building a better bagel be all that hard?

So far we've had three batches, three different recipes. Tasting as we go. Adding extra notches to our belts. Stay tuned for the thrilling outcome, when just one bagel will be left standing.  Here, on Bagel Island.

Super Fan

JKS writes me love letters at McNally Robinson in Winnipeg

Well kids, it's nigh on five years since moving to Winnipeg. Some of you may recall when I first started Olivebits I had a bit of a crush on The Weakerthans (see blog post Winnipeg Love Letters: W is for The Weakerthans). I guess if I'm being truly honest, the crush may have been directed at John K. Samson. Sure, he's not your typical crush material. But ever since high school, I've had a thing for the geeky smart boys.

In this post's collage you'll see I've finally got my wish: a personalized note from JKS thanking ME for moving to Winnipeg. It's a dream come true for a Super Fan. But truthfully, more than this sweet dream, this lovely iPhone collage, this token of my fandom, I have something more amazing.

These awesome images of the awesome JKS were taken by Jay, my very own geeky (handsome!) smart boy. While I was at home preparing for our 10 year old's birthday slumber party, he, the one who hates waiting, was waiting patiently in line for an autograph. He knew how much it would mean to me to have the book of lyrics and poems. He knew how much it would mean to me to have that personalized one-liner from a great Winnipeg ambassador. He knew I would never stop talking about it. He knew all this, and despite a whole world of embarrassment for him, he still did it. For me. For the Super Fan.

He's off to bed now. I hope he knows that deep in my heart, and way out on my sleeve, I am HIS Super Fan. And he, forever and a day, will be my number one geeky smart boy.

Skating

I grew up on the west coast. As a kid my dad would take me skating at the local arena. Now I really don't think this stands out as a fond memory because I loved to skate; I have a sneaky feeling it had more to do with the post-skate vending machine hot chocolate. Mmm, watery chocolate beverage.

This past weekend, the weather in Winnipeg was freakishly warm. So much so, it prompted me to break my lazy streak and take the family out skating. My son (a chip off the ole ice block) has never shown much of an interest in skating. He was far more interested in keeping his boots on, while  slipping, sliding and prat falling. Clearly, he too was in it for the post-skate watery hot chocolate.

So imagine my surprise this weekend when he happily donned his rented skates. He grabbed his Dad's hand and away they were off down the trail. Before I knew it, he let go. Wobbling, shuffling, and beaming from ear-to-ear, the little guy was off to catch his sister and her buddy. A new love of skating was born! *Insert Proud Parent Pride Here*

Realistically though, I know full well that in his mind, skating was about to be one more thing he could kick his sister's butt at. Oh yes, sibling rivalry is alive and well in Winnipeg.

Post Post-Script: Something you non-Winnipeggers may not know: Winnipeg is in the Guinness Book of World Records for the longest outdoor skating trail (a whopping 8.5 kms). And, just today, the Toronto Star did a feature story on our architecturally marvellous warming huts (http://www.thestar.com/business/article/1121473--reasons-to-visit-winnipeg-in-winter-starchitect-frank-gehry-and-a-spray-on-igloo). Winterpeg Rocks!

You've Had a Helluva Year, Winnipeg

When I moved here four-and-a-half years ago, the little hamlet of Winnipeg was having a bad day. Well, more like a bad couple of decades. You've all read about how much that bugged me. How I struggled to understand how people could feel so lousy about their city. Well, fast forward to 2011. Big changes are in the works, and Winnipeggers are PUMPED.

I'd wager to say it's a phenomenon that not a lot of people experience. It's like those cartoon snowballs that start out tiny, gain momentum, and morph into a massive hurtling snow planet. The progress snowball started with rumours of the Jets return (for 15 years they've been returning, so it was a mostly ignored rumour), then we see construction on Portage of funky new rental apartments. Next thing we know, the snowball's getting bigger: Ikea is coming to Winnipeg! Not just any Ikea, but the largest Ikea in Canada. Then construction of the first national museum outside of Ottawa. A Grey Cup final for the Blue Bombers to match their new home stadium. Then the beautiful reconstruction and revitalization of the city's Assiniboine Park and Zoo (the snowball's getting HUGE). Next the swishy new James Richardson International Airport. And oooh, how about a new entertainment district downtown?

Of course you know by now, the Jets DID come back. And wow, they couldn't have wished for more appreciative, adoring, decibel-busting fan club. I saved this one for last because arguably, it catalysed the biggest mood-transformation I've ever witnessed. And while I'm not a huge spectator sport fan, I am a huge fan of community pride. And for the first time in a long while, Peggy's got her mojo back. And just in time to rock 2012. Happy New Year, Happy Winnipeggers. GO JETS GO!

Woof.

I always wanted a terrier. Like a Schnauzer. Or maybe a Westie. Something small, with a lotta attitude.

What dog sits like this?

And while I've always liked all kinds of dogs, big dogs never really registered for me. I found them all rather...boring. Sure, my very first dog Sargent was a German Shepherd. But I can barely remember the sandwich I had for lunch today, let alone the personality characteristics of my first childhood dog.

Jay too has always loved dogs. He just didn't want one of his own. He didn't want the poop, the hassle, the vet bills.  Some may say he's a cheap 'n lazy guy (not me. I wouldn't say that) but I subtly persisted. A cute little email attachment of the "dog of the day" from the humane society. Then another of a sweet pup from Kijiji (I know; damn puppy mills; they always post such stupid cute pictures to reel you in). Jay politely acknowledged them, and then ran away (figuratively, not literally). Of course I was doing this under the guise of "It's Good For The Children". Sparing you a lot of gory detail, he eventually conceded to going to the humane society for a look. He forewarned me: "A LOOK. That's all this is. You got that?"

The place was an echo chamber; a cacophony of barking mania.  Dogs jumping feverishly; desperate for attention. Desperate to leave. Yet there she was. A lazy ole lump, laying quietly on her bed. She wasn't small, but she wasn't big either. She looked like an experiment from Honey, I Shrunk the Dog.  I quietly called her name through the glass. Her big brown eyes connected with mine. Her excitement was detectable only by the tiniest of wiggles in her lower back half.

He tried to deny it. But from the moment he patted her giant head, Jay knew he was in trouble. Even more so when on the car ride home we awarded him the "winner" of the dog-naming contest.

Olive-the-Other-Reindeer ("Olive" for short) was welcomed into our clan on November 27, 2009 and we've been wagging our tails ever since.

Those paws seem impossibly large for such a small dog

Staring down a squirrel

Who me? No, I did NOT just attempt to eat the cat. Honest.

BFFs

The tales of Saskiatoonberry and Brynana

As a kid, did you ever leave a best friend behind when your family moved away? Or perhaps you were the friend that was left behind...?

This happened to me in elementary school when my family moved from BC back to Quebec. On that day, my friend Melanie took a picture of me waving to the camera; my big smile surely meant I was oblivious to all that I'd soon be leaving behind.

More recently, I made my own decision as an adult to move my own family from Vancouver to Winnipeg. Even though that was four years ago, I can still feel that clanging in my chest. That aching feeling that there was a whole lot I was leaving behind. This time, not only my own best friend. But my child's best friend.

It's a lot to expect that small children would keep a fledging relationship alive, particularly one that was a mere 5 years young. But to my surprise, the wee girls have kept it going. A letter here, a Skype call there, interspersed with an occasional cross-country jaunt to hug and to play.

You know, they've been apart almost as long as they'd been together. My heart leaps when I recall their baby days, their toddler days, and their preschool days together. Of their untainted memories of each other. Of their unwavering proclamation of "BFFs Forever!" Of the way they ran down the hall to embrace each other, unrestrained, the first time after months apart. And finally, of their tiny voices as they bid a tearful goodbye once more. That stays with me. Always.

Cabbages and Kings

No. 2 in a series about life at The Cabbage...

"Gather 'round children! I'm going to tell you a story about a devilishly handsome, awfully good man who finds his heart-thump somewhere in the woods." There once was a man who took his responsibilities very seriously. Older than his years, he obligingly took care of the dishes, his children, the drainage and the dog. He took care of his chores, wearily, routinely, and (mostly) without complaint. Much of the time the man was exhausted.

One day his charming wife suggested a family outing to explore the countryside. They drove for a little more than an hour and suddenly there they were: smack in the middle of a wooded land! The man's eyes sparkled. They twinkled. A air of calm overtook him, and the family marveled.  For him, something had returned. Something he lost in the woods of his childhood. The same something that broke up beaver dams, trapped squirrels, led the family dog for hours through the wooded trails. The man's heart-thump had returned. His soul rejoiced!

For Jay, the heart-thump of The Cabbage is palpable. He becomes a different man, almost from the moment the car leaves our city home. His heart becomes lighter, his laughter quicker. The stillness of the morning air, the chitter-chat of birds, the whispered rustle of the birch trees: these are the things that fill his heart. Here, he is king of his land. And he, king of our hearts.

Gone Fishin'

Proclamations of love for Pop

Teaching his daughter bird calls

Lots of time for big love at The Cabbage

Gobsmacked

No. 1 in a series on The Cabbage...

Spectacular sunsets on the 11th largest freshwater lake on Earth

I was gobsmacked when I found out Winnipeggers had such a well-entrenched lake culture. Usually, somebody mentions cottage country and well-marketed images of Ontario come to mind. But Manitoba? The prairies? 

Well, surprise! Humble little Manitoba is home to Lake Winnipeg: the 6th largest lake in Canada and 11th largest freshwater lake on Earth. Indeed, I expected to be landlocked when I moved away from the Pacific Ocean. Little did I know at the time that I'd be inheriting my very own inland ocean and eventually succumbing to the siren song of Manitoba Cottage Country.

Peer Pressure

Life can get real muddy sometimes

I have this friend. Let's call him Greg (an ingenious plan, as that is his real name). Greg may not have realized it at the time, but he gave me a reason to come on back to Olivebits. It's called peer pressure.

When I started this blog in early 2010, I had all these grand plans of regular posts, filled with beautiful, artistic, and relevant photography from my brand spankin' new digital SLR. Well, as most people (particularly those with small kids) know, life gets in the way of all purposeful intents. Piano lessons, tae kwon do lessons, drinking-too-much-red-wine-with-dinner lessons, all managed to derail my plans to empty my brain on a regular basis. Soon days became weeks. Weeks became months. Months became a year. All the while there was Greg, peering over the back fence, casually asking when the next blog post was coming. I had every excuse imaginable as to why I had abandoned my "artistic" pursuit, why life gets a little muddy sometimes, and well, damnit Greg, stop harassing me!

*Ahem*

All this to say, peer pressure is a wonderful thing. Especially for procrastinators. In a very microscopic way, Olivebits had resonated with someone other than myself. My personal proclamations of love for Winnipeg were reaching others, and well, that felt real nice. It felt like my little part of the web was touching someone else's part of the web, and suddenly this big expanse of a world felt just a little more connected.

So thanks, Greg. Thanks for the encouragement. Thanks for sharing my Peg-Love with others. Maybe you could ask them to drop me a line sometime. If even just to keep up that peer pressure. You KNOW what a slacker I can be.

Winnipeg Love Letters -- E is for Extreme Weather

I LOVE WINTER. In Winnipeg. There. I said it. Sorry, what's that? You're shaking your head and calling the therapist? Oh c'mon, I'm not really that nutters. Four out of four people in my family recently polled all declared the same. And believe-you-me, for a girl who grew up on the temperate west coast, this love of winter came as a bit of a surprise. 

In Vancouver, I would whole-heartedly agree with neighbours when they exclaimed (after the fifth consecutive month of rain) "Hey, at least we don't have to shovel it like the rest of the suckers in Canada!" Now granted I don't actually have to shovel here (thanks Jay), but the crunch of the snow, the sparkle of it, the blinding reflected light is like a shiny little miracle to me. And speaking of light: seasonal affective disorder begone! But woe are the sunglass-less eyeballs peering at endless bright blue sunny skies of Winnipeg winters. Now that hurts. 

During our first winter here I realized something: I felt like a real Canadian. I finally got all the snow and cold jokes. I loved the idea of the outdoor skating rink just down the street. I love layering up. I love my utterly unsexy snowpants. I love watching the kamikaze winter cyclists bearing down in -40C (my hubby being one of them). And I love love LOVE the Snow Beard (it's when ice crystals form on anything with the slightest bit of moisture). It's pioneer-sexy!

Sure, a lot of you out there already know you hate winter. I can respect that. But this love note is for closeted winter-people. Especially those who live in places where the rest of the country think it's unbearably extreme. It isn't. For once, I'd like to see Winnipeg Tourism actually develop a destination campaign on how the city  shines in winter. 'Cos it really does. It shines so much, you better not forget your sunglasses.

Winnipeg Love Letters -- N is for Not Vancouver

"Traitor!" They're shouting. "She leaves the city and the first thing she does is slag her old hometown!"

They're deleting me from Facebook. Demanding I return my Fleuvog shoes. Blocking me from the Stanley Park livecam. 

Dog-friendly sunsets on Lake Winnipeg

Oh Sweet and Darling Inhabitants of Lotusland this is not about you. Honest. It's not about you and your majestic natural vistas. Nor your orca-laden ocean, temperate climate, and pedestrian-friendly, densified downtown that you market so well. No. This is about how Winnipeg is Not Vancouver. And how, despite your incredulity, we're good with that.

I love these prairie people. At one point in the early days of settling into our new hometown, I wanted to make a customized t-shirt. I wanted it to say on the front: Aspiring Flatlander. And on the back: Recovering Vancouverite.

So how do I compare thee? Let me count the ways: Sunsets. Vancouver has lovely sunsets that while admirable, don't last very long as they dip behind the mountains and submerge into the ocean. Winnipeg and environs has jaw-dropping, crazy-ass big sky sunsets that seem to last forever (a boon to romantic evenings). Crowds. After a lifetime of arriving hours early, or even skipping events altogether because we had crowd fatigue, we still marvel at the fact that we rush to get somewhere early to "find parking" and battle "the crowds", only to find we practically have the place to ourselves. Traffic. It takes a helluva long time to get anywhere in Vancouver. Possibly a reason lots of people bike. Even in the driving sleety rain. Well, I can't say Winnipeg doesn't have traffic issues. But that usually involves the suburban part of the city, which no self-respecting urbanite would travel to anyway (sorry Loren). Housing costs. Century-old home in immaculate condition on a beautiful elm-lined street. Vancouver: $1.2 million-ish. Winnipeg: $285,000. I think you might be getting the picture. It's Quality of Life. See previous points re: sunsets, housing, crowds, traffic.

I could go on. But I don't want all my wonderful friends in Vancouver to feel bad about where they live. I realize that not everybody is lucky enough to live in Winnipeg.

Old School

Remember that blog when I dreamed about being smart? Well, it's definitely a dream. After I wrote my environmental law exam, I realized, with sadness, my own limitations. Where'd I go wrong? I studied hard. I had beautifully typed and organized notes. I shunned my young children for all things legal.  

Immediately following the exam I sauntered over to the least ageist classmate I could find and sought a little post-trauma empathy. DENIED. Apparently I was mislead. The exam was actually awesome. It was a snap. A piece of frickin' cake. Whaaaaa?  

Maybe online education, instead?

Well, damn you. Damn you and your youthful brains. The one not yet riddled with alzheimer plaque. Damn you and your ability to enjoy the full experience of university. Not having to keep the career in check and the children unscarred and the husband happy and the dog watered and walked. Damn you and your ability to wear stylish clothes in frigid weather and not be hampered by a toque, snowpants, a parka, and mittens (I don't like to be cold, okay?) I know learning is a lifelong pursuit. I know education is an investment. I know they say you're never too old to go back to school. But darlings, I'm telling you, from experience...LIFE experience...that yes Virginia, there is a limit. One's vanity in the face of youth is the variable they never discuss. Going back for a PhD in your 40s may be okay. Finishing off an undergrad? Well, I might suggest online education for you.

Winnipeg Love Letters -- N is for Neighbourhood

My dearest Winnipeg, boy oh boy did you get it right when you put my neighbourhood Wolseley together. Walking distance to downtown. Magnificent 100-year elm canopies. Fully intact heritage homes. Friendly little eco-friendly businesses that are fully embraced and supported by their neighbours. Annual community picnics and block parties. Streets closed to traffic for cycling on Sundays. Walking distance and several public access points to the river. Plenty of smiling people. Plenty of sour people. Plenty of young people, old people, wealthy people, gettin'-by people. Lots of dogs and lots of cats. 

I gotta tell ya, when I first visited this neighbourhood I couldn't shake the images I saw. They startled me. They were images of a bygone era: kids running freely up and down the streets. Shrieking. Laughing. Not an adult in sight. Using the sidewalks and the boulevards as their backyards. It was straight out of a...heads up: here's your cheesy alert...a Rockwell painting. I'm not lyin'. Honest. 

I love that this tiny neighbourhood is mocked for boycotting the mosquito sprays. I like that people think we're all eco-freaks (some of us are, some of us aren't). I like that people haul patio furniture across the alley into your yard for an impromptu BBQ that lasts much too long for the children, and not long enough for the grown-ups. It's all these little niblets of community that make up my neighbourhood. And I know Winnipeg's got plenty of other gems out there. 

Tell me about yours, will you?

Smarty Pants

Boy, I wish I was smart. Not just every day smart like I know what's happening over in the House of Commons. No sir. I wish I was pompously, ostentatiously smart. I'd enjoy watching people squirm as I rhymed off obscure facts about French philosophers like Michel Eyquem de Montaigne. I'd look down my nose at the office book club as I  read Ann L. Bergren's latest book "The Etymology And Usage Of Peirar In Early Greek Poetry". 

I'd fancy myself a sesquipedalian, and I'd use my awesome poly-syllabic words to stupefy the serving staff at Stella's. Oh sure, I already use juicy words like bombastic, ameliorate, inculcate and penultimate, almost daily in fact. But if I were smarter, my lexicon would most definitely include such gems as gasconading, vituperate, abligurition, and excogitate. And in case you were wondering: the answer is yes. I most certainly would use my brilliance for evil. 

Alas, I don't think I'll ever be that smart. Mediocrity is somehow more appealing to me as I can count on it involving salty snacks and excessive screen time. So instead I think I'll be clever and efficient. Next time I want to impress someone, maybe I'll just fabricate some intelligence via Smugopedia (http://www.smugopedia.com/). 

Hoo-boy, now that's smart.

Winnipeg Love Letters -- I is for Imperfect

Dearest Winnipeg, as my new hometown I felt I needed to tell you some things. I wanted to send you a love letter, a few love letters, just so others may know how sweet you are. How you're so unflashy, and so very honest. How your simplicity makes room for deep conversations. I think I may love you...but I know it's too soon. This little ode to joy is for you. Enjoy. xo  

What is it with us and perfection? Why do we spend untold minutes searching the teetering apple pile to find that perfect specimen? Why do we marvel when someone has perfect teeth? Why oh why was Bo Derek a "perfect" 10? I call bullocks on that. 

When I lived in Vancouver I loathed the perfectly soul-less, skyscrapin' glass monstrosities that made up our downtown. It was as if Vancouver was averse to anything less than perfect. I guess maybe the mountains and the ocean were hard to live up to? Well, you sweet little Winnipeg you. You don't have the same pretenses, do you? You've accepted your imperfections. You know full well that your streets run at kooky and perhaps illogical angles. It's what keeps your drivers on their toes. And those places you call Winnipeg Institutions. They are not *really* the best places to eat, but there's something incredibly endearing about them. Something nostalgic. Something loyal.

When I first moved here I suffered from perfection withdrawal. I had quite the attitude: well I think it would be better if they just...i don't know what they were thinking with these colours...seriously? who thought of that? Soon enough though, that attitude began to dissipate. I found charm in the mismatched retail signs. I was smitten with the ragamuffin decors. I loved the beat-up 70s look of certain areas. It was as if once you took away the dazzle, you could see. You could find the meaningful conversation beneath the veneer, rather than having the veneer be the meaningful conversation.

My 100-year old home and neighbourhood are grand designs of imperfection. Leaky gutters, slanted houses, bumpy streets, mish-mash retail. But it's also rife with people who care about community. Who valiantly oppose the malathion spraying. People who embrace a diverse and imperfect range of neighbours. 

Without the dazzle we see delight. Without perfection we seek our own potential. Our own uniqueness. 

I think back to that apple pile and the bruised apple everyone overlooks: not realizing that an apple, like a city, is made all the more sweeter by the bumps, by the imperfections, of its landscape.

Winnipeg Love Letters -- W is for the Weakerthans

Dearest Winnipeg, as my new hometown I felt I needed to tell you some things. I wanted to send you a love letter, a few love letters, just so others may know how sweet you are. How you're so unflashy, and so very honest. How your simplicity makes room for deep conversations. I think I may love you...but I know it's too soon. This little ode to joy is for you. Enjoy. xo

Back in March 2007, our west coast life was neatly packed up (haha - neatly. I like how much more tidy and organized my fantasy life is than my actual life) and waiting to be shipped off to the promised land called Winnipeg. I was driving in The Blube (our blue Subaru - aka The Blueberry) when DNTO played this song. I can't remember what it was, only that it moved me somehow. It got right into that little tiny cranny. Y'know: the place reserved for teenage crushes. Well, the song ended and Sook-Yin Lee said it was a hometown band, somebody called The Weakerthans (http://www.theweakerthans.org/). So I called Jay at work and told him about this great song. Now normally I'm pretty lazy and wouldn't go through all the trouble of calling, but I like to find meaning in mundane things. I thought it was a sign.

Fast forward one year later. The Weakerthans have a permanent high rating on the iPod. The Prairie Poets they're called. Lyrics so intricate, so hurtful, so impassioned, so raw, so rockin'. They speak of prairie life, of Winnipeg, of mundane existences and yearning. They speak to me. Even the kids sing along to the lyrics, they know the songs so well.

My 7-year old and I are dining at Prairie Ink restaurant. As we put our coats on I look at the table ahead of us: I gasp. My daughter senses alarm: "What, Mom? What's wrong?" I steady myself. I manage to squeak: "It's him." Poor child has no idea what I'm talking about. I am in the full throes of teenage stupor. I am looking right at John K. Samson. Front man for The Weakerthans. And not only is he in front of me, he is sitting with a friend of a friend! Yes, I have the chance to casually meet him. But I freeze. I am frozen. I am giddy. I rush my daughter past and get outside. "It was the singer from the Weakerthans!!" I gush. My daughter, though only 7 years old, proclaims: "Mom, do you LOVE him?!" Yes, I am incapable of wearing a poker face. It's all out there. I clear my throat and say "Don't be silly! Of course not." All the while feeling guilty that somehow I've just cheated on my husband of 15 years.

Flash forward to April 2009: finally our chance to see the prairie poets live. We loved every minute of it, although Jay had to endure me dancing in the aisle and shouting like an idiot. I warned him. He had to expect it. 

A few weeks later, as I sat in my car waiting to turn right on to the Maryland bridge, I watched a cyclist approaching. I patiently waited. And you know the old adage about how good things come to those who wait? John K. Samson, in all his geeky glory, rode his bicycle past my car. And I swear, he looked right at me and nodded. Or winked? Yes, it's my story and I say he winked.

Bison or Buffalo - Delish No Matter What Ya Call It

Since I want you to visit me in Winnipeg...it got me thinking about the prairies. And about the history. About the first inhabitants of the land and their relationship with the bison of the plains. Then I felt hungry. Somebody mentions 'bison' and I start salivating. For a bison burger. Yep. Buffalo-on-a-Bun. 

Served up at Winnipeg's Buffalo Stone Cafe (http://www.fortwhyte.org/index.php?pid=42), this big ole sloppy beauty is enough to make any vegetarian reconsider their dining options. The drool-inducing photo is courtesy of my pal Kiki who faithfully visits the Peg each Fall. The thing I really like about this burger is that it's local. Now, I don't know if by local they mean they walk into the large pasture and grab a bison, but the cafe is located at this beautiful environmental refuge (Fort Whyte Alive) in the middle of the city. The chef comes up with ingenious and delicious uses for local foods (http://www.fortwhyte.org/files/File/Ciao-BuffaloStoneCafe.pdf) And he's awfully nice to your kids if they get stung by a wasp ("Thanks, Peter") And for you word nerds out there: 'Buffalo' is the popular name often used to describe North American bison; however, this is a misnomer. In fact, buffalo are distinctly different animals from bison. Although both bison and buffalo belong to the same family, Bovidae, true 'buffalo' are native only to Africa and Asia. (http://www.notitia.com/bison/Buffalo.htm)

You Know You Love It

C'mon now. You've clicked this far...just one more click and you can read this really interesting observation about how Winnipeg is so awesome, most people haven't realized it. YET.
http://incrediblycool.ca/?p=1618