Guy Fawkes Day

You gotta love a province that celebrates both Halloween and Bonfire Night. That to me is just perfection.
Last Monday was Guy Fawkes Day, and a classmate of Studyboy had the makings of a fire from some renovations but needed a way to transport them to Middle Cove Beach. This was a good enough excuse for us to take the truck for its monthly spin.
We very nearly hit a herd of cows on the road to the beach. Studyboy pointed out the irony of travelling to NL and only hitting a cow instead of a moose. Figuring there would be a fair amount of traffic on that stretch of road we tried to call the Constabulary, but Middle Cove is one of those divine places without cell phone service. So all subsequent arrivals to the fire had the same story of near misses but all the cows survived the night and we were left with only marshmallows to roast.
Studyboy and I, with 25 years of theatre between us didn't think to bring a flashlight for this adventure, so the process of unloading the truck and carrying armloads of nail riddled lumber down to the beach was a little treacherous. Finally though, the pile was built and as no one brought a Guy to our fire, we topped it with a box and used some charcoal to make a face.
He looks a little too happy for someone about to be torched but it was so dark, you couldn't actually see that until I used the camera flash to take a picture.
With the pile in place we had only to wait until the others showed up for the 7pm torch up time. This meant standing around for 30 minutes on a beach in November as a thick fog rolled in, wondering why we hadn't though to bring a hat and mittens.
At 7pm, with only two new arrivals to the party, and out feet going numb, we lit 'er up.
It was the biggest fire on the beach, and also the shortest. The whole pile went up quickly fueled by century old wood and a stiff wind from the ocean. Those who arrived at 7:30 missed it completely. Not ready to give a up yet, some made forays into the dark for more wood, but the beach had been cleared by all the other bonfirers, and all they could find was the waterlogged carcass of a spruce tree. It eventually burned, a little more slowly that the first, and we were all glad.

50 Ways to Lose a Pottery Project

I once knew a recording engineer who stated that drummers have the hardest gig. This was significant because he was a guitar player and musicians usually only sympathize with their own kind. His drummer theory stemmed from the fact that your average drum kit consisting of: a bass drum, a snare, two or three toms, a high hat and symbols. Add to that various types of drum sticks and brushes and Drummers therefore were required to play several instruments all at the same time.
I have extended this theory to pottery. Pottery is not just one hobby, it is several sequential ones all rolled into one, and so the number of ways you can screw up a piece is astounding. I've been at it for a month now, and I brought my first completed piece home only today. The problem is the sequence I think. You can do the first 3 or 4 steps OK and then bodge it up at the end.
You can't just unravel the yarn, or pick out the stitch, or wait until the paint dries and have another go. You can't cut a new angle, or erase a pencil line or add some more flour to the dough. When you screw up pottery, you get to start back at the beginning again.
Or, if you're like me you call it a "learning exercise" and keep going just to get to practise the steps that otherwise you would never get to.
Here are some of the ways to screw up a simple pot:
Don't attach it to the wheel properly - and it goes flying off across the room...
Use too much water to centre it - and it is too soft to hold its shape
Don't get it centred well - and it is wobbly or twisted (but not in a good way)
Don't put the hole in the middle - and it is lopsided
Don't open the hole enough at the bottom - and it weighs a ton
Use too much water to shape it - see problem 2
Use too little water to shape it - and it sticks to your hands
Schmuck it up when you cut it off the wheel
Schmuck it up when you wrap it up for drying - this only happens to the really really good ones...
Don't centre it well for trimming - and it goes wonky
Trim it too wet - and you can push it out of shape
Trim it too dry - it will crack
Trim it too thin - and you put a hole in the bottom or the sides

At this point, if you have an object that isn't half bad, don't even think about decorating it. Just go straight to firing. If however you are a masochist like me, now is the time to get clever with painting or carving or stamping or texturing. But obviously this is just a whole host of other ways to screw it up.
Once it is shaped and decorated (ha!) and a handle is attached if necessary, it needs to be dried to green ware stage.
This is where it might start to crack. Or maybe the handle will fall off. But whatever you do, be careful because it will definitely break if you knock it.
The first firing is the bisque firing. It will lose about 10 - 15% of its size and that's when you figure out the perfect sized mug is actually too small, and now you can't get your finger through the handle anymore.
Next comes glazing. If you have gotten to this stage, congratulations! Take a picture because you are sure to ruin this step. Glazes drool, streak, bubble, or just turn out to be a really ugly colour. Glazes also have the ability to accentuate any imperfections in the shape, so something that was quite exciting in the bisque stage is really quite embarrassing after it is glazed.
Thus far, I haven't so much made Seconds as thirds, fourths and fifths.

Vanity Sizing in a Post October World

In keeping with the spirit of All Hallows Eve, I went jean shopping this week. For those of you who don't see the connection, jean shopping is the scariest retail experience a woman can have.
It is so scary I haven't done it for over a decade, preferring instead to buy my jeans pre-loved at Frenchies. Lately my favourite pair of Frenchies jeans are starting to get a little frayed in some important areas, and in anticipation of total denim failure I thought I should find some replacements.
We seek them here,
We seek them there,
At Frenchies, we seek them everywhere...
Alas, Frenchies in St John's does not live up to its reputation, so it was with much trepidation I made the trip to Losers. News Flash! I can report that vanity sizing, until this moment only a rumour hotly denied by all the fashion houses, does indeed exist.
My proof for this is simple: The last time I went jean shopping...in the year 3 (BPC) - that's before Peter's cooking - I was a perfect 7/8. Fast forward to present day, or 13 (APC) and I am still a perfect 7/8.
It's a miracle! I gained an average of 2 pounds a year for 16 years but my jeans size didn't change. To celebrate I held communion with all the left over Hallow e'en chips!
I was so happy with my new purchase, I began to wear them immediately. I wore them at various times all week.
It is a peculiar quirk of my sweetie, (and perhaps most men) that he does not understand the wardrobe must fit the activity. He complains that I change my clothes at least 6 times a days, and to that I reply "Of course I do."
First thing you put on schlepping around the house clothes. Then you have to walk the dog, so you put on street clothes. Then perhaps it is time for yoga, so you put on yoga pants (yes, I do own a pair) Then it is off to run errands or buy groceries so back come the street clothes, and not necessarily the same ones as before. Then perhaps you go to the pottery studio, and that requires something different again...
On Friday my only necessary activity was a long dog walk and so I did actually wear the new jeans all day. Friday was a pre-post tropical storm day here. (Coincidentally, when did the 'tail end of a hurricane' become a post tropical storm? That's like calling November, Post October.) At any rate, on Friday we had interesting weather as an apparently nameless mass of precipitation was pushed ahead of the Noel leftovers. The winds were high, the temperature spiked up to 16 degrees from 3 overnight, and the air was muggy while the dog and I made a brisk 90 minutes loop around Georgetown. It poured rain in the afternoon while I went out to the bakery. Maybe it was the muggy dog walk, maybe it was the rain, maybe it was simply that I had them on for 15 hours non stop. When I finally removed my jeans at bedtime my legs were blue. A perfect tan line from the my socks up to my underwear.
The pre bed shower reminded me of those bright pink pills dental hygienists used to give out to show how to better brush your teeth. I had to really scrub to get the dye off my legs, and I can report that you all should be paying closer attention to behind your knees.

Fall in St. John's

One of the nice things about living in the country was watching the progression of seasons. All cities on the other hand, seem to have the same progression; one day it is summer and the next it isn't. Those in between stages seem to happen without much fanfare. St. John's is no different than any other city I have lived in, in this way. We have one tree in our back yard. It is a pin cherry, Prunus pennsylvanica for those of you who care. When we moved here in early August, it had green and lush leaves on the last foot of each branch but the rest of the leaves were skeletonized from an earlier infestation of what the neighbours called 'worms'. Over the next month it recovered and grew some new leaves where the first ones were damaged. September came and went and there was no change to the tree or the distant view of Pippy Park beyond. Thanksgiving came and went too, still no change to the tree, but a little fall colour began to show in the distance. 'Out beyond the overpass' as they call it here. Then about a week ago we finally got a hard frost that affected our neighbourhood. In two days our lush green Pin Cherry went the clear yellow of a Post It note.
St. John's weather so far has been a lot like Vancouver. Grey, overcast, and light rain most days. The difference between here and there is that St John's also gets wind. In Vancouver, wind was such an anomaly that it was remarkable. Really, as in "Wow, it's windy today" if there was more than a hint of gentle breeze in the air. In St. John's it is remarkable when there isn't a wind. So for a day and a half, our Pin Cherry was yellow, and now it is bare from the constant buffet of the gale they call a breeze. Poof, that was fall in St. John's, all 6 days of it.
And here is a little strange but true fact of weather in St, John's: if it is above 3 degrees Celsius then the neighbours are sure to remark "Beautiful day, isn't it?"
If it is sunny but the wind cuts through you like a knife its "Lovely day..."
If it is overcast and raining like a Bible story, but warmer than usual its "Nice day...'
If the wind is still but the fog reaches from the harbour to 'out beyond the overpass' it's "Gorgeous weather...it's enough to kill ya."
These are actually the words that our neighbour used today to describe a dull windy morning with intermittent showers. I can only surmise that the important factor is the temperature, which admittedly at 12 degrees C is higher than seasonal.
The funny thing is that I find myself doing it too.

Just Keep Telling Them You Are From France

I remember once sitting around with some friends and someone made the comment that it felt like we were living in a bad modern day version of La Boheme. They meant we were all youngish, artsy-ish urban dwellers living in grotty apartments who were always just on the edge of something good and then tragedy would strike and a set back would occur. Nobody ever died though.
That was several years ago, and we have all moved on to being not so youngish, possibly more responsible parents and spouses with lifestyles to match. If I had to characterize my life now as a play, it would undoubtedly be a Chekhov play in the way that nothing much happens but all the characters have at least 3 names.
I won't torment you with all the saccharine things Peter and I call each other, but the list of epithets that the dog will respond to is astonishing, and revealing.
His formal title is Jake the Dog. Not Jake Harrington or Jake Little as the vet insists on filing him.
He also responds to Little Dog (a play on words that) and Silly Dog and Bud. Evil Dog makes his tail wag because he knows he's been naughty but he's not going to be punished for it.
His Auntie Susann calls him Stinky. So does his cousin Lester. Occasionally we label him Farty Dog or Poopy Bum.
When he employs his talent for lying down in the most inconvenient place he can find we call him Speed-bump or Dead Dog.
Grumpy Dog and Growley Dog make their appearance more often than I would like, especially at the vet where his file is marked CAUTION! in red ink.
Last Thursday, Jake the Dog had an emergency spleenectomy to remove a large growth which may or may not be a malignant tumor. In light of that fact, we have (at least temporarily) stopped calling him Dead Dog because not even our humour is that bleak.
While we await the test results on his spleen and he recuperates from having his tummy sliced open and his innards stirred around we have given him a new moniker, Mr Conehead. Just keep telling them you are are from France, Bud.

How to Cook Cod (or How NOT to Cook Cod)

This week seems to be about cooking adventures. Yesterday, our neighbours gave Peter some fresh cod. This is the last week of the food fishery and someones brother in law had been out to catch some fish. Food fishery is one of those odd terms that seems redundant to me. Like why else would anyone catch fish except for food? But what it means is that non commercial people like someones brother in law can go out and get some cod for personal use. Or to give to the crazy Nova Scotians next door.
According to our neighbours who are gay, but otherwise true Newfoundlanders through and through, there is only one way to cook fresh cod. In fact, they were so adamant about it, they gave me explicit instructions. Twice. You chop up some salt pork fat into little squares and fry them until the fat is all rendered ( this is called scruntcheons). Then you dredge the cod in flour and fry it in the pork fat. You buy the salt pork fat in the grocery store in the meat section, right next to the salt pork riblets and the blood pudding. This is not a joke.
But here is the thing, the day before I had made breaded pork cutlets for dinner and I didn't really want to eat something fried two days in a row. Plus, I don't really like cod that much, and I knew the only way I would enjoy it was to disguise it. So I opened the Joy of Cooking and found a recipe for Fresh Cod a la Portuguese. Now even a Newfoundlander has to admit the Portuguese must know something about cooking cod. Essentially it is cod poached in a tomato and white wine sauce, and it was pretty good. When I told my neighbours what I was doing they were utterly horrified. I think if they had been able to demand I return their cod they would have. (Waste of Cod!) But then again, they are getting used to hearing about the crazy stuff we eat: the other day I made Dave try some halva.

My $50 Bowl of Soup

Six weeks ago I signed up for a mushroom ID class offered through the City of St John's rec department. I wanted belly dancing but it was full. The mushroom class was every other Tuesday night for 3 sessions at the MUN botanical garden. We had our last session two days ago. I knew nothing about wild mushrooms before, and I still know very little but it was an interesting introduction none the less.
One thing I learned; people who like wild mushrooms really like wild mushrooms. I am only mildly interested myself, and I confess that even though I could now distinguish a King Bolite from a Morel I am no more likely to go foraging in the forest for them than I was before. However, it is nice to know that if I ever find myself wandering through the woods in the fall, post apocalypse, I won't starve like some people.
Another thing I learned was to properly ID a mushroom, you need to do a spore print. Each mushroom has a specific spore print based on its pattern and colour. This is important because there are a lot of mushrooms that look a like and some are good to eat but others will kill you. This means that if I am wandering around in the forest post apocalypse I better remember to bring a field guide. And a microscope. And some paper for the print.
Possibly, it might just be better to have a large supply of those military emergency rations on hand...
At our final class on Tuesday, the instructor brought enough Pine Mushrooms for everyone to be able to take one home. Pine mushrooms, also know as Tricholomata magnivelare, are a highly sought after delicacy. They call them Matsutake in Japan where good specimens will fetch $100 each. One of their distinct identifying features is their smell. We spent a lot of time smelling mushrooms in this class, it was a lot like wine tasting that way; people trying to come up with crazy adjectives that describe a particular mushroom. Some just smelled earthy and mushroomy, but some really have a surprising smell. One smelled like pears. The Matsutake smells just like Cinnamon Red Hots. I picked one that looked like it would make a good spore print, and also had a good strong smell. It wasn't a perfect shape though, so my instructor said it was probably only worth $50.
Behold, the $50 mushroom and its spore print. The instructor told us to make a soup using chicken broth and shave some thin slices of Matsutake into it. I did this today, and I can report that it was pretty good. It was so good in fact that I was going to save half for Peter when he came home from school today, but I ended up eating it all myself instead. His loss. I was surprised it tasted so good, because I used some home made chicken broth I had in the freezer, and I had put quite a lot of savory and parsley into it when I made it, so I really just expected it to taste like chicken broth. But the mushroom gave it a really unusual flavour which I can only describe as like miso, only earthier. The slivers of mushroom too had a texture similar to an oyster mushroom, like a firm tofu. It lost all its cinnamon qualities, but the soup itself had a hint of paprika.