tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33045712024-03-13T23:07:12.430-04:00ShakylegsRantings of an almost middle-aged man-child.
Lowly tech-writer by day, but amazingly virile superhero when I dream.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.comBlogger559125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-41880237749504820352007-01-29T14:14:00.000-05:002007-01-29T14:16:45.094-05:00New digsThe office changed locations. I now have a window.<br />But I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about this: 5 years after starting this blog, I've decided to do like most other cool folks (and <a href="http://shatnerian.wordpress.com/">others not so cool</a>), and so will continue my occasional posting on <a href="http://www.wordpress.org">Wordpress</a>.<br />So update your blogrolls to <a href="http://tinmansthoughts.wordpress.com">here</a>. <br />Oh, stop laughing! Some folks actually might, you know!Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-82231821445068764822007-01-22T14:02:00.000-05:002007-01-24T10:25:36.635-05:00His name is… SquirrelSince the <a href="http://shakylegs.blogspot.com/2006/10/this-is-our-last-goodbye.html">departure of our much-beloved Frances</a>, the milliner and I have considered getting another pet. In fact, perhaps two pets, if only so they don't get lonely during those hours when we're not home. We're special that way. <br />Naturally, I wanted another <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tags/mainecoon/clusters/">Maine Coon</a>, but was open to suggestions. And, of course, a dog. Something big. That slobbers all over you. And takes up half the bed. And is way too huge to require much exercise. But first of all, a cat.<br />So, relying on a <a href="http://www.kingmarketing.ca/weblogs/ajkandy/">certain yulblogger's</a> suggestion, we headed out to <a href="http://www.spcamonteregie.com">SPCA Montérégie</a>, a non-euthanasia shelter. Looked around one of the cat rooms, were attacked (in a friendly way, mind you) by some cats, smelled at by others, and completely ignored by the rest. One cat was sleeping, woke up when we got near, and latched on when we picked him up, nuzzling on ear lobes and hugging us madly. So, we told the folks we wanted him, paid, and left him for the week while he was to get another vaccination. And, therefore, I present, Squirrel.<br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinman/366003127/" title="Photo Sharing"><img src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/104/366003127_debadff143.jpg" width="500" height="403" alt="His Name Is Squirrel" /></a><br />Tiny little thing, a bit of a complainer, but not loud at all. He just requires a lot of love. His name, apparently, comes from the fact that he was found under a bird feeder, trying to jump up to get the seeds. Of course, if ever we get another pet, we have to call it "Moose," but with a Russian accent.<br />BTW, if anyone is thinking of adopting a(nother) pet, really, go to the <a href="http://www.spcamonteregie.com">SPCA Montérégie</a>: they especially need help these days.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-7925911849066942482007-01-17T14:53:00.000-05:002007-01-17T15:18:54.533-05:00Saturday night is not alright for first datesNotes from a branché resto-slash wine bar:<br /><ol style="text-align: left;"><li>Get seated next to vaguely familiar politician conversing with a holdover from the Kajagoogoo days of new wave '80s. Realise vaguely familiar politician is, ahem, Andrew ClearWood. Date does not seem to be going well, Andy's credit card is already on the bar by the time they're eating their first tapas. Fifteen minutes later, they leave, taxi boy out the front, fearless leader to the back, where he goes to bathroom. Comes back out when he senses the coast is clear. No visible signs of grinding teeth.</li><li>Their seats are taken up about 10 minutes later, this time by a somewhat attractive mid-40s woman and an older, distinguished-looking gentlemen. Said woman is wearing a white wool dress that's even shorter than anything I've seen on women down on Ontario east of St-Hubert. (Now I know what they mean when they say mini-skirts shouldn't be worn by anyone over 25, much less 45.) Short skirts on cold nights? Not a good idea: no one is turned on by blue lips, facial or otherwise. She's draping herself drunkenly over the gent, who is neither welcoming nor throwing off her advances. Instead, he seems to be drinking heavily in order to catch up to her state of being, which, it turns out, is a complete act, as she proves by calling and speaking coherently to her children (I'm guessing here) when he steps away.</li><li>A couple then sits between drunk couple and us, looking fearful and uncertain, now that they're away from the friendly confines of the hip restos of St-Laurent and Sherbrooke. They look like they'll be heading to Shed Café for drinks afterwards. He's dressed in the requisite various shades of black, completely indistinguishable from the regular crowd of night vultures. She's gorgeous, perfect skin, looks like Vanessa Williams at the Golden Globes, except that she allows herself to occasionally eat more than one meal a day. She carries most, if not all, of the conversation, he smiles absently at her, probably wondering what his chances are for a little somethin somethin at the end of the night and also whether it's worth waiting out. Because? While she does carry the conversation, it's mostly all about her. From what I'm gathering, she's recently discovered the joys of therapy. And is re-evaluating her life, starting a conversation and deciding that, no, they shouldn't talk about that, and getting angry at him when he feigns interest. Because she doesn't want to talk about it. <br /></li></ol>The milliner and I decide at this point that, while the food and wine are really good in a nice setting, we've had enough.<br />Oh, and we adopted a cat.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-79950791363429099032007-01-12T10:17:00.000-05:002007-01-12T10:18:31.290-05:00Nevada City, CABack in the mid-nineties, I was a bit of an Ani D fanatic, finagling tickets through work to see her concerts. It just so happened that in the winter of '96, she was playing in Burlington, VT. So, of course, I call up her publicist, who gets me tickets and, bonus, a copy of "The Past Didn't Go Anywhere," a collaboration she made with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Utah_Philips">Utah Philips</a>, an interesting mix of ole timee folk and hip hop (or whatever style of music it is. I can't classify the kind of music kids are listening to these days. And get off my damned lawn!). Off to Burlington <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinman/2050889/">I go</a>, amidst all the Green State lugs.<br />Afterward, TPDGA was a regular on the cd player, including the song <i>Nevada City, CA</i>, a stream-of-consciousness ditty about living in, well, Nevada City, California, a small mining town near the Sierras. Apparently, over time, it's become a "new-age chronosynclastic infindibulum," i.e. an epicenter of NARPs (new age rural professionals). Drumming circles, Robert Bly, high colonics, spelt cookies, holier-than-thou attitudes, etc.<br />What am I getting at? Well, this: yesterday, I get home, go through my mail, and come across a postcard inviting me to "discover" a book called, wait for it, "The Essence of the Bhagavad Gita, explained by Paramhansa Yogananda, as remembered by His (notice the capital 'H"?) Disciple, Swami Kriyananda." Quite a mouthful, that. <br />And just where would this publisher be located? That's right. <i>Nevada City, CA.</i> Weee!<br />I don't know why I'm on their mailing list, to tell the truth. Because, remember, no matter how new age you get, old age is gonna kick your ass.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-66216705988368983332007-01-10T12:55:00.000-05:002007-01-10T13:15:23.018-05:00Well, that's annoyingJust noticed that Google/Blogger has re-inserted the Nav Bar at the top of my page. The fuckers.<br />Went to their (awfully) written Help section, only to learn that it can no longer be removed. I like having decisions made for me as much as the next person, if not more, but this bites. Now it looks almost like a MySpace page, without the creepy stalkers.<br />I might just have to write a strongly worded letter to someone. Who, I don't know, but just you wait.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-75545207586102216482007-01-09T11:18:00.000-05:002007-01-09T11:35:44.104-05:00Unfortunate ironyWalking around the Plateau on Sunday, window shopping (refurbished and stained teak antique doors imported from India on Quebec-made armoires is the new black, don't you know), I couldn't help but notice the multitudes of pedestrians, cyclists and inline skaters out in the sun. <br />So, yup, the weather has gone to hell (almost literally!), yet it's the "outdoorsy" folks who are taking advantage of it all.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-64923876493122332922007-01-03T08:34:00.001-05:002007-01-03T08:34:19.321-05:00Christmas Ice Cream<p>A few years ago, the milliner and I were doing some holiday groceries. The cart was pretty full, I'm thinking "gosh, do we really need that second jar of water chestnuts," I'm building up a sweat from pushing the cart, looking forward to finally getting out of there. However, Ms. Milliner was making a bee-line for the freezer section, where she latched on to one of the last remaining containers of the chain's Christmas Ice Cream.<br /><p>I had never heard of it, but quickly discovered the succulent joy of crushed candy canes and chocolate bits in a vanilla ice cream. Yup, it went straight to my hips (actually, more like my stomach), it was expensive as all get-out, and we found out later that it went on sale a couple weeks after the holidays, albeit somewhat stale.<br /><p>So, when I bought the ice-cream attachment for our mixer, my first thoughts was, "damn, we're running out of room for all these attachments." My second thought, however, was "gee, I wonder if there's any hockey on the tube tonight." But my third thought, finally, was, mmmm, christmas ice cream. So, we came up with the following recipe. Normally, this would be an all-cream recipe, but we've substituted half the cream for milk, meaning you can have a double serving at only half the calories. (That's how it works, right?)<br /><p><b>Christmas Ice Cream</b></p><ul><li>2 cups 35% (heavy) cream</li><li>2 cups 1% milk</li><li>6 egg yolks</li><li>1 vanilla bean (you could use Tahitian vanilla, but it's expensive and, because the emphasis here isn't on the vanilla, buy a cheaper bean if you can find it. </li><li>1 cup sugar</li><li>12 candy canes crushed up in food processor</li><li>3/4 cup chopped bittersweet (70%) chocolate</li></ul><p>Seed the vanilla bean, i.e. cut it along the seam, dig out the seeds with the tip of a knife, and add to a pan with the milk and cream. Heat the cream mixture just to under a boil. Simmer for 15 minutes. In a large bowl, whisk the egg yolks and sugar until the sugar dissolves and the eggs yolks become white.</p>Strain out the cream, and slowly add to the egg yolks, whisking constantly. Refrigerate the custard overnight. The next day, place the custard in a sorbetière (ice cream maker), adding the candy canes and chocolate towards the end.<br /><p>Finally, as always, enjoy! It's probably the only thing that's even marginally cold this winter.<br /><p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinman/344004679/" title="Photo Sharing"><img src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/123/344004679_15aa42f05d_m.jpg" width="240" height="168" alt="Christmas ice_cream" /></a>Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-3440563884425941272007-01-02T15:52:00.000-05:002007-01-02T15:55:39.573-05:00Taxi karma at its finestStumbling home from New Year's eve's festivities, the situation was pretty desperate, what with all the rain, the icy roads, and drunken Americans in hotel lobbies, all vying (and almost coming to blows) for an elusive cab. We head down to René-Lévesque, hoping that our luck will change. We duck under another hotel awning, wondering how the fuck we're going to get home and, if we do end up walking, just how sick we'll be when we get there.<br />Along come a trio of (you guessed it) Americans, lost and unable to find their auberge. We strike up a conversation, we give them directions to their destination, and start showing them the way. And then, miracle of miracles, a cab pulls up. Score! Fifteen minutes later, we're home, soaked to the bone, but home nonetheless.<br />Okay, that might not count as karma, per se, but I'll take what I can get.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-1004474184156885082006-12-13T18:37:00.000-05:002006-12-13T18:38:32.883-05:00Has it been that long?<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinman/73065111/" title="Photo Sharing"><img src="http://static.flickr.com/34/73065111_e8aa45fdaa_m.jpg" width="145" height="240" alt="Tin Woodsman" /></a><br />Waking up this morning, the milliner turns to me and says, "Happy birthday, honey." Still groggy, I make a quick calculation in my mind and think, wait, we're not already in March, are we? Because, wow, that was a long sleep. I might be late for work. After a delay, I realise that, hey, it's December 13.<br>Wow, 11 years later. I amaze myself sometimes. Top of the world, ma! Top of the world!Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-53969575265901179902006-12-07T14:24:00.000-05:002006-12-07T14:26:54.151-05:00What I wouldn't doTo be <a href="http://www.thesnaz.com/2006/12/05/handcrack/">here</a>.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-58485000521358509952006-12-04T13:40:00.000-05:002006-12-04T13:41:41.168-05:00And it's only been 30-some odd yearsGot a call on Saturday from an old friend, asking if I wanted to go to tonight's hockey game against the bad Bruins. (In this case, "bad" meaning, well, bad.) Fuck, would I ever. Thinking back on it, I realised that I've only been to one hockey game before in my lifetime, in 1970, the Habs vs the Blackhawks.<br>So cool, good (manly) times ahead. Get some "steamies" and greasy fries at a local casse-croûte, swill watered-down expensive beer at the game, try to not get into a fight with drunken Boston retahds, and then head with the boys to the nearest nudie bar to ogle silicone-implanted pole-dancers.<br>Does it get any better than this? Okay, sleeping and snoring on the sofa won't be great, but it's a small price to pay.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-17013303908404008762006-11-20T14:17:00.000-05:002006-11-20T14:18:33.883-05:00Words I never expected to hear myself say"Boy, I can't wait to go cross-country skiing soon."<br>Not telemark skiing. Not back-country skiing. Not ice climbing. Not winter camping. None of that.<br>No, the exact words were <i>I can't wait to go cross-country skiing soon.</i><br> I'm almost embarrassed. Granted, I can see myself back-country skiing in order to winter camp.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-64050105899443651272006-11-14T11:32:00.000-05:002006-12-20T12:40:04.790-05:00Foccacia<img src="http://static.flickr.com/114/297326186_1dbcf7ab25_m.jpg"><p><br />Back in the spring of 2003, when the milliner and I first started seeing each other, I suggested a day trip to Burlington, VT. The day we meant to go turned out to be the typical sunny spring day that makes you glad to be alive. The milliner, however, was sick as a dog, so we postponed the trip. A couple weeks later, we figured, hey, today seems like a good day. So off we drove. Relying on my keen sense of direction and memory, we completely overshot the exit, by about 100 km, and ended up crossing the border down by New Hampshire way, which of course elicited scorn from the border guard, who nevertheless handed us a map so we could find our way to Burlington.</p>So, driving along the back roads of Vermont, what could be better than to be hit by a late-season ice/wet snow storm, which slowed us down so much that by the time we got to Burlington the stores were closed, they had rolled up the sidewalks for the evening, we could hardly see the lake, and so forth. Yup, no one can show the ladies a good time like yours truly. Naturally, by now we're kinda starving, but the restos along Church St. only offered the fine American dining specialty of deep-fried, well, everything, really.</p>However, as our frustration was hitting 11, we noticed <a href="http://www.smokejacks.com/">Smokejacks</a>. It looked cute, the menu looked great (woohoo, locally grown meats, veggies, wine and cheeses) and the cocktail list looked even better. In we go. As we looked over the menu, our stomachs <a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/search?r=2&q=borborygmi">borborygmic</a> (hee), the waitress dropped a basket of bread on our table. I grab a square of what looked like corn bread, took a bite, and pretty much wet my pants. The milliner and I looked at each other, and pretty much said "oh fuck" at the same time. This was <i>amazing</i>. Soft bread, brimming with olive oil and rosemary and salty goodness. I was in heaven. I had never had foccacia this good before. </p>We've been back to Smokejacks several times since, sometimes when driving back from climbing, sometimes just driving down there just for another of their meals. I will sometimes call ahead and ask for foccacia to be set aside so that I can bring some home. After several attempts to replicate their recipe, I think I've come as close as possible to the ethereal thing. So here we go:<p><strong>Foccacia</strong></p>This is adapted from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dough-Simple-Contemporary-Richard-Bertinet/dp/1904920209/sr=8-1/qid=1163520633/ref=sr_1_1/102-1182776-5834515?ie=UTF8&s=books">Dough</a>, a book I highly, highly recommend, as would my personal tester, who occasionally leaves some crumbs for me.<ul><li>18 oz bread flour</li><li>2 oz olive oil</li><li>15 grams (1/2 oz) fresh yeast</li><li>10 grams salt (I use gray)</li><li>11.5 oz lukewarm water</li><li>more olive oil, some kosher salt, and a few sprigs of fresh rosemary for the topping</li></ul>(You may add some semolina to the dough for a more authentic method, but I didn't have any, so there you go.)</p>In a bowl, work the salt and yeast into the flour, add the olive oil and water, and mix it all together. Turn onto a counter, and work the ingredients together. Lift the dough and slam it back onto the counter. Repeat. Repeat again. After about 5 minutes (seriously!), you'll have a nice, uniform mass. Place back into the (lightly floured) bowl, cover and let it sit for an hour. Alternatively, I'll let it rise for about 30 minutes and then place in the fridge while I run errands or whatever, which helps develop some lovely acids and stuff. Don't ask me exactly how or what happens, because chemistry is <i>hard</i>. </p>Remove from the fridge, let it come to room temperature and, well, just ignore it. Grab a roasting pan or a deep-sided baking sheet (don't ask me for measurements because, again, math is hard), oil it up, and turn the dough into it. Spread the dough out, but don't worry about getting the dough spread to the sides. Leave it, covered, for about 45-60 minutes.</p>Come back, dimple the dough, drizzle the dough with olive oil, rosemary and salt, and leave, again, for another 45-60 minutes. The original recipe calls for only a 30-minute wait, but i found that leaving it for extra time made the final product much fluffier. And I'm nothing without my fluff. Just saying, is all. (Also, I was busy making supper so didn't have the oven space for the bread.)</p>Bake in a preheated oven at 425F for about 30 minutes. Remove from the pan and, if you can, let it rest.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-21915377216173817832006-11-07T14:40:00.000-05:002006-11-08T12:50:15.571-05:00Perfect Execution<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chris_Sharma">Chris Sharma</a> better look out. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=To4S6GqHWnw">This</a> (link shamelessly stolen from my bro) is my 4-year-old nephew, showing how to get your feet to a foothold above your head. <br>Notice the flag? Notice the amazing mantle? Notice the straight-arm technique? Hard core. Hard. Core. Then again, he was doing knee-bars at the age of one.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-1161437691428306132006-10-21T09:34:00.000-04:002006-10-26T16:12:51.426-04:00This is our last goodbye<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinman/275272043/" title="Photo Sharing"><img src="http://static.flickr.com/86/275272043_98d2e41c17.jpg" width="500" height="311" alt="Last goodbye" /></a><br />Frances, 17-years-old, 1989-2006, adopted from the SPCA. I've pretty much spent entire adulthood with her. So many apartments, a few different lovers, good times, bad times.<br>She got so old so fast.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-1161182771362645992006-10-18T10:44:00.000-04:002006-10-26T16:12:51.298-04:00Two days later<a href="http://static.flickr.com/109/273110146_9798688fba_b.jpg"><span style="font-style:italic;">Ciabatta, my contribution</span></a> to <a href="http://www.world-bread-day.com/">World Bread Day.</a>Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-1161009671785523942006-10-16T10:39:00.000-04:002006-10-26T16:12:51.176-04:00A Holiday I Can Get BehindToday is <a href="http://www.world-bread-day.com/">World Bread Day</a>, a celebration of all things, um, well, bread. In preparation of such a glorious day, I made up a batch of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biga_%28bread_baking%29">biga</a> yesterday, which I will use later this evening to make some <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ciabatta">ciabatta</a>. So, since this isn't yet made, all I have to show is ...<br><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinman/198898213/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://static.flickr.com/69/198898213_4857b2ef8a_m.jpg" width="240" height="211" alt="Epis" /></a><br><strong>Epis</strong><br>This is actually quite simple to make.<ul><li>18 oz bread flour</li><li>12 oz warm water</li><li>1/3 oz salt (I use grey salt)</li><li>1/3 oz yeast (I use fresh yeast)</li></ul><br />Heat oven to 450-500F.<br>In a somewhat large bowl, work the salt and yeast into the flour, and add the water. Stir everything together with a dough scraper or, if you don't have a scraper, use one of those free credit cards you always get in the mail. Don't worry if the dough isn't all that uniform.<br>Dump it all onto a clean counter, lift up the dough and slam it (oh yes, slam it) back onto the counter. Stretch out the dough when you lift it, circle it onto itself so that some air gets trapped in the dough, and repeat this process until the dough becomes elastically (neologism? perhaps). You'll know you're doing it right if it sounds like you're beating the crap out of someone. (The superintendant of our building actually knocked on my door once, thinking I was taking out my life's frustrations on the milliner.) The dough will initially stick to your hands; don't worry about it, this stops after a while.<br>Spread some flour onto the counter, place dough onto the flour, and form it into a ball. Lightly oil the bowl, place the dough in the bowl, and let rest, cover, for an hour.<br>After an hour, spread some more dough onto the counter, turn dough <i>lightly!</i> onto the counter, and divide into four parts. (I usually keep back about a fifth of the dough, which I place in the fridge and use in my next batch.) Don't punch the dough down, simply make them into balls and let 'em rest for about 15 minutes. Roll them out into cigar shapes, about 12 in/30 cm long, place on a floured towel, cover with another towel, and let rest for, again, about 45 minutes.<br>After the 45 minutes are up, place on of the "baguettes" onto a floured cookie sheet (I use the back of said sheet), take some scissors, and cut down about 3/4 of the way through the dough, making about 5-7 cuts per baquette, and twisting each portion to the left or right side. <br>Place in the oven, spray the oven with some water, and cook for about 10-12 minutes.<br>You're supposed to let the epis rest for about 15 minutes after you take them out of the oven, but I find that butter melts much better when the bread is warm.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-1159540579608166692006-09-29T10:35:00.000-04:002006-10-26T16:12:51.066-04:00Strange appointment at the optometristRan out of my supply of contact lenses a while ago, so I made a reservation at my optometrist last Saturday. When I get there, the receptionist looks up and says, "ah, you must be M. T." Wow, how did you know that? "Oh, because it close to your appointment time, but really it's because you're the only client who <i>looks like a true Québécois</i>.<br><i>Wha?</i> Yeah, methinks, I'm just going to let that one slide. Grab a magazine, and set down to wait to see the eye guy. Who turns out to be an eye chick. A very attractive el-doctoro. Yay me! So, she checks out my eyes, I do my best to not check her out, and then we're discussing my prescription and all that. Because she's not my regular optometrist, someone I've been seeing for the past 15-17 years, I ask in passing, "So, did Dr. M retire?" This crestfallen look comes over her, when she tells me that, "Gosh, you did hear? Dr. M pass away last January..." <br><i>Uncomfortable.</i>Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-1158953950947203572006-09-22T15:37:00.000-04:002006-10-26T16:12:50.950-04:00Maybe working downtown isn't so bad after allI was seriously jonesing for some cherry licorice the other day (why? I don't know? Get off my case, okay?), so walked down to Ste-Catherine in search of the nearest pharmacy, where I am always sure to find the best selection of candy. Yup, drugstores sell you the shit that makes you sick, so that you'll come back and buy the stuff to make you well again.<br>Anyhow, so walking back to work, some gem in the reptilian section of my mind woke up to remind me that, hey, there's supposed to be a yoga studio around here. And sure enough, it's right next door to the pharmacy, <i>and</i>? they offer classes at lunch. So, um, yay me. Kripalu for an hour, followed by a half-pound bag of licoricey goodness right after.<br>Can life get any better than this? I submit that it can not! (Okay, perhaps my opinion is swayed by being the only guy in a room of hot, sweaty women, but I'd like to think that I'm above that. I feel like Harold Perrineau in that one episode of <i>Dead Like Me</i>.)Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-1158173814578844782006-09-13T14:55:00.000-04:002006-10-26T16:12:50.838-04:00Tarte TatinOne nice thing about autumn—among many, including great weather for sleeping in a tent—is the abundance of apples. When we were kids, the family would go to an orchard on a Sunday, spend that day picking apples (at 7 cents a pound), come home, and spend the rest day peeling and quartering said apples, which my mom would use to make apple pies for the winter. Being young and stupid (I'm no longer young), I would gorge myself on apple peels, and have the trots for the following week. (TMI? Hey, it's all about the sharing.)<br>Anyhow, I've tried making apple pies a few times since then, with little success. Same thing with Tartes Tatin, little success. <i>Until</i> I came across this recipe:<br><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinman/242502298/" title="Photo Sharing"><img src="http://static.flickr.com/81/242502298_4cdb4bb333.jpg" width="500" height="414" alt="Finished product" /></a><b>Ingredients</b><ul><li>1/2 cup butter<li>1/2 cup sugar<li>7-9 Gala apples<li>Pâte feuilleté </ul>That's it, that's all. Turn oven to 425F. Peel, core, and quarter the apples. Melt the butter in an oven-safe (10-inch) pan, and dissolve the sugar. Place the apple quartes in the pan, turn heat to medium-high, and cook, undisturbed, for about 20 minutes. Place pan in oven and cook for another 20 minutes.<br>Meanwhile, roll out your pâte feuilleté to fit the pan. (I can make bread with my eyes closed. Pastry, on the other hand, is my kryptonite. So I buy mine.) I've seen comments of how the Tatin sisters would have an embolism if you use anything but pâte brisée. To which I say, big fucking deal, they're dead. Time to move on.<br>Take the pan out of the oven; the apples should start to look really nice right about now, with the caramelisation stuff and all that. Place the dough over the top of the apples, push it down to fit any dimples, and, again, cook for another 20-25 minutes. What you'll get is something like <a href="http://static.flickr.com/86/242502294_08f3e3cfbc.jpg">this</a>.<br>Let it cool, flip it over, and enjoy. Especially with a dollop of crème fraiche. Sweet, acidic, slide-down-your-throat crème fraiche.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-1156946675415185982006-08-30T10:02:00.000-04:002006-10-26T16:12:50.729-04:00I see a connectionOver the past year or so, I've noticed a lot fewer girls/women sporting the low-slung jean, high-riding thong look, their tramp stamp calling out like a siren, <a href="" title="Shout out Tim Buckley!">"swim to me, swim to me, let me enfold you."</a><br>I'm not entirely upset by this turn of events, mind you.<br>However, I <i>have</i> noticed a lot more pregnant women around. Coincidence?Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-1155221405099982772006-08-10T10:49:00.000-04:002006-10-26T16:12:50.617-04:00Frick and FrackNow <a href="http://goldenfiddle.com/node/4813">this</a> is hilarious.<br>That is all.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-1154454359888781412006-08-01T13:45:00.000-04:002006-10-26T16:12:50.503-04:00There's such a thing as too much multi-taskingWalk into the men's room just before lunch, and head to a urinal. There's a man at the urinal next to me, and as I approached I noticed his head bobbing and shaking. Didn't think much of it, until I was standing next to him (yes, I know, bad urinal usage on my part: you're <i>never</i> supposed to stand directly next to another user). It was then that I realised he was <i>brushing his teeth</i>. While having a piss. His cock in one hand, his toothbrush in the other.<br>I don't know. I just don't know.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-1153931126273816092006-07-26T12:20:00.000-04:002006-10-26T16:12:50.388-04:00Croque madame<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinman/198888556/" title="Photo Sharing"><img src="http://static.flickr.com/71/198888556_51f6c85ba7.jpg" width="500" height="294" alt="Croque Madame" /></a><br>I've become somewhat addicted in the past while to croque madames. They're incredibly easy to make, and taste delicious.<br>Take two slices of bread (I use my own pain de campagne), spread some Dijon on each slice, top off with ham and Gruyère, and fry them up in a non-stick or cast-iron pan with butter. Stick in a hot oven to melt the cheese.<br>Meanwhile, prepare a Mornay sauce, which is just your run-of-the-mill béchamel with more Gruyère added to it. Oh, and fry up a mirrored egg. I simply crack an egg into a pan, and after 30 seconds place a cover on top. Take the pan out of the oven, place one slice on the other, top off with the egg, and spread the sauce over everything except the yolk. Pepper like crazy.<br>The only difference with this and a croque monsieur is the egg and sauce, and I'm sure there's some sort of freudian meaning about these two additions and how the white sauce drips down and around the yolk, but my mind blanks out at such concepts.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304571.post-1152643658096109052006-07-11T14:45:00.000-04:002006-10-26T16:12:50.275-04:00Words to strike fear in any manReceived a phone call from the milliner yesterday, with words to this effect: "Hey, Michel, remind me tonight to measure your finger for a ring." Thankfully, I was in the bath (yes, I take baths and, yes, I answer the phone while in the bath), or I would have taken off running as fast as my tiny little feet and hyperextended tummy would have allowed. Well, okay, not really. I mean, I <i>do</i> have an hyperextended belly. As to tiny feet? Wellll.... <br>As it turns out, the milliner is taking a jewellry class, and the final project is to make a ring. Or, at least, that's what she tells me. And I choo choo choose to believe her.Michelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12908514548716804798noreply@blogger.com6