Shakylegs

New digs

2007-01-29T14:14:00.000-05:00

The office changed locations. I now have a window.
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 others not so cool), and so will continue my occasional posting on Wordpress.
So update your blogrolls to here.
Oh, stop laughing! Some folks actually might, you know!

His name is… Squirrel

2007-01-22T14:02:00.000-05:00

Since the departure of our much-beloved Frances, 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.
Naturally, I wanted another Maine Coon, 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.
So, relying on a certain yulblogger's suggestion, we headed out to SPCA Montérégie, 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.

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.
BTW, if anyone is thinking of adopting a(nother) pet, really, go to the SPCA Montérégie: they especially need help these days.

Saturday night is not alright for first dates

2007-01-17T14:53:00.000-05:00

Notes from a branché resto-slash wine bar:

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.
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.
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.

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.
Oh, and we adopted a cat.

Nevada City, CA

2007-01-12T10:17:00.000-05:00

Back 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 Utah Philips, 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 I go, amidst all the Green State lugs.
Afterward, TPDGA was a regular on the cd player, including the song Nevada City, CA, 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.
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.
And just where would this publisher be located? That's right. Nevada City, CA. Weee!
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.

Well, that's annoying

2007-01-10T12:55:00.000-05:00

Just noticed that Google/Blogger has re-inserted the Nav Bar at the top of my page. The fuckers.
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.
I might just have to write a strongly worded letter to someone. Who, I don't know, but just you wait.

Unfortunate irony

2007-01-09T11:18:00.000-05:00

Walking 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.
So, yup, the weather has gone to hell (almost literally!), yet it's the "outdoorsy" folks who are taking advantage of it all.

Christmas Ice Cream

2007-01-03T08:34:00.001-05:00

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.

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.

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?)

Christmas Ice Cream

2 cups 35% (heavy) cream
2 cups 1% milk
6 egg yolks
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.
1 cup sugar
12 candy canes crushed up in food processor
3/4 cup chopped bittersweet (70%) chocolate

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.

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.

Finally, as always, enjoy! It's probably the only thing that's even marginally cold this winter.

Taxi karma at its finest

2007-01-02T15:52:00.000-05:00

Stumbling 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.
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.
Okay, that might not count as karma, per se, but I'll take what I can get.

Has it been that long?

2006-12-13T18:37:00.000-05:00

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.
Wow, 11 years later. I amaze myself sometimes. Top of the world, ma! Top of the world!

What I wouldn't do

2006-12-07T14:24:00.000-05:00

To be here.

And it's only been 30-some odd years

2006-12-04T13:40:00.000-05:00

Got 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.
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.
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.

Words I never expected to hear myself say

2006-11-20T14:17:00.000-05:00

"Boy, I can't wait to go cross-country skiing soon."
Not telemark skiing. Not back-country skiing. Not ice climbing. Not winter camping. None of that.
No, the exact words were I can't wait to go cross-country skiing soon.
I'm almost embarrassed. Granted, I can see myself back-country skiing in order to winter camp.

Foccacia

2006-11-14T11:32:00.000-05:00

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.

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.

However, as our frustration was hitting 11, we noticed Smokejacks. 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 borborygmic (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 amazing. Soft bread, brimming with olive oil and rosemary and salty goodness. I was in heaven. I had never had foccacia this good before.

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:

Foccacia

This is adapted from Dough, a book I highly, highly recommend, as would my personal tester, who occasionally leaves some crumbs for me.

18 oz bread flour
2 oz olive oil
15 grams (1/2 oz) fresh yeast
10 grams salt (I use gray)
11.5 oz lukewarm water
more olive oil, some kosher salt, and a few sprigs of fresh rosemary for the topping

(You may add some semolina to the dough for a more authentic method, but I didn't have any, so there you go.)

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 hard.

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.

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.)

Bake in a preheated oven at 425F for about 30 minutes. Remove from the pan and, if you can, let it rest.

Perfect Execution

2006-11-07T14:40:00.000-05:00

Chris Sharma better look out. This (link shamelessly stolen from my bro) is my 4-year-old nephew, showing how to get your feet to a foothold above your head.
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.

This is our last goodbye

2006-10-21T09:34:00.000-04:00

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.
She got so old so fast.

Two days later

2006-10-18T10:44:00.000-04:00

Ciabatta, my contribution to World Bread Day.

A Holiday I Can Get Behind

2006-10-16T10:39:00.000-04:00

Today is World Bread Day, a celebration of all things, um, well, bread. In preparation of such a glorious day, I made up a batch of biga yesterday, which I will use later this evening to make some ciabatta. So, since this isn't yet made, all I have to show is ...

Epis
This is actually quite simple to make.

18 oz bread flour
12 oz warm water
1/3 oz salt (I use grey salt)
1/3 oz yeast (I use fresh yeast)

Heat oven to 450-500F.
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.
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.
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.
After an hour, spread some more dough onto the counter, turn dough lightly! 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.
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.
Place in the oven, spray the oven with some water, and cook for about 10-12 minutes.
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.

Strange appointment at the optometrist

2006-09-29T10:35:00.000-04:00

Ran 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 looks like a true Québécois.
Wha? 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..."
Uncomfortable.

Maybe working downtown isn't so bad after all

2006-09-22T15:37:00.000-04:00

I 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.
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, and? they offer classes at lunch. So, um, yay me. Kripalu for an hour, followed by a half-pound bag of licoricey goodness right after.
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 Dead Like Me.)

Tarte Tatin

2006-09-13T14:55:00.000-04:00

One 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.)
Anyhow, I've tried making apple pies a few times since then, with little success. Same thing with Tartes Tatin, little success. Until I came across this recipe:
Ingredients

1/2 cup butter
1/2 cup sugar
7-9 Gala apples
Pâte feuilleté

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.
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.
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 this.
Let it cool, flip it over, and enjoy. Especially with a dollop of crème fraiche. Sweet, acidic, slide-down-your-throat crème fraiche.

I see a connection

2006-08-30T10:02:00.000-04:00

Over 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, "swim to me, swim to me, let me enfold you."
I'm not entirely upset by this turn of events, mind you.
However, I have noticed a lot more pregnant women around. Coincidence?

Frick and Frack

2006-08-10T10:49:00.000-04:00

Now this is hilarious.
That is all.

There's such a thing as too much multi-tasking

2006-08-01T13:45:00.000-04:00

Walk 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 never supposed to stand directly next to another user). It was then that I realised he was brushing his teeth. While having a piss. His cock in one hand, his toothbrush in the other.
I don't know. I just don't know.

Croque madame

2006-07-26T12:20:00.000-04:00

I've become somewhat addicted in the past while to croque madames. They're incredibly easy to make, and taste delicious.
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.
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.
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.

Words to strike fear in any man

2006-07-11T14:45:00.000-04:00

Received 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 do have an hyperextended belly. As to tiny feet? Wellll....
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.

Le Tour de zzzzz

2006-07-06T12:32:00.000-04:00

I always look forward to la grande boucle, but I just can't get into it this year. What were there, over 50 racers kicked off this year's tour? So who's left? Not Jan Ulrich. Not Basso. Okay, there's Boonan (or however you spell his name), but then what?
Now, were I a conspiracy theorist, I would really be scratching my head as to why they finally decided to crack down this year, now that Armstrong is gone. But I'll just chalk it up to coincidence.

Who Knew?

2006-06-10T13:25:00.000-04:00

Part 2: Caught the opening match of the FIFA world cup yesterday, Germany vs. Costa Rica. (There's nothing better when you're doing some repetitive cardio exercise, like biking, than watching soccer/football.) So, Germany pretty much dominated in all aspects of the game.
Including diving and acting like drama queens.
The world is all upside down when the Teutons embarrass themselves reacting to phantom hits, whereas the Latin players try to play with skill alone. So far, the Oscar for best acting during an athletic event goes to Germany. Granted, I haven't seen Argentina or Brazil yet, so the jury is still out. And, let us not forget my favourites, Italy, whose players are so dehydrated by the end of every game from shedding gallons of crocodile tears.
It's going to be a great World Cup. I can hardly wait.

Who Knew?

2006-06-10T12:58:00.000-04:00

Part 1: Wednesday night, I'm driving with the milliner, to drop her off at some "do." We arrive at a red light, behind one of those mutha-fucking huge Lincoln Navigators. As we're waiting there, a piece of trash goes flying out of the driver's window. The hell?, thinks I. Bunch of rich fucks, they're a plague, but what are you going to do? But then! But then, another piece comes flying out, this time from the passenger window!
Fuck me, my moral indignation has been provoked. Engage the hand-brake, put the car in neutral, and go pick up the tissue by the side of the SUV, figuring those rich old fucks need to be humiliated a bit. Pick up the tissue, turn toward the passenger and declare, "Hey, you dropped something," only to realise that these rich old fucks are...
Two guys, fairly well built, in their 20s. Um, yeah, uncomfortable. Anyhow, I strut back to my car, feeling all righteous and everything. Then, rich boy driver sticks his head out and yells, "Hey! If you're not careful, that's not the only thing that's going to drop." (?) Relying on my immense knowledge of the English language, I said nothing. First, because nothing witty came to me. Second, I'm kinda shitting my pants at this point. Oh, I could have replied, "Go back to the West Island and tell your daddy that he has a nice car," but, as I said, nothing was coming to me besides "Oh, shit, I hope I don't get beat up."
What the hell were doing each throwing out tissue paper, anyhow? Mutual, um, satisfaction? It's the only thing I could think of.
Since when do young rich boys drive Navigators, anyhow?

Is this a getting-old thing?

2006-06-05T10:37:00.000-04:00

I'm at the cliffs yesterday with some friends, for a day of climbing. Chatting with the friends, I'm sitting down, swatting at the mosquitos and taking off my shoes. Bla bla bla, talking along, hook my thumb into my sock to remove it, when all of a sudden this massive pain eminates from my hand.
It seems that the sock got hooked on the heel and, without realising it, I hyperextended my thumb. I'm enough of a target of derision among my friends, that this latest incident simply added fuel to that fire, thank you very much. Regardless, I shrug off the continuous barbs and spend the rest of the day climbing. End of the day, hike back down to the car and drive back to the city. Pretty stinky by this point, what with the smell of repellent, sweat, fear, etc. Jump in the bath and wash off the grime. Look down at my hand and realise that what I thought was dirt was actually bruising. Bruising! I must have burst some vessels there. There's no pain, but it's weird nonetheless.

Madeleines

2006-05-18T13:56:00.000-04:00

These turned out fantastically. Lighter and less cloying than the store-bought variety, much more citrus-y, and you don't feel like you've swallowed a barbell.
Ingredients

250 g unbleached white flour (I used a scale, but I guess you can figure on about a cup)
250 g sugar
250 g unsalted butter (Yeah, it's a lot. I've been biking all week as penitence)
4 eggs (refer to the biking comment)
Zest of 1/2 orange and 1/2 lemon
1 tsp vanilla

Mix together flour, sugar, eggs, vanilla and zest. Melt and add the butter to the mixture. Pour into molds halfway up.
I guess you can also pour into ramekins or anything else that strikes your fancy. Madeleine molds seems ubiquitous for some reason. I'm not complaining. Avoid silicone molds, which are way more expensive and don't really result in that nice brown bottom.
Cook at 350 F for 20 minutes. Pour yourself a cuppa joe and enjoy.

How to make a birthday meal, and survive despite yourself

2006-05-04T16:42:00.000-04:00

Wednesday was the milliner's birthday. (She looks amazing for 29, I must say. Shut up!) Seeing as how I seem to have some time on my hands these days, I asked her what she wanted to eat. Hemming and hawing, she finally came up with, "um, some sort of meat, I guess, because I don't cook it." Rabbit?, I suggest. Duck? Oh, wait, crèpes, how about crèpes? Crèpes it is, so now to figure out the filling. Asparagus? No. Mushrooms? Sure. And? Just mushrooms. Ooo, oh, wait, how about those lobster crèpes? We have a winner. (I also decided to make three different kinds of pots de crème.)
Yesterday morning, get a list together of everything I need: eggs, over a litre of 35% cream, pea shoots, carrot juice (I learned that lesson, thank you very much), crème fraiche, cardammon, chocolate, mint, raspberries, the list goes on. Oh, and a mean-looking lobster who scared the bejesus outta me. Get home around 2, and get to work boiling water. For the lobster. Because I don't put the lobster in boiling water. Instead, I place the lobster in a pot, pour the boiling water over it, and poach it for only 2 minutes (5 for the claws). Of course, being scared of the lobster, I'm shaking, and end up splashing water all over the stove. And the floor. And my feet. And my hands. Yay, and I'm only just beginning.
Mop up. Clean up the stove. Gas still works, thank goddess. Oh, right, my hands. Pass them under cold water. Left hand is fucked for the day, which stucks, being left-handed. Start taking apart the lobster. Which burns. Especially on my now-tender hands. Get spray by lobster juice.
Start making the crèpes. Believe, for some strange reason, that it'll make sense to mix the batter with an electric mixer. Bad idea. There's flour stuck to the bottom of the bowl. Whatever remaining batter really doesn't want to go through the strainer. This is all looking like a HUGE success.
Get started on the pots de crème. However, being somewhat ambitious, I figure that making three different flavours would be such a peachy keen idea. It's not. Mix the cream and sugar together, cut a vanilla pod in three, scoop out the seeds. Now to find three pots to heat the cream. Um, better do some dishes. With only one hand. Because the other is burned, remember? Find the pots, heat up the cream, add some cardammon pods to one pot, some mint to the other, and start melting some chocolate for the third. Turn off the heat and let it rest for an hour. Reheat the cream, and step out for about 10 minutes. Come back to find the cream has boiled over in two of the pots.

Time to clean the stove. Again. Cleaning cream isn't fun. Try to find three bowls into which to break the eggs and add the cream. No luck, so for each pot flavour I have to redo the steps.
The kitchen has never been so clean.
And, today, I'm so bloated.

Oh happy day, oh happy boy

2006-04-18T10:00:00.000-04:00

Received a call from a climbing buddy last night. My initial thought was that he was going to suggest we go hit some cliffs sometime soon, what with the nice weather and all. But no, the suggestion was even better: Greek easter is this coming Sunday, and he was inviting me over for the feast. Oh, sweet jesus, thank you for hanging on that there cross, so that we could celebrate by chowing down on spit-roasted lamb, lamb innards, home-made wine, spanikopita, moussake, and all those other lovely foods. After last year's feast, the milliner had to roll (or perhaps "pour" would be more accurate. ahem) into the car.
You have to hand it to the Russians, who adopted Greek Orthodox as a religion, if only for the pomp and celebrations.

She wants me

2006-04-17T09:54:00.000-04:00

I finally caught an episode of Nigella Lawson's cooking show yesterday, on the Food Network. I had always heard about her, and had seen her cookbooks in the bookstores, but never really considered getting anything of hers.
And then I saw her show. And? I experienced being an adolescent boy in the throes of puberty all over again, afraid to stand up in case, well, you know. I swear, she looks at the camera, runs her tongue over her lips, and goes, "ooo, I love that." I swear, she gives new meaning to the term "food porn."
Must. Get. The. Food Network.

Thanks for the reminder

2006-04-09T09:43:00.000-04:00

Friday night, enjoying myself at the concert, an observation that I had long ago forgotten about made its appearance once again: lesbians can't dance. Imagine a penguin having an epilectic seizure. I really should start going out more, because I tend to forget about these things. Oh, and I'm pretty sure some of them were on seconds dates. How could I tell? Because there were a lot of U-Hauls outside.
But, yeah, most excellent concert.

Ice cream à la saveur de brown sugar

2006-04-05T14:27:00.000-04:00

Since trying this at La Brunoise a couple weeks ago, I decided to try it myself. And the result? As good as the resto, or maybe even better. Hard to tell, since I'm still traumatised by all those sweetbreads. So, my version.
Ingredients

4 egg yolks (what? you want to live forever?)
1 c. packed brown sugar
2 c. 35% cream
2 c. 15% cream
1.5 tsp vanilla

Whisk the egg yolks and brown sugar together, set aside. Bring the creams to a near boil, and whisk into the yolk/sugar mixture. Cook over low heat, until the liquid coats the back of a spoon. (Okay, here's a trick for doing that. Dip the back of the spoon into the liquid, flip the spoon 90 degrees, and drag a finger across the liquid. If the remainder of the liquid on the spoon doesn't drip into this track mark, you're gold.) Take off the heat, strain and add the vanilla. Cool to room temperature, and refridgerate until cold.
Prepare as you would with any ice cream maker, and freeze for a couple more hours. I now have about 2 litres of the stuff at home, calling my name, testing my resistance. But I will not submit. No, I will not.
Cool tip: You'll never see this is recipes, but there's a way to make your ice cream smoother, silkier, and taste like liquid sex: add a pinch of salt to the mixture. You can thank me later.

Horton's explosion aftermath

2006-04-04T13:54:00.000-04:00

A long email thread I recieved from friends in Toronto. (Yes, I have friends. And yes, some of them do live in Toronto.)

By now you have all probably heard about the explosion and fire at a certain Toronto doughnut shop yesterday that killed the man with the gas or whatever the explosive material turns out to be.
Is it just me, or doesn't it seem that the perfect newspaper headline would be: Man blown to (tim)bits!?
I can think of nothing cruller.
You muffin be making such jokes (that one is mine)
Donut try this at home.
Blow up the rim to win.
I'm glad I wasn't there. I've never cinnamon twisted like he must have been.
But how does exploding oneself help solve anything? Sounds like out of the frying pan and into the fritter to me.
I'd like a Boston Scream please.
At least he went out with a bagel..
Papers in Quebec have described the explosion as a big beigne.
Don't you think the papers in Quebec might be sugar coating it?
Two days later, the coffee may be fresh, but I don't think the remains are.
"Horton hears a Boom"

Thank you, thank you. Try the veal.

Meat and potatoes, with a side order of 'shrooms

2006-04-03T10:30:00.000-04:00

I received a Foodsaver for Xmas this year, and it stayed in its box for about a month, while we wondered what to do with it. In fact, I almost sold it to a friend, but he tried to bargain too low a price, so in the end I kept it. I'm glad I did, because I realised that it was a great tool for conserving leftovers, and for freezing meals, especially confits, be it duck or rabbit confits, or even onion, which makes it convenient if I'm ever in the mood to make a quick onion soup.
So now, I've gotten into the habit of making duck confits, but am often left wondering what to do with it. Made rillettes, warm mesclun salad, corn crepes with duck confit, etc., but I always wanted to try it with ravioli. Did a web search, found and modified a recipe. Here goes:
Ingredients

2 legs of duck confit, skin removed and set aside
2 sweet pototoes
2 tbsp crème fraiche
splash of vanilla
salt and pepper to taste
ravioli sheets (I make my own from ~2 cups flour/3-4 eggs
2 tbsp butter
2 tbsp white truffle oil
2 tbsp truffle paste (yeah, I know, but it's sooo worth it)

Directions
Remove the duck meat from the bones and mince. You'll get a lot more meat than you would expect. Set aside. Mash the potatoes, add the salt and pepper, the crème fraiche and the vanilla. (The original recipe called for russet potatoes, sour cream and no vanilla. I let my imagination run a bit wild.)
In a pan, fry up the skin with a bit of butter, and set aside on a paper towel. Pour the duck meat into this pan and heat through. Then, fold the duck meat into the mashed pototoes, set aside or, to make things easier, place into a pastry bag, making it simpler to portion out.
Lay out your ravioli sheets, and place about a tablespoon of the duck/potato mix per ravioli, and top with a flat parsley leaf.

If you don't have, or don't want to make ravioli, you can also use wonton wrappers. seal up the ravioli, and heat through in water.
Add 2 tbsp butter to a pan, and brown slightly. Add the truffle oil and the truffle paste. This mixture should bubble up, and a musky aroma will fill the kitchen.
Place the drained ravioli onto plates (you did drain them, right?), and pour the truffle sauce on top. Dessert was brown sugar ice cream, which I made earlier in the day. Recipe to follow. Enjoy. (Sorry, pictures kinda fuzzy.)

Pain de campagne

2006-03-29T10:54:00.000-05:00

There's a cafeteria at l'Institut de cardiologie (Heart Institute) here in Montreal called La mie de coeur. Whoever came up with the name should be applauded, as the name can be translated as either "sweetheart" or "heart of the matter." But, also, "mie" is the French term for that oh-so-lovely white part of bread. So, when I first saw the name, back in 1995, I thought to myself, "wait, there's no word in English for that white part of bread," and it became the basis of one of my oft-repeated jokes: "Wow, English has a word for everything! Except for the white innards of bread." (Why yes, I do lead a sad, sorry life. Why do you ask?) In fact, a certain someone repeated the same line the other night, and I sat there, feeling sweet satisfaction knowing that I had passed some wisdom along.
So imagine my surprise, the other day, when I found out that there is, in fact, an English equivalent to "mie," boring as it is: crumb. How boring is that? My reality has been shattered. Damn you, English-French dictionaries! Damn you all to hell!
Regardless, here's the recipe. I love these types of recipes, as you can make them over a long period of time, without having to rush the process, similar to making confit, roast chicken or cassoulet. Mix some ingredients together, go off, have a glass of wine, read a chapter or two, return to the recipe.
Ingredients:

1/2 tsp yeast
1 cup warm water
1.5 cups flour (I use unbleached white)
2 tsp yeast
2 c. warm water
1 c. whole wheat flour
3 + 1.5 c. flour
2 tsp salt
egg whites, if you have 'em

A day before you intend to make the bread, mix together the first three ingredients. Cover and leave overnight. I ended up ignoring it for about a day, occasionally lifting the plastic and breathing in the soury goodness. I'm thinking that, the next time I make this recipe I'll substitute some of the water for a small portion of sour-mash beer, i.e. either some Guinness or Mort Subite. Heck, there's already some yeast there, plus some bacteria.
When you can't wait any longer, add the 2 tsp of yeast to 2 c. water. Add the soured starter, and the remainder of the ingredients, leaving the 1.5 c flour (and egg whites) aside. (This is why we shelled out for our mixer; it makes this part much easier.) When everything is blended, but still fairly wet, add in the remaining flour, about 1/4 c. at a time. Turn on to a floured surface, and knead for about 8-10 minutes. Think of the workout your shoulders are getting: it helps. Summer is nearly here, and ripped shoulders make the girls/guys go crazy. So I've been told. Place this dough in an oiled (please, olive oil) bowl, cover for an hour or so, and return to your glass of wine.
Stumble back to your bowl, freak out a bit at how much the dough has risen, and punch it down. Cut in half, roll out on a floured surface into any shape you want, place on a floured sheet, cover and let rise for another 45 minutes. Return, again, to your glass of wine. Isn't this fun?
Brush with the egg whites, and bake for 45 minutes at 425 F. The result is these two massive loaves, very meaty and crusty. The crumb is thick, yet light at the same time. It absolutely soaks up the butter when toasted. Several days later, and it's still fresh. A very slight taste of sourbread, but not overwhelming.
To serve? Well, um, grilled cheese sandwich, of course. The milliner uses gruyère, but I stick to American processed cheese food product slices.

Dear SUV driver,

2006-03-27T10:13:00.000-05:00

Imagine my surprise, coming out of the resto the other night, to see that you had decided to park your tin-bucket right up on our rear bumper. Gosh, you're rather touchy-feely, aren't you? Normally, that part is exit-only, but I could make an exception for you.
Do you know what I found super-cool about this little manoeuver on your part? Why, not only did you make it nearly impossible for us to get out of the spot but, in your grandiose self-importance, you had the cojones to also block the wheelchair access onto the sidewalk. Hey, when it comes to making life slightly easier for gimps and crips, fuck that, right? You're much too important. So important that you can't be bothered to find another parking spot anywhere further up the road. Heck, that extra 30 seconds you may have been forced to walk is 30 seconds too much. Let the handicap struggle down the road; no skin off your ass. It's strange, I was sure we had parked on the corner, but I guess we were wrong.
I applaud you, fine gentleman/madam, in your choice of vehicles. An SUV just shouts to the world, "Hey, I'm a jackass and I don't care what anyone says." Bravo. Oh, and choosing a crap-ass KIA SUV? Yeah, no comment. I have a question, though: Have you found any polyps yet, what with your head so far up your ass?
No, no, don't worry. My key still works perfectly. Why do you ask?
Update: Hmm, seems I'm not the only one.

Pots de crème

2006-03-24T11:31:00.000-05:00

After receiving ramekins this past Xmas, along with a blowtorch (yesssss!), my intention was to go to town making crème brulée. However, I came across several recipes for pots de crème, which I'm pretty sure was one of the desserts served at Bouchon. How could I resist such a non-apologetic dessert that translates, literally, to pots of cream?
The first couple of times I made these, I would pour the custard into the ramekins. However, at 8 ounces, this is really heavy. In fact, the milliner would normally take a few spoonfuls and then put it back in the fridge. We tried using those rice-ceramic tea cups that you get in the dollar stores in Chinatown, but they were cracking from the heat of the oven. So, one day, the milliner and I were at Ikea, where we found these tiny cups in the kitchen impulse-buy section. Initially, I really didn't want to get them; our cupboards are over-flowing as it is. However, I'm glad I relented.
Ingredients

2 1/2 cups cream
2/3 cup milk
1/4 cup + 1 tbsp sugar
1 vanilla bean
6 egg yolks (I save the whites for omelettes, and for sealing bread dough)
9 cinnamon sticks

Bring the cream, milk and 5 tbsp of sugar to a simmer. Split the vanilla pod, scoop out the seeds, and add to the cream mixture. (I swear, fresh vanilla smells amazing. They should bottle that stuff.) Add the cinnamon sticks and 1 tsp of ground to the cream as well. Of course, you can use mint leaves instead of cinnamon. In fact, I'm thinking that next time I'll try with cardamon seeds. Cover and lest seep for an hour.
In another bowl, add the remaining sugar to the 6 egg yolks, and whisk together. I love this part, seeing the yolks blanch with the whisking. I never knew it could happen until I tried. Pour the cream mixture, slowly!, onto the yolks using a strainer, and blend together. Pour into the ramekins, and cook at 400 for 40 minutes. I normally place a baking pan on top of a baking sheet, put the ramekins into the pan, and fill the pan with warm water about two-thirds.
Refridgerate, if you can wait that long, overnight. Afterward, you have this custardy, creamy goodness that melts lovingly on your tongue. As you work your way through the pot, you find a layer of vanilla seeds on the bottom, like an extra gift.
Initially, I substituted bittersweet chocolate for the vanilla. Well, okay, it's not really bittersweet chocolate; instead, I grate half semi-sweet and half unsweetened Baker's chocolate, melt that in a double broiler, and add it to the eggs.
Next time, I think I'll break down the cream mixture into three different pots and make three different types, i.e. vanilla, cinnamon, and chocolate.

Yay, my wife is back in town!

2006-03-24T10:03:00.000-05:00

Yes, it's true, April 7, Beth Orton will be playing at Club Soda. I don't care what the restraining order says, I'll be there, front and centre.
I don't understand why she doesn't reply to my letters, or why my phone calls are always redirected to some fellow who says he works at Scotland Yard, but I guess it's just one of those things we'll have to discuss when we meet again.

What is close but no cigar, Alex?

2006-03-22T10:06:00.000-05:00

Confession: it's my goal, nay my dream, to appear on Jeopardy. I watch it almost religiously--i.e. whenever the spirit hits me and I'm not doing anything else at that moment--I use it to gauge my workout rhythm (if I can answer the questions aloud while biking in front of the tele, then I'm good), I get annoyed when contestants screw up simple questions (I mean, honestly, who doesn't know that Ulaan-baator is the coldest capital in the world?) and, to top it all off, was rather jealous to see ex-Montrealer John Moore appear a couple weeks back, followed by sweet schadenfreude to see him not even make it to the final round. Loser. Heck, I even remember The Golden Girls episode where Bea Arthur tried to get on. And who can forget Cliff's famous "Who are three women who've never been in my kitchen?" final answer in that episode of Cheers.
Anyhow, I get the Jeopardy newsletter, occasionally register for auditions, but nothing ever comes of it. But then, on Monday, I get me an email telling me that they'll be holding an online test next Tuesday, the 28th. "Gosh," I'm thinking, "I don't know. I have yoga on Tuesday nights, and I'll be at trivia the following week, so that would make two weeks in a row that I'll miss." Okay, I admit it, the yoga instructor is hott, and really nice, and I always feel like I'm disappointing her if I don't show up. Of course, greed and an over-blown sense of self corrected my path, and I figured that I could take a couple weeks off. What the hell, with the millions I'll make à la Ken Jennings, I can pay for my own instructor. So, I go online, start filling out the form and...
Am not eligible. It's for American residents only. Dreams dashed, for now. All the 30-second anecdotes that I've stored in my mind for the little meet-and-greet sessions with Alex Trebek will have to stay there for a while longer. I guess I'll have to earn my money the old way; I'll simply buy more lottery tickets.
But mark my words, Jeopardy: you will be mine. Oh yes, you will be mine.

This is why I don't try new things in restos

2006-03-20T12:06:00.000-05:00

Saturday, with the milliner back in town, we decided to fête her return, and my new employment, by dining out. So, we call and get some seats at Brunoise. Great little place, lovely atmosphere, my best gal by my side, etc.
Because the cook trained under Gordon Ramsay, he of Hell's Kitchen fame, I was kinda expecting (and hoping for) expletives to come streaming out of the kitchen. No such luck, but I'm okay with that.
Being a meat-and-potatoes kinda guy, I usually stick to a select few items at restos. However, I decided to throw caution to the wind and ordered sweetbreads for both appetizers and the main course. Everything is served in the most beautiful manner, with none of that frou frou bullshit of "look, I shall build a log-cabin from carrots sticks and asparagus. Aren't I the artiste?" But, um, main course: roasted sweetbreads. Yeah, I couldn't do it. It looked like a brain, and tasted like congealed fat. I was thinking to myself, "Is this how it's supposed to taste? And is it supposed to be this cloying?" I couldn't eat it, so I expected the cook to come roaring out of the kitchen, berating me for my uncultured palate. It was worth the risk. I think I'll stick to being a pagan. The evening was no where near a loss, however, because every thing else tasted great. And I made a great discovery: brown sugar ice cream. Mmmmm.

All alone

2006-03-13T09:22:00.000-05:00

The milliner is gone on vacation this week. To the Dominican Republic. During March break. With another man. From work. She told me they're sharing the same hotel room, to cut down on costs. And? I'm okay with that. No, really, I am.

My inner thighs hurt

2006-03-06T13:37:00.000-05:00

For a while this morning, I was wondering whether someone had slipped me a roofie and I had been at a McGill football team initiation ritual. Then I remembered: oh yeah, went skiing yesterday for the first time this year.
Needless to say, being who we are, the milliner and I got completely lost trying to find the parking for the ski trails. This is worrisome, because how are we ever going to win the Amazing Race if we can't even follow simple instructions?

If this isn't a big FU to my cardiologists, I don't know what is

2006-03-03T16:12:00.000-05:00

On the menu this weekend: Cooking class tomorrow morning, the art of sauces (mmmm, butter). The milliner is making the meal tomorrow night. Don't know what it'll be, but I'm thinking several courses will be served, and they'll be tasty.
Sunday, I'm making cassoulet, i.e. pork belly, pork rind, sausages, and duck confit. With beans. Hey, at least it's better than last year, when I celebrated the big 4-0 at In & Out Burger.

Falling into adulthood

2006-03-02T10:57:00.000-05:00

It took a few decades, but I finally got a passport. Yesterday, to be exact.
Now, I might actually have to use it. I hear there are good restos, and climbing to boot, in Spain. Hmm.

Sez you

2006-02-24T18:37:00.000-05:00

Remember how I mentioned that a puggle would be cute? And y'all jumped up my ass for saying anything nice about pugs? Yeah, well, how could you not like these?

Take another little piece of my heart now, baby

2006-02-23T12:13:00.000-05:00

Had a biopsy this morning. I usually have one every couple years, but today they chose to go through the jugular. Less invasive that way, rather than the femural artery, something that will keep you bleeding for an hour. I didn't think I would ever have a neckal (all terms highly technical) biopsy again because, for reasons of self-preservation, that particular vein seems to retract whenever a scalpel gets near it.
Anyhow, I spend last night going hungry, drinking lotsa water, because the docs want your blood vessels thick and liquidy. No coffee this morning, no food in the past 12 hours, and off to the hospital I go. Sign in, strip to my (clean, thanks for the childhood advice, mom!) skivvies and go to OR. Get prepped by three really hot nurses (I swear, they hire young, attractive nurses in order to give us something to hope for) and get laid out like a slab of meat.
The doctor is training a resident, so I get to hear even more about the procedure. "So, we freeze this part of the neck, but we have to find an area that isn't scarred. Oh, and we only freeze partly, so that the vein doesn't retract even more." They then cut into the jugular, and stick in a tube. This tube is used to guide the biotome (a wire with clasping hooks at one end) to the heart. When this biotome is inserted, you can actually feel it passing under your lungs, bumping against your sternum and, worst, your oesophagus, causing a slight gag reflex. It then travels through the right atrium of the heart, and presses against the tricuspid valve. Watching via a monitor, the doctor waits for the valve to open and, when it does, pushes the biotome through, reaching to the bottom of the ventricle. And then, grabs the heart muscle and tugs, until a piece pulls off. You can't feel that, because there are no nerves in that part of the heart, but you feel the muscles and other body parts around that area react as the heart is pulled upwards. Repeat. Again. And again. Those little pieces are then sent off to a lab, and I'm sent off on my merry way.
But, damn, my neck hurts.

Right there, that's the spot

2006-02-20T13:04:00.000-05:00

Following a massage yesterday, I'm not sure, but I think I might have bruises on my back.

Miracle on ice

2006-02-17T15:04:00.000-05:00

Sweden beats USA in women's hockey. This makes me very, very happy.

For the ladies

2006-02-09T11:51:00.000-05:00

Your own shower slave. No need to thank me, I aim to please.

I would like to point out

2006-02-08T16:12:00.000-05:00

Although I've been (unjustly, in my opinion) accused of being snarky in the face of victory, twas not I who let out an ear-piercing, blood-curdling scream of intense pleasure when we momentarily (emphasis on "momentarily") took the lead in last night's little trivia contest.
Okay, I may have whooped it up, a bit, just a tiny bit, but no one's ears were left ringing afterward. So there.
Neener neener.

If you're not watching...

2006-02-07T14:09:00.000-05:00

How I Met Your Mother, then you really are missing out on something enjoyable. I've mentioned it before, this is one of the best things on the tube, Doogie Howser is all-growed up, and Alyson Hannigan rocks my world. (I'm still bitter about that restraining order, but we all have our crosses to bear.)
Anyhow, you'll get more priceless oneliners in 30 minutes than you will anywhere else. Case in point: freeze-frame high five!
And why do I mention that? Because I fully intend on using it tonight when we kick ass at trivia.

Should I bid on this?

2006-02-03T17:23:00.000-05:00

Slightly Used Washed-up Habs Goalie Jose Theodore for sale on eBay.
I would laugh, if it weren't so sad.

Play dough

2006-01-31T07:41:00.000-05:00

When you make pasta, and just before you pass it through the pasta roller, it's suggested that you take a small bit of the dough beforehand and "temper" the roller with it. This way, you clean out whatever dust may have accumulated on the roller between uses.
Of course, you're left with a small round of unusable dough afterward. That's not entirely true. You can make pasta hats for your cat.

Weekend update

2006-01-30T11:56:00.000-05:00

The weather is warm, there's not enough snow to either cross-country or downhill ski, everything is melting. What to do, what to do?
I know, let's don sharp pointy things on our hands and feet and go climb crumbling waterfalls! It's a plan!

A big thank you

2006-01-24T10:53:00.000-05:00

To whoever voted under my name in the advanced polling. I greatly appreciate you taking the initiative while trying to let me off the hook. I mean, it's not like I really wanted to put my constitutional right into practise. And, between you and me, let's hope you voted the correct way.
But, um, could you have let me know before I headed off to the polling station? Because, that way, we could have avoided all this little problem at the voting booth, what with folks wondering what to do, looking for some form that I had to sign, what with me having to solemnly vow that I was who I said I was, etc. Just an fyi for next time, mmkay? Thanks, you're a peach.
(Now, were I conspiracy-minded, I would associate my vote being taken away with the fact that I answered a telephone poll saying that I had absolutely zero intention of voting Conservative, but this thought would prevent me from sleeping at night.)

Is there such a thing as too much chocolate?

2006-01-24T09:46:00.000-05:00

Oh yes, there is.
Bouchons aka Chocholate corks
Mix together eggs and sugar. Sift together 3/4 cup of flour with a whole cup of cocoa. Melt 350g butter. (You read it correctly. You'll end up with about 1.5 cups of butter. Melted.) Alternate adding the flour mixture to the egg/sugar blend with the butter. You'll end up with something that looks like mud.
Wait, we're not done.
Chop up 6 oz bittersweet chocolate, and add this to the mixture. Pour into very small muffin moulds. I used a pastry bag for this step. I started freaking when the butter started oozing(?) out of the bag. Bake at 350 for 25 minutes. Top with icing sugar.
I dare you, nay, I double dirty dog dare you, to eat more than one.

Strange days indeed

2006-01-20T10:19:00.000-05:00

Coming up to this week, I still didn't know whether my contract was being extended and, after 18 months, I still hadn't been offered permanent employee status. Fed up with the constant uncertainty, I decided that, screw it, I had had enough. Fuck 'em, I wasn't going to continue in this vein.
So, Tuesday, during a meeting, where we were discussing what to do for the next several weeks, I interrupted the proceedings to tell them that Friday (today) was going to be my last day. No jobs in the pipeline or anything, I had just had enough. Well, needless to say, the fecal matter hit the ventilation system. How can you do this?, it's not professional, yada yada. Whatever, is my reaction, I gave you four more days' notice than I've ever been given.
There's back and forth between the company where I work and the placement office, discussions with the person in charge here, some arm-twisting and bridge rebuilding, and finally (because I'm such milquetoast) I agree to stay on. I'm told that, for some weird reason that can't be explained to me, I can't be offered permanent status, for the time being. I accept because, hey, it's better to have a job than not have one.
Come in yesterday, only to find that the company has been sold to some other company, with much deeper pockets.
So, to recap, I resign Tuesday, am convinced to stay on Wednesday, and having a celebratory meal downtown with the rest of the company on Thursday.
I laugh.

Two by two

2006-01-18T10:05:00.000-05:00

Lovely weather we're having. Temperature fluctuations of over 20 degrees in only a matter of hours, enough rain to make me think of taking up boat-building one day, ultimate shrinkage the day before because I went out commando-style, etc.
Nice to know that the political parties are completely ignoring environmental issues. If I had kids, I'd be shitting myself thinking what their future will be like.

I'll take "In your face, suckas!" for $2000, Alex

2006-01-11T09:55:00.000-05:00

After a couple of failed attempts and misplaced emails, the lightspeedchick, the milliner and I made it to Hurley's trivia night. The sordid affair is told here.
I had been told, by whom I believed to be a reliable source that the questions could be difficult, and initially they were. However, we gathered up steam when the topics turned to Hollywood gossip (there's a perverse shame in knowing those answers), and proceeded to leave our opponents in the dust.
One thing I did learn, however: strangers in bars don't particularly enjoy being trash-talked with comments such as "Suck on that, losers!"
Whatever, I'll drink to them with my winnings. Heh.

Who knew that bloggers posted jokes?

2006-01-10T13:37:00.000-05:00

The funniest blonde joke ever.

Memo to political canvassers

2006-01-09T14:38:00.000-05:00

If you're representing a party that has a decidedly Christian-right slant and you're trying to appeal to a wider audience, it's probably best that you not look like elders from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Just a thought.
Case in point: Saturday morning, the bell rings. I answer. A couple that can best be described as a Hitler youth and the modern-day equivalent of Eva Braun are at the door: Hello, we're from the Progressive Conservative party and we'd like to talk to yo..
Me: Yeah, I'm not interested.
HY: Well, this would only take a few minutes.
Me: Nope.
Eva Braun: Perhaps we can leave a pamphlet?
Me: No. Now go away.
I had an intense need to wash the scum off me after that. And to think they're leading the polls. Sigh.

You don't see that every day

2006-01-06T16:02:00.000-05:00

I was at the gym the other day, doing a few laps on the wall. I was talking to some friends, when suddenly we hear a guy screaming at his girlfriend, "Descends-moi! Christ, niaiseuse, descends-moi t'suite!"
"Whatever," thinks I, "just another small-dicked macho gym climber treating his doormat girlfriend like shit." They're a dime a dozen, and can usually be found strutting around and struggling up moderate routes. They appear and disappear like dust bunnies. But no, we look over and notice that his left arm. Is dangling. Just dangling. Seems he popped his shoulder. Yeah, ouch.
He's limping around, in obvious pain, clutching his arm, trying to lift it, etc. Seems he has experience with this. He pulls his arm up and, realising he's going to pop in back in place, we turn away. Unfortunately, we still heard the loud "cra-pop!" Thanks for that.
Now, I'm not the one to suggest that folks with certain physical, um, conditions not engage in certain sports, but when you're doing something that can put all your weight onto your weakest spot? Yeah, not a good idea.

Christmas Exploits

2006-01-02T11:17:00.000-05:00

The milliner wanted to make Christmas supper for her folks this year, so started planning the menu a couple weeks ago. She sent the ingredient list to her mom (any time I can make food without having to pay for it? Is a good thing). We started our mise en place the day before, but still screwed up the timing a bit, and ended up finishing the meal around 10 on Christmas night. Regardless, it was amazing, in a New California cuisine type of way. The results are here.

Presently reading

2005-12-28T15:25:00.000-05:00

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's Wind, Sand and Stars.
Thank you Secret Santa.

Fringe benefit for this time of year

2005-12-25T07:43:00.001-05:00

Don't know why I never noticed it before, but I realised something that I really like about this time of year: all those user manuals that I get to read. Sweet!

Key party for the new millennium

2005-12-21T10:31:00.000-05:00

We went to a friend's house on Sunday for some pre-Christmas cheer. Good times, good food, lots of wine, met new folks and others who I hadn't seen in over a decade. Funny how these parties change over time; instead of starting after 10 on a Saturday night, it was more of a "drop in some time in the early afternoon this Sunday." Right.
So, we go look at a loft that day (no one was there, wasted trip), drop by the SAQ and then head over. There were a few folks there, either leaving or just getting there, some with kids, some not, etc etc. At one point we're thinking, damn, it must be late, we'll never get to the grocery store at this hour. I look at my watch and realise it's only just past 6. Yikes!
At one point, this couple appear along with their boys. I don't pay them more than a cursory glance, as I don't know them and I'm concentrating on my wine. One of the boys starts monkeying around with all the knick-knacks in the living room, so his mothers says "R, settle down." R? Damn, the name sounds familiar. I ask the other boy's name. When I hear it, I look at the mother and say, "Hey, you're J! We went on a date once." At which point, her husband looks at the milliner, and says the exact same thing.
That's just really bizarre.

Oh, these are yummy

2005-12-20T15:41:00.000-05:00

I made duck confit last week, but still haven't gotten around to trying it out. After slow cooking the duck pieces over night, I pulled them out of the fat and, once cooled, poured the fat into plastic containers to use another time. (So hey, I've got a litre of pure duck fat in my freezer, if anyone wants some.) However, at the bottom of the pot was this thick layer of I don't know what, a slightly jellied liquid. Stuck my finger in it, and it had that salty meaty goodness of duck and spiced salt. Poured that in another container and shoved it in the fridge.
So, last night, I chopped up and prepared rabbit (in mustard sauce) and decided to have grelot potatoes on the side. Boiled up the potatoes, cut them in half, put the duck jelly in a pan, fired it up and fried the 'taters in it.
Oh god.
The potatoes absorbed the jelly, which sort of candied during the cooking, so that there was this meaty/salty crust around them. Sure, the rabbit was okay, the arugula was passable, but the milliner and I were completely concentrating on the potatoes. Better than poutine, I swear.
Guess I'm going to have to make more duck confit.

How long is ten years?

2005-12-13T10:27:00.000-05:00

Ten years is so long, that back in 1995 the CBC was still broadcasting Montreal Canadians games, and the Habs weren't playing the Maple Leafs. Oh, and this guy finally got to meet the Wizard.

Inadvertent resistance training

2005-12-02T11:51:00.000-05:00

I was doing crunches this morning, when the cat walks into the living room and goes, "hey look, hairless two-legged cat on the floor. I think I'll go lie on his stomach." Which she did. Crunch time over.

More strange lyrics playing in my head

2005-12-01T12:22:00.000-05:00

"And when the thunder breaks, It breaks for you and me. Tarantula. Tarantula."
And, in this case, I have no idea what it means.

Distracted

2005-11-29T13:33:00.000-05:00

The milliner came home last night, talking about puggles. Now, I'm all for the pug part of the equation; beagles? not so much.
After a small search, I come across this page. I swear, I've clicked every link, bookmarking all the ones I want. Now, I know that dogs and owners are supposed to eventually look alike, but why am I oddly attracted to mastiffs?

Hey, this show doesn't suck

2005-11-25T16:22:00.000-05:00

A couple months back, I noticed a certain trend with the new crop of television shows: namely, that most of the cast of the old Buffy series had found employment: Nicholas Brendon (Xander) was cast on Kitchen Confidential (it tanked), David Boney-Ass got his own show ( I can't believe anyone thought it a good idea to give him more screen time, but that's just me.), which aired, what?, twice, Charisma Carpenter is on Veronica Mars, yada yada.
But! What I was really looking forward to was How I Met Your Mother if only because Alyson Hannigan co-stars. Hey, I've made no bones regarding my feelings about redheads. I knew that Neil Patrick Harris (I mean, Doogie Howser?) was in the show as well, which initially gave it the "ick" factor, but you know what? He's actually really good in it.
I don't know how long this show is going to last, but if you have a chance, check it out.

Annoying lyric playing in my head

2005-11-23T11:18:00.000-05:00

"Quand je viens, entre tes reins."
Only six words, playing over and over and over. Gawd, I despise Serge Gainsbourg.
And yes, I know the song (Je t'aime moi non plus) is about anal sex.

Oooo, pwezences!

2005-11-22T09:49:00.000-05:00

It's that time of year again, time for Secret Santa. Hey, it's better than getting a bar of Toblerone for the co-worker you can't stand.

Well, you sort of had it coming, didn't you?

2005-11-21T13:15:00.000-05:00

I've been reading up on the Sony BMG rootkit debacle, and like most have gone over my wishlist and removed any of their albums that I intended to buy. So good-bye Cyndi Lauper.
However, a certain part of me doesn't feel too bad for folks who did get this malware on their system. I mean, that's what you get for buying Celine Dion, right?

Damned lepidoptera

2005-11-15T14:46:00.000-05:00

I remember reading an article by David Quammen, which appeared in Outside (years before it became the yuppified rag that it now is), that suggested that butterflies were a worthless species on a par with supermodels: nice to look at, but not really contributing anything to the natural order. Except, that is, for one species that was known to drink the tears of its sleeping victims. Like supermodels, I guess.
The story came back to me yesterday when, getting dressed for work, I went to pull on a sweater that the milliner had bought for me last year. Pulling it over my head, I caught a flash of light through the fabric. Take a closer look at the sweater and, WTF!, there's this huge hole in the back. What a pisser!
Some larva ate well this summer, that's all I know. Guess I'm going to a lumberyard this weekend to pick up some cedar, but that's really shutting the barn door now, isn't it?

One giant goose egg

2005-11-07T13:13:00.000-05:00

Woke up yesterday after sleeping (actually, passing out) on the couch, wearing nothing but underwear and socks. White socks. (I have no idea.) My eyes were dried from having not removed my contacts, and my mouth tasted like, well, let's not go there, okay? Crawled off to bed for a couple hours, and woke up realising that I should probably do pennance to make it up to the milliner
So, got to work and made crèpes for breakfast. S cooked up some apple and cinnamon to act as a filler, and we sat down to breakfast. What she neglected to tell me was that she added apple cider to the mix. Mmmm, more alcohol, just what I need.
She went to the office yesterday afternoon, leaving me to wallow in my nausea and self-pity. Which I did.
We had discussed what to make for dinner, and I suggested making ravioli, and the milliner suggested pumpkin ravioli. Went on the web, found a recipe. Later in the afternoon, I succeeded in dragging myself out of the apartment, and went up to Milano's. Gawd, I love that place. Just the smells, all that lovely looking food, etc. Needed eggs for making the pasta, and also for the cookies that I had promised to make later. So, just hanging around Milano's, thinking that, "Wow, Italians are such a great ethnic group!" (Oh, relax, I'm kidding!), enjoying being back at the store, where I hadn't been since 95, and pick up whatever ingredients I needed. It took everything not to simply buy a 5-kilo block of parmesan.
Get back home, cut up and roast a pumpkin. Mix the dough, and press out some sheets to make the ravioli. Mash up the pumpkin, add some ricotta and nutmeg, and start preparing the ravioli. Cut out the squares, plop the in the boil, topped with sauce, pepper, parmesan, and voilà.
It was getting late when we finished eating, but I still wanted to make the cookies. Start preparing the flour, and go to make the sponge. Take out the eggs that I had bought from Milano's, and notice some strange looking hens on the front cover. Take a second look at the writing, and see the following: "Oeufs frais de cane." No idea what that is. But the birds, having taken a longer look, make me thing of, well, geese. Or ducks. Well, at least it's organic, so what the hell. Take out an egg, and realise that, gosh, these are bigger than usual eggs. Try to crack it, and it resists. Oh shit, I'm having flashbacks to some detours from the Amazing Race (Seasons 1 & 5: I'm such a nerd) when they had to cook and eat an entire ostrich egg. Let me tell you, there's a lot of egg in a duck egg. And it doesn't blend in too well with dough. And the cookies didn't come out as well. I now have 5 organic duck eggs in the fridge. And they scare me.
What the hell, I'm gonna try one on a crèpe tomorrow.

We're gonna have rethink this whole relationship thingy

2005-11-03T14:26:00.000-05:00

At the gym last night, the milliner and I are sitting back, taking a break. At one point, she tells me, "So, my flight leaves Tuesday, and I get back on Saturday night, late." Um, "where are you going again? San Francisco, right?" (I am so attentive to her life.)
We begin discussing when she'll be gone, when I should go to the airport to pick her up, etc. etc. "So I guess," I remind her, "that you'll be spending the weekend doing the groceries and cooking my meals for the week, right? What with you being gone all that time? You know, you being the submissive lady of the house? Ouch!!"
Instead of whacking me a second time, she offers up, "But honey. I would never think of making all your meals. I wouldn't want to insult your culinary skills."
Curses, foiled again.

Honestly honey, I was just downloading pr0n

2005-10-28T13:29:00.000-04:00

Just noticed a new extension for Firefox, blocks, i.e. tetris. small little download, install it and run it from the Tools menu. Just a little popup with those shapes and colours that will bring you back to those long-gone 1990s.
I foresee many hours clicking away on my keyboard's arrow keys, stressing the tendons of my right wrist and hand, and having to explain that! Now, if only someone could configure Three Vikings, I would be in heaven.

I'm sorry, that wasn't the correct response

2005-10-28T09:48:00.000-04:00

Met up at the gym last night with a some guy from the internet (mmm, men of the internet, I'd go online with them any day) to do some climbing. There's the usual preamble beforehand, how long you been climbing?, what kind of climbing?, checking out each other's set-up, do you like the rope slack or tight (this all sounds so dirty), etc.
So, at one point I tell him that if I fall, I'm probably going to pull him off his feet, what with my weight and gravity and all that physics 101 stuff. He doesn't believe me, so I ask him his weight, which was healthy for a 6-foot-something strapping young fellow such as himself. "Yeah, you know I probably outweigh you," I answered. To which he replied, "Oh, probably."
Dude??? Thanks for the validation. Besides, I'm working on it!

Incontrovertable truth

2005-10-26T09:51:00.000-04:00

There's nothing much to like about this season's Amazing Race. Actually, there's nothing at all to like about this season. Therefore, the milliner and I have spent our time Phawning over Phil. And, I was finally able to capture it on film. Yes, Phil does dress right. And in a big way, no less.

In lieu of content

2005-10-21T13:01:00.000-04:00

Let's admire the 'phews ripped abs.
Shamelessly taken from the bro.

Giving new meaning to the term "ass-clown"

2005-10-20T10:37:00.000-04:00

I'm still trying to get over the news about the McGill Redman football team cancelling the rest of the season, when news emerged that veterans anally raped a rookie with a broomstick and had other rookies perform other man-on-man sex acts.
They. Shoved. A. Broomstick. Up. A. Kid's. Anus. Let that sink in softly. Not like forcibly shoved in like a broomstick.
I love this excuse: Players argue the incident was misunderstood, but important tradition. It's a tradition Shoving broomsticks up kids' asses is a tradition. In other words, they gave the same excuse as horny young men everywhere: they only stuck it in halfway.
A letter of apology was written, but never sent. Because, I guess, it's the meaning that counts. Did you get that? The kid left the team, left the school, and nothing was done. Until the kid's father got involved. So, a few questions spring to mind:

If this is a tradition, do they use an "official" McGill Redman ass-raping broomstick? Does it bear the team's official colours? And, if so, is the red from paint (non-toxic, let's hope) or from the blood of previous years' rookies?
When you look at the veterans, doesn't the thought go through your mind that they've all done the old broomstick sit-and-spin?
Okay, so one guy has been suspended. They raped a kid. Why haven't there been any charges?
Lastly, do you think McGill would have shut down the program if the football team was having a winning season, instead of having a 1-5 record?

The mind reels.

Oh, CSI music director, I am such your bitch

2005-10-14T13:36:00.000-04:00

I've started watching CSI again this year, mostly because there's less (and I mean both character- and cleavage-wise) Hergenbergen and her wrinkles-of-doom on my screen, but also because they seem to have gone back to their original quirkiness and, joy, the music is great.
So, I'm watching last night, it's an okay episode. But there was one scene, with Yorick pasting together scraps of letters, there's this little ditty playing in the background. Oh my fuck, I recognise that! Wait, it's coming to me. Ah, yes, Cocteau Twins. From "Victorialand," I'm pretty sure.
I'm sitting there, smug as a bug in shit, proud of my alternative-music knowledge, remembering back to my university days getting stoned and playing 4AD music in the background, when the thought hits me: Wait, that was 20 years ago. Fuck, the music's old, and so am I.
But, heck, I like to think we've both aged gracefully.

Are we done? Good. That ought to shut the little bastards up*

2005-10-11T10:02:00.000-04:00

Frances the cat has become rather demanding in the past few years, constantly chirping (yes, she chirps) for scraps while we eat. So, on the weekend, our climbing plans washed away with the rain, we decided to have a traditional Thanksgiving meal at home. (Sidenote: A few years ago, an Acadienne transplanted to Quebec told me that she didn't celebrate Thanksgiving, nor should any good Quebecois, because it was an "English" holiday, and we were subjugating ourselves if we observed it. I'm sure my 86-year-old grandmother would have been surprised by that little bit of information.) So, we go buy a turkey, and after getting over the sticker shock, pick up the rest of the ingredients for a proper white-trash meal (broccoli/cauliflower/Kraft cheddar and Ritz crackers dish? Lemon Jell-O with pineapple and carrot salad? I rest my case).
Set up the table, carve the turkey (note to self: make sure you cook the turkey breast-side up for the last while), and put some turkey aside for the feline.
We're enjoying the meal, the cat is just chomping away at the meat, etc. Clean up a bit (now that requires some resolve), pop in the Amazing Race (it freakin' rocks!), and settle in for the evening.
Look down, and Frances is completely passed out. I mean, she's not moving a muscle. She's in the complete throes of Morpheus. Sweetness. Who knew tryptophan had such an effect on cats? We go to bed around midnight, and I have to go back to the living room to get the cat, who's lying comatose on the sofa. She actually let us sleep in peace until almost 6 this morning.
*Comment caught on tape of Buffalo Bob [I think] at the end of a Howdy Doody show.

Can someone pass me the Krazy Glu?

2005-10-07T08:07:00.000-04:00

This is why I don't boulder. Same movement, over and over. All the pressure on one single finger pad. The skin eventually explodes. In all the time that I've been climbing, I've never had a flapper. First time for everything, I guess.
Luckily, a couple bucks worth of Krazy Glu should seal that sucker right up.

Party at my place!

2005-10-04T13:29:00.000-04:00

Just received the Season 1 DVD of The Amazing Race. Oh, sweetness! Y'all is welcome.
I can just imagine, this will be like reliving the initial stages in a long-term relationship. You know how it goes: you start off with furtive glances, try to find common interests, start to like each other, start to like each other a lot, can't wait to see each other again, and one day end up getting drunk, naked, and exchanging precious bodily fluids in the playground. That's what happens with everyone, right?
I'm coming, Phil!

Peas and carrots

2005-10-03T12:05:00.000-04:00

(Note: Not going to make a habit of this, because other folks write about their cooking experience much better than I ever could, but I thought I'd share.)
We wanted to make this meal while in Maine for the group. Heck, we had the time, and we had ample access to lobsters. However, we just never got around to it, what with the general lethargy that set in because of the clean air. Oh, the numerous bottles of inexpensive wine might have contributed, but I'm trying to forget that part.
However, I decided on Saturday that it would be interesting to make, so I read most of the instructions in The French Laundry cookbook, jotted down the necessary ingredients, and spent a few hours driving around picking these up. Basically, it's lobster-filled crèpes on a carrot-and-ginger emulsion, topped with pea shoots.
Sounds easy? It wasn't.
I had already whipped up the crèpe batter earlier in the day, so that was done. Then came time to prepare the lobster. Grabbed it out of the bag, and let the cat deal with it first. (The lobster freaked and started thrashing around, sending the milliner running from the kitchen, screaming. I laughed.) Instead of boiling the oversized cockroach, the recipe calls for steeping it: essentially pouring boiling water over it and letting it sit for a couple minutes, and then ripping it apart. Very tender meat.
Grabbed the shells, added them to a pan, covered with water along with a carrot and tomato. Reduced the liquid to a glaze, which resulted in salty goodness. Chopped up the meat, added the glaze, some chopped shallots and some crème fraiche. The recipe called for mascarpone, but I'm having an sultry affair with crème fraiche at the moment, so yeah, I went there. So far, I'm thinking this is easier than I thought.
Unfortunately, I hadn't really read the instructions for the carrot emulsion. Which? Called for passing the carrots and ginger through a juicer. Yeah, I don't have one of those. Ended up boiling the carrot/ginger mix, chopping the heck out of it in a food processer, and then straining this mash. Which I repeated about four times. Getting bored by the end, but my was that ever smooth. Put the coulis back in a saucepan. And then? And then? Added cream and butter. Oh gawd, lots of butter. Hell, I knew I was going climbing the next day, so I figured it was worth the cholesterol.
Filled the crèpes with the lobster mix, and heated them in the oven. Placed the carrot emulsion on the bottom of the plates, and prepared the pea salad. Pretty simple that: take pea shoots, wash and dry. Mix in some rock salt, pepper, shallots and, pièce de resistance, lemon oil. Rolled up the crèpe in a pretty package, and topped with the pea shoots.
Voilà. Peas and carrots. Served with a Pouilly Fumé. We pretty much couldn't move after that.

Interesting development

2005-09-30T12:35:00.000-04:00

Good news: The nightmares have stopped.
Bad news: I'm now waking up and seeing ghosts, who are getting closer every passing day.
I swear, my karma either wants me to go more gray, or to lose my hair completely.

The end of September comes

2005-09-29T11:30:00.000-04:00

So can we all agree to not wake up Green Day? Please?

How can this not make you, um, weak?

2005-09-28T10:15:00.000-04:00

Hubba hubba. Oh, and I've said it before: Phil dresses right.

Flies on the windscreen

2005-09-27T09:43:00.000-04:00

There's a colony of spiders who live in my car. I know this because, every morning when I drive off to work, there are new webs filigreeing across the windshield. I initially thought these were actually cracks, but fortunately they're the real thing.
I say fortunately because it is my plan, nay my hope, that in time, if I leave them be, they will come to see me as their arachnid overlord, and thus give their subservience over to me. I can see it now, a vast army of them, mindlessly and willingly doing my bidding, marching over the lands and dispatching of all my enemies. Granted, I don't have any enemies at the moment, but give me time. Oh, I will rule the world, only to be placated by nubile young women. And cinammon rolls. Can't forget the cinammon rolls.

I need my fix

2005-09-26T14:26:00.000-04:00

Um, did anyone record Lost and The Apprentice last week? Okay, I don't really need to see Lost, knowing that it will play at least five more times this season, but I'm dying to see who brings the crazy this year in The Apprentice.

Touching the hands of angels

2005-09-26T14:00:00.000-04:00

Preparing for a trip down in Bar Harbor last week (you may have read about it), I was looking forward to getting on a climb called "A Dare by the Sea," a difficult but short 5.10C. I finally got my chance on Friday, when the milliner gave herself up to be my belay slave. So off we go, stopping off at a beach first to enjoy the sun and throw (awfully in my case) a frisbee around. Set up the ropes, and off I rappel down to the base, about 10 feet away from the ocean at high tide. Being somewhat smart, I also brought down my ascenders with me, in case I couldn't get up the climb.
Yell up to the belayer, above the sound of waves, that I'm about to begin climbing, and get going. And, oh gawd, how absolutely amazing was the climb. Hard, difficult to reach holds, high-stepping, just perfectly flowing. Until, that is, I reached the crux, a thin left-facing crack where I couldn't even stick in my fingertips for purchase. I just flailed and flailed, until I gave up and resorted to ascending the rope past the difficult part.
The whole point about this? This climb was first ascended over 20 years ago, by a guy called Jim Adair who would die in a rockfall a couple weeks later. And to me, that's the greatest appeal to climbing. Not dying in a rockfall, mind you, but to find myself climbing stuff that was previously done 20 to 80 years ago, by balls-to-the-wall women and men who didn't know what the next several metres would yield, scoping out a line that is completely aesthetic. They've mostly all passed on now, but I am constantly amazed at what they did.
Oh, and the week itself was pretty fun as well.

Who knew they were so popular?

2005-09-14T15:40:00.000-04:00

Called to reserve tickets for this Friday night's Sigúr Ros concert, only to find out that the show is sold out. Completely. Le sigh.
I've always wondered how folks in this city find out about these obscure bands. Because it's not like Montreal radio is airing their music. Seriously, if anyone can clue me in to where I could hear something similar, I'm all ears.

Archiving

2005-09-12T10:48:00.000-04:00

Picked up a scanner on the weekend, one that can scan transparencies (slides, negatives, etc.) I was going through all my binders, picking out which slides I wanted to copy. It was strange, all of these photos taken over 15 years ago, which I could never really look at because, well, they were slides. I had always told myself, back then, that I would one day like to be able to develop them onto film, but I was so desperately poor that I never got around to it, and with time I forgot about it all.
Well, as much as I like to think that I have Luddite leanings, thank Loki for technology. Even now, slides cost about a buck and a half to develop, so the scanner has pretty much already paid for itself. I'm actually thinking of going back to my Olympus OM1, a rickety old 35mm SLR, and developing my negatives at home. Of course, this means sticking to B&W, but I can live with that.
Oh, and about those old photos? Yeah, less weight and more hair on this fellow.

Ducking and cringing

2005-08-31T11:28:00.000-04:00

I hate these days. Oh, I don't generally mind the rain. Or walking around in wet socks. Nah, what I hate or, more precisely, what I fear, are umbrellas. Terrified of them, actually. Shut up!
All these people walking around, completely oblivious to the fact that their personal space is about 2 feet wider than it normally is, and that the edge of this personal space is adorned with pointy wire stuff. Scares the bejesus out of me, it does. I'll be walking by someone, and without warning this nylon fabric is heading straight for my face.
So you can keep your fear of heights, spiders, balloons, Bush, etc. Me, it's those damned nasty umbrellas.