Truths and Half Truths

Come Into My Brain For A Bit. Please Wipe Your Feet.

Grandparenthood

Owen gets more adorable by the day.  This past Sunday, when my beloved Winnipeg Blue Bombers (... I know) were playing in the Grey Cup (Canada's version of the Super Bowl, only with fewer rockets glaring redly and bombs bursting in air), he came over with his Mom after church (hey, all the help we can get!), dressed in blue and gold, our team colours:

While he did not evince an appropriate interest in the game itself (he'll learn), it was gratifying to see him at least offer token support between naps and feeding.  And pooping.  Boy can poop, I tell you.

Oh, and fart.  He's a championship farter.  When he wakes up, the first thing he does is begin nuzzling at the chest of whoever is holding him, looking for something to eat, and immediately start farting up a storm. Erin says that makes him a rootin', tootin' cowpoke.

He's a quiet, sleepy baby, although Erin says that a few lines from my play "The Truth About Daughters" (which both girls have seen enough times to be able to recite from heart), now ring very true.  Among them:

"I can hardly remember what life was like, B.C. - Before Child.  I remember there was this thing called ... "sleep"."

That said, she called me yesterday all excited because Owen had slept almost through the night - six hours!  Then she said, "I thought you were kidding when you told us that the first time he slept that long we'd be scared to go in and see him.  I nudged Matthew and said "You go check him."  He said, "I'm not going in there - YOU go check him."" 

I remember that so clearly.  And with Erin, her breathing was so gentle you couldn't detect any movement.  So I would have to actually tickle her hand or poke her just to make sure she wasn't ... you know.

Erin also confessed something to me that will, I know, shock every mother out there.  She said, "He has a rough time in the morning, when he's a bit cranky, but other than that, he's so sweet.  But - I'm always with him.  Always.  If I go somewhere, even to another part of the house, he has to come along.  So when Matthew gets home from work, I almost throw the baby at him, saying "It's your turn.  Take him."  I feel so guilty for doing that - I mean, Matty works long hours, too.  But the second he walks in, he gets this baby thrust at him - "Here, take him, I don't want him any more."

On behalf of every mother in the world, I expressed shock and dismay at her actions and assured her that yes, she should feel guilty, because no other mother has ever done or felt THAT.

Big Doin's in the Bakery

This year, I decided for the first time to make a fruitcake for Christmas.  I know that fruitcakes are an acquired taste, and that not everybody loves them (including three of the four in our house).  But I do, and every year I pay premium dough (hee!) for what is a comfort food for me.  And every year, I could feel my grandfather, the baker, spinning in his grave.

Since I bake my own bread, I didn't feel it was a giant leap to add "fruitcake" to my repertoire.  And it isn't.  You start off with the appropriate dried, candied, and chopped fruit:

[Here is where I confess a little bit of a cheat (Don't listen, Grandpa!).  I was at a Christmas Craft Fair a couple of weeks ago and some women were selling pre-chopped and measured fruitcake ingredients.  It seemed like a chance to take some of the drudgery out of the process without necessarily reducing it to paint-by-numbers.

I combined the colourful fruit with the less colourful but oh-so-necessary raisins and currants:

Then began the process of "seasoning" the fruit.  In other words, soaking it in alcohol.

Now, that offers a chance to influence the taste of the final product in any number of directions.  Many - in fact, most - recipes call for rum as the soaking agent.  Kalki referred me to this recipe, which is utterly hilarious.

But some call for brandy or even whiskey. Looking through my liquor cabinet, I considered  sherry, port, peach schnapps (... I know), and even Kirsch. 

Well, to make a long story short (as if the ship hadn't long since sailed on that), I decided to experiment next time, and went with rum.  I soaked the fruit for two days, stirring it whenever I walked past.

On Sunday afternoon, I mixed up the dough and folded in the fruit (and while I breeze over that process, let me assure you that folding five pounds of fruit into some dough is not easy.  I don't own a big-ass countertop mixer (gratuitous Christmas gift hint there!), so it was all done the way my grandfather used to do it.  Bull strength and plenty of grunting.

Then, I poured the mix into two lined loaf pans (it looks like very light-coloured dough - the reddish tinge to it is the raspberry jam I combined with it.  In fact, the cakes came out very dark, as I had hoped):

What surprised me was how long these fruitcakes took to bake - almost 2 1/2 hours at 275 degrees.  By comparison, my heaviest multigrain bread loaf takes 21 minutes.

Anyway.  I WILL have a final picture of them.  But by the time they came out of the oven and cooled for several hours, the camera had been put away, the football game was starting, and I was distracted.

After the game (sadly, my Bombers lost), I sliced off a piece of the still-warming fruitcake.  I took a bite - with some trepidation, I can tell you.

It was incredibly delicious, a complete success. 

Beginner's luck, perhaps.  Or maybe slavish devotion to a recipe.  Whatever.  Both cakes were spectacular, and will only get better as every day I bring them out and cover them with a rum-soaked cheesecloth.

So, that was the final thing.  I'm all ready for Christmas.  Boy, can't wait till December gets here.

A Brief Note ...

... to the young woman who snickered when I entered the fashionable clothing store and asked "Can I help you find anything?", and when I asked why you were giggling you said "Because you look like my Dad when he comes into girl's clothing store, all confused and lost."

First off:  I know I'm old enough to be your father, and I'm okay with that.    So it's not that you indirectly called me "old".  What pissed me off is you assumed that - since I'm a man - I would have no idea about women's fashions or style or, you know, girl stuff.

Well. 

Those turtleneck sweaters on the front rack are way overpriced at $24.99 - ribbed acrylic turtlenecks are available pretty much anywhere, and if I can't find one for $14.99 or even $10.99 sometime in the next month, I'll be very much surprised.  It's a versatile part of any wardrobe, but nothing special.

The combo shirt/pullovers are sort of cute, but they're a bitch to maintain ("Hand wash separately in cold water, lay flat to dry"), and after the first couple of washings the collar is going to pucker and gather and always look like you forgot to iron it, because the whole garment was slapped together in some Indonesian sweatshop where they value thread more than the eyesight of the children doing the stitching.  At $29.99, I can do better.

Shall I go on?  The linen blazers are shoddily made - the low price would have tipped me off, but I didn't need to look at the tag to know that any woman wearing one of those for the third or fourth time is going to look like a walking unmade bed. 

The clinging, slutty, polyester T-shirts on the back wall - you know, with the ruffle of cheap lace along the bottom edge - only suit a certain body type.  I noticed you're wearing one, by the way.  You're not long-waisted enough to carry it off, dear.  And really - that peach colour?  No.  Washes you right out.  (Incidentally, while we're on the topic of what you're wearing, if you do intend to sausage yourself into those black polyester slacks, I'm going to recommend you invest in a thong.  Sorry, but hard not to notice.)

Now, there's a woman on the other side of the store who looks like she could use some help.  You run along.  I'm just browsing.

Any Given Perfect Sunday

Now, normally I enjoy Sundays.  For years, that's the day of the week when both my girls are home and I make a big Sunday brunch and we sit around the table and talk for hours about what's going on in their lives.  Erin will finish up at the church where she's Music Director, then beeline for our house and the smell of bacon in the frying pan (and is there any better smell, really?)  (OK, there are perhaps two.  Perhaps.)

Of course, recently, the new little guy in our lives has tampered with our schedule a bit.  So lately, Sundays have been up in the air.  But it was only a matter of time before Erin had to go back to the church, and that happened this week.  Since Matthew was working, she dropped Owen off on her way to church.

Ohh, yes.  We got Owen all to ourselves.  Auntie Allie had stories she wanted to tell him.  Grandma wanted to get him in her patented on-the-hip sleeper hold, and yeah, Nilbo wanted a piece of the lil guy, too.

Between a spirited game of "Pass the Baby", I got breakfast ready and the hour and a half Erin was at church flew by.  She got to our place, fed him, and we tucked into a lovely meal while he quietly slipped into what his mom calls his "Milk Coma":

God, does it not make your heart just want to explode?

When we finished breakfast, our best friends on the Island came by to visit with their daughter in tow.  Gord and Char were among the first people we met when we moved here, and in fact, my wife takes some degree of responsibility for Siobhan, their daughter. 

(One March day 13 years ago, Gord had a gig playing at the far end of the Island, at a hotel that was offering him accommodations in their honeymoon suite.  With much nudge-nudge, wink-winking, my wife urged Char to go along with him, and in fact offered to babysit their only daughter at the time, Savannah, who was 11 and close friends with Allie.  So off they went, and nine months later (SURPRISE!!!) Siobhan was born.  This month, she's thirteen, and I think they've forgiven us.)

Anyway, this was their first time meeting Owen, and of course Char had some baby gifts.   Erin opened the gift bag and pulled out a lovely blanket.  Then she took out a smaller gift, wrapped in tissue.  It was a small, yellow Tupperware cup, with a flared bottom so toddlers would have a harder time tipping it over.

"Ohhhh," said Erin.  "How did you ever find one of these?  This is exactly like the cup I had when I was a baby!" 

Char smiled happily.  Erin pulled out another tissue-wrapped present, this one a matching yellow Tupperware bowl - mothers will know the kind I mean, broad and shallow with an extra lip on the bottom to catch spillage.  Erin's jaw dropped.

"And the exact matching bowl!  That is so amazing!  I think I'm going to cry. How did you ever find these?  I didn't even know they made them any more!"

Char smiled and said "They don't.  But thirteen years ago, when I had a baby, your mom thought I could use a cup and bowl, so she gave yours to me.  When Siobhan was done with them, I wrapped them up and put them in a cupboard against this day."

Now THAT, my friends, is a friend.

After Gord and Char left, I settled in to watch the football game.  Erin fed Owen again, and then (once he was changed, of course), she put him on my chest.   Then she went off to have a nap.

So, this was my Sunday afternoon:  sitting in a comfortable chair, my grandson snoring happily on my chest, a drink in one hand, my remote in the other, now and again dipping my face down to sniff the top of his head (there's one of the two smells), football on TV, my team won, cozy fire in the woodstove, and somebody else made supper.

I'm not sure what Heaven will be like, but I don't know that I'm going to get much closer to it during my time here on Earth.

Baybeh Cuteness

So, we survived the storm with only minor damage.  By the time it arrived here, it had been downgraded from "Hurricane Noel" to "Pissy Little Rain and Windstorm Noel". 

So let's talk about something more interesting - to wit:  my grandson, Owen.  Who is becoming more and more cute every day, to the delight and amazement of those of us who thought that was impossible.  As proof, I present a bunch of pictures cribbed from Erin's camera.

Now, when I say "cute" I'm not referring to his personality.  Babies at this age - under a month - tend not to have much personality at all (at least, as far as I can detect) unless you count "pooping a lot" as a personality trait, in which case he's a real character.

No, when I say "cute" I'm referring to his ability to wring a huge "awwww" out of everyone who sees him.  I'm the first to admit most newborns look like Yoda.  But really?  Come ON.  This is one beautiful little man.

Devastatingly adorable while sleeping - which is how he is 90% of the time I see him.  I love holding him and whispering into his ear all the things we're gonna do when Mom isn't around.

But as cute as he is when asleep, check him out when he's awake:

Does he not look like he's ready to negotiate peace in the middle east?  We're talking seriously bright eyes.  I have no idea what or how far he can see, but man oh, man.  You know he's seeing SOMETHING.

It's autumn here, and it's cool.  But not as cold as this picture makes it look.  Ehh, give Erin a break.  First time parent.  By her third kid, she won't even bother with a t-shirt.

And again with those eyes.  They kill me, those eyes.  Just kill me dead.  In a good way.

And finally, proof that he is, in fact, his mother's child and is related to my wife as well:

Pretty sure he's snoring like a chainsaw and, had he teeth, he'd be grinding them.

But it's nice to know he has inherited his mother's grace and charm.  And ability to soak any pillow with drool .

Battening Down ...

"DANGEROUS POST-TROPICAL STORM NOEL WILL APPROACH NOVA SCOTIA TODAY AND TRACK ACROSS THE BAY OF FUNDY TONIGHT THEN CROSS JUST WEST OF THE ISLAND EARLY SUNDAY MORNING AS IT HEADS INTO THE GULF OF ST LAWRENCE THEREAFTER. THE MAIN THREAT WITH THIS STORM WILL BE POTENTIALLY DAMAGING WINDS..HEAVY RAIN AND POUNDING OCEAN WAVES. GUSTY EASTERLY WINDS UP TO 90 KM/H (55MPH) WILL DEVELOP THIS EVENING. WINDS WILL BECOME SOUTHWEST WITH GUSTS AS HIGH AS 120 KM/H (75 MPH)  SUNDAY MORNING. THESE WINDS COULD LEAD TO DOWNED TREES AND POWER LINES LEADING TO POWER INTERRUPTIONS AND CAUSE DAMAGE TO ROOFING AND CLADDING MATERIAL ON SOME HOMES. RAINFALL AMOUNTS OF UP TO 50 MILLIMETRES ARE EXPECTED OVER THE PROVINCE. THE RAIN WILL QUICKLY TAPER OFF SUNDAY MORNING. RAINFALL MAY CAUSE LOCALIZED FLOODING IN PRONE AREAS..ESPECIALLY WHERE LEAF LITTER CLOGS STORM DRAINS. 5-METRE (15 foot) WAVES ARE EXPECTED OVER THE GULF WATERS..EROSION OF SOME BEACHES IS LIKELY. HIGH WATER LEVELS ALONG THE NORTHUMBERLAND STRAIT ARE EXPECTED TONIGHT."

                                -- Environment Canada

So, today we're battening down the hatches.  A friend wrote me today wondering if I was out golfing.  Not so much.

I know, I know, some people might chuckle and say "Are you kidding?  That's not a real storm."  It's the same way we feel when we hear 2 - 4 inches of snow has caused some city in the U.S. to grind to a standstill.  In Canada we say "Oh, for God's sake, get a broom, brush the snow away, and get on with your life."  But we're not used to near-hurricane-force winds here.

Should be fun!  And I'm certainly glad I didn't bother to rake any leaves this week.  With any luck, they'll be in the Atlantic Ocean by morning.  I can only hope I won't be joining them.

In terms of hurricane preparations, I've secured everything outside that moves, loaded in wood, checked the candle supply, replaced batteries in all the flashlights, and most important of all, laid in 40 oz. of Canadian Club rye whiskey.

I'm ready for anything.

In other news - and speaking of "Noel" - today I finished the last of my Christmas shopping.  And before you say "Oh, yeah, but you're a guy, what do you buy, one present?", remember who you're talking to.  OK, then.

Feel free to hate me.