Raspberry fingers
beet head
kale and chard
monarch and milkweed
Foraging for Saskatoon berries along Grace in the heavy morning humidity. Picking a handful and eating them heading southward. Trying to keep cool walking in the shady side of the street. Meeting for Americanos and hitting yard sales with future roommate. Purchasing framed Southern France art deco drawings for the bathroom. Watering and admiring the solanum, prickly tomato plant in my garden. Building earth brick beds with children and youth. Eating fried clams in Queen’s Park North while observing toddlers knocking over floaty balloons filled with helium. Watching younger cousins play “Grounders”. Watching Rose Ave. children playing “Shark” along the vacant portables. Biking along Queen’s Quay. Dodging mini vans and BMWs. Attending panel discussion on colonialism, imperialism and capitalism organized by No One is Illegal at Ryerson. Drinks on a patio with new and old friends. Flirtatious banter. 3:00 am poutine and pop drinking with Montrealers on stoop. Dancing to old school music. Gin and tonics. Getting hit in the head by a flying soccer ball. Drinking a lot of water. Being combative and head butting people. Trading flat yellow shoes for white high heeled sandals to provide relief to fellow female-kin. Stumbling in said heels. Biking through Trinity Bellwoods. Buying myself flowers in Parkdale. Kitty cuddles. The Black Keys’ Brothers album on Repeat. Dancing in my underwear to Sleigh Bells. Taking my cousins to the park. Gelato in Little Italy. Fresh farm eggs from Tony. Pondering. Duck and quail eggs experimentation in the kitchen. Cooking stir fried ginger and onion blue crabs feast for maman-daughter sleepover. Splurging on dark chocolate at the fancy confectionery shop down the street. Shots of sambucca. Swollen lips. Reading L’élégance du hérisson in the park. Waking up sweaty at 2:00 am and 5:00 am regularly. Writing in the wee hours of the morning. Going for Brunch at Grace’s and Mia’s. Savouring congee, runny eggs, pickled vegetables, fried dough patties, and okra and tomato dish. Random solo evening bike rides downtown. Giving away spring garlic in St. James Town to Portuguese lady. Admiring little houses north of Queen West. Staring at the stars on patios and lying down on slides in the playground. Playing on the swings — trying to go as high as possible without getting too dizzy. Petting Great Danes and hounds on the street when the owners/guardian are not watching. French films about love. Speaking French to my cats. Mentally naming things in Vietnamese on my way to work. Xe dap, nha, xoi. Markham BBQ. The Dad brigade at the Commun. Spitting and crying infant. Baby smells. Random encounters and connections. Getting children to fight over sugar snap peas. Skype conversations with long distance friends. Evasiveness. Visiting Amber at Urban Harvest and eating croissants and drinking carrot ginger apple smoothies. Listening to the Wu Tang at 5:30 am on a Monday. Regaling friends with sordid stories. Water play. Making do. Making plans. Outdoor free concerts. Red currants. Sore muscles. Siestas and power naps. Slanted tree out front of house. Toronto Underground Cinema and outdoor films. Fixing the brakes on my bike. Helping others fix their bikes. Fundraiser parties. Laughing by myself. Neil Young. Strolling for hours in the city. Macchiatos on Harbord in the afternoon. Falling in love with beautiful and stylish women on bicycles every day. Sundresses. Dirty feet. Pink nails. Fashion blogs. Broken hearts. Joyful. Old Crushes. Eating too many nem nuongs. Bad 24 Hour Vietnamese food. Giant dandelion gone to seed blowing in the wind at 4:00 am. Wood chips. Breathing in the pre-rain air. Random capitalization. Not being afraid. Doing “Chinese medicine shots”. Checking out community gardens in the dark. Making others grin and laugh. Strategizing and planning around exciting summer youth project. Cordless power drilling. Stumbling on a Beehive Collective workshop over the weekend. Precarious job security. Watching dogs at the dog park. Enjoying my own company enormously. Lettuce from Pasquale. Co Hang’s delicious chocolate cake - a cross between a cake and truffle - not too sweet and a perfect balance between airyness and density. Sitting on storefront pipes commiserating. Bonding with little cousin and letting her dictate what shoes I should try on for fun at the mall. Tasting raw rhubbarb in the garden. Endless texting. Never getting tired of Abbey saying the latin names of plants outloud. Homemade beef jerky made by Leslie in exchange for watering her plants. Being inspired. Being tired. Milk bottles filled with water strewn across the apartment. Disarray. Eating a lot of kale. Wishing I could do a cartwheel. Propagating. Spring garlic all-purpose pesto jar in the fridge. Having friends over for impromptu dinners. Going to bed too late. Waking up too early. Creating. Dynamics. Excited for what’s ahead.
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Recently watched Our Daily Bread, a German documentary on modern food production from a couple years ago, and had mixed thoughts — which is really my preferred reaction to most issues and life in general. I found it to be both revolting, ugly and beautiful — poetic - the juxtaposition of repetitive and rhythmic work required to feed us, the shiny metal machines slicing through countless pig and cow carcasses, workers, human machines on their own, ripping out the guts out of animals continuously for hours in repetitive motions, the skinning of the carcasses by machines, constantly rotating…thousands and thousands of animals passing through slicers and cogs and rolling carpets, workers injecting semen into pigs by hand, and than the very same workers on their breaks eating their lunch (what looks like a ham sandwich in one case), on a smoke break, or workers riding a bus to get to work was a nice parallel.
I felt my body ache watching people do the back breaking repetitive labour required…watching workers crouched in lettuce fields, picking, bagging and placing packaged lettuce ready for the supermarket in crates in front of them monotonously, that slid into a moving truck car, with a plastic covering over the labourers with lights above so they could work throughout the night.
And this brings me to prison farms — CBC featured this story. Canada has 6 prison farms in the country but they are being shut down next year by mandate of the Conservative government. Which is a shame.
Proponents, like Margaret Atwood, advocate that prisons farms are great for inmates, allowing them to be productive, grow food for themselves, learn skills, earn a bit of money, and give them an opportunity to give back to the community via donations of the food they donate to food banks. A damn shame. This demonstrates a move away from focussing on rehabilitation and a move towards prison complexes à la United States. Having once volunteered with former prisoners in a small greenhouse, packaging sprouts for a food organization has shown me how effective and positive these type of programs are. I remember the camaraderie and pride shared by the men in being able to collectively grow sunflower and pea sprouts for consumption and how these skills would make them more employable in the future. It’s a tough sell though, many people do not feel any particular compassion for people who commit crimes, regardless of the circumstances or nature of the crime, preferring to see the world as white or black, good or bad. Which boggles my mind. CityFarmer lists the various reasons why we should save our prisons farms a lot more eloquently than I.
On that note, this reminds me of another story about Riverdale Farm. According to Sunday, Riverdale Farm ( read Lauren Archer’s post about the history - so fascinating!) and the land that stretches out all the way to the former Don Valley Jail used to be a prison farm back at the turn of the 19th and beginning of the 20th century, mostly inhabited by Scottish and Irish debtors aka poor people. This is apparent by the style of some of the resident houses at Riverdale Farm(particularly the former morgue– which is now the Resident House), some of the buildings’ scaffolding having brick designs layered in a particular style that is reminiscent of Scottish architecture. The prisoners were worked to death then though…
I suppose I am bias. I think we should have gardens everywhere, schools, community centres, malls, apartments, houses, parks, hospitals and various public and communal spaces — but I see the social benefits every day at work — especially as I have gotten to know many of the children in the past couple of years.
Spending a lot of time alone thinking, planning, creating and just allowing myself to absorb various forms of stimulation and inspiration from around and about…
From the garden:
Children exploring the garden grounds finding new ways to interact with nature.
Sour leaf (aka garden sorrel) bouquet
Picking and tasting mei qing choi flower petals. Tastes like sweet mustard.
A series of current visual inspirations borrowed from films:
Curse of the Golden Flower
Gong Li as the fearless Empress. The opulent costumes and the textures, layers, lavishness and colours of the palace.
Flying assassins & horses
2046
Tony Leung as an emotionally unavailable bachelor in the 1960’s Honk Kong. (sigh)
Zhang Ziyi (double sigh)
La Belle Personne
The autumn colours, sweaters, coats, scarves and wind blown hair of the young, beautiful and tortured French. L’amour qui n’est jamais consommer…
À Bout de Souffle
L’Américaine Patricia. Quel coquette! Michel! Quel voyou!
Swimming Pool
Les relations improbable entre une jeune femme et une femme plus agée.
Ludivine! <3
“I guess I have to eat my foie gras all alone”- Julie
Sting of the Dragon Master(s)
Angela Mao. Fierce and beyond awesome martial arts hero of the 1970’s. Her flashy fighting eyes. Feel the terror.
I can’t find my camera which is too bad.
I picked up some live scallops from Kensington Market (after eating a selection of shucked oysters outside New Seaway) as a treat. I’ve never bought them before to make myself.
Somewhat improvising the following will be my dinner:
1 . Live scalllops baked in the oven with panko flakes, grated Asiago cheese, and a healthy dollop of butter. I just put them in the oven.
2. Inspired by the Charlie’s company (a war term?!?!) hotdog served at Disgraceland on Bloor, I am making a grilled pork hot sausage in a bun topped with kim chi from P.A.T. Central, grated carrot, shredded 5 year old cheddar, Sriracha chili and cilantro.
I think my appetite is coming back! I even had my reoccurring dream last night where I am visiting France and I make a purposeful trip to the grocery store so I can buy my favourite French dairy products and saucisson. I had a detailed dream where I am eating this delicious vanilla pudding with chantilly.
Tonight I am going to watch a French-Italian film from 1973 called “La Grande Bouffe”. It’s about a group of rich men who rent out a villa for a weekend, invite prostitutes over and resolve to eat themselves to death after having group sex. Or something.
It's one giant cosmic joke.
I’ve been sorrily MIA and not writing as frequently as I’d like to. For good reason (and maybe a touch of laziness). I’ve had a few personal and interpersonal issues and health problems pop up rather unexpectedly in the past three months and have been dealing with what I can only call a series of misfortunes. I can only laugh. Really.
My friend Jay, who is similarly going through a rough year, jokingly said he was going to make a t-shirt saying “I survived Crap Storm 2010″. I think I might actually consider getting a shirt made.
Through these various adversities, I have learned a lot about myself (and others!) and can actually appreciate the turbulence. The stagnancy that has been previously pervasive in my day to day was a lot worse. I rather feel and live honestly and happily — and am working towards living like that all the time after many years of not doing so.
Now possibly the kicker, and somewhat hilarious in my twisted mind is the following incident that happened two weeks ago:
I was trying to cut open a mangosteen open that my mother had given me with a knife. Now, I knew it probably wouldn’t taste good, because the skin was hard and not peeleable with fingernails. It had obviously travelled thousands of miles from Vietnam. But I persisted because I hardly ever eat them (maybe once a year?), figured it was worth a try, and was quite fond of them when I lived in Vietnam and they were available fresh. They are possibly my favourite fruit. Apparently they are also the new ’superfood’, according to trend hunters (whaevs I say!).
On Saturday my family celebrated Matthew’s one month old birthday. My cousin Thuy and his wife Jane held a baby shower so that friends and family could meet the little dude with the funniest face. He looks like a puppy. A human puppy. Very cute!
Because there was so many of us, at least 90 people, it only made sense to have this event at an Asian buffet in Richmond Hill aka the 905. This is where buffets reign supreme. I will say it’s a bit daunting and dazzling if you take a moment to ponder the number of different species you can eat at a buffet. It is a game I play. My count was at least 18 different animals that night. My usual thoughts and considerations about sustainable and local eating were forced to be on hold.
I avoid buffets now, but going to one was a lot fun and very nostalgic.
When I was young, when we were not frequenting Chinese or Vietnamese restaurants, my extended family on my father’s side occasionally went to buffets. Sit down dinners of mostly the Western variety was not an experience I had much of. Try getting 12 aunts and uncles, plus their spouses and significant others, 20 first cousins, plus their spouses and significant others, to the table.
You see, my father’s family, eats an enormous amount of food. I am talking vats of noodles and soup. I do not think I have seen a man or woman eat as much as some of my uncles. Going to buffets allowed everyone to be full and content, for a set price, as going to a normal restaurant was a bit of a risk - of not satisfying people’s appetite, of having to spend more than one could afford, of not being able to provide and losing face.
It was a treat to go. My mother would regale over the idea of eating “all-you-can-eat” seafood. Now, not all buffets are created equal, so part of what made a good buffet (oxymoron for some I am sure) was what seafood they had as offerings. Another determinant, and a counterbalance to the quality of the food, was the price. Going for lunch or dinner made a difference.
I remember this one time, when I was about 10 going with my cousins and our parents. I was the eldest and thought it would be fun to eat whatever made up concoction my cousins and brother offered. I was brave and wanted to show off - that I had a steely stomach and could eat whatever. So with eyes closed Anh Thi put a spoonful of something in my mouth.
And I choked. I still remember the taste in my mouth. Imagine a mixture of hot sauce, fish sauce, soy sauce, noodles, rice, some meat, strawberry ice cream, and what tasted like peanut butter - whatever it was it was velvety, hard, chewy and liquid all at the same time. It tasted like spicy hot vomit.
Generally at a buffet, I’d eat myself so full, I was uncomfortable. There were many moments where after eating, I’d clutch my stomach in absolute agony. Having eaten myself physically sick. I remember one time, having to excuse myself so I could go lie down in the backseat of the family car, feeling as though I’d been punched repeatedly in the stomach by Mike Tyson, feeling that I just might die of gluttonous blows. Feeling like my stomach would burst and my dead body would be found, guts exploded all over the backseat.
Coming home one night, with not much to eat, as we hadn’t gone food shopping in weeks, I took out a can of foie gras, BLOC DE FOIE GRAS DE CANARD, that was sitting around in my fridge, a gift from my French relatives that my mother handed to me one time I came to visit a couple years ago. It has been sitting guiltily in my fridge - as I wasn’t sure whether to consume it or give it away. My French childhood memories of eating the luxurious item clashing with my knowledge of the controversial production of said item.
In the end I didn’t want to waste it - as it was to expire later this year. And felt a little homesick for my French family. So I say to justify my hunger.
And so as a last minute dinner idea, I smeared butter on a slice of crusty baguette, added a dab of foie gras and topped it with a boston lettuce leaf. I ate maybe 7 or more, the last three having turned into mini foie gras and lettuce sandwiches, two baguette slices haphazardly coddling rich items. A crumb of foie gras fell off one of my slabs and onto the kitchen floor, which my cat ate up before I could do anything about it,
Last week I started this cooking program that I initiated at work with middle school students. We made lasagna “almost” from scratch, and a salad with homemade dressing. It was challenging, and there were some setbacks, however overall it was successful — although some remarked that the dressing was “too lemony” — they ate it up, the salad and lasagna.
While we ate I asked if they felt they could make the lasagna at home now. And they all said no. My heart sank a little, but I realized after telling Lara, who said: “Did you learn to cook well in one lesson?” — that I had unrealistic expectations. I certainly did not. Why should I expect these 12 and 13 year olds to be confidant and sassy in the kitchen after one workshop when they had little independent cooking experience?
The following evening I attended my first hip hop class. My first dance class. I’ve never taken dance lessons. The closest was one gymnastic class, one session I took when I was 6 in France. I had hopes of taking dance lessons afterwards - but then my family moved to Canada and my parents could not afford to enroll my brother and I in any extra-curricular activities. I’ve been wanting to go for a really long time but did not have the courage to. I’ve never really seriously articulated it, only in jest, nor have I pursued it. I found out Anne Marie was going and she invited me to tag along with her - giving me enough incentive to actually follow through.
I can’t fathom the devastation that has befallen Haiti - only in far away images and feelings in the pit of my stomach. As soon as I heard on Tuesday evening, my first thoughts were “Shit! Of all countries”, given its history, socio-economic and political climate. I am susceptible to nightmares and my last two nights were related to the aftermath of the earthquake…but in different locations if that makes sense - spurning thoughts about other human calamities in countries like the Democratic Republic of Congo and Burma. And on.
My friend Beth passed on this Haitian saying “mountains beyond mountains” or “beyond the mountains, more mountains”, which means that once you’ve climbed one mountain, there’s still another one in the distance.
I’d like to have a more hopeful outlook, but is that naive?