My Six-Word Memoir

My Childhood: better late than never.

(as posted on http://www.smithmag.net/sixwords/archive.php)

Saving the World Through Cookies

I bake…a lot. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. For me baking serves as stress release, meditation and cardiovascular exercise all at once (you should see me go). Everything about baking is cathartic. I pour over nearly-pornographic photos of pastries in cookbooks. I use the dry goods section of Bulk Barn to indulge in the fantasy that I’m a spice merchant exploring the Far East for undiscovered flavours. I emerge, warrior-like, from double-batches of this or that, covered in flour, hair tousled and voice hoarse from screaming along to Zydeco music. Given that I’ve a sweet tooth and am determined to leave this world without any insulin in my body, I’m also partial to stuffing myself like a mummy with whatever is hot from the oven.

In recent years, however, I’ve found that baking also serves a social function. It’s one of the few vestiges of human kindness that hasn’t been sullied by the media, or wracked by political correctness, or slime-coated by ingratitude. Compliment someone on their outfit, and they’ll probably think you’re hitting on them (or secretly mocking them). Put change in an expired parking meter, and you’ll get a nifty fine. Give a choking soul the Heimlich, and they’re likely to sue you for bruising their ribs. Offer someone a free something or other, and they’ll berate you for charging them a fair price thereafter.

In the land of cookies, and tarts, and various puffs and mousses, things work differently. Even the most macho, gladiatorial men can be brought to tears if you reproduce the cake their Granny used to make for their birthday. The snooty co-worker who won’t speak to you will smile (in spite of themselves), if you present them with a steaming, fresh cinnamon bun. Hell, even dogs know the difference between bland kibble and something homemade in the shape of a bone.

Blood sugar can scare off hypothermia. Chocolate produces happy chemicals in the brain. Berries keep you young (in more ways than one). We were biologically destined to eat dessert. It’s truly amazing, the way that warm, gooey treats turn us from snarling miscreants into big purple dinosaurs. Everyone’s got their button to be pushed, and if you really want to see the grace that lies within all people, you’ll do what I do. You’ll worship at an altar occupied by a Kitchenaide mixer and a convection oven. You’ll make certain that your hands are always anointed with butter and the scent of vanilla. You’ll greet your fellow carbon-based life forms, not with harsh words and a scowl, but with something sticky and brimming with confectionary benediction. You’ll feel human again when they shut up and eat, and smile, like nice people are supposed to.

An Ode to Bootsy Collins

Anyone old enough to remember “Ally McBeal”, anyone who’s gone through sufficient therapy to block that disturbing dancing baby, probably remembers her “pips”. On the advice of her own therapist, Ally envisions an entourage of soulful supporters, complete with Motown-smooth rhythm, and messages of comfort and support. As she makes her way through her oh-so-dramatic daily life, she is trailed by her very own built-in support posse, a crew of yeah-sayers ready with reassurance and some old-school soul. Her skirt may have been obscenely short, and her ribcage all-too-apparent, but Ally did know the value of the Greek chorus.

Well, things have changed since the age of the single, female lawyer, and I daresay, life in the big city has become even more trying. Pips, as fabulous as they are, don’t seem adequate back-up for these trying times. Multi-part harmony, powder blue tuxedos and synchronized side-stepping just don’t seem to cut it anymore. We need to call in the big guns, the heavy hitter, the imaginary sidekick who can alleviate the doldrums integrally linked to the twenty-first century.

I nominate Bootsy Collins. I vote for an invisible support system worthy of the likes of George Clinton. I opt for a Jiminy Cricket bold enough to sport giant glitter sunglasses and a sequin-spotted mad hatter top hat. My anxieties will be quelled only by phrases like “Shizle my izle, kazizle!” As I walk through this cruel world, I will hold my head high and avoid despair, just as long as I can hear the faint clunk of obscene platform shoes and the funky wa-wa of a star-shaped guitar. Long live the funk!

Apple Say, Monkey Do: Confessions of an Itunes Harlot

The black and white photo of Friedrich Nietzsche in my front hallway is mocking me. He won’t even turn his head to acknowledge me when I come in the door. Okay, in the picture he’s turned sideways, doing his signature hair-pulling, moustache-twitching, brow-furrowing, bitter misanthrope pose, but there’s a nasty new vibe coming from him. Good Old Freddy is pissed at me because I’ve become a sheep. After years of resisting convention, reading Shakespeare for fun, refusing to buy impractical footwear or watch any movie entitled “Jackass”, I’ve tragically fallen in line.

Worse than a sheep, I’ve become a tramp. Months ago, I purchased a tiny little musical, metal square thing, hoping it would help me focus while I worked, and now I’m a first-rate trollop. I’ll download anything the media passes in front of me. Stuff I hear in the background of sitcoms. Stuff I hear in the car on the way to work. Hell, I download stuff I hear being used to sell odour eaters.

A year ago, I was one of those “I only listen to quality music.” jerks who scoffed at anyone who was a fan of pre-fab stuff. Okay, I listened to crap then too, but I didn’t make it public knowledge. A few weeks ago, I heard the Spice Girls would never reunite again, and I felt myself compelled to click a couple of buttons. I’m now the proud owner of an electronic version of “Wannabe”. Hadn’t I already freed myself from these shackles eons ago when I gave my copy of that CD away (when not even a second-hand place would buy it)? Hadn’t I risen above all of this and become my own, spice-free individual? BAAAA!

My inner Uberfrau is silenced every time I sell the space between my ears for the low, low price of a buck. For less than the cost of a cup of tea, they can have me listening to just about anything. My new cultural identity is tied to a device smaller than my credit card, which, incidentally, has also been dragged into this sad perversion of human individuality. Well, Freddy my friend, you can shove it in your Will to Power. George Michael’s greatest hits is coming out soon, and my mouse finger is itchy.

I Believe!

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and today, he was hanging out in a humble cafeteria. I’ll admit, he looked like he was on vacation. In lieu of the red suit with the stylish black patent belt and matching boots, he was sporting baggy jeans and a flannel shirt. He did, however, have the long white beard and an impressive mane to match, along with the trademark spectacles.

What really gave him away, however, was what he did for the woman in line behind me, the one with the very sensible, nutritious lunch who was digging desperately in her bag for a wallet that just didn’t want to materialize. With more subtlety than jollity, he put his cup of black coffee down next to her tray and offered to pay for her lunch. Her incredulous, but grateful look was met with “It’s okay, I just got paid. (giggle, giggle) You can pay me back if and when you see me again. (giggle, giggle).” A hungry, overworked woman got to tuck into her salad, a noted saint got to retain his halo, and along with my banana bread, I had a side of human kindness (a rare delicacy these days). Bon appetit!