March Break Workshops for Kids!

Food and Philosophy Fun for March Break!
Don't Let Good Ideas Go To Waste!

Calling all thinkers aged 8-18! Join us for a Think-A-Thon on Tuesday, March 16 at 87 Up in Georgetown (87 Main St. South).

Thinkers aged 8-12 will be discussing the wonders of robots (and their human friends) from 1:30-3:30 pm. Thinkers aged 13-18 will take a look at the wonders of modern media (yes, even the infamous Facebook and Twitter) from 3:30-5 pm. For those interested in tempting their taste buds as well as their minds, there will also be a variety of fantastic cooking workshops offered during the week.

Think-A-Thon workshops are $10 per thinker, per topic (prices vary for cooking classes). Register by calling Foodstuffs at (905) 877-6569. For more information, see the attached brochure, or call Amy Leask at (905) 864-1858 x2 (email amy@enabletc.com).

Brochure Link:

http://www.foodstuffs.ca/classes/march-break-cooking-classes

An Ode to P.K. Page

I was a bewildered, second-year Canadian literature student, and I had been offered an extension on my assignment in exchange for my attendance at a local reading by P.K. Page. Good little procrastinator that I was, I climbed into the back of a classmate's sub-compact and agreed to put in my time. Don't get me wrong, I had done my reading, and liked Page's work as well as anything else. I was, however, weary of the practice of chopping perfectly good poetry into tiny, nasty, academic morsels. I wanted to read and enjoy, without having to explain or dissect. Oh well, an extension was an extension, and a night away from residence did seem appealing.

Page was a gentle, grandmotherly figure who read her work patiently, reverently, and made witty comments between pieces. Crunched into the back corner with my peers, I was actually enjoying myself, until an eager pilgrim at the front stood up and offered her own dissertation-length analysis. I rolled my eyes and sighed. Was it really necessary to fluff one's own feathers like this, in public, and in front of the poet herself? Could a person just listen and enjoy, without having to pick the poem apart like a pithed laboratory frog?

In addition to being a driving force in Canadian poetry, P.K. must have been psychic, or else had hearing keen enough to pick up my grunts of disapproval. She refused to participate in scholarly ego-stroking, and told the audience member something like "Why should I tell you if you're right or wrong? It's not my job to approve or disapprove your views. Just take from it whatever you want to take from it. "

With a lash of her tongue, P.K. Page had reclaimed poetry for me. I no longer felt guilty for saying things like "I like it." and "It's good." I was free to read in bed and let things wash over me, without having to justify my enjoyment. Now a writer myself, I expect nothing less from my own readers.

Cheers to you, P.K.!

Peace on Earth Through the Internet

All I wanted were a few extra lights. I figured since it wasn't even December yet, hitting the local hardware store wouldn't be too much of an ordeal. However, a month before Christmas, the aisles were already teaming with cranky, overtired holiday shoppers, and the shelves were mostly picked-over. Even the parking lot was depressing, a zig-zag ballet of distracted drivers.

When I got home, there were reports on television about tramplings at department stores, and frantic pilgrims shooting each other over the last Tickle Me Elmo. The tumult was such that it had been declared "Black Friday". Ugh.

I decided I could make due with what we already had, and more importantly, that I would avoid shopping malls and big box centres like the plague until well after Boxing Day. For the next month, there would be lots of baking sessions, and tree trimming, and listening to Jimmy Buffett's version of "Christmas Island". There would not, I vowed, be any unnecessary contact with nasty vibes. I didn't want to have to stoop to doing anything that might get me on the naughty list.

At that point, I uttered a prayer of thanks for the Internet for making it possible for me to remain in my happy little holiday bubble. I could do my gift shopping online, and have goodies show up at my house, as if left by magical invisible elves. I could donate to charities while sipping cider and eating cookies. I could send greetings around the world without unnecessary paper waste and postage. Cyber-cynics could gripe all they wanted about a lack of human contact, and the downfall of social relations. Perhaps they were right, but at this point in the calendar, I was happy to stay away from other people, to wish them well from afar, and to not be part of the tinsel-trimmed insanity.

Declaration of the Picky Foodie

One of the highlights of my recent trip to Chicago was a food tour. We walked, we chatted, we admired the architecture, and we nibbled liberally on all sorts of delicious tidbits. I had had my very first Ruben sandwich, followed by samples of imported tea, exotic spices, handmade chocolate, and a slab of the miraculous, deep-dish pizza for which the city is famous. While exploring the city on our own, we noticed that literally every third building was some sort of market or eating establishment. Here, sustenance was serious business, and it came in every shape, form, size and flavour imaginable. This was a city that took its palate seriously.

Keen to get in on the action, we found a nearby Gastro-Pub, a place which was supposed to serve down-to-earth, comforting fare with a gourmet twist. Our hearts sunk as we read the menu, which boasted inflated prices, and options that looked like the chefs were trying entirely too hard. Evidently, using young (aka small) chickens, pureed liver and a few sprinkles of exotic pink salt was all that was needed to elevate their cuisine to a higher level. We left the restaurant hungry and discouraged.

Hope returned the next day in a tiny Thai cafe, with a plate of steaming, spicy noodles. We gobbled as fast as our chopsticks would allow us to. Later in the week, we tucked hungrily into a savoury steak sandwich so greasy that the bun disintegrated before we could eat all of it. I decided one morning to have fresh mini donuts and hot chocolate for breakfast. Heaven.

I think I've given up on the notion of fancy food. Intellectually, I get the subtle nuances of adding a wee sprig of this or that rare herb, or essence of something or other, or stuffing this food with that food. I appreciate when things taste different, or when someone has gone to the trouble of inventing an entirely new dish. Haute cuisine has indeed become a modern art and for this, I praise it. I just don't like eating it.

When I think back on Chicago, I'm going to remember that slice of pizza. When I think Austin, Texas, giant gingerbread pancakes from Magnolia Cafe will spring to mind. Honolulu will conjure images of Cocoa Puffs from Lilha Bakery. Barcelona will be about Churros con chocolate, and Paris will be about lemon tarts, and Tokyo will be about humble buckwheat noodles with soy sauce. The most memorable things I've ever eaten have been on park benches, or while hovering over the kitchen sink. I may be a right little cretin, as far as my culinary aspirations go, but I'm a cretin with a satisfied stomach.

Death By Pollen: A Note on the Superiority of the Human Species

Shakespeare once wrote, "Why man, he doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus" to describe the human tendency to stomp around like we own the place. The bard was smart that way, and was courageous enough to be brutally honest about our flaws. We really do take for granted that we're secure in our spot at the top of the food chain. We're stupid that way- really, really stupid.

If you want to look at the bigger picture, you can read up on swine flu, killer bees, or tidal waves. On a regular basis, Mother Nature makes it very clear that she could take or leave us. This time of year, in my particular corner of the universe, I get a polite, but firm reminder of my own cosmic insignificance. I get this reminder shoved right up my nose, as I'm taught humility by a mangy little weed in the backyard. Actually, I'm schooled by the stuff that blows off the mangy little weed.

My hay fever isn't really even that bad. I am however, suitably impressed that a handful of spores, invisible to the naked eye, can leave a giant sack of meat like me mouth-breathing and clammy for two weeks. It brings to mind the work of another literary giant, Dr. Seuss. My hat's off to the universe for helping me to remember that I am more of a "Who" than a "Horton".

Behind Every Great Author...

I just saw "Julie and Julia". It was one of those evenings during which I got to see bits and pieces of my life flash before me. No, I'm not a gifted chef (yet) or a best-seller (yet), but I am a writer, and like both Julie and Julia, I spend a lot of time being neurotic and cranky about the stuff I'm working on. Like both women, I also have a husband who has to put up with me being neurotic and cranky. Mine watched the film eagerly, with a knowing smile on his face, occasionally squeezing my hand when the episodes on screen seemed a little too familiar.

It's occurred to me on a number of occasions that having a writer as a partner is probably a lot like being married to someone with a parasitic twin. There's a third person in the relationship, one that takes up considerable space, time and energy. This grouchy squatter doesn't pay rent, do laundry, or make nice with the neighbours. Worst of all, getting rid of it would likely kill the writer.

I'm not sure if literary "better halves" get the recognition or praise they deserve. True, life with one of us creative types is rarely dull. There may be some sort of thrill in knowing that the manuscripts being mashed and bashed beneath your own roof could be read for centuries to come. If you're lucky, your angst-ridden paramour may turn out to be the next J.K. Rowling, and you'll be fiscally rewarded for your patience. Still, one has to wonder if Shakespeare's move to London without his family was instigated by a fed-up wife, or if Virginia Woolf's husband longed for the day when she would take up plumbing.

I'd like to raise a glass to all of our co-vivants. Here's to the dutiful and loyal souls that know when to back slowly out of a room full of crumpled up papers! Hooray for those who bring us tea and cookies as we struggle with yet another draft! Long-live all of the partners who become in-house proofreaders and amateur therapists! We may not be able to promise you peace, quiet, or even sanity, but chances are, when we write you into our next great masterpiece as a character, you won't be killed off.

Yet Another Farewell to Michael Jackson

This is probably a little late in the game. The shocking news has been announced, the memorial services have been held, and Entertainment Tonight has almost run out of things to talk about. Perhaps now that the dust is starting to settle, I'll throw in my two cents and pay my respects.

Although Michael Jackson and I have fallen out of communication over the past decade or so, I did admire him once. Nine-year-old Amy had a Michael Jackson doll, a Michael Jackson t-shirt, and Thriller on vinyl. I spent hours sewing crooked silver sequins onto one of my grandmother's old white cocktail gloves, and I endured teasing when I wore a black and red pleather ensemble to school. I grilled my parents for details about his career with The Jackson Five. As an adult, it hurt to look at photos of his latest plastic surgery adventure, but I still bought his music on CD and admired his ability to put together funky beats and interesting lyrics.

The most poignant lesson Michael Jackson has taught me doesn't really pertain to his music. It has to do with our inability to let an artist's work stand for itself. I wonder if it's possible, in 2009, to just step back and say "Great song!" without wondering who put it out, what they were wearing, and how many times they've been photographed without underwear. Do we really need to know how much of a weirdo someone is in order to enjoy (or condemn) what they create?

Historically speaking, a lot of great creative minds have been perverts, hooligans, recluses, drunks and all-around creeps. Jeremy Bentham, proponent of utilitarianism, insisted on having his remains stuffed and put on display at a London library. Shakespeare was a player in more than one way. Virginia Woolf was chronically suicidal. The list is endless, but in most cases, we still admire their work. As far as I can tell, very few great artists ever ask the general public to walk in their shoes. They just want us to pay attention to their stuff.

I'm not prepared to forget Michael Jackson's fall from grace. I don't know if he was really a pedophile, or if he was guilty of any of the sins of which he was accused. I do know, however, that when played at a party, "Billy Jean" will get people on their feet. I know that I still occasionally catch myself trying to moonwalk. If you need an example of the wonderful ways in which his music (and not his life) have inspired people, go to Youtube and look up the ABC scene from "Clerks 2". Trust me.