Oh Canada, We’re Not All Idiots

If you’re in Canada and you buy a coffee to go, chances are you’ll see some fine print somewhere on the takeout cup: “Warning: Contents could be very hot” or something like that. Every time I see those words, my blood pressure rises. You don’t say! I want to shout at no one in particular. Seriously, after forking out $3.75 for that latte I’m not about to forget what’s in the cup, especially for the length of time that it remains hot. That coffee is going straight into my mouth and nowhere else. Have I spilled coffee before? Yes, I have, and yes, I’ve also burned myself in the past, and a warning in miniscule font would not have changed that outcome. I wouldn’t have suddenly thought, “Oh, right, this cup is hot, so now I’m not going to spill it accidentally.”

Canada is a fantastic place to live, don’t get me wrong. But at times I get really irritated by the layer of protective bubble wrap that’s wrapped around us Canadians. There are rules and warnings for everything, as if the entire country has to be idiot-proofed in order for any of us to survive. I resent being told that my coffee is hot because, if someone is too dense to clue into that, they obviously shouldn’t be drinking coffee. And my kids, who are at the highest risk of knocking over a cup, can’t read yet. In Italy, you won’t find warnings painted on the sides of those little white Illy cups filled with scorching espresso. No, they assume you know what you’re doing. Imagine that.

At the Bulk Barn checkout yesterday, I asked the cashier about the store’s policy on bringing in reusable containers. After all, the whole idea behind Bulk Barn is to reduce cost by reducing wasteful packaging and, ever since reading this article on reducing household waste, I’m determined to become this town’s ‘jar lady’! The cashier looked at me in horror. “Oh no, you can’t use your own jars because that’s unsanitary. If you touch the edge of your own container with our almond butter paddle, you might contaminate it. The answer is no for health risks.”

Ah, yes, the good old ‘health risks’ excuse! The fact that their own plastic containers are stacked out on the open and that my fingers may touch the rim before filling it up is irrelevant. Even though I know she was simply reiterating company policy, I felt seriously tempted to snap, “You know what’s risky for health? Plastic! The proliferation of plastic garbage filling our earth and oceans, suffocating animals and fish, leaching phthalates and who knows what else into the environment. That’s what I’m more scared of. Not someone’s fingerprints on the edge of my almond butter container.” I didn’t tell her that I’d reused all my plastic bags for that day’s shopping trip.

I bet she’d be horrified by my house – not a single antibacterial cleaner in sight. I’m more scared of the carcinogenic ingredient triclosan than having a sterilized sink, which is also why I rarely let my kids use hand sanitizer. Shocking! I get tired of being told what’s safe for my health and what’s not. I’d like to make those decisions myself and, if that means spilling hot coffee on myself, so be it. Just stop telling me what to do.

Smashed Eggs, Leaky Kimchi, and Cars Really Don’t Mix Well

When I opened the door of my car yesterday, I was greeted by a deeply pungent, rank odour that made me step backwards for a moment. It was slightly sour, spicy, and definitely off. Alas, I knew exactly what it was — but that didn’t make it any better. The 2-litre container of kimchi (my absolute favourite food) that I’d bought at the Korean grocery store had tipped onto its side on Saturday night when I was staying at my sister’s apartment and leaked all over the back seat. It didn’t smell too bad at first, but now that the temperature has warmed up, the fish sauce is beginning to reek.

(I really hope my husband isn’t reading this. Even though he already knows and is less than impressed…)

I immediately tackled it with hot soapy water and ended up cleaning my entire car, which is one positive outcome in this situation. I haven’t opened the door yet today to sniff and see if it’s any better. I’m too scared because, if it hasn’t improved, I’ll have to call up Wayson, the local detailer. That’s kind of embarrassing, since he’s already saved my car in the past.

Two years ago, I was driving my little brothers to music lessons. They kept chickens at the time and had to deliver one dozen eggs to some customers along the way. Then disaster struck. I saw the turn-off at the last minute and slammed on the brakes. My youngest brother had placed the egg carton precariously on the seat beside him and was not holding on to it, so it went flying off the seat and hit the floor. Most of the eggs smashed, exploding out of the carton and soaking into the floor. Instead of a dozen, their customer received three whole eggs and the rest got thrown in the ditch. When we got home several hours later, Jason helped my brother clean up the mess. They did a pretty good job, but then it was November and cold outside, so there weren’t many smells anyways.

A few weeks later, we went to Toronto for the weekend and checked into a swanky downtown hotel. The valet took our car away and parked it in the hotel’s heated underground parking garage. When it came time for us to leave, he delivered the car to the front door and hopped out of the driver’s seat with a forced smile on his face. We got in and promptly felt like gagging. The egg remnants had clearly come back to life with the help of some heat. It was freezing cold outside but we rolled down all the windows nonetheless and drove through the city with our heads hanging out. The stench was awful. Fortunately, Wayson took care of it and we’ve had no further incidents — until now.

What’s going on?! I’m usually so careful. I’ve had my fill of stinky cars after driving around in my mom’s van, which my irritated father nicknamed “the landfill site on wheels.” As a result, I vowed never to have a car that smells bad. Messy is tolerated, but odour is not. I’m mad about it, but there’s actually something concerning me much more: I really don’t want this to ruin my love of kimchi. Despite being a bit dry, I’ve already consumed a quarter of my giant container. And it’s awesome — almost worth the headache.

Pickled cabbage and radish in a spicy sauce = absolutely divine. (Photo: closetcooking.com)

“The best-beloved Night”

Source: placidturbulence.blogspot.com

Every night after I’ve tucked in my boys, said goodnight, and walked downstairs, I am faced with a choice. Will I spend my evening being lazy or being efficient? Ninety percent of the time, I choose laziness – and I don’t feel one bit guilty about it. I usually put on the kettle, make myself a cup of herbal tea, and dig around in the kitchen for some dessert in the form of cookies or ice cream or both together. Then I curl up on the sofa with a book and remain there for the next two hours, existing in another world altogether. If I’m feeling unusually alert, I write at my computer or scribble ideas for posts in a notebook. Sometimes I make phone calls to distant friends or write a hand-written letter to a few special people. Often I turn up the music loudly, from sad Leonard Cohen to danceable Afro-Latin beats, and let the sounds fill my mind. After all, this is my time, and I don’t want to fill it with anything that I could do when the kids are awake.

There are, of course, the necessary battles to fight with my oldest son, who insists he doesn’t want to go to sleep at 7 p.m. – admittedly hard in the summer when it’s still broad daylight, despite the dark blinds on his window. He gets up, tiptoeing downstairs and startling me in my solitude. I may hear a cackle or barely-creaking floorboards as indicators that he’s there, and then his little face will pop around the corner with a mischievous grin: “Ha!” he shouts. “Sweetheart, please get back upstairs to bed.” His smile melts and he starts to whine, “But Mama, I don’t want to go to bed.” “I know you don’t want to, but this is Mommy and Daddy’s alone time. You can think, or tell stories, or sing songs, or play with your animals, but you must stay in bed.” If he’s particularly belligerent, I escort him upstairs, kindly but firmly insisting that he stay in bed. Sometimes I feel doubtful, wondering if I’m being too harsh, but then I recall the countless hours I spent lying in bed as a child. In the frenzy that is life today, there are few opportunities to be still and think; even I struggle to find those moments. I’m sure he’ll survive.

And then there are the rare evenings when I choose efficiency, knowing I can clean far better and faster without two little people mucking around beside me. That’s when I decide to take action against the piles of laundry – dirty, clean, wet, dry, folded, unfolded, waiting to be ironed – and the floor that needs to be washed (again!), and the bathroom whose state of dishevelment is, by then, a source of embarrassment. Those evenings always surprise me. I am reluctant, almost resentful toward the house that continually tends toward entropy and whose care is keeping me away from my book. But soon I get into it, moving efficiently through the tasks that have been bugging me for far too long. In the end, I am impressed by the difference made in an hour and collapse on the sofa, happy, to rejoin my book.

When Jason gets home from the gym, he sits beside me, pulls my feet onto his lap for a massage, and we talk about the day. I propose whatever recent harebrained scheme I’ve concocted. He’s learned that I’m full of ideas, from the sensible to the absurd, but most don’t amount to anything. Sometimes we watch a movie or he tells me stories about something he heard at work, or remembers from childhood, or read online. He recounts funny episodes of The Simpsons and Seinfeld (both shows I’d never seen before meeting him) and I tell him about the kids’ amusing antics.

These evenings are wonderfully restorative for me. They end far too soon when I look at the clock and realize I should be getting to bed if I hope to get up at 5:30 a.m. But then I know it’s only another 21 hours before I’ll have another evening to myself, most likely spent in a glorious state of guilt-free laziness. As Longfellow writes in his poem Voices of the Night:

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!

You might also like:
A Quest for Solitude
Worst. Day. Ever.
a day in my mommy life