It is a Truth Universally Acknowledged...

... that pre-announcing blog posts guarantee they are not going to happen when promised.

Note to self: blog about emigrating to Canada and also about some of the theatre you've seen recently.

K.

Sofa and Scones

Well, at last here's a picture of the finished sofa. I spent the week looking for cushions and ended up back at the fabric store on Friday night, determined not to wait another day for cushions! And so I attended the theatre that same night, the opening of A Midsummer Night's Dream at Hart House Theatre, weighed down in a most unseemly fashion with bags of goose-feather cushion bases and lovely fabric. Saturday morning I was up early to stitch them up. Today the parentals came for tea and we christened the sofa with scone crumbs and a really good catch up.

As for the theatre, I am so behind in my blogging! More on that in a post to come.




The cushions tie in well with the newish wing chair.

Done

The slipcovering is done. I finished about an hour ago, and - as much as I have nitpicked on the errors in my work - I am weirdly exhilarated. Now I have to wait till I am home during actual daylight to get some decent pics... that will be this weekend. At work I've entered probably the four most intense weeks of the year, but it's always exciting. I just have to remember to keep some balance, especially as I so enjoy the run up to Christmas!

Thank you for your comments and encouragement!

Top Ten Things I Have Learned Recently... Very Recently

10. Watching The Prisoner (2009) is not conducive to accurate fabric cutting.

9. Pins like to lay pointy side up in thick carpeting.

8. Ultra-suede, while washable and hardy and soft and lovely, is very "grippy"... and getting the slipcovers onto the pieces is like dressing a reluctant child, who happens to be the size and weight of a pro wrestler.

7. I am not a natural slip-coverer.

6. I am getting more impatient as the years go by.

5. Piping is best created with a proper piping foot (sewing terms... sigh).

4. I don't function at all well if things are not harmonious around me, and that includes the squalour into which I have descended the last few days.

3. I will be buying a replacement sofa sooner than later.

2. Drinking Guinness is not conducive to accurate sewing.

and...

1. After all my pathetic whimpering, it doesn't look as bad as I thought it did!

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh...

The main part of the sofa is done, just the seat cushions to do now. Oh, and I have to buy more fabric! Also, shopping for some fancy throw pillows or something to tie it all together. I'm too tired to dig up the camera. Final pics tomorrow, I hope, if all goes well. This will be the first and last slipcover job I do. Heh heh.

I had a Guinness tonight to celebrate that today is 35 years to the day that my family emigrated to Canada. It's been a good home. More on that tomorrow. I'm off to tidy this crazy place up.

The Fabric has Landed

It's a glorious sunny weekend here in Toronto, but I am about to hurl myself into the Big Slipcover Challenge. What I'd really like to be doing is walking a trail, hugging a few trees and hiding behind a few to watch some birds.

But I've thought about this too long and I have a Christmas deadline. Yards of sage-green ultra suede are covering my dining room table. The piping rope isn't strong enough to hang myself with, so all is good.

I'll be posting updates.

Bloody Poms

I've been lethargic of late and am fighting off cold and flu germs all around me. (Knock on wood, still healthy, still taking the vile oil of oregano). But now I'm managing to get real boosts of energy from those ruddy and tantalizing pomegranates that are currently at our disposal. Every other day I buy two. I seed them. One lot gets frozen for future breakfast use, the other gets eaten. I can't get enough!

I take a few ruby red seeds each day and plop them in my pitcher of filtered water along with some thin lemon slices. If, like me, you want to up your water consumption, this is a (mildly) tasty way to do it.



The breakfast I have each morning: raspberries, banana, pomegranate seeds with ground flax seed, raw almonds, raw pumpkin seeds and balkan-style yoghurt. No sweetening needed. Feels like dessert, but is so healthy!

Siegfried Sassoon

As Remembrance Day approached this year, I've been reading Siegfried Sassoon's war poetry. Much of it was written while he was serving in WWI and also while he was committed to Craiglockhart Hospital in Edinburgh, for supposedly suffering from "shell shock", but more accurately because of his anti-war stance: he was willing to be sent to fight, and fight he did, but he wasn't willing to condone it.

You might have read Pat Barker's Regeneration (1991), which was based on real characters, one of whom was Sassoon. The book is stunning and I'm preparing to read it again along with its two sequels, which I haven't read. I believe it was also made into a film, but I didn't see it.

Here is a poem by Sassoon, written while he was incarcerated.


Autumn

October's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves
The bronzed battalions of the stricken wood
In whose lament I hear a voice that grieves
For battle's fruitless harvest, and the feud
Of outraged men. Their lives are like the leaves
Scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown
Along the westering furnace flaring red.
O martyred youth and manhood overthrown,
The burden of your wrongs is on my head.

Craiglockhart 1917

I took the following pictures in Stratford a few weeks ago. The War Memorial is very fine. It was created by renowned Canadian sculptor W. S. Allward and was completed in 1922. It depicts the theme of "Might versus Right."

Poem for Week of Remembrance

Return

I have come home unnoticed; they are still;
No greetings pass between us; but they lie
Hearing the boom of guns along the hill,
Watching the flashes lick the glowering sky.

A wind of whispers comes from sightless faces;
"Have patience, and your bones shall share our bed."
Their voices haunt dark ways and ruined places,
Where once they spoke in deeds; who now are dead.

They wondered why I went; at last returning,
They guide my labouring feet through desolate mud.
And, choked with death, yet in their eyes discerning
My living strength; they are quickened in my blood.

By Siegfried Sassoon, March 1917

Gerard Brender à Brandis

When you visit Stratford, Ontario, one of the must-see spots on your itinerary should be the studio of artist wood-engraver, Gerard Brender à Brandis. Gerard's cottage is also his studio and gallery. When you step across his threshold you enter a simpler world of enchantment and artistry that is a real balm to the senses. All the pictures below are of Gerard's place.

Gerard is a master wood engraver, a fine artist, a thoughtful and imaginative gardener and a kind and compassionate man with a soft spot for orchids, and for dogs that need good homes.

The hours that his studio are open are posted outside.

He has an original Albion press and makes much of his paper. He works on some larger runs of his books, but he also produces limited editions of the most exquisite creations, making the paper, printing the pages, spinning the fibres used to bind the book, etc. His books on botanical prints (one of which pays homage to all the plants mentioned in Shakespeare's works) make thoughtful gifts and memorable keepsakes.

To sit in his little studio parlour and peruse the catalogues of prints is a joy. I can never visit without making a highly affordable purchase of either a simple matted, or fully framed wood engraving.

Click here to see his work in closer detail!

I have several of Gerard's prints and I know there are more in my future. As I sit here typing, I look up and see his beautiful "Winter Poems" print, which is a scene of a simple writing desk with pen and paper and a view out of a window onto snow-laden evergreen boughs.

Bruce!

Quote of the Day

“Then, thought she, looking out to sea through eyes grown misty, better cling to her religion. It was better – she hardly noticed the reprehensibleness of her thought – than nothing. But oh, she wanted to cling to something tangible, to love something living, something that one could hold against one’s heart, that one could see and touch and do things for. If her poor baby hadn’t died… babies didn’t get bored with one, it took them a long while to grow up and find one out. And perhaps one’s baby never did find one out; perhaps one would always be to it, however old and bearded it grew, somebody special, somebody different from everyone else, and, if for no other reason, precious in that one could never be repeated.

Sitting with dim eyes looking out to sea she felt an extraordinary yearning to hold something of her very own tight to her bosom. Rose was slender, and as reserved in figure as in character, yet she felt a queer sensation of – how could she describe it? – bosom. There was something about San Salvatore that made her feel all bosom. She wanted to gather to her bosom, to comfort and protect, soothing the dear head that should lie on it with softest strokings and murmurs of love. Frederick, Frederick’s child – come to her, pillowed on her, because they were unhappy, because they had been hurt… They would need her then, if they had been hurt; they would let themselves be loved then, if they were unhappy.

Well the child was gone, would never come now; but perhaps Frederick – some day – when he was old and tired…”


From The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnim. The book is short and delightful. If you haven't seen the latest film version (1992), I recommend it. I haven't seen the earlier one from 1935, but from what I've read, I'm not missing much.

Grateful for the Week that Was

~ Two young ladies on the streetcar let me pet their two-month old boxer puppy. Not even my ultra-suede fabric samples were as soft as those velvety ears.

~ None of my blog readers pointed out that the weight-loss project seems to be on hold. Sigh. It is. I'm struggling with a plateau.

~ On meeting my parents for the first time, a friend of mine waxed enthusiastically about them in two different conversations. I was reminded how special my folks are and passed on the compliments.



~ The tub of Soma's dark Venezuelan chocolate gelato that I keep in the freezer.



~ A friend and I decided to form a two-person-only book group and read occasional books together.

~ José Antonio Abreu, Gustavo Dudamel and the massive Simón Bolívar Youth Orchestra of Venezuela. Read here. Be grateful. I am.

~ A wonderful book on meditation inspired me to think this thought on waking each day: "Today might be the day I die. Today is a good day to be alive."

~ An early evening of jazz and Guinness at the wonderful and divey Rex Blues and Jazz Bar ended with a night at the opera at the wonderful and glamorous Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts. Have I mentioned how I like to mix up my music? Anyway. I sat in front of someone obviously new to opera and who was clearly very caught up in the action of Madama Butterfly (yes, I was seeing it again, in Noah and Hymel's final performance). In the last act, when it became obvious that Pinkerton has taken another wife, this new audience member seethed under her breath, "Son of a BITCH!"... and I was grateful for art and music and witnessing someone swept away by it for the first time.



~ An old, sweet, seemingly-psychic, pot-smoking musician friend called up from Los Angeles because he'd "sensed that I was not in a good place." He was right and I hadn't been aware of it myself. He played me a song over the phone that he'd written and I fell asleep feeling very fortunate.

~ Lunch out with a girlfriend reminded me that we are not alone in what we endure, and that we can - with our friends - find the strength to get on with what has to be done.

~ On the recommendation of two workmates I tried the quattro-formaggi pizza from the new pizza place around the corner. It didn't help the plateau, but DAMN IT WAS GOOD!

~ It had been 10 days straight of work and too much play and this stretch of over-exersion ended last Sunday morning. After gaining an hour on the clock, I was sitting in my dressing gown on the sofa with some tea at 8:30 in the morning when I decided to spend the day in that condition and it was an excellent idea. The morning was spent watching Moonfleet (1951), a costume drama with Stewart Granger, courtesy of Turner Classic Movies. As for the rest of the day, I have no memory of it but I know it did me a world of good.

Put the Guinness Away, I Need a Clear Mind for This

Ack! The sofa swatches have been rented. The exquisite agony of decision making is upon me. Weirdly enough as I was selecting them at the store, I realized they were - in colour and fabric - an almost perfect match for the shirt I was wearing.

I'm a predictable BPG in some ways and that's okay with me.

Quote of the Day

Harriet: People like me ought to die.

Captain John: I don’t think you’re the type. People like you don’t just lie down and die.

Harriet: What will I do then?

Captain John: Begin again. You know what I think? I think with everything that happens to you, with every person you meet who is important to you, you either die a little bit or are born.


From The River (1951), directed by Jean Renoir. I saw this about a year ago, and – oddly enough – remember almost nothing about it, except I made a note to read the book, which I haven’t done. It was a Criterion DVD with the usual outstanding features, including a fascinating biography of Godden’s life.

Jean Renoir, son of the famous Impressionist painter Pierre Auguste, also made Partie de Compagne (1936), one of my favourite films of all time. One viewing about 25 years ago is still burned into my memory. Renoir directed this film, based on a short story by Guy de Maupassant. The film remained unfinished and, when you see it now, at 40 minutes long, a card fills in the rest of the story.

Be Warm Tonight

It's a toe-warming coincidence that the first ice pellets of the season fell out of the sky the same day that I planned to cook the first lamb shanks of the season. The picture above was taken from my roof as I returned home from work. Until I live in the country in my little house of dreams, I'll take a twinkly city skyline and be grateful for it.

The DVD fireplace is on, the shanks are simmering in red wine, rosemary, garlic, and onions. The pressed balsam incense is burning. The candles are lit, and all is good. I hope all my lovely friends in the Blog world are as content and lucky this evening!

I got the Fever... for More Cowbell

... actually my fever is less about cowbell and more for salmon. I'm consuming a lot of it these days. My worry about mercury levels is less potent than my need for the tender pink flesh, sprinkled with cracked pink pepper corns, on top of spinach and fennel, dressed with lemon and olive oil, and eaten with buttered brown bread.

Quote of the Day

"She went out with that brisk tread which carried her rather full figure with such wondeful ease.

'Very charming,' said the old lady.

Her son thought so too."

From Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy, one of my favourite books.

Recent Pictures...

as I am snapping more, and writing less.


Fall colours from a tall building where I sometimes attend meetings:

Closer to home, ever-changing ivy softly blankets this Victorian-era building.

Appreciating clouds, of course:

Late Hallowe'eny sort of Post

Fans of Harry Potter: Stratford, Ontario has its own Whomping Willow. I make sure to walk to it each time I visit Stratford. It's so old and gnarled and impressive. And I'm sure it could do some whomping good damage if it was so inclined.

For scale, Bruce give you an idea of its size.

Question of the Day

Could MadMen get any better?

I just watched episode 11 of 13 of this current third season. And now I have to wait another week to see what happens next. It's great writing, acting, art direction, the works. I can't wait!

Grateful for the Week that Was

Friday to Thursday was a memorable week and one for which I am grateful.

~ a 15-hour work day left me energized, which just goes to prove how much I love my work.

~ I attended a class given by a great and beautiful lady of the theatre who spoke inspiringly about joy, playfulness and collaboration in creativity, which spoke to me powerfully, and - no doubt - to many others in the room.

~ a two-and-a-half-hour train ride found me seated beside a man I didn't know. We talked about a gamut of subjects including friendship, death, finding "the one", and the pleasure of travelling solo and making new friends. Our conversation lasted well past the train ride as we kept each other company for a few more hours before saying goodbye, perhaps for ever.

~ I indulged in watching a photographer friend at his craft and pondered again the joy of creativity.

~ A dozen yellow roses arrived in my office.

~ This evening I took a long walk through the city, with Ella Fitzgerald and Bruce Springsteen keeping me company on my mp3 player, but only just loud enough not to be disconnected to everything around me.

~ I found a Guinness-infused Christmas pudding in the store. It's too small to serve on Christmas day, so I shall serve it one evening this fall, one cold evening when I am dining a deux.

~ Hugging an elderly lady of my acquaintance, I pondered how sweet and cosy she smelled and how there are lots of cuddles given, but not enough to the old ones in our lives.

~ As I walked beneath a canopy of trees full of turning leaves, the sun beat down and bathed all around me in a golden glow.

~ My bed was warm and welcoming.

~ Buying chocolate for friends, I also bought just one big, dark truffle to pop right in my mouth.

A good week indeed.

Treasure

"and she put her face against my face,
put her muzzle, her nostrils, soft as violets,
against my mouth and my nose, and breathed me,
to see who I was,
a long quiet minute-minutes—
then she stamped feet and whisked tail
and danced deliciously into the grass away, and came back.
She was saying, so plainly, that I was good, or good enough."

From The Poet Goes to Indiana by Mary Oliver

The photograph is of a little horse I bought - and treasure - no more than 2" long. It was made by Duncan MacDonald, a Celtic stoneware sculptor from Scotland, now based in Ontario.

Stratford Sunset

More beauty from this small and charming south-western Ontario city.

Quote of the Day

"Quelque chose que sans un pli, sans une tache,
J'emporte malgré vous,
et c'est. . .
Mon panache."

From Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand

Is this a Cup of Tea I see Before me?

(Otherwise known as the Stratford 2009 report).

I saw four plays at the Stratford Shakespeare Festival this year over three visits, the last one being yesterday. Each one was highly worthwhile, if not just for the delights this small Ontario city has to offer.

The Importance of Being Earnest was presented in a new production at the Avon Theatre, unique among the Stratford stages for its nifty proscenium arch. Desmond Heeley's set and costume designs once again presented something that looked as if it had been in storage for about 30 years, but that was part of its charm. A very traditional, pretty production, it was a delight in that the language was allowed to speak for itself, as it were, and so, in many instances, I felt I was hearing Oscar Wilde's words for the first time. Brian Bedford directed and also starred as Lady Bracknell. It was very refreshing that he, with his entire cast, avoided mugging, and thereby let the comedy work successfully. My (face) cheeks were aching from laughter as we left the theatre.

Whips! Swordplay! Nudity! Zastrozzi , by Canadian playwright George Walker, was a heady, sexy, rollercoaster packed with wit and violence. Cor! I didn't get the play entirely, but that is not unusual. There is much I don't get, but I don't let that bother me. I just let it wash over me and I take in what I can. A sort of Renaissance serial killer, the title character seeks to kill all artists who displease him. Now there's a conversation point right there. This performance also marked the first time I had been inside the festival's studio theatre. It's an intimate space with highly raked rows of seats. Not for the prone-to-stumble or the highly vertiginous.

The highlight of the season for me was a new production of Edmond Rostand's Cyrano de Bergerac. The brilliant Anthony Burgess translation was interspersed with some of the original French. I'm not sure that tactic worked: it felt more like distraction than assimilation. Santo Loquasto designed the show in period style, which was delicious, lots of feathered hats and lacy collars. At the top of the show was a bit of business with a contemporary hoodied teenage boy being enfolded by a friendly troupe of theatrical acrobats. I found that pretty silly but it was probably designed to appeal to the many school groups who probably attended. Perhaps Cyrano is part of the curriculum. (It was certainly rammed down our throats in tragic style when I was school. Yet, I survived to love the play despite the best efforts of my embittered, burned-out teachers.) Colm Feore was Cyrano and he was deft and funny. His final words were so beautifully played. The director was Donna Feore (Colm's wife), who did such a great job on Oklahoma! two years ago. Amanda Lisman (who was Julia in the previous evening's Zastrozzi) was a girl-next-door version of Roxanne, and I was left wanting. Christian was played by Mike Shara and, what can I say: can anyone make Christian interesting? I much preferred this actor as Algernon in Earnest. This played at the Festival theatre, and it might not have been life-changing, but I enjoyed it.

Yesterday was Macbeth, strangely one of only three Shakespeare plays the Festival is mounting this season, out of a total of 14. Only two years ago the festival changed its name (and brand) from the Stratford Festival, to the Stratford Shakespeare Festival. The reason is probably something to do with the economy. But it's a bit of a surprise after having recommitted themselves to the importance of Shakespeare to their company, to have this swing of the pendulum. I saw Macbeth last time the festival produced it. That was mightily uneven, with a magnificent Lucy Peacock chewing the scenery in a most thrilling way all round Graham Abbey's extremely lily-livered Macbeth. Just because Lady M. is the powerful character she is, doesn't mean that Macbeth is a cream puff. He's a respected warrior... it's just that his wife is even tougher. For this season's production, artistic director Des McAnuff set Macbeth in an undetermined African nation, around the middle of the 20th century. All well and good, with some enjoyable costumes, but that setting indicates a wide range of cultural possibility. I assume he had something more specific in mind but maybe that was best left unsaid. It bothered me and I think if I was African it would bother me more. Could you identify a play as being set somewhere as vast as "Europe"? Where, dammit? Poland? Italy? Scotland? Very different places. It also bothered me, because, clever as it was in parts, the setting was a big distraction, and I - who knows this play pretty well - was really confused by what was going on. Colm Feore (playing this in rep with Cyrano) was a slippery sort of Macbeth, one I couldn't quite pin down, and this might be a good thing, I'm undecided as yet. He seemed almost too intellectual at times. The motive for his drive seemed to come out of nowhere. It certaintly didn't seem to erupt from his Lady, who was played by Yanna McIntosh, and was about as terrifying as the cup of tea on my desk. She had a great wardrobe though, especially her banquet gown, a magnificent deep red silk, with a wide sparkly neckline. Mmmm... shiny.

Lesson learned this summer: If you haven't booked anywhere for dinner in Stratford (and usually if you haven't, you're toast), a saving grace is Molly Bloom's, an Irish pub with pleasing grub, Guinness and friendly service. I can walk or drive you there, but I can't remember to tell you the street it's on. So Google it if you are so inclined.

Below: Intermission at Cyrano. The Stratford bar serves Jackson Triggs merlot, a blog recommendation.

Quote of the Day

More of an excerpt really:

"The old and the new, the liberal touch and the patriarchal one, fatal poverty and fatalistic wealth got fantastically interwoven in that strange first decade of our century. Seveal times during a summer it might happen that in the middle of luncheon, in the bright, many-windowed, walnut-paneled dining room on the first floor of our Vyra manor, Aleksey, the butler, with an unhappy expression on his face, would bend over and inform my father in a low voice, (especially low if we had company) that a group of villagers wanted to see the barin outside. Briskly my father would remove his napkin from his lap and ask my mother to excuse him. One of the windows at the west end of the dining room gave upon a portion of the drive near the main entrance. One could see the top of the honeysuckle bushes opposite the porch. From that direction the courteous buzz of a peasant welcome would reach us as the invisible group greeted my invisible father. The ensuing parley, conducted in ordinary tones, would not be heard, as the windows underneath which it took place were closed to keep out the heat. It presumably had to do with a plea for his mediation in some local feud, or with some special subsidy, or with permission to harvest some bit of our land or cut down a coveted clump of our trees. If, as usually happened, the request was at once granted, there would be again that buzz, and then, in token of gratitude, the good barin would be put through the national ordeal of being rocked and tossed up and securely caught by a score or so of strong arms.

In the dining room, my brother and I would be told to go on with our food. My mother, a tidbit between finger and thumb, would glance under the table to see if her nervous and gruff dachshund were there. 'Un jour ils vont le laisser tomber,' would come from Mlle Golay, a primly pessimistic old lady who had been my mother's governess and still dwelt with us (on awful terms with our own governesses). From my place at table I would suddenly see through one of the west windows a marvelous case of levitation. There, for an instant, the figure of my father in his wind-rippled white summer suit would be displayed, gloriously sprawling in midair, his limbs in a curiously casual attitude, his handsome, imperturbable features turned to the sky. Thrice, to the mighty heave-ho of his invisible tossers, he would fly up in this fashion, and the second time he would go higher than the first and then there he would be, on his last and loftiest flight, reclining, as if for good, against the cobalt blue of the summer noon, like one of those paradisiac personages who comfortably soar, with such a wealth of folds in their garments, on the vaulted ceiling of a church while below, one by one, the wax tapers in mortal hands light up to make a swarm of minute flames in the mist of incense, and the priest chants of eternal repose, and funeral lilies conceal the face of whoever lies there, among the swimming lights, in the open coffin."

From Speak, Memory, An Autobiography Revisited by Vladimir Nabakov

Enough Already

This summer I painted my entire place. Every last sodding square inch of it. And what an agony the choice of colours was. And now that it's done I've been spending far too much time basking in my achievement in an effort to avoid the next big project: the Big Slipcover Challenge. This is a challenge I have given myself: To slipcover my sofa and one wingchair as part of a learning process. Like so many other things I do, I will only do it once, then I will lose interest and start torturing myself with a new challenge. I could buy a new sofa and wingchair, I could have them professionally recovered... but oh no, it's like a low-simmering fever in my addled mind. I *have* to do this and I've been blethering on for far too long about it.

Watch this space. The paint swatches are gone. The fabric swatches are coming in. And I have till Christmas to get both pieces done.

A Walk on Cherry Beach

It was a lovely evening for a walk.

Bottoms up!




Looks like Cirque du Soleil is back in the 'hood.

See the tiny seagull on the left?

Just a few low-lying clouds to appreciate.

The sunset was lovely, but my camera battery died as I watched the sun sink behind the CN Tower. Came home and listened to Bruce Springsteen as I did laundry. Nice.

That Demmed Elusive Tibblesworth

If he's not asleep, he's fidgety. So I was amazed to get two good headshots of the dashing redhead tonight as I visited my folks for Thanksgiving.

(And that's my holey sock in the bottom picture. I was holding the camera over and in front of Tibby, and he was momentarily mesmerized by the camera strap.)

Thanksgiving Day in Canada

“Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow.”

Melody Beattie (I read this quote the first time on Willow's blog).

Rainy Day + Melancholy Music = Happy BPG

De t'avoir aimée
(Charles Aznavour / Buddy Kaye)

De t'avoir aimée, aimée comme un fou
Aimée a genoux, bien plus que debout
À n'en plus dormir, à n'en plus manger
Que me reste-t-il, de t'avoir aimée ?

De t'avoir aimée, de l'âme et des yeux
À en oublier, jusqu'au nom de Dieu
Pour ne plus avoir, qu'un nom à crier
Que me reste-t-il, de t'avoir aimée ?

Reste que ma voix, sans écho soudain
Restent que mes doigts, qui n'agrippent rien
Reste que ma peau, qui cherche tes mains
Et surtout la peur, de t'aimer encore
Demain presque mort

De t'avoir aimée, aimée de douleur
À m'en déchirer le ventre et le cœur
Jusqu'à en mourir, jusqu'à m'en damner
Que me reste-t-il, de t'avoir aimée ?

Ne me reste plus
Qu'un amour que tu
Viens d'écarteler

Cottage Memories: Bruce the Bat!

Bruce had a great time and was very popular, as usual.

Here, driving out of town, we both appreciate "Simpsons' Clouds".




Lazy mornings, before the sun was fully beating down on the dock, were spent reading.

Bruce kept a watch on the bar. Good job Bruce!

Which left him exhausted and hammock-bound as the rest of us swum and kayaked.

He roused himself in the late afternoon if baking was taking place.

Cocktail hour was his finest.

Playing Suduko for about five minutes before we decided life was too short for any more of that nonsense.

At dusk the bats came out and Bruce enjoyed watching them through the window.

And basked in the final sunset with his new headdress (Hallowe'en costume potential here) and a new girlfriend.

Cottage Memories: Sunset

It truly is the most remarkable light show, and Nature is its inventive producer. Each night was different, and more spectacular. What I find lurid in pictures is awe-inspiring in reality.

None of these pictures have been enhanced.

Cottage Memories: Kayaking

There were wonderful kayaking moments this year, indeed entire hours' worth.

I'm a magpie for sparkly things, even if they are just in the water...





It takes just a small bit of trapped earth to help these trees grow, some of which are very old, but very stunted by their shallow earth.

Close up of determined plants!




Kayaking before breakfast one morning... can you see the moon still in the sky?

Jackpines... my favourite!

Very happy toes.

Cottage Memories: Wildlife

I love dragonflies, so it's handy that they like to perch and rest while I take my pictures.

On the arm of my chair...




On a journal...

On the rug I was sunbathing on...

This heron was very bold too. It was wonderful watching him fish off the swimming platform.




The beaver was seen by one of the party when out kayaking one day, but I just saw his house.

From the car I saw a young wolf, which was a thrilling moment. Later, a friend who lives in the area and came to visit, informed us of a recent development: wolves have been breeding with coyotes and what has emerged is a pack animal, like the wolf, with the smarts of the coyote. When describing the animal I saw, he felt sure that it was an example of this hybrid. We also saw lots of wild turkey, some groundhogs, a couple of thankfully bashful water snakes and, of course, a whole slew of chipmunks. Every evening the bats emerged to skim their way across the water of the lake, eating up all the insects. Thanks bats!

Cottage Memories: Food

I've spent a lovely evening watching Bette David in A Stolen Life (1946). I'd never heard of it. She could just sit and recite the phone book and I would be mesmerized. In this movie you get two Bette's for the price of one, as she plays identical twins who are very different personalities. The special effect split screen of the time is very impressive. My friend J recommended the female impersonating stylings of Charles Pierce on YouTube and I've been enjoying them.

Was it only three weeks ago that we were cottaging? After a cool, grey summer, it was a stroke of luck that we had 15 days of undiluted sunshine. I'm an official cloud appreciator, but this was a treat. It's been tricky sifting through the many pictures. But here are some... food first. So much kayaking, swimming, and fresh air, that everything tasted extra good.

Oh, so did the wine.




Salmon and buttered brown bread.

Prosciutto panino after swimming.

Prosciutto makes an encore.

One of the guys made this magnificent comfort food, a sort of chicken orzo bake. I've received the recipe!

No holiday would be complete now without Betsy's chewy pecan cookies. So good, especially with maple-walnut icecream.

These pork chops were the best ever: marinaded in olive oil and some pounded anise seed, salt and pepper, then grilled. The tomatoes were heirloom varieties brought by a friend who lives year-round locally. Grown in her garden, they were scrumptious.

I took a small round box of camembert, punctured the top rind with a fork, soaked it in chardonnay, sprinkled fresh thyme over it, then sealed it up again and baked till all melty and wonderfully winey. Best eaten next to a large body of water in the company of excellent friends. Note to self: make about 5x the amount next time.

I'll Take One Super Power Please

And if I could it would be time travel, although I'm unlikely to be blessed in that particular respect.

The young 'uns have Harry Potter... well, the old ones do too for that matter, I've read them all... but the grown up ladies have an equivalent, a series of books, each new instalment of which we lay in patient wait for. (Boy, that was an awkward sentence). And our wait, for now, is over. Diana Gabaldon's Echo in the Bone, the seventh novel in her Outlander series is out as of a couple of weeks ago. Hooray! I am in the midst of it. 120 pages in and two saucy scenes to offset too much military action, so all is good. And yes, time travel is at the heart of this book. Also full of action, violence, sex, and heartache: what's not to love?

I saw The Time Traveler's Wife (2009) last week, at last, just before it disappeared from movie theatres. This adaptation of Audrey Niffenegger's novel (which I loved) was a bit lighter than expected and I don't like what they did with the ending, but it was well done, and visually stunning. It was fun to see bits of Toronto playing the part of Chicago. If you see it, in the scene after Henry first meets Clare in the library, and they're sitting in a park gazebo kissing, well, they're right here, in the gardens of St. James Cathedral.

Mangia e Bevi!

The exhortation is one I am obeying, frequently, as this fabulous Italian hole-in-the-wall is a local of mine.

Recently Libras congregated to celebrate their birthdays (three of us all born within the same week of each other, the same year) and we did so here. Mmmmmmmm. Heavenly scents and tastes. Unpretentious and genuine, it gets my two pizza-stained thumbs up.

We were too excited with hunger for me to get pictures of everything... but you get the idea I think. And, note to self and you all out there: a salad and a pizza between two is PLENTY of food!
There were five of us and we did ourselves proud with a lot more than that.

This anchovy pizza was sublime.

Little semi-freddi:



We knew we had to have the tiramisu, but were so stuffed, we took this way out, which is my favourite way to eat dessert, it not being my favourite sort of food, believe it or not.



And yet, one more morsel, the bocca dolce, to indulge my inner child, because - as a child - that romantic couple kissing on the front of the Baci box, was the ultimate in glamour and romance.

Food

While cottaging last month, I finally finished reading Lisa Chaney's wonderful biography of the English food writer, Elizabeth David. (My dragonfly friend quite liked it too. They have become my favourite insecty reading companions.)

Not an easy woman to like, she nonetheless attracted some loyal friends, and - of course - led the post-war English to garlic and olive oil through her beautiful food writing.

I've certainly been in food mode (shocker!) and was very excited to see the new movie, Julie & Julia (2009). I was disappointed. I didn't know going in that Nora Ephron had directed it. Not my favourite director, but I'll leave it at that.

As probably most know by now, the film tells a dual story. The first is Julia Child's life in Paris in the 1950s and her quest to write and publish her Mastering the Art of French Cooking. The other story tells of Julie Powell, a young, contemporary New Yorker, working a soul-destroying job, who decides to cook her way through Julia Child's book in one year, and to blog about it. The two feats are so different: as much as Powell set herself a hell of a task, it can hardly compare with actually creating the book, yet from a marketing perspective I can see the cuteness of the idea, and certainly the cross-generational appeal widens the film's audience.

But this is not a film for food lovers. The food looks tempting in parts but is hurried through. Powell's uncouth husband shovels mouthfuls of it in, swilled immediately down by gulps of wine. He serves himself, and offers her none. He does - it seems required in a lot of Hollywood movies - the obvious and breaks into a freshly-iced cake with his hands, smearing it on his wife's face. Ugh.

Tantrums, lots of mugging for the camera, and several bad cases of the cutes were once the domain of Meg Ryan in Nora Ephron's films. Thank goodness that era is over. Amy Adams plays Julie Powell, the part Meg Ryan would have done 15 years ago. I really enjoy Amy Adams and I can't imagine Julie Powell being played more sympathetically. All the actors were so good. Meryl Streep is a goddesss and always will be one. Damn, I wish they had just let Julia Child been the subject of a full bio-pic, and really got into the meat (pun intended) of Julia Child's life. For a fine review that expresses my feelings more eloquently than I have, read Laura Shapiro's review of Julie & Julia for Gourmet.

In a spirited post-film discussion my companion waxed lyrical for Big Night (1996) and, the following week, succumbed to my pleas to let me show him Babette's Feast (1987), which - for me - is the ultimate food film. The sublime Stéphane Audran conquers the hearts and stomachs of a small sect of Danish villagers in the 19th century. I won't go on. If you haven't seen this gem, treat yourself. And there's no food to follow it. You can't possibly try and experience Babette's feast itself, so we were well prepared with pizza before hand and lots of wine.

Quote of the Day

"I am not in love
But I'm open to persuasion"

From "Love and Affection", a song by Joan Armatrading.

Mm Mm Mmmmmmmmm

It started off with a sublime performance of Madama Butterfly at the Four Seasons Centre and the wonderful duo of Yannick Muriel Noah and Brian Hymel as the doomed pair. I was awash in the most satisfying tears. I can never get over Act II, which is like a never-ending aria for the soprano, and Noah is heart-breaking. Then I floated home and lay about listening to Elvis Presley sing one of my favourite songs of all time, in my favourite rendition. This might seem an odd combination, but it works for me. I feel completely soaked in heady, neurotic, heart-aching pleasure.


Are You Lonesome Tonight?
(Music by Lou Handman and lyrics by Roy Turk, pub. 1926)

Are you lonesome tonight?
Do you miss me tonight?
Are you sorry we drifted apart?
Does your memory stray
To a bright summer day?
When I kissed you and called you Sweetheart?

Do the chairs in your parlor
Seem empty and bare?
Do you gaze at your doorstep
And picture me there?

Is your heart filled with pain?
Shall I come back again?
Tell me, Dear,
Are you lonesome tonight?

(Elvis speaks this next part:)
I wonder if you're lonesome tonight.
You know, someone said that the world's a stage,
And each must play a part
Fate had me playing in love, with you as my sweetheart;

Act one was when we met.
I loved you at first glance.
You read your lines so cleverly,
And never missed a cue

Then came act two.
You seemed to change;
You acted strange,
And why I'll never know.
Honey, you lied when you said you loved me,
And I had no cause to doubt you.
But I'd rather go on hearing your lies
Than to go on living without you.

Now the stage is bare,
And I'm standing there
With emptiness all around,
And if you won't come back to me,
Then they can bring the curtain down

(Sung:)
Is your heart filled with pain?
Shall I come back again?
Tell me, Dear,
Are you lonesome tonight?


Which reminds me of how much I love satellite radio, and how I'm torn continually between the Met Radio station and Elvis Radio (live from Graceland and hosted by someone called "Big Jim").



(Note to self: Take a lint brush to Bruce)

Beautiful Coincidence

I still haven't got back into regular blogging yet, but last week's excuse was my birthday (45). If that wasn't pleasing enough, imagine the delicious frisson that overtook me as I learned that I share my birthday with that of the Guinness brewery in Dublin. It was on September 24, 1759 that Arthur Guinness signed his 9,000-year lease.

And I had no idea as I started the celebrations with a tall glass of the black stuff.

Quote of the Day

"Dispensing with the endless instructions for lettuce salads in cookbooks she says that “It seems to me that there are only three absolutely essential rules to be observed: the lettuce must be very fresh; the vinegar in the dressing must be reduced to the absolute minimum; the dressing must be mixed with the lettuce only at the moment of serving”. An admirably concise and succinct description of a much mangled task. Her friend Sybille Bedford noticed that “she always mixed salad with her hands, saying that this was the only way that every leaf was properly covered with dressing”. As for dressings; “however mild the vinegar, I prefer lemon juice, and very little of it”. Elizabeth next makes a swingeing attack, concluding with a typically tart finale: “The grotesque prudishness and archness with which garlic is treated in this country has led to the superstition that rubbing the bowl with it before putting the salad in gives sufficient flavour. It rather depends whether you are going to eat the bowl or the salad.”

From Elizabeth David, the superb biography by Lisa Chaney

Quote of the Day

“A handsome white round dish, quite flat, entirely covered with pale rose slices of Parma ham, cut so thin as to be almost transparent, with edgings of opaque silky white fat; in the centre a little pyramid of purple figs fresh from the tree, their honey-sweet flesh bursting here and there through their skins; a glass of fresh, cool white wine.”

Elizabeth David describes her idea of the perfect starter. (I was trying to write hors d'oeuvres but I can never remember how to spell those two words and I always have to look them up and they never look right to me anyway, the buggers.)

Quote of the Day

"As time goes on you accumulate your personal gadgets, things which graft themselves on to your life; an ancient thin-pronged fork for the testing of meat, a broken knife for scraping mussels, a battered little copper saucepan in which your sauces have always turned out well, an oyster knife which you can no longer afford to use for its intended purpose but which turns out to be just the thing for breaking off hunks of Parmesan cheese... an earthenware bean-pot of such charm that nothing cooked in it could possibly go wrong."

From French Country Cooking by Elizabeth David


At the cottage two weeks ago I found myself without a rolling pin and a box of ripe Ontario peaches. A heavy, unopened bottle of wine filled in nicely.

This is the One

Several years and experiments later, I have found my favourite chocolate chip cookie recipe, courtesy of Ontario's own Anna Olson, host of the Food Network's "Sugar" and "Fresh".

They're chewy and delicious. Apparently it's the cornstarch that keeps them chewy inside. I use mini Callebaut 70% chocolate chips and am very careful not to overcook as that seems to be an easy thing to do.


Anna Olson's Chocolate Chip Cookies

3/4 cup unsalted butter, softened
1 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 egg
2 tsp vanilla extract
2 cups all purpose flour
2 tsp cornstarch
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
8 oz bittersweet chocolate, cut into chunks (n0t me, see note above)

Preheat oven to 350 F. Cream together butter and sugars until smooth. Add egg and vanilla and blend in. Stir in flour, cornstarch, baking soda and salt. Stir in chocolate chunks. (BPG: I'd put the kettle on at this point). Drop by tablespoons onto a greased baking sheet and bake for 8-10 minutes, until just golden brown around the edges.

Yarrrrrr...

It be a grand day for celebratin' and droppin' our "g"s, and unlike last year, when we was escapin' foreign waters, Dreade Pirate Bruce the Bat and myself are in our home bay. The wee matey has bin enjoyin' some precious swag in the form of Marmite-flavoured breadsticks, fetched from across the dreade Atlantic waters by this blog's favourite newly-wed couple. We be brandishin' said breadsticks while gnashin' our teeth and dippin' them in some soft-boiled eggs (it be hard to admit that dreade pirates like us like coddled egg brekkies).

Bruce also be growin' his own dreade pirate pet, booty given the wee matey by his friend Dreade Pirate Capitano Martino.

Tonight we be celebratin' alone, the wee bat and meself, with some gold-wrapped chocolate doubloons, some ill-gotten Guinness, an' some fine cinema.

YARRRRR!!!

Gone to the Lake

No computer, no tv. I can't wait. See you in two and a half weeks.