Come, join us

A couple of weeks ago, I was lunching at work with Deanna (the college's associate archivist). She was enjoying some cinnamon raisin bread that looked good, and I said so.She looked at me, thought a moment, and said: "Would you like to try some?"

I tried a bit. It was delicious. She said: "Sue in periodicals told me about a new way to make bread and I tried it. Go to you tube, search for 'no knead bread.' Then you will understand."

And so I did, and it did look amazing -- 5 minutes' prep the night before, 45 minutes in the oven in the morning, and you have delicious crusty bread. I immediately forwarded the link to G, writing "We have got to try this." Deanna came by, and I told I checked it out and she said "Right? I tried it and now I do it all the time." You do need a dutch oven, though -- Deanna offered to lend me hers so I could try it out.

Well, we had some "Kohl's Bucks" left over (Canadians: translate to "Zellers Bucks") and so G went out to get a dutch oven yesterday. Over lunch yesterday, I told mentioned to a group of colleagues that we had got the dutch oven for the "no knead bread," and they said "Oh, yes - the no knead bread. We're all doing it. It's wonderful. In fact, it's spreading like wildfire across the country." I had no idea!

Ken leaned over: "But you know who really knows about this -- Sue in periodicals. She's the one who's really in to this." Deanna, on the bus home that night, confirmed this: "Yes, Sue knows. She's found secret ways of making it even better." Sue in periodicals.

So last night, we gathered the kids around the laptop in the kitchen, and listened together once again to the video. "A six year old can do it" said one bald man. "Six? A four year old can do it!" said the other bald man. And so, we mixed the ingredients together, and put the bowl upstairs to rise overnight.

Morning, Sam woke us at 6:30 - "time for the bread!" We turned out the dough, put it in the dutch oven, baked for 40 minutes. (all these testimonials end with a money shot. Here's mine:)

I must say, you must try this. It's wonderful. It changes everything. Nothing will be the same.

It's delicious crusty bread, but I know it can be better. Deanna knows some tricks, but Sue is the one I must see. Sue knows the way to perfection. Sue in periodicals.

About that accent

In Canada, I occasionally ran into Americans who were fascinated by the local accent; at one point, I had some kids tell me "say aboot! Say aboot!" I knew from U.S. TV that Canadians were supposed to say "aboot", and so I obliged the kids, but I really thought that to be some cliche that didn't really exist -- except maybe in some corner of Newfoundland I hadn't heard of.

Soon after I moved down here, I had a neighbour ask what I was up to with the boys, and I said that we were "out and about", and he immediate exclaimed: "You're Canadian!" I guess this confirmed the existence of the "-oot", but I still didn't really know what distinguished "about" above the border. Maybe a lack of drawl?

Then, one day, after about 2 years of living down here, I was listening to CBC radio, and for the first time, I could hear the Canadian accent. It was an odd feeling, to hear your own pronunciation as strange, and I was left wondering if my ears were turning American (they're not -- U.S. pronunciations are still pretty clear to me).

For Canadian readers (hi Mom!) who are curious what this whole "aboot" thing is, um, about, with my newly minted U.S.-audio-sensibilities, I can now report first hand on the "-oot".

Canadian "about" is not "aboot" (that would be just silly) -- but it is something along those lines, more like "abau-oot", with the partial oo occurring just in the final moments before the t. Hope that cleared that up.

I hope to report on other quirks of Canadian pronunciation as I encounter them for the first time.

One in a million

You know, you generally live your life secure in the knowledge that you are a unique, singular individual; like a fingerprint or snowflake, you are Special. Others are Typical, people who fall into big social categories like cliques in a John Hughes highschool, and who follow, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, various social trends and advertising appeals.

But you! You're aware of all this, much too post-class, post-race, post-fashion, clever and Special to be lumped in with the Crowd. And so, secure in your Special Position, you settle down on a Sunday morning to sip your cappuccino and enjoy the Sunday Times (man, I love the Sunday Times), and are confronted by the following advertising insert:

Oh my.

I'm so depressed, I'm going to have to get in my Honda Civic and head to the local mall to do some consolation shopping. And hey! Maybe the Apple Store has a sale on!

Marching on Harvard, dressed like a panda

It takes a certain kind of man to walk publicly in front of hundreds, probably thousands, from Tufts University to Harvard, dressed as a panda, fuzzy ears and all. Today, I discovered I am that kind of man. The occasion (as if one needs one!) was honkfest, a "revolutionary street spectacle of never-before-seen proportions" -- basically a good old fashioned protest parade with live marching bands mixed with floats. More of a good-natured dadaist freak-out than a "madder than hell" political protest, it was loud, colourful, cheerful, and loads of fun.

We were told to come "dressed like endangered pandas", which meant facepaint + black-and-white clothing approximating panda colourations + bandages indicating injury.

The group was called "Endangered Animals with Lipstick", and the float was a giant syringe marked "STICK IT TO ME BABY" riding on a hospital gurney, and the overall political message was something to do with health care, the environment, and Sarah Palin. For or against? Not sure, really. Whatever it was, we were mad as hell and weren't going to take it any more. At the end, Sam asked "Pat, did we win the protest?" "Yes!" I replied.

I was the designated flag-bearer, which meant that if I had any sense of self-consciousness whatsoever I was at the wrong place at the wrong time, as I was placed front-and-center. The size of the banner may have been some help in this regard, unless someone recognized my shoes. Here's me and Karl Marx:

(photo cc Chris Devers)

G and the boys followed up near the float. The crowds were thick along the full length of the march to Harvard Square, and there were many people with cameras; I am sure that a quick search on flickr will reveal many interesting artifacts.

In the end, lots of fun; the kids would have had a great time, if it they hadn't been frieked out by this guy, who was part of our group:

(picture cc kharied -- thanks!) See also some nice photos from a better photographer than I.

Remember when?

Remember when we went camping on the cape, went on a bike ride, and stopped for ice cream, and I was so excited because Orleans had saturated wireless service (before Google saturated the globe with satellites), and I was so excited to try out the then-newfangled netbook, and we had ice cream and cappuccino, and I posted something to the blog after snapping a picture.

That may have been one of the best days of my life ...

What lies beneath

Today I was digging a hole to plant a potted rhododendron in the back yard. The yard, it is said, was part of an old Victorian dump back in the day, and this would appear to be borne out by the amount of dated garbage I dig up every time I even scrape the surface.

This time, I hit what appeared to be an old plastic bag. Things got stranger when I saw that there was knitted material inside that plastic bag. Things got stranger yet when I poked the material with the shovel and found there was something hard inside that knitted material.

Now, I grew up in the pacific northwest at the time of Clifford Olsen and the Green River killer, and I've seen my share serial-killer TV shows, so -- while I knew the odds were against it -- I did immediately think that it was possible that this may be a foot in a sock, or an infant cranium. Meanwhile, Ben -- who was "helping" me dig the hole -- started whacking at the hard thing with a trowel, saying "Oh, a mitten! Look Patrick, a mitten!" I could feel the very beginnings of a panic onset.

I decided to do what any stiff-lipped, steely hombre would do; I went and got G., who just happens to have a passing professional interest in forensics, bodies, and The Gruesome in general. She looked at it, and said "oh", and after a minute of discussion I decided "we should see what it is". I also decided that she should be the one to check.

G carefully unwrapped the still-half buried fabric and -- sure enough -- it was a skull, probably of a small dog.

"Oh, good," said G. "It's not human" and walked away.

I filled in the hole, moved over a few feet, dug a new hole, and planted the bush there.

Rest in Peace, friend.

Chocolate and forsythia

Magic realism is hard to come by in the suburbs, but it can be found. On Monday, me & the lads took a bike ride to Borderlands state park (the park comes from an old estate -- the mansion & grounds are still there) and en route encountered the fabled Mansfield Chocolate factory.

 

Yes, it is an active chocolate factory ("Like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?!" asked Sam).

 And -- so it is said -- you can always tell when it is about to rain, for the air in Mansfield smells like chocolate.

Here are some snaps of Borderlands in the spring:

 

... the last shot is of the estate swimming pool, build in the 1930s (now filled).