The Most Wonderful Time

Our furry friend Memphis, a mainstay here on Ultra Fine Flair, hadn't been feeling well, but I should have known something really wasn't right when I opened her bag in the exam room at the vet and she didn't hiss or growl or swipe at the vet (or me). This is a cat who had a "Caution" sticker on her chart at our vet in Brooklyn, and who generally required two vet techs with a towel and a pair of chainmail gloves to just listen to her heartbeat. This time, she placidly let the vet examine her eyes, teeth, and even take her temperature the, uh, old-fashioned way.

I really wish I could say that everything looked fine; that it was probably just a flair-up of her pancreatitis or her aversion to a recent stay with a couple of apricot poodles that was causing her to feel so down.

The sad news is, an x-ray later that afternoon showed a mass in her abdomen that is probably cancer.

At the ripe old age of 14, there isn't much we can do for this sweet girl, except love her to bits - a project that's well under way. With Christmas just a few days away and my preparations woefully behind, I still come home every day to this furry beast and feel madly grateful that she has been with me through thick and thin, for almost 15 years. And also, that she still promptly shows up at the door whenever I come home.

I'm also much more patient with the two - or three - nighttime requests for food.

Wild Wild West

A certain 80-year-old is in Alberta this week to join her nursing school classmates for their 55th-year reunion.

As KG was a huge hit at Sunny's birthday party in May, he's been invited to play backup to her lead guitar and vocals at Friday night's sing-along. (Between you and me, I think some of the ladies are also looking for another opportunity to touch his hair.)

We arrived in Edmonton last night, and tomorrow morning we'll pile ourselves and various guitars and cameras into classmate Barb's SUV and drive to Canmore, where two dozen or so graduates of the University of Alberta's School of Nursing's Class of '56 will gather to reminisce.

And with a subject this photogenic, obviously I will be taking lots of pictures.

Bushels

Somehow, I blinked and missed August.

It's solidly a summer month, and yet, yet, all of my summer fun ended before August even began.

California, Italy, and Chicago, came and went. Swimming and dogs and ice cream were all jammed into June and July, and by the time August rolled around, I was securing x-rays and buying crutches and making sure our stairs had the requisite railings. And with a mere few hours in the hospital I was fully committed to a season (or two) of braces and rehabilitation. There's no Ctrl+Z in real life.

And so, here we are, not even September and already my tan is fading. It was a good summer, if abbreviated. (Let's not forget that there are technically still three whole weeks left, even if Labour Day is always and forever the seasonal demarcation in my mind.)

Late summer is lovely in these parts for its abundance of harvest. This year, being in the know, we easily secured a half-bushel of crab apples (the good ones, in case you were wondering). Whilst at the market we couldn't pass up the peaches, green beans, and red peppers, all of which are currently available at ridiculously low prices. We brought all of these things home and then marveled: What to do with them?

Sunday Supper this week involved a tomato and red pepper tart, curried green beans, and a peach-blueberry cobbler. And that barely made a dent. With an overstuffed fridge, alternate preservation was obviously in order, so we fired up the grill to roast some peppers, Abel-style.

Abel is a porteño, and one of our first and best friends from Buenos Aires. When we had asados, or bbqs, with him, he made red peppers this way - grilled until charred, seeded, then layered, while still warm, with garlic, salt, and olive oil in a sealable jar. We added red pepper flakes, too, which might make up for our use of the gas grill instead of charcoal. The real secret of these peppers is to seal the jars, then turn them a few times a day for a couple of days. The peppers will be delicious wherever you'd use roasted red peppers (sandwiches, salads, pasta), and the oil will be some of the most flavorful you've had.

Best of all, they'll extend summer for a little while.

One year, nine posts

We've been in Canada for exactly one year, 28 days.

I've posted on Ultra Fine Flair exactly nine times (10, if you include this post) since we landed.

It isn't exactly that lots hasn't been going on - au contraire. Sure, there's been domestication, including the rental of a humble abode with a driveway and a backyard and a washer/dryer in the basement. But there have also been travels to New York, Amsterdam, Paris, California, Italy, and Chicago.

There were celebrations with friends, and two babies were born!

We celebrated a certain someone's 80th birthday with a weekend of parties. I could barely keep up with her.

I ate the best meal of my life, with one of my best friends. (I didn't take any photos of the food. I'm not exaggerating when I say that interrupting that meal to take pictures would have been akin to pausing during a series of multiple orgasms (18, to be exact), to take pictures.)

Some not-so-great stuff happened, too. My favourite cousin was diagnosed with breast cancer. She's totally prevailing, because that's how she rolls, but it's still the suck. And other things have happened, life things that aren't mine to write about. Suffice to say I'm blessed to be surrounded by some really strong human beings who are getting through some tough stuff.

Which brings us, as it often does, back to my knees. My third ACL reconstruction (second in the left knee) was two weeks ago, and was, according to Dr. Chris, successful. I'm taking it easy with this one, doctor's orders, and will hopefully be back in the figurative and literal saddle (bike, that is) come spring.

All that in a year and 28 days, and still, only nine posts. Hopefully I can improve that count in the next year and 28 days.

And The Livin' Is Easy

I recently went on a yoga retreat in California. Yes, that is as wonderful and outrageous as it sounds. In the morning after the fog burned off, there was a view of Santa Barbara and the Pacific Ocean. There were dogs and kids and a hot tub on a cliff. There was fresh goat cheese, and there were spectacular sunsets. There were upwards of five hours of yoga each day, taught energetically and lovingly by one Miss Kerri Kelly. There was a class with a dance party (featuring Lady Gaga, natch), and a class in a field around a nectarine tree. There was a class with a soundtrack of classic love songs, and 25+ spry yogis decked out in their Lulus enthusiastically singing along.

Unfortunately, there was also a trampoline. Scratch that: Unfortunately I decided to jump on the trampoline, and even more unfortunately, I landed on the off-bounce and tore the ACL graft I had repaired just last year. Wah wah.

But before we start wallowing about that, let's talk about the food. The yoga retreat was about detoxing, but that didn't stop us from enjoying homemade pear ravioli. Or wine-tasting in Los Olivos. No retox is complete without a stop at In-N-Out Burger for a cheeseburger, animal-style, and a superthick chocolate shake. Similarly, no California trip is complete without fresh salads (liberally sprinkled with bacon, of course) and sushi and a cocktail made with sake and watermelon and cucumbers and sweetly named the "Hello Kitty."

As for my knee, well, it looks like it'll be another summer of rehab fun. Thank god for wine and percocet.

The Break-Up

Dear Winter,

I don't know how to put this delicately, so I'm just going to come out and say it: I need to start seeing other seasons. I know, when we saw each other back in November after almost two years apart, I'll admit that after a few weeks together, I was smitten. As much as your fluffy white snow fell for me, I fell for you. I was infatuated with your crisp mornings and frosty branches, and I thought your insistence that I buy new boots just for you was charming. I even forgave the more challenging parts of our relationship, like the driveway-shoveling and car-window-scraping and the occasional slip on an icy sidewalk, because I felt that on some level they were good for me, that that stuff made me stronger.

But Winter, we've spent a lot of time together this year, and I really think we both need a break. What I'm trying to say is, you're getting on my nerves, and I'm starting to resent you. It all has to end: The snow, the scarves and sweaters and mittens, and even all that cuddling under cozy blankets. I know, I know, it's typical. The things about you that I found so novel at first now grate on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. That's always the way, isn't it? The other part of it is, you've been keeping me away from Spring and Summer, but it's time for me to see them again. They're good for me in ways that you can never be.

When we reunited this time we talked about it only being temporary, and frankly, you've overstayed your welcome. Please know that all of this doesn't mean we can never see each other again. I suspect it's inevitable that we'll spend more time together in the future; after all, we always rebound after Fall seduces me with her pretty leaves and then leaves me out in the cold.

Warm regards,
Gillian

Scenes from a Brunch: Get Fresh

We visited New York twice in December and, apocalyptic snowstorm notwithstanding, I could get used to frequent weekend jaunts to the Big Apple, especially for the eats. When we were there a few weeks ago, we rallied a bunch of Brooklyn friends for brunch - not really that difficult, considering all of the delicious options. On Bri's recommendation we settled on Get Fresh, which was particularly handy as a) Bri lives just a couple of blocks from the restaurant, b) I was sleeping in her spare room, and c) I was oh-so-slightly hungover. Coffee and eggs in close proximity were critical, and Get Fresh did not disappoint.

I ate huevos rancheros, which I cannot resist ordering when I see them on a menu. They were simple and delicious, and I was reminded that I should really make them more often at home. I also managed to sample the Louisiana crab cakes, steak and eggs, and french toast, and all satisfied. Get Fresh is a lovely space with covetable solid wooden farm tables, and overflowing with equally-covetable cookbooks. They graciously seated our group of 8, or maybe 10 (we lost count), including babies and toddlers and their various accoutrements, and kept the coffee flowing. An afternoon of manicures and pre-Christmas shopping in Park Slope made me extra-miss living in Brooklyn, and reminded me that it sure is handy to have a boyfriend whose family lives in a place you love.

Benjamin Eitan Farkash

I'd like you to meet Benjamin.

Benjamin's mom, D, is one of my besties, and she and Benjamin's dad asked me to be with them while he was born. They even asked me to cut his umbilical cord, which is pretty much the highest of all honours. Benjamin arrived, amid much laughter and general merriment, on Friday night, which meant I didn't even have to miss work to meet him. How considerate!

I expect we'll be seeing a lot more of him around here (and here, too). And if I may, I highly recommend holding a newborn baby as many times in your life as you can. It's breathtaking.

The Amazing Race Part Deux: Roneni

Remember waaay back when, in April of 2007, when I abandoned all sense of reason and hopped on a plane from New York to Toronto, and then defied all speed limits on the 401 to arrive in Kitchener just in time for a certain very sweet boy's birth?

Well, it's time again for an Amazing Race to welcome a new baby - this one will just involve a bus (and probably some running) to get to Mount Sinai Hospital in Toronto, where my lovely friend Sparkly D is labouring with her first child - a boy! - as I write this.

I can't wait to meet the little guy.

The (Crab) Apple Saga, Part 2: I Think I Can, I Think I Can

Alternative titles for this post: "We Can Do It," "Yes We Can," and "I Think, Therefore I Can."

Apologies, Dear Reader, for the delay in continuing this tale of love, lust, and the quest for rare and exotic fruits. We took a day off today and went to the beach. Can you blame us? Yesterday at 4 p.m. the thermometer hit 37°C (99°F). Lake Huron beckoned, and did not disappoint.

Anyway, when we last left the story, our misidentified fruit had been cast aside and the search for Genuine! The Real Thing! Do Not Be Fooled By Cheap Imitation! crab apples continued. Our Lady Friends went back to the (obviously blind and probably also stupid, I mean, duh, who doesn't know what a crab apple looks like?!?) Mennonites to berate them for their ignorance regarding crab apple identification. After more driving around K-Dubs we hit paydirt in St. Jacob's in the form of a vendor who said she'd bring us a bushel of crab apples on the next market day. Sure enough, she did, and I toted that sack of crab apples across the parking lot so I could deliver it back to the Ladies for their jelly-making endeavours.

In the unlikely case that you should ever need to identify crab apples, here is what one of the (two, I think) varieties looks like:


[Pause for discussion. Discussion point #1: Crab apples are heavy. They're about the size of cherries, only much harder and denser, and I can only assume heavier (although, full disclosure, I've never carried a bushel of cherries anywhere). Discussion point #2: As far as I can tell, the only use for crab apples is to make crab apple jelly, which is why most of people with crab apple trees in their yards just let the fruit fall and rot, because it turns out making crab apple jelly is extremely time-consuming and, depending on who you talk to, a giant pain in the ass.]

And finally, what became of our rejected non-crab apple apples? I'm glad you asked: I made good on my promise to turn lemons into lemonade, or in this case, to turn unwanted apples into applesauce.

I mean, how could I not? The total cost to me was $7 for a new peeler (I got blisters anyway - that was a lot of apples) and $2 for a box of jars at a garage sale. That's $9 for 15 jars (some huge!) of unsweetened applesauce. Let's not talk about how much applesauce costs at the grocery store, please, because I'm pretty sure it's going to mean my time is worth about $2/hr.

The (Crab) Apple Saga, Part 1: A Drive in the Country

It all started last Thursday when I somehow got roped into driving into the country to a Mennonite farm (past Conestogo, for those of you familiar with Waterloo's surrounding areas) to pick up a bushel (or a half-bushel? I don't know, but it was a lot) of crab apples for a couple of my favourite ladies, one of whom (Lady #1) came along for the ride. The drive, it should be mentioned, involved several additional stops at other Mennonite produce stands and the like, and then a detour through St. Jacob's to Heidelberg, just to "see if they have Concord grapes." I briefly wondered whether a phone call might be more efficient than a 15-minute detour to suss out such information, but decided to let that one go.

Anyway, an hour later, we arrived home with heaps of fruity goodness. I carted it all down to the basement to await its canning fate, when Lady #2 (the older and ornerier of the pair) came down to inspect the goods. She picked a crab apple out of one of the (three full) bags and looked at it. Critically.

"These are not crab apples."

"Oh, hm, OK. Do you want me to take them back or something?"

(Tossing the apple back into the bag in disgust.) "These are not crab apples."

"OK, well, all of this only cost $7, so maybe we could do something else with them, and get crab apples somewhere else?"

(Shaking head.) "These are not crab apples." (Mumbling in disgust.) "How could a Mennonite farmer not know what a crab apple is?"

At this point, Gentle Reader, the euphoric effects of my recent country drive had worn off, and not only was I faced with an abundance of rejected non-crab apple apples, I was late for my lunch date. So I did what any over-committing person in my position would have done: I vowed to take the lemons (read: non-crab apple apples) that life (read: an ignorant Mennonite farmer) had handed us, and make lemonade (read: applesauce).

Stay tuned for The (Crab) Apple Saga, Part 2, in which our protagonist visits at least two farmers' markets in search of the elusive produce, and turns rejected fruit into your Christmas present.

Little Red, Juliette Lewis, and Round Sprinkles

The big news this week is that our car, which will henceforth be known as Little Red, is road-worthy! Little Red is the most basic of basic cars: a 2005 Toyota Echo two-door hatchback, standard transmission, no AC or power anything. She's very clean and very shiny, and so far her only noteworthy problem is that the passenger window doesn't roll down all the way.

Next up: Quiz time! What do Juliette Lewis and I have in common? Answer: Our birthdays are both June 21, and we have both banged (or wanted to bang) Brad Pitt. And, we were both at the Starlight Social Club last Monday night. I'll leave determining which one of us was wearing a leopard-print catsuit as an exercise for the reader.

And finally, please let us talk about round, or ball, sprinkles. I LOVE THEM. They are just so superior to their stick-shaped cousins. A little bit of sprinkle trivia, for the curious amongst us: Round sprinkles are called non-pareils, and stick sprinkles are called Jimmies. I want to love the Jimmies just for their name, but the round ones are so satisfyingly pretty and crunchy. And they're everywhere in Canada, including on Tim Horton's vanilla-dipped rainbow-sprinkle doughnuts, and mixed into President's Choice Sprinkle Party Cake ice cream. Delish.

Probably a Huge Improvement

We arrived in Waterloo last Monday to welcoming toddlers and seniors and deliciously hot and sticky summer weather. During our first week as Canadian residents we had two job interviews, bought a car, baked a wedding cake, and drove six hours to Ottawa (and eight hours back; see also: scenic route). We've eaten Ontario's best summer produce: insanely juicy peaches, tiny, bursty wild blueberries, and the sweetest of sweet corns (from Herrles, natch). Ken has already been recruited by a frisbee team, and we've both started swimming lessons at a nearby community centre.

Of course, we're still adjusting. Even though the days are technically longer here, we'd grown quite accustomed to the long nights in Buenos Aires. Canadians are certainly friendly, but they don't gesture (or curse) nearly as frequently or enthusiastically as their Argentine counterparts. We love being back in the land of cheap and plentiful maple syrup, but dulce de leche is a little more scarce in these parts. And we're still finding and gathering our people, and missing our most-excellent friends in Argentina.

Last night we had Canadian-Chinese takeout (yes, that is a thing), and my fortune read, "Today is probably a huge improvement over yesterday." I'm not sure that's true yet, but we'll get there. Probably.

Mundial 2010

When we were booking our flights back to Canada, yes, those ones, the ones where we move to Canada, to live, we had a few factors to consider in choosing our return date. Ken wanted to finish his frisbee season and I wanted to finish fixing my knee, and of course we wanted to maximize our consumption of cheap steak and wine.

And then there was the World Cup. Eight years ago I watched a World Cup game at 4 a.m. in a Korean BBQ restaurant in NYC. In 2006 I may have snuck out of work on occasion to watch a game (...sorry, Kate) at the local pub with a few other truant souls. But nothing can compare to the experience we've had here in Argentina in the past month.

During Argentina's games, the streets were empty. Every time the team scored, we muted our TV and opened the windows to hear whoops of joy (and the occasional vuvuzela) from our enthusiastic neighbours. We watched games with friends, in bars, in parks, and sometimes in our pajamas in bed. We smiled when we saw festive white and sky blue stripes decorating every window and balcony in the city. We made pancakes and toasted the selección with Bloody Marys. And we understood completely when our porteño friend described the national team as "an illness" for Argentines.

We also rooted for the United States, and even England, and donned orange shirts for the Spain-Holland final. But we stayed in Buenos Aires to cheer for Argentina, and we caught the fever, too, the one that makes your heart beat a little faster when you see Maradona kissing his rosary on the sidelines and feel a little bit bursty when you watch Messi deftly handle the ball through half a dozen defenders. It's the fever that makes you root extra hard for Carlitos Tevez when he's barreling down the field 85 minutes into the game, with just as much energy as he'd had only 5 mintues in, and cheer a little bit louder when Palermo scores his usual goal when he's subbed in with only 15 minutes left in the game.

And no matter where we're watching in 2014, our hearts will be with the selección. Vamos Argentina!

The First Day

After celebrating 34 June 21sts in the Northern Hemisphere and one drinking coconut water on a beach in Brazil, a girl gets kind of used to summery weather on her birthday. I'm quite sure this is the first time I've worn mittens to the party. It's also the first time I've had mate on my birthday, not to mention choripán, medialunas, and a conversation in Spanish, and if the tradeoff is that I have to bundle up a little, I'll take it.

Happy Solstice everyone, whether you're celebrating the first day of summer or the first day of winter. I'll be celebrating the first day of being 36. So far, so good.

Scenes From A Brunch: bBlue

One of the first things I did when I arrived back in Buenos Aires was email Norma to arrange brunch. In fact, our Sunday brunch tradition is one of my new Favourite Buenos Aires Activities (tm). This morning we met at bBlue, one of about a zillion new organic-slash-brunch joints located in - you guessed it! - Palermo.

Confusingly, bBlue's weekend menu doesn't include the same breakfast fare they offer on weekdays, however, you can order toast with scrambled eggs and smoked salmon (yes, please), and a regular lunch menu of sandwiches and salads. Happily, the aforementioned scrambled eggs bruschetta and our grilled veggie salad (with goat cheese! hooray for goat cheese!) were both delicious, and bBlue's prices are quite reasonable. As an added bonus, the coffee is strong, and I do like to kick off Sunday afternoon with a strong cup of coffee.

For the record, I won't turn down a glass of Malbec, either.

Where in the World is Gillian?

I know, I can't keep up, either.

Monday morning I arrived back in Buenos Aires. Despite only an hour time-difference, I blame jetlag for my tiredness since I've arrived. Strangely, it's fall here. Strangely, I lost five whole hours of daylight. FIVE HOURS. Per day! Canada may be cold, but its northernness has some benefits. Strangely, I have already shifted from waking up to the sound of toddlers (or, as I like to call them, Nature's alarm clocks) at 7 a.m., to dining at 10 p.m. and sleeping until 10 a.m.

I've been all hedgy about writing our plans and things regarding our whereabouts here, because the Internet has stalkers and predators! And also, what if someone thinks that my plans might have any validity at all? We've already discussed that. Finally, I've started to think about ways I might convince someone to give me money in exchange for goods and/or services, and I certainly don't want to deter any potential offers by mentioning that I might be moving to India next Tuesday.

My recent sojourn to Canada wasn't all babies and bacon and cakes and kitties. I also did some investigation into housing in the Waterloo region. Because, yes, we're planning* to move to Canada, and it appears that starting in September, we'll be renting an entire house. With a driveway and an upstairs and a downstairs and a backyard and even a front yard. And laundry. And, get this, a deep freeze, which means that we can play Communist Russia and stock up on meat every time it goes on sale at Zehrs.

To further aid in our transition to suburbia, I signed up to collect points at Shopper's Drug Mart and Petro-Canada. Apparently suburbanites love to collect points, and stores love to reward loyal shoppers with points. City people always say that life in the suburbs is boring, but that sounds just like a video game to me!

All this is to say, if I missed you while I was in Southern Ontario, I'll make it up to you with a backyard barbeque in September. You guys in NY are invited, too. If everything goes according to plan, we'll have plenty of room for guests.

*The usual caveats apply.

P.S. I'm not moving to India next Tuesday. Probably.

Happy Mother's Day!

7 Days to Domesticity

I arrived in Waterloo last week and took up residence in my BFF's basement. I wake up daily at 7 a.m. to the sound of kids having breakfast (unfortunately, toddlers don't come with snooze buttons). I drive around the 'burbs in a station wagon with child safety seats in the back, and at lunchtime I let the dog out in the yard. I unload the dishwasher. I know who Fireman Sam is.

To think, a few months ago I thought Bolivia was surreal.

I also thought that climbing mountains was exhausting, but even hiking to 4600m is nothing compared to preparing for (and attending) a 1- and 3-year-olds' birthday party.

I was pretty sure that Salvador de Bahía, Brazil, was the happiest place in the world, but that was before I attended a toddler music class. Pure joy, people. Pure joy.

And I didn't know anything could compare to the natural beauty of glaciers and penguins at the end of the world, but Springtime in Southwestern Ontario might just be in the running.

Scenes From A Brunch: Oui Oui

I think I could get used to summer in January, and even winter in July.

But I can't quite wrap my head around fall in April. While all of you in the Northern Hemisphere are breaking out your skipping ropes and sandals, down here we're putting away our summer dresses and digging out sweaters and jackets. While you're finding early-season berries at the farmer's market, we're thinking about root vegetables and hearty stews.

And while you're watching the whole world blossom, we're watching the leaves fall.

Last week it rained steadily for three days, and I don't think the temperature went much above 15°C. But on the weekend there was plenty of sunshine, and at one point on Sunday the thermometer read 27°C. Maybe I could get used to this kind of fall weather, especially when there's Sunday brunch involved - this week at Oui Oui in Palermo Hollywood.

Are you sensing a trend here? On Sunday afternoons, Palermo Hollywood is the neighbourhood in Buenos Aires to find a Sunday brunch worthy of New York's Upper West Side. And in the case of Oui Oui, by 2 p.m. there's also a queue of hungry locals and visitors - just like you'd find Sunday mornings at any brunch spot on Amsterdam Ave.

While I'm not sure that I'd stand in line for Oui Oui's eggs or bread, their Bloody Mary is worth waiting for. And the potatoes are more delicious than I'd imagined breakfast potatoes could be.

After brunch there were cupcakes, across the tracks at Muma's Cupcakes in Palermo Soho. We sampled La Muma, a yellow cupcake piled high with too-sweet-to-finish passion fruit frosting but charmingly decorated with red fondant stars. At a spendy AR$9 (around $2.35) per cupcake I won't be picking up a dozen anytime soon, but that won't stop me from window shopping--I suspect these beauties would cheer up even the dreariest of fall days.