These Are a Few of My Favourite Things

In case my mild OCD tendencies have not been obvious to date, allow me to detail my latest fascination. You see, I have large loves for many tiny things, and most of these things would certainly fail to thrill ordinary people in the slightest bit. To reason: Mason jars? Check! I collect them and put anything and everything I can into them.

Clothes pins? Ditto! Even though we have not had the luxury of a clothes line for a good 3 years now, I still harbour the pins and long for the day when our clothes will once again air dry outside, fastened to the line with the most stunning of jewel-toned clothes pins.

Rolls of coins, or the act of rolling loose change? Yes! I was over the moon when I discovered that part of my job would be to sort and count thousands upon thousands of dollars worth of spare change. 'I love counting coins!', I proclaimed when I saw the brimming bucketfuls that awaited me in the office upstairs. 'Don't say that too loudly', my coworker hushed, fearful of the ocean of coins that would soon threaten to drown me if others knew they could pawn the dreaded coin-counting job off on me. I didn't care. I was in absolute heaven counting all of that change and sorting it all into neat little stacks of 10, 20, or 50 coins. Plus, I was getting paid to do it! Imagine that!

My most recent squeals of delight are related to making sprouts. Now, the mere act of making things grow is tremendously rewarding in itself; however, sprouting becomes doubly exciting when you factor in the added bonus that I get to use some of my Mason jars to do it! (If I were James Brown, (and if James Brown were still alive), this is when I'd be melting down onto the stage and getting my sidekicks to rush over and cover me with a glittery cape. Headfake-- YOW!-- I'd get back up and keep shakin' that thang. It feels that good to make sprouts in my Mason jars.)

For reasons unbeknownst to me, I was under the impression that sprouting was a difficult and time-consuming process. From my past life working at a natural foods grocery store, I had seen sprouting kits that you could buy, and I simply assumed that those kits were necessary components of the sprouting process. I had never bought a kit; ergo, I had never made sprouts before.

This past weekend, based on the extremely simple instructions in the Thrive Diet book, I decided to grow some mung bean sprouts. The directions:

1. Rinse seeds, nuts, or beans, and place in a clean jar. The beans (or whatever) should only fill a maximum of 1/4 jar (my experience suggests less than that, even, because these suckers GROW!). Then add purified or filtered water to the 3/4 jar mark and let the jar sit at room temperature overnight. No need to add a lid or anything to the jar at this stage.

2. Wake up in the morning and discover to your immense delight that the beans (or whatever) look puffy and swollen. The germinating process has begun! Drain water and rinse sprouts-to-be very well. Put back in the jar.

3. Put cheesecloth over the mouth of the jar and hold in place with an elastic band. (If only I could have worked clothes pins in there somewhere, this truly would have been an angelic process!) Turn jar upside down to drain any more water out and just let those suckers sit.

4. Whenever sprouts-to-be are looking a little dry, fill the jar with water, swish around, and then tip the jar and let the water drain through the cheesecloth again. I did this once or twice a day. If you're like me, you will have to transfer your sprouts into a larger jar because they just grow so huge!

Sorry for the crappy quality of the photo, but this is what you get when you're taking photos in the bathroom (!!) in the wee hours of the morning before you leave for work, or in my case, an acupuncture appt. The light just sucks.

5. Within 1-2 days, prepare to be amazed and astonished: In place of your dry beans, nuts, or seeds will be wholesome and delicious sprouts! Just like that! Eat with salads, on sandwiches, in wraps, or as a garnish for pretty much anything. Repeat steps 1-5 indefinitely, and mix things up in the seed department. YUM!

Return of the Domestic Diva

Just when I thought I had steered my life away from the life of a housewife, I heard it: the siren call of a food processor. Not just any food processor, either-- no. I heard the blissed out whir of an Onyx Black KitchenAid Food Processor, and I succumbed to it. Needless to say, the experience thus far has been orgasmic.

The baked falafel balls I like to make? The ones that busted the motor out of our first Braun Hand Mixer because they are a bit chewy and tough to blend? Oh yeah-- they whipped up like silk in our new KitchenAid. Silk, I tell you! And the green Thai curry paste ingredients that would have made my poor hands bleed had I attempted to chop them finely enough by hand? Oh yes, they emerged deliciously and impeccably smooth as well from our wonderful KitchenAid. I am in love- I am positive of it.

(An aside: since Terra seems to be living my very own life in a parallel universe, I don't need to tell you that Marty and I will be using our Kitchen Aid to start the Thrive Diet. She already scooped that post on her own blog, though she will be using the Magic Bullet Blender rather than the grand and irreplacable KitchenAid Food Processor. Just kidding, Terra. I'm sure it doesn't matter which food processor you use!)


And even though these pictures have nothing to do with our new food processor, I had to include them anyway, because we have become so gourmet in every way in the past few weeks. It must be the new dishes... And did you know that you can make a wonderful 'spaghetti' with sauce using a spaghetti squash as both a bowl and the actual spaghetti?? This thrills me to no end! I guess I really am a closet domestic diva. Incurably so, I'm afraid...

You've *GOT* to be Kidding!

Way back when, I told the tale of a big spider that apparently hitched its way all the way to Victoria from the Czech Republic. I also mentioned that I killed it. In my bathroom. It was the end of that spider, and the end of my worries... until recently.

Check out the MONSTER that was hanging out on the roof of our balcony the other afternoon!!! (PS- Mom, don't look. I mean it.)




I just have a few things to say about it:

1. THANK GOD I wasn't home to see this!!!!!! Poor Marty-- bless his heart-- he was going to check on our sunflower outside when he had the bejeezus scared out of him by this (not so) little guy. See the fuzz on its body?! See his blackish red rat tail-esque legs?! See how like an honest to God tarantula it is?! DISGUSTING!!!!

2. An aside: Kudos to Marty for being brave enough to snap a photo of this bugger (get it- bug?! Hahahaha), albeit from behind the somewhat blurry safety of our patio door. I can't say what I would have done in the situation-- set up camp on the couch and watch its every move in horror? Phone the police and get a squad car on it?-- but I can assure you I would not have possessed enough wits to photograph it. Heaven forbid that the camera flash would cause it to drop from its ceiling perch onto my unsuspecting head! (and an aside to an aside: we don't know where it is now. Marty ran away.... erm... to have lunch with me at work... and when he came back home, it was gone. The sickening mystery deepens.)

3. How the hell do you deal with creatures of this magnitude? In my (zen-like, peaceful, love-filled) mind, all spiders must die, but I know I could never muster up the necessary courage, skill, or brute force to do the deed myself to something this big. It would be akin to killing a small cat! Do spiders bleed? Or would it just be guts? Either way, the off-white carpet in my apartment just couldn't handle the mess. (In the unlikely-- please JesusJosephMary make it unlikely!-- event that something like this actually crawled into my house! Eep!!)

4. I guess when I was told that Victoria was part of its very own rainforest system, it really meant 'rainforest' and not 'rainforest-sans-tropical-spiders'. For shame. I had been thoroughly enjoying the splendour of brilliant flowers and lush vegetation everywhere. Now I'm walking around like a bad spy trainee in a cheesy 70s movie, inspecting every nook, cranny, and corner for evidence of spiders on steroids. Have mercy!!

Dear Clinic: You Should Stop Frontin' (You Know You Want Me)

Today's theme song: Frontin' by Pharrell

Do you ever wish you could create the impression you’re something you’re not?

I know people who pretend to be more confident and self-assured than they actually are. Some people dumb themselves down around others, whereas others go to great lengths to prove how ‘smart’ and worldly they really are.

As for me, lately I’ve been wishing that I could come across as cool, collected, and perhaps even a little blasé about my job search. The fact remains, though, that I am uncomfortably preoccupied (read: a tad obsessed) with getting out of the house and earning a real paycheque again. The Suzy Homemaker role was fun for a while, but lately the thought of donning my hot pink apron and whipping up a mean dinner has got me feeling less than enthused. (Actually, it gets me feeling like a thousand tiny ants are crawling over my body and ripping microscopic little chunks out of my skin with their tiny little mouth-claws, but I digress…)

I’ve mentioned in a few posts now that I’ve been waiting on this mysterious clinic job to get back to me with news about my fate in the workforce. Well, I’m still waiting. Still. I don’t know what bothers me more about this: the fact that they’re taking so effin’ long to make a relatively simple decision (after all, the last I checked, they weren’t auditioning for the role of God!!), or the equally distressing fact that I’m still waiting. WAITING!!!

In the rational part of my brain, I know that this clinic gig is not my dream job. To be honest, it’s not even close. But that hasn’t stopped the pathetic lobe of my brain from getting activated and pleading to the powers that be to call me. (Picture that cheesy lip-synched ‘call me!’ hand motion playing over and over in your mind. This is what I’ve been reduced to. ‘Call me!’ Thumb to ear and little finger wagging near the mouth. ‘Call me!’ Eyebrows raised in expectant fashion. ‘Call me!’, etc., etc., ad nauseum.) GAH!!!

The truth is, I’ve been doing lots of career-related reading and exercises lately, and the picture that is emerging of my ideal work is a wee bit scary to me. It’s not scary in the sense that I’m horrified about what my interests and talents are (e.g. ‘I like math?! What?!! NOOOOOOO!!!’ No, no. Have no fear, dear readers, I don’t really like math!), but it is scary in the sense that I might have to go out and create a job for myself that doesn’t really exist yet. I shouldn’t say it doesn’t exist, because some people are doing something similar to what I think I’d like to do— on different topics. Caroline Myss, Andrew Weil, Amy Swenson, and Stephanie Pearl McPhee—they’ve all found some way to combine the two things I enjoy the most (writing and teaching) without working in a university. The thing that these people have that I don’t, though, is a topic. Kind of an important thing, that topic. Some might even say it’s essential for would-be writers to have one...

That’s why the prospect of going it alone right now is too overwhelming (and highly impractical): I want to write, but I don’t know what I want to write about just yet. And that’s why I’m still waiting on this clinic job. Call me!

Step Four, or whatever…

Well, we’ve come full circle already, here at the Ex-Nomad headquarters. Mere posts ago, I was talking about unpacking my suitcase (key word talking about unpacking it, but of course not actually unpacking it…) Now, at Marty’s insistence, unpacking this suitcase is, in fact, the number one priority. Forget ‘Step Four’ or whatever: this deed has been bumped up into the top spot on my To Do list.

‘Why the rush’, you ask?

Well, Marty is convinced that the not-so-itsy-bitsy spider that showed up in our bathroom was a nomad itself. Specifically, he feels certain that this spider hitched a ride in THE SUITCASE all the way from the Czech Republic, and that the suitcase might still be harbouring more of these beasts in its depths.

Although I balk at the mere suggestion that I had anything to do with that monster of a spider being in our bathroom, his gentle accusation might have some weight to it.

a) The spider did look an awful lot like the big ones we frequently encountered in our rental suite just outside of Prague (see haunting photo of the two spiders that lived right outside our back door- YUCK!!!!)
b) During our time in the Czech Republic, both of us discovered arachnid stowaways in our bags on numerous occasions. They always seemed to find their way inside our backpacks and suitcases (again- YUCK!!!!
c) (A little secret:) I have yet to thoroughly unpack and go through my suitcase, even though we came back to Canada on September 13^th. Heheh… oops!

So now I’m not sure which is worse: the thought that my suitcase (my clothes! My underwear!!!) could be incubating a whole nest of freakishly giant nomadic spiders OR the equally revolting idea that Victoria could just have the same nasty spiders that frequent Prague. If it’s the first scenario, I’ll have to go on a rapid-fire extermination rampage and deal with the psychological fallout of having SPIDERS in my UNDERWEAR, but at least the spider-sighting episodes will be contained. If it’s the second scenario, well… let’s just say, I can’t wait to bring our bed back from Calgary!

Desperate Housewife

For the first few weeks here in Victoria, I was feeling like I could conquer anything as the Mighty Matron of Meals. Over the past couple of days, though, I was struck with the unnerving sensation that, well, something might be missing. Could it be because we came here with only the bare essentials, not even enough to stock our kitchen? Could it be that I was jealous of other kitchen queens who had things like these? (Not to mention other things like plates… those are still in storage in Calgary!) No, I mulled it over for a bit and decided that even though I do miss our salad spinner and our crock pot, I’m still managing alright without them. Also, even though some mornings it does seem a tad strange to eat our toast out of a bowl, it doesn’t make a difference to how the toast tastes, so why should I let it bother me? My anxious feelings, it seemed, could only be attributed to one thing: my lack of an appropriate Kitchen Costume.

If you look at ads for 1950s kitchen gadgets— or almost any ad from the 1950s, for that matter—you’ll notice that the Woman of the House is always looking charming in a costume befitting the circumstances. She has the picnic basket and sundress for her spontaneous (if rare) outings with the girls, the pearl earrings for dinner with her husband’s boss, and most importantly, the ubiquitous apron for her time spent indoors. I decided early on in this game that if I was going to be a housewife, I might as well be one of the best (you know me, not competitive at all...) Hence, being without an apron but with the company of a great lot of mystery yarn, I took matters into my own hands.

And… Voila! I am pleased to introduce my very own Kitchen Costume! (you'll have to look above, seeing as I've yet to figure out how to upload pictures except at the top of posts...)

Knit in glorious garter stitch on very big needles with clearance mystery 'yarn'/fabric strips, this apron might never actually be worn except in this photo shoot, but believe me, it fills a gaping psychological void in the life of this no-longer-desperate housewife.

In a pickle

I mentioned in another post that I have put my MA to good use (ha!) in the domestic sphere as of late. Unrelated as it is to my former studies, I’ve found this new lifestyle to be rather satisfying. I eagerly await Marty’s reaction when he tastes whatever I’ve concocted for us to eat that day, and then I sit back all smug when I get an ‘mmmm…’ of approval. (I’ve conveniently decided to forget for the time being that my dear mother trained both of us to articulate—even feign—enjoyment and appreciation for home-style cooking early on in our relationship. She taught us classic moves like the ‘slow down and savour’, the ‘sit back and nod your head encouragingly’, the ‘ask for seconds even if you are not hungry’, and the ever-popular ‘roll your eyes back in ecstasy while emitting a slightly muffled but long and deliberate moan’. She even made us both practice the moves in front of her until she was satisfied we would be able to survive any awkward family meals, regardless of the food served. And while I’ve delighted at seeing him fake enjoyment of many a fried dish over the years, I’d rather believe that he’s displaying the real deal when it comes to my own cooking… but I digress…)

Having so much time in the kitchen has provided me with the opportunity to try new things. I’ve started making soup stocks and freezing them until needed. I’ve made colourful salads and even taken the time to arrange them, as for a glossy photo shoot. I’ve made sauces and stews, grains and greens, but the thing I’m most excited about is the ginger. Yes, I’ve even gone ahead and pickled some ginger for sushi!

I’m a relative newcomer to the sushi scene, but I’m no stranger to ‘just saying no’ to things like aspartame and Red Dye #2 (Yellow Dye #5, however, is a different story…). Hence, when I discovered that most of the pickled ginger on the market had either been sweetened with aspartame, dyed pink (why?), or both, I made a vow to try to make my own. Of course, that was when I was in the midst of a nervous breakdown writing my thesis, so we managed with expensive organic store-bought stuff… until now! Little did Marty’s mom know that when she taught me how to pickle this fall, she was creating a pickled ginger monster! Mwa-ha-ha…

Anyway, we haven't tried this ginger yet (it still has to cure), but when we finally do, you can be assured that I'll tell you all about it (and if it's good, I'll probably try to make you buy some!) In the meantime, though, run (don't walk!) to your cupboard and see what kind of crap is in your sushi ginger...

12-Step Recovery Program

So here I am, just about ready to unpack the suitcase I’ve been living out of for months. Since running screaming out of my last apartment in April, I’ve lived temporarily in six different people’s houses and a van (aptly named a Chevy Nomad—for real), looked after 4 cats and 2 dogs, and wandered aimlessly around the Czech Republic, Slovakia, and Hungary with my beloved co-nomad, Marty. Now we are in Victoria, ready to—dare I say it?—set up camp. Forever. As in living here. Taking root. Starting a new life. Abandoning our wandering ways… Whatever you want to call it, we are starting a 12-step journey toward making Victoria our new hometown. So, if the first step was moving here, and the second step was renting an apartment, the third step should be what, unpacking my suitcase? Finding a job? WRONG!! The third step is actually (wait for it…) immersing myself wholeheartedly into the life of a housewife.

Yes!

Marty is currently working on a very giant mural project, so I’ve decided to test-drive being a good (read: traditional) wife until he finishes it and delivers it to Calgary (don’t worry- it should be soon!). So, to all the people who have tsk-tsked me for getting an extra degree, foregoing babies for a career, and keeping my own (impossible to pronounce) last name, I have one thing to say: you should taste my homemade minestrone! Mmm… delicious and (wait for it again…) made from scratch!! (Imagine loopy handwriting for the ‘made from scratch’ part—curse this keyboard for its lack of teenage cursive!)

So yes, I've been busy cooking, cleaning, shopping, 'decorating' (note: we do not have any furniture yet. I'm not kidding.), and doing laundry for the time being. Maybe Step FOUR will be unpacking my suitcase...