A New Generation of Remembrance

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With Remembrance Day being tomorrow, I can’t help but delve into the reasoning and motivation that shape our approach and understanding of this day. The current military activities in Afghanistan have brought new relevance to the idea of remembering sacrifice and devotion to one’s country. And with these great sacrifices, our faint memories of past sacrifices have become less fuzzy, less black and white, less grainy; now rendering themselves in sharp focus, surround sound and the haunting lament of a lone bagpipe. I have a few Remembrance Day stories I’d like to share, if only to bring you some thoughts to ponder….

For me, November 11 has been a time of remembrance and reflection for as long as I can recall. As a child, the memories are less clear, but they are nonetheless there. Impressions of sadness, of solemnity. John McCrae’s words splashed overhead on a yellowed transparency. Gluing black to the centre of a big red poppy. Stiffness from sitting cross-legged on the gym floor. I doubt that I truly understood what was going on, but I knew that it was important.

As a teenager, the images of memory are less ambiguous. Adolescent remembrance brings feelings of cold, of trembling, of more solemnity and deeper sadness. It also brought me a new appreciation for this day as I had the good fortune to actually speak with veterans. Through an involvement in cadets, I can remember the brave and proud columns of veterans. I remember the wizened world war one veterans, marching as proudly as their age would allow. The group, already decimated by memory, grew smaller and lonelier every year, until there were simply none of these brave men left. I remember that legions of world war two veterans, honoured and strong. And I remember thinking that if these brave people could survive the horrors of war and still be out there in the cold every November, then it would be least I could do to support them out there.

Learning about Canadian history brought a true clarity to what I was supposed to be remembering. To this day, I can’t hear place names like Passchaendaele, Vimy, Juno Beach, Flanders, Ypres without thinking about the great sacrifice that happened there. A gifted teacher brought the grainy, colourless past to life for us. By this time, we knew dates and places, but this illumination added a human side to the historical ledger – a picture of suffering and a deeper respect for all involved. We imagined what it would be like to be in a trench, to endure endless rain and mud, to fear mustard gas, to face an endless barrage of fire and yet break bread with the enemy in the Christmas Day truce of 1914. We felt the pride of being Canadian when we learned about the great success of the Battle of Vimy Ridge. By the end of that year, Remembrance Day was more than a vague impression of sadness, but a true sense of admiration.

At the same time, not everyone understood. I stood with the veterans, I played the Last Post so many times… letting its poignancy ring through an otherwise silent crowd. But not everyone had this. If we go back in time about a dozen or so years, say 1995, we’ll find me, sitting in a 10th grade classroom, valiantly defending the relevance of Remembrance Day to the apathetic adolescent masses. I remember classmates questioning the relevance of this day…questioning the relevance of war in general and wondering why they were supposed to care and why we were celebrating war. But you see, the thing is, we’re not celebrating war. We’re not glorifying war. What we’re doing celebrating the resiliency and endurance of humanity, how the devotion to one’s country can mean an ultimate sacrifice. This sacrifice needs to be remembered. We need to appreciate those young men and women who died and who were injured – they are still relevant. But in 1995, not so many could see the relevance. Our southern neighbours had Vietnam to bring relevance to this day, but we saw war as only a distant memory. Something better left untouched.

I spent some time on Parliament Hill, where I gained even more cognizance of Canadian sacrifice. I saw the books of remembrance, where the names of the dead are inscribed. Over a hundred thousand Canadians have been killed in action and this was something that shocked me. I found myself imagining a group the size of a city all being snuffed out, and it really brought home the depth of sacrifice that happened. I saw the massive paintings commissioned by Lord Beaverbrook on the walls of the Senate, including the cloth guild in Ypres (which I later saw first hand in Belgium).

Fast forward to Remembrance Day 2001. Exactly two months after 9/11, I found myself at the foot of the war memorial of Vimy Ridge. This ridge is almost surreal in its ability to convey meaning and relevance. Somehow, before I visited, I vague impressions in my head about troops hiding in the base of a giant white stone edifice. Not exactly what happened…and probably not what I was supposed to think. But allow me to just try to paint a literal picture of this scene and I can only hope to bring a fraction of its depth to you. The approach to the ridge is via a wide, tree-lined avenue. In rural France, the formality of this avenue seems almost out of place, but yet the natural arch of foliage just invites to continue your exploration. It all seems serenely beautiful until you notice the barbed wire fence keeping you on the avenue, and the abnormal number of sheep munching their way through the wilderness. The ground behind the fence is strangely pockmarked, and very uneven. You’re actually seeing the deep scars of war, nearly 90 years after the fact. The sheep are the only thing light enough to walk in this space, as it still suffers the deadly legacy of artillery shells.

Nearing the end of the avenue, you round a bend, and everything is clear. There is nothing before you but an expanse of green and a gleaming white monument. I was lucky enough to be able to approach the monument in complete solitude, and able to just take everything in on my own. I climbed the steps of the monument, and then I saw. And I understood. Sometimes, it can be difficult to comprehend why a particular battle or a particular sacrifice was of such importance. But the minute you can see over the ridge, you can see why this battle was a pivotal point in the war. Overlooking the Douai plain, whoever controlled this ridge, had control of the Douai plain, and all of the vital coal this to this day is still found there. I saw the statue of Canada, as a young nation, cast in stone as a young woman, mourning her dead. I heard the stories of how Canadian soldiers approached the ridge under the veil of a rolling barrage to surprise the enemy. I learned of the 10 602 Canadian casualties, with 3 598 paying the ultimate sacrifice. These people deserve our appreciation and respect.

But it took the deaths of four Canadian soldiers in 2002 (the “friendly-fire” incident) for Remembrance Day to regain widespread relevance. Since 2002, 43 Canadian soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan and each new casualty brings with it a wave of support to our troops. Do I fully support our war in Afghanistan? You know what, I’m not really sure. I haven’t been there, I don’t know what we’re doing, I haven’t seen what’s going on. But do I support the men and women whose lives are threatened on a daily basis? Absolutely. I think all Canadians should support these people – many of them are so young and so full of life, and to think that it could end at any time is, I would argue, deserving of a minute or two of your time.

Pumpkin soup, anyone?

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Soup, pie, torte...it's all the same thing, isn't it? hehehehe.

Happy belated thanksgiving all - hope everyone had wonderful weekends, replete with tryptophan turkey comas and jugs of delicious gravy!

I had a fun thanksgiving. As luck would have it, I managed to get out of making a turkey dinner at the last minute - we headed up the valley to my in-laws' house. The great part of this was that I got out of making the whole turkey dinner, but silly, silly me decided that I should volunteer myself to provide dessert.

At first, I thought it would just be hubs and myself and the in-laws. But then, the grandparents, an aunt, and SIL/BIL came as well. Normally, this wouldn't have been a problem, but due to laziness on my part, I didn't start the dessert until just after midnight on Saturday morning.

Hubs and I went out for a fab dinner on Friday night - I started with coconut shrimp satay, then butternut squash soup, and then grilled bison with portabello mushrooms and scalloped potatoes. Yumminess. Finished it off with a deliciously decadent espresso. And a whole whack of wine - hubs always insists on ordering a bottle with dinner (no complaints here!), but since he's driving, I always end up with the lion's share. Now, a sane person would have gone home at this point to start dessert. But no! We joined SIL and BIL at a local pub to celebrate BIL's birthday. So of course I had a beer.

After this, we bought groceries (thank goodness for 24 hour grocery stores!) and I got the ingredients to make dessert. How's that for procrastination? Rather than pumpkin pie, I found a recipe for a four-layer pumpkin torte; thought this would make a more impressive addition to the meal. And it did....eventually.

Layer one went smoothly - crushed gingersnaps, melted butter and sugar, pressed into the bottom of a springform pan. Pretty easy, pretty straightforward... :)

Layer two - also a breeze. Cream cheese, sugar and eggs all came together in a rich fluffy mass, and off into the oven for 20 mins.

Still good.

Layer three is where is all fell apart....slightly more complicated than the other layers, this layer involved three different parts. The main part consisted of pumpkin, spices, milk, sugar and egg yolks, cooked on the stove until thickened. By the time I hit this stage, it was already past 1AM. Perhaps it was my impatience or perhaps it was the beer/wine-judgement, but I don't think I let this thicken enough. The second part of this layer was a package of gelatin, dissoved in 1/4 c. water. Pretty sure I dissolved it too early, and then I continued to add more water until it got all granular. hmmmmm....maybe not the best decision. Anyway, the last part of this layer was whipped eggwhites (pretty sure I pulled that off).

After this layer was all mixed together, I wasn't entirely convinced it was going to set up, but poured it on the other two layers none-the-less.

And went off to bed.

When I woke up, the layer was SOUP. Pumpkiny-cinnamony SOUPY disastrous mess. I had a plan B, but I wasn't yet ready to throw in the towel on this labour of love. I racked my brain on what I could possibly do and then just decided to throw the whole mess in the oven. I figured that the gelatin might melt, but hoped that the dubiously-cooked eggs would overcome that issue. After an hour in the oven, the cake wasn't quite solid, but I was running out of time!

I stuck the whole mess in the freezer for another hour and then took it out. It was somewhat softly squishily solid. But the centre was still warm. At this point, I added layer four (cool whip), made it look pretty and dusted with cinnamon. Stuck it back in the freezer, and eventually brought it to the in-laws.

I was quite worried - because people kept saying thigns like "oh, I'm sure it's wonderful).....and I had visions of a massive torte explosion as I lifted off the sides of the springform pan. Somehow, it all stayed together, looked awesome and tasted even better.

I was so relieved. Hubs family is awesome but has a communication network that could rival that of the pentagon. I knew that if it was good, everyone would hear, but I also knew that if it was bad, everyone would hear. (gack - and not in a malicious way - more in a "I just felt so bad for her after all the hard work" kind of way - v. embarrassing).

So all is well in domestic-goddes-land. :)

Bread, Cheese and Wine, oh MY!

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The rich goodness of French fermentation has struck again. Oh, and there was chocolate too. The female psyche is a rather delicate creature, subject to the whims and pulls of intense cravings for things that tend to make your behind look as wide as a mack truck. Hubs and I had the most deeeeeeeeeeeelicious dinner yesterday, and I have no one to blame but myself for what ensued.

Sitting at work, mildly bored, a craving struck me. I wanted cheese fondue, and I wanted it NOW. Visions of gooey, yummy swiss cheese danced through my head for the rest of the afternoon. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm….cheese. I checked out my old friend, www.epicurious.com for recipes that could guide me to a calcium-induced state of bliss…..but was left unsatisfied – the recipes seemed yummy, but the reviews spoke of stringy, separated wads of ick. No good at all.

But then I had a brain wave – you can buy pre-made fondue. This, my friends, is the way to go. No running around the grocery store trying to find just the right block of emmental and gruyere to create an exquisite blend. No staring at the recipe and wondering what the heck kirsch is. No running to the liquor store to buy a bottle of white wine that you know you won’t drink so you can use it for a recipe.

It comes all in its pre-packaged glory. Brilliant. And even better, the ingredient list is relatively short and sweet - http://www.gourmetsleuth.com/pDetail.asp?i=3&p=767&s=1&price=8.99 – cheese, white wine and kirsch. I added a couple of cloves of garlic and a dash of nutmeg, but really, why bother with a coagulated blob when you can have creamy perfection right at your fingertips? Inspired by this fabulous find (also, at $7.99, it’s a heck of a lot cheaper than buying gruyere, emmental, white wine and kirsch!), I also purchased a fresh warm round of bread, cubed it and used it to dip. Now, a friend of mine STILL has my fondue pot, but you’ll be happy to know that you really don’t need a fondue pot for a small cheese fondue. All you need is a heat-safe bowl, a microwave, metal rack and a tealight. :) Following the package instructions, I warmed the foil package in a bowl of warm water for a few minutes, then snipped the corner and put the cheese in a bowl. Crushed two cloves of garlic, cracked some pepper (and ‘dashed’ some nutmeg) and nuked it all for a few minutes. I took my handy-dandy cooling rack (used for baking) and set it on the table, putting a tea light underneath. It was so good. Dipping the warm bread into the cheese, letting it cool for just a few seconds (better texture to the cheese) and then savouring it……..and what better to pair with cheese than wine? All the swiss web sites recommend white wine (probably because they are stuck with the better part of a bottle leftover from making the fondue), but we prefer red.

Not wanting to open my bottle of ’99 Listrac-Médoc (Natalie MacLean writes: “CHÂTEAU FOURCAS HOSTEN 1999 AC Listrac-Médoc VC: A polished, supple wine that shows off the fine, traditional Listrac-Médoc style. The aromas suggest tobacco, mocha, dried currant, menthol and cedar. This complex wine is dry, complete and nicely balanced by resolved tannins. It is drinking very well now with a fine Angus beef steak, however it will also last for up to five more years. My note: Delicious. Old World-style with black fruit.”), we stuck with the 2005 Naked Grape Cabernet Sauvignon. It’s not bad at all – and was a nice complement to the cheese, though I think it could possibly have used something with a little more oomph (swiss cheese has a rather distinctive odour….).

Now, what could one possibly pair with this, the laziest of all suppers…..but chocolate. I finished the meal with several ounces of Lindt 70% dark chocolate. Mmmmmmmmm…..heaven……the only thing that could have made this meal better is if I had not been so lazy and had also made myself some espresso to accompany my rich, chocolate indulgence.

Note that there is not a vegetable in sight. Yikes. To round things out a bit though, my lunch yesterday was a spicy hoisin tofu veggie stir fry, and I had it with brown rice. Brown rice alone is certainly penance enough for indulgence. ;) Lunch today is poached Moroccan salmon and roasted potatoes, with green and red peppers. :) Dinner tonight….uh……fast food. *runs and hides* Wish me strength so I don’t cave and have a teen burger combo. (I’m rooting for sushi but we’ll see what strikes my fancy…..hahahaha).

For dinner tomorrow, hubs has mentioned taking me out for dinner (yay!) but if that falls through, there is a really yummy looking recipe that I’m dying to try - African Chicken in Spicy Red Sauce from the new Cooking Light. I may even go really bold and attempt injera, so we can eat true Ethiopian style (injera is kinda like a bubbly, sourdough pancake – it’s used as a platter for your food, and you tear off the edges, pick up yummy food and eat it. Ottawa folks, I recommend checking out The Horn of Africa downtown – yummy, cheap, and Ethiopian food has the coolest flavour – full of heat, cardamom and all sorts of things.

And now, I’m counting down the minutes until lunchtime…..gah!

Thanks for reading.

Ablutovestiphobia

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As I was writing another post on a forum I frequent, it occurred to me, dear readers, that I have never fully explained the origin of my aversion to laundry. I am in the midst of composing a real post, but thought that this story might amuse you.

This story is slightly embarrassing, but amusing, nonetheless.

For my third year of university, I moved to France. I ended up having my own teeeeeensy little studio apartment (180 s.f.) within the cité universitaire – I had a bathroom, “kitchen” and a living space of sorts. There was one building like mine (with about 200 units), and there were two traditional buildings, with about 100 rooms each). So three buildings total. And there was one washer and one dryer.

There are a few key things here, first, the situation isn’t *quite* as bad as it sounds because most French students went home for the weekend (and did their laundry there). Also, the French don’t wash their clothes as obsessively as North Americans do, so the load (pardon the pun) was lightened.

Also worth noting is the French love of administration and bureaucracy. And lastly, it is worth noting that while I speak excellent French, it is tinged with a strong Canadian accent....and in France (particularly in Tours, where I lived), there is a lot of snobbery surrounding accents. Let's just say that my accent closely resembled that of the french equivalent of a redneck....

After two weeks in France, of feeling a bit homesick and frustrated with red tape, I REALLY needed to do laundry. I had no more money to buy more socks or undies, so I knew it was time. I had heard there was laundry in this one building in my complex, so I headed over to that building, figuring I would find my way to some sort of Laundromat-like facility. Well, I couldn’t get into the building.

The cleaning lady of that building eventually saw me and let me in, and then asked where I was going. I told her I was going to do laundry. She asked if I had signed up, and I said no. She looked at me like I was an idiot and said, obviously, you have to sign up, and that is in this other building (i.e., not the building where I lived, and not the building where the laundry was).

Okay. So I headed over to the other building to sign up. Thankfully, there was an open slot at that time, so this wasn’t nearly as complicated as it could have been. Despite getting a blast of crap for not having exact change for my laundry (another french obsession - exact change. egh. for this, you gave the administration money, and got a token in return), I still managed to both sign up and pay for my load of laundry. However, in order to get back into the building where the laundry was, I had to give the lady the key to my room. Kinda annoying, but oh well.

So I headed back to the laundry building, where I could now actually let myself in, but I couldn't find the Laundromat. After I very politely asked her, the cleaning lady irritably told me where it was, and yelled at me for being so obviously mentally deficient. I found my way in, but of course it was a European front-loading model, so I didn’t have a freaking clue how to work it, where to put the soap, how to turn it on, etc.

I went back in search of that kind, lovely cleaning lady (because of course it’s a weekend, there are no students around and I still can’t do my freaking laundry). My mental deficiency now confirmed, she started to yell at me, and proceeded to pick up the phone and give the admin lady a blast of crap that it’s not her job to help students, and what is up with these stupid international students who are so spoiled they don’t even know how to work a washer…etc.etc.

Feeling sensitive, homesick and frustrated, I just started to cry and stomped back into the laundry room. And of course I was also mortified at crying over the airing of my dirty laundry (culture shock manifests itself in the strangest ways...). Anyway, admin lady (who had already given me a blast for not signing up in advance, as well as not having the correct change) stomped in, said I was ridiculous for crying about laundry (a fact of which I was well aware, but it was just the culmination of a particularly frustrating time….the proverbial straw on the camel’s back…..), said I was a ridiculous spoiled girl because I didn’t know how to do laundry, and FINALLY showed me how to use that damned machine. Of course, by this point, I'm pretty much sobbing because I'm lonely, I miss my guy (now my hubby), I'm frustrated and I just want clean sheets!

The laundry finally started, I locked myself in the laundry room and cried for the rest of the 2-hour load. Is it any wonder I hate laundry?

Of course, for the rest of the year, I would do two or three loads at a time (very unusual by French standards), and between every load, I would run from the laundry building to the admin building to get my key back so I didn’t have to stay in the hellhole cell of a laundry room. I also got great pleasure out of the annoyance this brought the bitchy admin lady because she had to get off her duff to give me keys. And I learned that you never ever ask a unionized French worker to do something that’s not in their job description.

So that's the history behind my laundry trauma. Is there a specific phobia word for fear of laundry? Come to think of it, vestiphobia is the fear of clothing, and ablutophobia is the fear of washing. Perhaps we could coin the new term ablutovestiphobia.....fear of washing clothing....

What circle was that?

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For those of you familiar with Dante’s Inferno, you’ll know that Dante ingeniously divides Hell into nine different circles. He takes all the different capital sins (aka the seven deadly sins) and he punishes people in a way that befits the ills they committed on earth. The punishments start rather anemically with people who refuse to “take sides.” They are not evil enough to merit actual hell, so they are stuck in its vestibule. Now, because these people were not stung with conviction in their earthly existence, they are doomed to eternally chase a banner, whilst being stung by wasps. Nice, eh? And these people aren’t even technically “evil.”

So what circle of hell would I belong in? Well, according to Dante, gluttony (of which I am tremendously guilty of late) is a rather minor deadly sin, and condemns me only to the third circle of hell. Sweet. Now, you may wonder, what fate befalls the glutton? What fate befalls mrbunsrocks? First off, gluttons are forbidden from eating or drinking in hell, because they were so overindulgent during life. Even better, Dante sticks them in putrid ground because garbage was their only product during life. And, to make things worse, gluttons are EATEN and torn apart constantly by Cerberus’ three sets of teeth. (Cerberus is a three-headed dog who guards the entrance to the circle of gluttony…he’s very intent on his meals).

Yikes. If that won’t put me on a diet, I don’t know what will. In continuing the rather literary theme, let’s see what C.S. Lewis has to say about gluttony. Yep, you read that right. Our lovely Narnian author. C.S. Lewis was an extremely religious man, and though the Chronicles come with the trappings of ‘kiddie lit’, if you read them from a certain perspective, you can interpret each one to be a separate diatribe on each of the seven capital sins. This isn’t necessarily the best scholarly approach to analysis, as it is a bit simplistic, but if anyone will remember Edmund, from the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, there, we have a classic example of what fate awaits the glutton. For those of you who don’t remember Edmund, he was the one whom the Witch woed with promises of Turkish Delight. Even worse though, after Edmund leaves the Witch, he’s still completely obsessed with the Turkish Delight – this can be interpreted to be a like temptation, Eve eating the apple and all that original sin stuff. Bottom line though, gluttony leads Edmund into being a traitor.

Will all of this rather scholarly preamble, you’re probably wondering why I’m just blathering and why I’m not confessing. The answer is that I’m almost too ashamed to confess. I was AWFUL yesterday. The day started out okay – with a super yummy breakfast burrito – whole wheat tortilla, slice of cheddar, omega three egg, hot salsa and a bit of low-fat sour cream. Yummy. Then I ate my lunch, which wasn’t too bad either (penne with tomato sauce, peppers and lean Italian sausage). But then I was still feeling muuuuuuuuuunnnnnnchy, so I got a small order of fries from the cafeteria. And then I completely and totally doused them in vinegar and salt.

Not so good eh? It got worse. In the afternoon, I was still feeling munchy, so I got a Crispy Crunch (not good) and had a coffee. And THEN, when I got home from work, I ate a third of a box of really fattening crackers, and then compounded it with HALF a large pizza (pepperoni, bacon and mushrooms), with ultra-fatty creamy garlic dipping sauce and a non-diet Dr. Pepper.

And did I work out? Ummmmm…no. I poured myself a glass of wine and drew myself a bubble bath.

How’s that for self-indulgence?

Oh, and I had chocolate chip cookies for breakfast.

Do I, or do I not belong with all the other gluttons. And did I mention that it’s cold and rainy eternally there? Blech. Dante didn't even put any cool people there.