Friday, July 18, 2003
In life, everyone has their ‘One Thing.’ The one thing that comforts them, cheers them up, and transports them to a place of pure happiness. The one thing they can always rely on to make sense of the world and to remind them why they struggle to hold their place in it. The one thing that makes them thankful they’re alive. For some, it’s music or literature, for others it might be art or material objects. For some people, it’s all about another human being. For me, it’s food.
When I was younger, someone once told me that the creative mind needs to be well nourished. I heard truth in that statement and have lived by it all my life. Mainly because I love to eat. I have so few vices that it only seems fitting that I over-reach in this one category. I don't smoke and I rarely drink. I've never even had a cup of coffee. So grant me my red meat, my tender-as-butter veal, my thick wedge of cheesecake, and let’s call it even.
Yet over time, I began to realize that my love affair with everything culinary was different from those around me. Some people I know, much to my horror, eat only to survive. It makes no difference what they ingest, so long as it sustains them. From cardboard to caviar, it’s all the same.
More common are those who enjoy a good meal. These people do not obsess about food, but they can appreciate a well-prepared meal and enjoy the entire culinary experience. Very different from these people are those who view the ability to enjoy a good meal as some sort of status symbol. These folk often don’t care what they eat, just where they eat it and who else is there.
There are also your everyday overeaters – people who eat incessantly – either out of boredom, or to fill some sort of void in their lives. I know this sounds like a heaping generalization, which it is, but it’s okay – this article is really about me.
I fall into none of these categories. Simply put, I adore food. I love eating it, preparing it, savouring its aromas and watching it on television. Nothing turns me on more than a trip to the grocery store. For me, a restaurant menu is transformed into the great American novel - something to be read and studied from cover to cover. I never feel compelled to eat a lot; I only feel compelled to eat often.
Settling on a menu for any given meal is an intricate sort of torture for me. So many options, but only one choice. Ask any of my friends and they’ll tell you – dining out with me is a bitch. Even if I manage to narrow it down to one choice, I’ll often spend the rest of the evening lamenting what could have been. The single bone of contention in my marriage is my husband’s firm ‘no-share’ policy. But when he ain’t looking, my fork goes a dippin’…
I eat slowly and savour every bite. I love to feel the texture of what I taste wash over me, and then glide gently down to my tummy. Every mouthful is a complete sensory experience.
I’m hungry.
This slight obsession has always set me a little apart from others. While my friends would talk about who they were dating, and what their plans were for the evening, I’d talk about the beef brochettes marinating in my fridge. I always miss the start of dinner conversations, as I’m too intent on studying the evening’s menu. My food addiction, like my television addiction, is well-recognized and accepted amongst my family and friends.
We eat well in our house. True, we’re starting to develop physical evidence of this fact, but I refuse to regard this as a bad thing. I choose to see it as a challenge. It is now my job to ensure that we continue our tradition of eating well, yet simply in a lower-fat sort of way.
What most people don’t understand is that the preparation of a good meal is a kind of therapy. Had a rough day? Nothing better than a few aggressive turns of the salad spinner. Feeling a mite bit tense? A peaceful calm is only a few chopped veggies away. And nothing, nothing, washes away the residue of a truly awful day better than sitting down to a delicious, home cooked meal.
So for those who aren’t in the know, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. All it takes is a few well-chosen staples to enable you to forever forego the last minute take-out. A half-hour of your time, and a few ready-to-use ingredients will turn your ordinary day into something most memorable.
All you need is garlic, olive oil and a package of fresh pasta for a truly tasty treat. Throw in some bonus ground pepper and parmesan (fresh, not in a container) and you’ve got an entire fireworks display in your mouth. A few bottles of long-life spice pastes, such as garlic/chili, Thai curry, hoi sin or crushed red pepper, a constant supply of veggies, a variety of fresh meat and ready-made soup stocks and you’re set. Buy one new item on each grocery trip and in no time at all you’ll have a fully-stocked kitchen.
While I won’t officially be kicking off the food blog until September, I do intend to write a few more food oriented pieces before then. It would be great if I could toss in a few recipes. In order to do, I’ll need at least one volunteer to act as recipe tester. Preferably someone with minimal kitchen experience. It’ll be lots of fun. I promise. Think about it, and if you’re interested, send an email to the address on the right.
Me? I’m going to get a snack.
When I was younger, someone once told me that the creative mind needs to be well nourished. I heard truth in that statement and have lived by it all my life. Mainly because I love to eat. I have so few vices that it only seems fitting that I over-reach in this one category. I don't smoke and I rarely drink. I've never even had a cup of coffee. So grant me my red meat, my tender-as-butter veal, my thick wedge of cheesecake, and let’s call it even.
Yet over time, I began to realize that my love affair with everything culinary was different from those around me. Some people I know, much to my horror, eat only to survive. It makes no difference what they ingest, so long as it sustains them. From cardboard to caviar, it’s all the same.
More common are those who enjoy a good meal. These people do not obsess about food, but they can appreciate a well-prepared meal and enjoy the entire culinary experience. Very different from these people are those who view the ability to enjoy a good meal as some sort of status symbol. These folk often don’t care what they eat, just where they eat it and who else is there.
There are also your everyday overeaters – people who eat incessantly – either out of boredom, or to fill some sort of void in their lives. I know this sounds like a heaping generalization, which it is, but it’s okay – this article is really about me.
I fall into none of these categories. Simply put, I adore food. I love eating it, preparing it, savouring its aromas and watching it on television. Nothing turns me on more than a trip to the grocery store. For me, a restaurant menu is transformed into the great American novel - something to be read and studied from cover to cover. I never feel compelled to eat a lot; I only feel compelled to eat often.
Settling on a menu for any given meal is an intricate sort of torture for me. So many options, but only one choice. Ask any of my friends and they’ll tell you – dining out with me is a bitch. Even if I manage to narrow it down to one choice, I’ll often spend the rest of the evening lamenting what could have been. The single bone of contention in my marriage is my husband’s firm ‘no-share’ policy. But when he ain’t looking, my fork goes a dippin’…
I eat slowly and savour every bite. I love to feel the texture of what I taste wash over me, and then glide gently down to my tummy. Every mouthful is a complete sensory experience.
I’m hungry.
This slight obsession has always set me a little apart from others. While my friends would talk about who they were dating, and what their plans were for the evening, I’d talk about the beef brochettes marinating in my fridge. I always miss the start of dinner conversations, as I’m too intent on studying the evening’s menu. My food addiction, like my television addiction, is well-recognized and accepted amongst my family and friends.
We eat well in our house. True, we’re starting to develop physical evidence of this fact, but I refuse to regard this as a bad thing. I choose to see it as a challenge. It is now my job to ensure that we continue our tradition of eating well, yet simply in a lower-fat sort of way.
What most people don’t understand is that the preparation of a good meal is a kind of therapy. Had a rough day? Nothing better than a few aggressive turns of the salad spinner. Feeling a mite bit tense? A peaceful calm is only a few chopped veggies away. And nothing, nothing, washes away the residue of a truly awful day better than sitting down to a delicious, home cooked meal.
So for those who aren’t in the know, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. All it takes is a few well-chosen staples to enable you to forever forego the last minute take-out. A half-hour of your time, and a few ready-to-use ingredients will turn your ordinary day into something most memorable.
All you need is garlic, olive oil and a package of fresh pasta for a truly tasty treat. Throw in some bonus ground pepper and parmesan (fresh, not in a container) and you’ve got an entire fireworks display in your mouth. A few bottles of long-life spice pastes, such as garlic/chili, Thai curry, hoi sin or crushed red pepper, a constant supply of veggies, a variety of fresh meat and ready-made soup stocks and you’re set. Buy one new item on each grocery trip and in no time at all you’ll have a fully-stocked kitchen.
While I won’t officially be kicking off the food blog until September, I do intend to write a few more food oriented pieces before then. It would be great if I could toss in a few recipes. In order to do, I’ll need at least one volunteer to act as recipe tester. Preferably someone with minimal kitchen experience. It’ll be lots of fun. I promise. Think about it, and if you’re interested, send an email to the address on the right.
Me? I’m going to get a snack.
Thursday, July 10, 2003
Still Learning After All These Years
As I grow older, I’m beginning to realize that maybe I don’t know everything.
As a child, I was both precocious and unassuming. A dangerous combination. In my teens I was invincible, and I shudder to think of it now. In my twenties, I knew everything. I was prepared to fight to the death on whichever side of an argument I chose. I fancied myself quite the clever one; well-read, informed and always ready with an opinion.
Now I find myself in my early thirties and starting to have doubts. As if I’m a completely different person, I find myself prefacing each statement with a caveat: “I’m not really up on my mythology, but I always thought…” or “I’ve only recently had my political awakening, but don’t you think…” Where did this come from? Who am I? And wasn’t I once smarter?
This realization didn’t strike me as an epiphany would. It was more like a slow awakening. Events would unfold and in the process I’d realize that I was learning something new. And if that were the case, it surely must mean that I didn’t know everything before.
Strange. Strange and disturbing.
Yet somehow, uplifting. If I’m not through learning, then I’m not through growing. This meant that I might not be the same person in twenty years that I am now. And by embracing all of this new knowledge, I could become someone different.
Not that there’s anything wrong with who I am, mind you. But even I know there’s always room for improvement.
Let me give you an example.
A local radio station recently joined forces with an electronics chain to hold a short film contest. The winning two-minute short would take home a 100” projection screen TV and a $15,000.00 home theatre system. I thought about entering. Briefly. I tossed around a few ideas, but inevitably tossed the whole thing aside; the competition would be fierce, I didn’t have enough time, blah, blah, blah.
One of my colleagues entered. He had this idea for a story in which his two cats are being chased around the apartment by a maniacal vacuum cleaner. The way he pitched it to me was, “Think about it: It’ll be like Look Who’s Talking, but with cats!” Oh Kay.
And then he proceeded to shoot his film, while I went home to watch TV. During the course of his shooting, we had great, lengthy discussions about story, and the importance of a solid script. He was just shooting all willy-nilly. Now, of course, I’ve never made my own film; I’ve never even picked up a camera. But remember, I had a secret weapon. I knew everything.
Two weeks went by and he was done. We all assembled in the screening room and watched his little take on Look Who’s Talking. With cats. And you know what? It was fantastic. And I thought – hm! Look at that. Maybe I don’t know everything.
A few days later, the radio station announced the finalists. Thirty films had been chosen from over three hundred. And his was one of them. I wasn’t the least bit surprised. The night they announced the winners I was out having dinner with my brother, who lives out of town. I had wanted to be there, but somehow I knew how it would all turn out. Sure enough, he won.
The pride I felt was inexplicable.
Now, I am not a bitter person. I’m guilty of the occasional burst of spontaneous envy, but I’m smart enough to know that everyone has their own problems. I wouldn’t trade my life for anything. And sometimes I do feel resentful towards people, for either actual or imagined slights, but the thing is, I’m not powered by these negative emotions. They don’t define who I am. Those instances are the exception to the rule.
And now, for the first time, I realized that my ability to be truly happy for my colleague in no way affected my own chances for success. His life has nothing to do with mine. I felt no pangs of regret that I didn’t enter, no feeling that I could have done better. I am responsible for me. He worked hard, turned out a great film, and got his due merit. I told everyone I knew. I reveled in his success. And the effect was liberating.
Suddenly, I was free to enjoy everything. So funny how this one little nugget of information has completely changed the way I move through this world. My husband says this realization is a sign of maturity. And here I thought gray hair was a sign of maturity.
My world has evolved to embrace the idea that I’ll never know everything. And that’s the point. I’m no longer ashamed of the things I’m unfamiliar with – I just go out and learn about them. I never hesitate to ask a question, and I’m much more open to admitting when I’m wrong. It’s as if a huge burden has been lifted from my shoulders.
And on top of everything else, all of this new-found knowledge has really made me a better person.
Trust me. I know.
As I grow older, I’m beginning to realize that maybe I don’t know everything.
As a child, I was both precocious and unassuming. A dangerous combination. In my teens I was invincible, and I shudder to think of it now. In my twenties, I knew everything. I was prepared to fight to the death on whichever side of an argument I chose. I fancied myself quite the clever one; well-read, informed and always ready with an opinion.
Now I find myself in my early thirties and starting to have doubts. As if I’m a completely different person, I find myself prefacing each statement with a caveat: “I’m not really up on my mythology, but I always thought…” or “I’ve only recently had my political awakening, but don’t you think…” Where did this come from? Who am I? And wasn’t I once smarter?
This realization didn’t strike me as an epiphany would. It was more like a slow awakening. Events would unfold and in the process I’d realize that I was learning something new. And if that were the case, it surely must mean that I didn’t know everything before.
Strange. Strange and disturbing.
Yet somehow, uplifting. If I’m not through learning, then I’m not through growing. This meant that I might not be the same person in twenty years that I am now. And by embracing all of this new knowledge, I could become someone different.
Not that there’s anything wrong with who I am, mind you. But even I know there’s always room for improvement.
Let me give you an example.
A local radio station recently joined forces with an electronics chain to hold a short film contest. The winning two-minute short would take home a 100” projection screen TV and a $15,000.00 home theatre system. I thought about entering. Briefly. I tossed around a few ideas, but inevitably tossed the whole thing aside; the competition would be fierce, I didn’t have enough time, blah, blah, blah.
One of my colleagues entered. He had this idea for a story in which his two cats are being chased around the apartment by a maniacal vacuum cleaner. The way he pitched it to me was, “Think about it: It’ll be like Look Who’s Talking, but with cats!” Oh Kay.
And then he proceeded to shoot his film, while I went home to watch TV. During the course of his shooting, we had great, lengthy discussions about story, and the importance of a solid script. He was just shooting all willy-nilly. Now, of course, I’ve never made my own film; I’ve never even picked up a camera. But remember, I had a secret weapon. I knew everything.
Two weeks went by and he was done. We all assembled in the screening room and watched his little take on Look Who’s Talking. With cats. And you know what? It was fantastic. And I thought – hm! Look at that. Maybe I don’t know everything.
A few days later, the radio station announced the finalists. Thirty films had been chosen from over three hundred. And his was one of them. I wasn’t the least bit surprised. The night they announced the winners I was out having dinner with my brother, who lives out of town. I had wanted to be there, but somehow I knew how it would all turn out. Sure enough, he won.
The pride I felt was inexplicable.
Now, I am not a bitter person. I’m guilty of the occasional burst of spontaneous envy, but I’m smart enough to know that everyone has their own problems. I wouldn’t trade my life for anything. And sometimes I do feel resentful towards people, for either actual or imagined slights, but the thing is, I’m not powered by these negative emotions. They don’t define who I am. Those instances are the exception to the rule.
And now, for the first time, I realized that my ability to be truly happy for my colleague in no way affected my own chances for success. His life has nothing to do with mine. I felt no pangs of regret that I didn’t enter, no feeling that I could have done better. I am responsible for me. He worked hard, turned out a great film, and got his due merit. I told everyone I knew. I reveled in his success. And the effect was liberating.
Suddenly, I was free to enjoy everything. So funny how this one little nugget of information has completely changed the way I move through this world. My husband says this realization is a sign of maturity. And here I thought gray hair was a sign of maturity.
My world has evolved to embrace the idea that I’ll never know everything. And that’s the point. I’m no longer ashamed of the things I’m unfamiliar with – I just go out and learn about them. I never hesitate to ask a question, and I’m much more open to admitting when I’m wrong. It’s as if a huge burden has been lifted from my shoulders.
And on top of everything else, all of this new-found knowledge has really made me a better person.
Trust me. I know.
Friday, July 04, 2003
I’m a great starter. At any given moment, I’ve got at least a half a dozen projects going on. The funny thing is, I start these projects knowing full well there’s little chance I’ll finish any of them. It’s a curious thing.
You see, I practice two of the most dangerous habits of any do-it-yourselfer with reckless abandon; I rush into a project full throttle, and then I attack it half-assed. And I’m not just talking about home renovations or whacky career schemes (both of which I’m guilty of), but writing projects and personal goals, as well.
Sometimes, I’ll come up with an idea that I fall in love with – whether it be installing quarter-round along the baseboards of my house or the premise for a really cool movie. I’ll obsess about it for a while, and then dash out to collect (i.e.: buy) all the materials I’ll need – quarter-round and nails, or books and reference materials. And then, inevitably, the project gets put aside in favour of some new burst of inspiration.
About eight years ago, I wrote a treatment for a low-budget action feature. A producer I knew was looking for material. She passed, and I put it aside. Forgotten. I just thought about it today for the first time. Why on earth haven’t I turned that treatment into a script? Granted, it’s no Oscar contender, but at least for the sake of practicing my craft.
One of my mentors once told me that if I hope to be a successful writer in the film industry, I’ve got to write a dozen scripts a year and be prepared to bury half of them in my backyard. I’ve got a pretty big backyard.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that my tendency to leave things undone really boils down to a fear of failure. Snicker if you will, as I’m sure you all figured this out from the first sentence, but this is a real epiphany for me. My lack of follow-through has nothing to do with my lack of ambition; it’s a straightforward, across the board case of scaredy-pants.
And that’s just plain silly.
Come September, I will embark on a new journey upon entering culinary school, and I don’t want this story to end after chapter three. What can I do, right now, to ensure myself every advantage, every chance for success? The answer was simple. I can change the path of my future by modifying my behaviour today.
It’s time for a clean up.
Between now and September, I’m going to do all I can to tie up as many loose ends as possible. I’ll write the script, I’ll install the quarter-round, I’ll find the damn light fixtures, I’ll assemble the wedding albums, I’ll transfer the blog to its new home, and I’ll write. Something. Every day.
So here’s to new beginnings. And old endings.
You see, I practice two of the most dangerous habits of any do-it-yourselfer with reckless abandon; I rush into a project full throttle, and then I attack it half-assed. And I’m not just talking about home renovations or whacky career schemes (both of which I’m guilty of), but writing projects and personal goals, as well.
Sometimes, I’ll come up with an idea that I fall in love with – whether it be installing quarter-round along the baseboards of my house or the premise for a really cool movie. I’ll obsess about it for a while, and then dash out to collect (i.e.: buy) all the materials I’ll need – quarter-round and nails, or books and reference materials. And then, inevitably, the project gets put aside in favour of some new burst of inspiration.
About eight years ago, I wrote a treatment for a low-budget action feature. A producer I knew was looking for material. She passed, and I put it aside. Forgotten. I just thought about it today for the first time. Why on earth haven’t I turned that treatment into a script? Granted, it’s no Oscar contender, but at least for the sake of practicing my craft.
One of my mentors once told me that if I hope to be a successful writer in the film industry, I’ve got to write a dozen scripts a year and be prepared to bury half of them in my backyard. I’ve got a pretty big backyard.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that my tendency to leave things undone really boils down to a fear of failure. Snicker if you will, as I’m sure you all figured this out from the first sentence, but this is a real epiphany for me. My lack of follow-through has nothing to do with my lack of ambition; it’s a straightforward, across the board case of scaredy-pants.
And that’s just plain silly.
Come September, I will embark on a new journey upon entering culinary school, and I don’t want this story to end after chapter three. What can I do, right now, to ensure myself every advantage, every chance for success? The answer was simple. I can change the path of my future by modifying my behaviour today.
It’s time for a clean up.
Between now and September, I’m going to do all I can to tie up as many loose ends as possible. I’ll write the script, I’ll install the quarter-round, I’ll find the damn light fixtures, I’ll assemble the wedding albums, I’ll transfer the blog to its new home, and I’ll write. Something. Every day.
So here’s to new beginnings. And old endings.
