Babyhawk--are you as tired of hearing about this as I am talking about it? Probably. Well it was finally resolved. I have to say that for being a homegrown mommy-run business I am absolutely baffled at how rude, incompetent and completely useless their customer service representative was. She (self-admittedly) forgot to get my refund, did not respond to my calls and e-mails (though acknowledged recieving them) and brushed me off on our last call to say she couldn't deal with it at the moment because she was heading to a pta meeting. Um, ok? I called her boss. Bingo, next day I got my refund. It's not like me to get all nasty. Ok, maybe it is. But this was justified. 2 friggin months of waiting!
I've re-ordered by carrier on a Canadian website. Hopefully I have better luck. I would like to say I didn't buy another babyhawk, but I did. Just, buyer beware. DO NOT ORDER FROM THE BABYHAWK WEBSITE.
*ahem*
Today I took advantage of the lovely weather that has finally arrived and went for a walk, exploring a part of the neighbourhood I have never walked around. It was filled with cute bakeries and delis and coffee shops. None were stroller friendly, unfortunately, so I couldn't go in. But soon, I see myself spending a lot of time there. The sunshine was glorious. I think I got a bit of a sunburn.
This post is feeling skeletal because I'm trying not to focus on all the negativity lately. Still, it's hard to avoid talking and thinking about. I've been bummed out. Stressed out. I have too much on my plate, and when Mike is sick, it's all on me. Not to sound bitter, but when I am sick, everything is still all on me. So I guess I'm just a little sad about that. I try and tell myself there is always more good than bad. Glass half full and all that rot.
I've got things coming at me from every angle and I'm having a hard time keeping up. How on earth do people live in this day and age? I feel like every time I keep up with something, another thing is crumbling apart in the background. Be a good mom, your house is a mess. Have a clean house, your kid turns into Ted Bundy. Maybe not, but you get my point. There's no way to do it all. And where did this feeling of obligation come from, anyway? I've never been the type to think I had to do it all. I never cared if my room was messy or if my friends thought I was stuck up because I didn't want to go out. Now I've become a slave to the balance. Evenings out twice a month, sweeping every day, baths on all days that start with T. It's enough to drive a woman mad.
Let us simplify. Focus on being. Ender is sleeping on my lap, with his long-lashed eyes and sleep-sweat slick hair making him look more than a little like a mewling puppy born only minutes ago. He sighs with comfort, one tiny hand resting on my breast, his jaw suckling a nonexistant teat. He is perfection. He smells of sweet spoiled milk and another delicate odour that can only be described as the smell of posession.
My days will improve. Mike will not always be sick. The car will not always be broken.
*breathe*
I will keep on keeping on.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Soufflé Day
After a weekend of snot, tears, sleep deprivation, rain and more rain, I had been feeling like a woman on the verge. Nothing like everyone in your family being sick to make you realise the power of adrenaline. So, I did what any reasonable wife and mother would do in my situation: I attempted to make a soufflé.
I think that one should never say that they are 'going' to make a soufflé, as this may tempt the soufflé gods to make your soufflé thick and rubbery. They look for any excuse, so best not to give them one. Say you are going to 'attempt' one, and you will avert the evil eye. It was a cheese soufflé from Julia Child's cook book (of course), which I modified to add mustard seed. My first instinct was to double the recipe, because the soufflé dish I have is giant, and a good soufflé is all popped over the edge and messy and ridiculous. It is a dish of excess, chaotic beauty. I didn't double it, as it was my first soufflé, and I didn't really want to be left with a mess of inedible egg and cheese. But as in all baking, one should trust their first instinct. It rose, but not over the edge. My carefully crafted aluminum foil collar went unused. Still, it tasted fantastic. For those of you who haven't had a soufflé before, I would describe it as a mixture between angel food cake and an omlette. Properly made, it is moist, airy and a perfect brunch served with blackened pudding (or sausages) and broiled tomato halves.
I encourage everyone to try and make a soufflé. If I can do it, you can too. It seems the souffle is going the way of the Dodo. As soon as Mike tried it, he remembered that his grandmother used to serve something similar. You'll be filled with a sense of accomplishment, as well as personal history. I can almost guarantee your female ancestors once hovered next to their ovens, nervously watching this miracle of expansion.
I think I'll try a chocolate one next.
I think that one should never say that they are 'going' to make a soufflé, as this may tempt the soufflé gods to make your soufflé thick and rubbery. They look for any excuse, so best not to give them one. Say you are going to 'attempt' one, and you will avert the evil eye. It was a cheese soufflé from Julia Child's cook book (of course), which I modified to add mustard seed. My first instinct was to double the recipe, because the soufflé dish I have is giant, and a good soufflé is all popped over the edge and messy and ridiculous. It is a dish of excess, chaotic beauty. I didn't double it, as it was my first soufflé, and I didn't really want to be left with a mess of inedible egg and cheese. But as in all baking, one should trust their first instinct. It rose, but not over the edge. My carefully crafted aluminum foil collar went unused. Still, it tasted fantastic. For those of you who haven't had a soufflé before, I would describe it as a mixture between angel food cake and an omlette. Properly made, it is moist, airy and a perfect brunch served with blackened pudding (or sausages) and broiled tomato halves.
I encourage everyone to try and make a soufflé. If I can do it, you can too. It seems the souffle is going the way of the Dodo. As soon as Mike tried it, he remembered that his grandmother used to serve something similar. You'll be filled with a sense of accomplishment, as well as personal history. I can almost guarantee your female ancestors once hovered next to their ovens, nervously watching this miracle of expansion.
I think I'll try a chocolate one next.
Friday, March 12, 2010
On Waiting....
Spring rain always reminds me of Nova Scotia. Our townhome has the lucky and unusual distinction of having a bedroom with a roof above (as opposed to, say, some random person`s linoleum) and when it rains here it makes the most relaxing pitter-patter on our rooftop patio. It lulls me to sleep and makes my body melt into my sheets. We are all sick, taking naps in shifts today. I think there has only been one or two hours in which we have all been awake simultaneously. Blame it on the rain.
The illness is one that was thoughtfully cultivated by some tiny Unitarian, and was seemingly amplified as it was passed along. Ender dealt with it like a champ, I was mildly ill, and Mike is/was knocked off his feet. It was also a fast onset, so we each got the sickness one day apart from eachother, our misery piling each upon the next. Two packages of tissues, one package of menthol cough drops, and a lot of complaining later, we all sit in the faux-gaslight of the living room. Mike reads in the rocking chair, Ender sleeps in my lap, I sit on the laptop bathed in blue light. We all breathe through our mouths. Occasionally someone sniffles. We all listen to the welcome monotony of the rain.
I wonder if everyone else remembers sitting in their parents car, watching fat rain drops slither, join and disperse like mercury. Cars take on a special smell when it rains. I could sit in one indefinitely, appreciating the forced conversation that always occurs in that tiny shelter. In Halifax the rain comes down torrentially, turning east-west roads into pounding rivers, making sidewalks almost unusable if one hasn't worn proper footwear. The sky opens and it pours for days and days, sometimes weeks. Here in Ontario people are shocked when it rains for a few days. Cars careen along highways when there is slight fog, causing huge pileups. In Nova Scotia, the mud, the fog, the rain, the temporary rivers, are all taken in stride. One must wait for the weather. I hope when I'm older I'll have a veranda, where Ender and I can sit and wait on the weather. The rain will drench the wood giving off that heady fragrance of summer as we wait, and wait, and talk. I want him to learn to wait, and enjoy the storms as they come.
The illness is one that was thoughtfully cultivated by some tiny Unitarian, and was seemingly amplified as it was passed along. Ender dealt with it like a champ, I was mildly ill, and Mike is/was knocked off his feet. It was also a fast onset, so we each got the sickness one day apart from eachother, our misery piling each upon the next. Two packages of tissues, one package of menthol cough drops, and a lot of complaining later, we all sit in the faux-gaslight of the living room. Mike reads in the rocking chair, Ender sleeps in my lap, I sit on the laptop bathed in blue light. We all breathe through our mouths. Occasionally someone sniffles. We all listen to the welcome monotony of the rain.
I wonder if everyone else remembers sitting in their parents car, watching fat rain drops slither, join and disperse like mercury. Cars take on a special smell when it rains. I could sit in one indefinitely, appreciating the forced conversation that always occurs in that tiny shelter. In Halifax the rain comes down torrentially, turning east-west roads into pounding rivers, making sidewalks almost unusable if one hasn't worn proper footwear. The sky opens and it pours for days and days, sometimes weeks. Here in Ontario people are shocked when it rains for a few days. Cars careen along highways when there is slight fog, causing huge pileups. In Nova Scotia, the mud, the fog, the rain, the temporary rivers, are all taken in stride. One must wait for the weather. I hope when I'm older I'll have a veranda, where Ender and I can sit and wait on the weather. The rain will drench the wood giving off that heady fragrance of summer as we wait, and wait, and talk. I want him to learn to wait, and enjoy the storms as they come.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
It's raining concrete
Oh my, it has been a while. As the days get warmer, longer, and brighter, I find myself much less inclined to write here. Quite the paradox, as I have so much more going on in my life, and therefore much more to say. Probably it is the surfeit of feelings and information which makes me avoid writing. I'll be doing something and think that it would make a good theme for a blog entry, but when you have a weekend and week like I've had, it's best to just let it all out in one bout.
First off, I went to Unitarian Universalist church. I bit the bullet, put Ender in the infant care with what seemed to be two lovely women (one a volunteer and the other the 'constant care provider') while holding back tears as I watched Ender play, staring at three other children who were about five or six months older than him like they were creatures from another planet. I probably was a little distracted from the service because of this first experience with daycare. The service itself was ok, everyone in the congregation was super friendly and seemed very involved, which is more than I can say about some Protestant churches I've been to. It was the day before International Women's Day, and therefore the service was planned and run by women from the congregation. I especially enjoyed one part where about six women of ages ranging from seventy-five to twenty-five gave a two sentence long statement about when they 'became feminists'. Some were funny, others sad. There was also a drum circle to begin and finish the service. Overall, it was quite enjoyable. We stuck around to look at the pamphlet table for coffee hour, spoke to a woman at the welcome table, and then left. No one really approached us to talk, and I think probably the best way to meet people is probably in smaller groups that are organized by the church. I'm not sure yet whether I'll go back. My only dislike: hymnals. Ugh. I think that all the singing in church might very well be detracting from its appeal to the younger generations because singing in church makes me feel terribly uncomfortable. I just don't like it, I don't think anyone else likes it (with a few exceptions, of course) and I don't see the point in it. Singing does not make me feel spiritual. It makes me feel tone deaf.
Mike seemed to enjoy his UU experience. I think that the idea of a church without God is still sinking in for him. What that means exactly is different for each person. I mean, for some Unitarians there is definitely a God (capital G), whereas for others (such as myself) it is entirely about community, a celebration of our collective humanity and an attempt to find closeness in a sterile world. I think I will go back, now that I write this. I want to see the minister do an actual sermon, though.
After church, we went to go see Mike's parents. They were planning a cruise they are going on with some friends of theirs through the Greek Isles and then through to Venice. It sounds amazing. Personally, my ideal cruise would be from New York to Iceland to Denmark. I think the icebergs would be amazing, and what an ideal way to travel with a baby! No airplanes! Heaven.
So then the next day, Monday, the weather was still gorgeous, so we went out for a walk. Near our house they are doing major construction to remove a bridge. This involves the vibratory setting of concrete, which Mike explained to me, but I wasn't really listening (sorry sweetie!) and it is apparently a very messy process. I'm still not clear on why they were setting concrete when they are removing a bridge, but that's besides the point. When they do this, they set up a tarp so that concrete bric-a-brac doesn't fall on unsuspecting pedestrians below. However, this unsuspecting pedestrian was not so lucky. I felt something wet on my head and I looked at the closest construction worker.
"There's shit raining from the sky."
"Yeah," he nodded, "They're setting concrete." As though this were the most normal thing in the world. So normally, in fact, that Mike, Ender and I continued walking down the street.
I looked at Mike. He looked at me. We realised that both of us were covered in concrete liquid. It was very disgusting, humiliating, and I was very upset. We went back to the construction worker, who hadn't noticed how badly we had been hit when he first talked to us, but was nice enough to call the foreman. The foreman was clearly afraid of being sued. It was very dangerous, and they're damn lucky it didn't hit my kid. However, I wasn't hurt, Ender wasn't hurt, and I was happy enough to have them pay for me to get a new sweater. I am not a litigous person, despite what others may expect. An ability to independently sort out conflict is part of what makes this country great.
It was a very nice sweater, a Bench sweater, for you fashionistas, and not cheap. I went to Bench to get a new one, but my sweater was out of season and all of the teeny-tiny cartigans were a little too tight, a little too young, and way too branded. I hate having a logo across my ass, it isn't classy and it's not going to be remembered fondly in ten years, I guarantee you. I picked a sweater I didn't like, paid for it and kept the reciept for the construction guys. I am returning it tomorrow to buy something I actually like.
Did you know, my closet is ten billion shades of grey, from dove white to pigeon grey to crows black? There is no colour, and there is a lot of herringbone and stripes. I'm not sure when this happened, but it was definitely post childbirth. I think I'm subconciously trying to mask my hips and belly. Dieting has commenced as of today, and I think I did fairly well. Go me.
Well that's a dent in my story, dear reader. More soon.
First off, I went to Unitarian Universalist church. I bit the bullet, put Ender in the infant care with what seemed to be two lovely women (one a volunteer and the other the 'constant care provider') while holding back tears as I watched Ender play, staring at three other children who were about five or six months older than him like they were creatures from another planet. I probably was a little distracted from the service because of this first experience with daycare. The service itself was ok, everyone in the congregation was super friendly and seemed very involved, which is more than I can say about some Protestant churches I've been to. It was the day before International Women's Day, and therefore the service was planned and run by women from the congregation. I especially enjoyed one part where about six women of ages ranging from seventy-five to twenty-five gave a two sentence long statement about when they 'became feminists'. Some were funny, others sad. There was also a drum circle to begin and finish the service. Overall, it was quite enjoyable. We stuck around to look at the pamphlet table for coffee hour, spoke to a woman at the welcome table, and then left. No one really approached us to talk, and I think probably the best way to meet people is probably in smaller groups that are organized by the church. I'm not sure yet whether I'll go back. My only dislike: hymnals. Ugh. I think that all the singing in church might very well be detracting from its appeal to the younger generations because singing in church makes me feel terribly uncomfortable. I just don't like it, I don't think anyone else likes it (with a few exceptions, of course) and I don't see the point in it. Singing does not make me feel spiritual. It makes me feel tone deaf.
Mike seemed to enjoy his UU experience. I think that the idea of a church without God is still sinking in for him. What that means exactly is different for each person. I mean, for some Unitarians there is definitely a God (capital G), whereas for others (such as myself) it is entirely about community, a celebration of our collective humanity and an attempt to find closeness in a sterile world. I think I will go back, now that I write this. I want to see the minister do an actual sermon, though.
After church, we went to go see Mike's parents. They were planning a cruise they are going on with some friends of theirs through the Greek Isles and then through to Venice. It sounds amazing. Personally, my ideal cruise would be from New York to Iceland to Denmark. I think the icebergs would be amazing, and what an ideal way to travel with a baby! No airplanes! Heaven.
So then the next day, Monday, the weather was still gorgeous, so we went out for a walk. Near our house they are doing major construction to remove a bridge. This involves the vibratory setting of concrete, which Mike explained to me, but I wasn't really listening (sorry sweetie!) and it is apparently a very messy process. I'm still not clear on why they were setting concrete when they are removing a bridge, but that's besides the point. When they do this, they set up a tarp so that concrete bric-a-brac doesn't fall on unsuspecting pedestrians below. However, this unsuspecting pedestrian was not so lucky. I felt something wet on my head and I looked at the closest construction worker.
"There's shit raining from the sky."
"Yeah," he nodded, "They're setting concrete." As though this were the most normal thing in the world. So normally, in fact, that Mike, Ender and I continued walking down the street.
I looked at Mike. He looked at me. We realised that both of us were covered in concrete liquid. It was very disgusting, humiliating, and I was very upset. We went back to the construction worker, who hadn't noticed how badly we had been hit when he first talked to us, but was nice enough to call the foreman. The foreman was clearly afraid of being sued. It was very dangerous, and they're damn lucky it didn't hit my kid. However, I wasn't hurt, Ender wasn't hurt, and I was happy enough to have them pay for me to get a new sweater. I am not a litigous person, despite what others may expect. An ability to independently sort out conflict is part of what makes this country great.
It was a very nice sweater, a Bench sweater, for you fashionistas, and not cheap. I went to Bench to get a new one, but my sweater was out of season and all of the teeny-tiny cartigans were a little too tight, a little too young, and way too branded. I hate having a logo across my ass, it isn't classy and it's not going to be remembered fondly in ten years, I guarantee you. I picked a sweater I didn't like, paid for it and kept the reciept for the construction guys. I am returning it tomorrow to buy something I actually like.
Did you know, my closet is ten billion shades of grey, from dove white to pigeon grey to crows black? There is no colour, and there is a lot of herringbone and stripes. I'm not sure when this happened, but it was definitely post childbirth. I think I'm subconciously trying to mask my hips and belly. Dieting has commenced as of today, and I think I did fairly well. Go me.
Well that's a dent in my story, dear reader. More soon.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Listen here, you, I used to be somebody.
I feel like I'm becoming stupid. Dumb-er. Umm..you know. Less intelligent. There was a time when my brain, as well as my intellect, was a fine-tuned machine. I knew what I knew, and I knew it inside out and backwards. I was looking through some old sociology papers of mine. Here is an abstract (read: short summary) of a paper that I wrote at one point in time:
I couldn't write like that now if I had all the time in the world. So what changed? For one, I am no longer immersed in academic culture. At one point in time, approximately the time that I wrote the above paper, I hadn't read a novel in over five months. My reading, which took up two hours of my day every day, was entirely composed of academic papers. I was filled with an urgency of importance. What I was writing mattered and everyone needed to read it. Except, no one did. No one, except other sociologists knew what I was talking about. It was baffling. I tried to explain the import of what I was doing. That religious minorities were being consistently marginalized. Anyone who was listening had their own 'pet' cause. No one wanted to adopt mine.
Three years later and still, no one cares. For some reason, even though I claimed I read that academic literature because I found it interesting, I no longer read it anymore. Maybe it's for lack of having anyone to talk to about it. I really miss having my brain work in overdrive, my heart pounding as someone concludes their argument and then the three seconds of silence as they await my retort.
Academia is the only form of competition I appreciate. Everything else is too sweaty and smells of India rubber.
So I suppose I shouldn't complain the way I do about my completely useless fifty thousand dollar education. You know, the education that sucked away 5 prime years of my life into abject poverty so that I could be a secretary post-graduation? It had its benefits. I'm sure if I hadn't of gone, I would have been consumed by the idea that my life was in some way incomplete. I'm like that. I tend to focus on the tiny missed stitches, rather than the fabric of life. I like to think of it as being detail/goal oriented. I'm horrified by the idea that I will wake up one day, an incomplete person, too old to fix what I find lacking. I'm glad I went to university. I enjoyed the hell out of it. I just wish that what it gave me wasn't so fleeting.
My sense of confidence in my brain, the ability to articulate my feelings with a rational backing, is all gone. It's something that I don't think most people realise (I know I didn't) that your academic field, no matter how immersed you are in it at the moment, no matter if you live and breathe it, is just like a language. If you don't use it, it's gone. I no longer talk sociology, and I miss its adjectives, its way of wrapping everything up in a neat little package and at the same time blowing it to smithereens. But it, like the toys of my childhood, needs to be left behind. It is a part of my former self, rather than my present. It was an adult decision, realising that I needed to do concrete things with my life to be happy, rather than resting in the realm of the abstract, where the only risks I took were using Foucault as a theoretical framework for religious persecution. Since then, I've birthed a person through my body. I've promised myself to not one, but two people, for the rest of my life. I may feel stupid sometimes, but I always feel important.
Abstract: Brainwashing has long been a controversial notion in understanding religious conversion. In this paper, I utilize Foucault’s notion of bio-power in identifying brainwashing as a form of medicalized social control over human bodies and minds. Discourses created by government agencies, psychologists, and the media have all contributed to understanding the adherents of new religious movements, pejoratively termed ‘cults’, as brainwashed and mentally ill. The counter-hegemonic manner in which some adherents new religious movements live their lives frequently defies the ‘common sense’ of normative societal practices, making them prime targets for social control, as they represent bodies which have failed their purpose in society. Due to some of the lost legitimacy of brainwashing discourses, child abuse accusations are growing as the new stigmatizing force against these groups. In both cases, discourses on the ‘truth’ of the danger of new religious movements are utilized as justification for intervention and control. Conceptualizing brainwashing as a form of bio-power brings to light the political forces and discourses which frame new religious movements negatively. In identifying widely unseen forms of control, there is greater potential for new religious movement members to be seen as individuals with full agentic capacity and rich religious experience.Ummm...what? Genius, that's what.
I couldn't write like that now if I had all the time in the world. So what changed? For one, I am no longer immersed in academic culture. At one point in time, approximately the time that I wrote the above paper, I hadn't read a novel in over five months. My reading, which took up two hours of my day every day, was entirely composed of academic papers. I was filled with an urgency of importance. What I was writing mattered and everyone needed to read it. Except, no one did. No one, except other sociologists knew what I was talking about. It was baffling. I tried to explain the import of what I was doing. That religious minorities were being consistently marginalized. Anyone who was listening had their own 'pet' cause. No one wanted to adopt mine.
Three years later and still, no one cares. For some reason, even though I claimed I read that academic literature because I found it interesting, I no longer read it anymore. Maybe it's for lack of having anyone to talk to about it. I really miss having my brain work in overdrive, my heart pounding as someone concludes their argument and then the three seconds of silence as they await my retort.
Academia is the only form of competition I appreciate. Everything else is too sweaty and smells of India rubber.
So I suppose I shouldn't complain the way I do about my completely useless fifty thousand dollar education. You know, the education that sucked away 5 prime years of my life into abject poverty so that I could be a secretary post-graduation? It had its benefits. I'm sure if I hadn't of gone, I would have been consumed by the idea that my life was in some way incomplete. I'm like that. I tend to focus on the tiny missed stitches, rather than the fabric of life. I like to think of it as being detail/goal oriented. I'm horrified by the idea that I will wake up one day, an incomplete person, too old to fix what I find lacking. I'm glad I went to university. I enjoyed the hell out of it. I just wish that what it gave me wasn't so fleeting.
My sense of confidence in my brain, the ability to articulate my feelings with a rational backing, is all gone. It's something that I don't think most people realise (I know I didn't) that your academic field, no matter how immersed you are in it at the moment, no matter if you live and breathe it, is just like a language. If you don't use it, it's gone. I no longer talk sociology, and I miss its adjectives, its way of wrapping everything up in a neat little package and at the same time blowing it to smithereens. But it, like the toys of my childhood, needs to be left behind. It is a part of my former self, rather than my present. It was an adult decision, realising that I needed to do concrete things with my life to be happy, rather than resting in the realm of the abstract, where the only risks I took were using Foucault as a theoretical framework for religious persecution. Since then, I've birthed a person through my body. I've promised myself to not one, but two people, for the rest of my life. I may feel stupid sometimes, but I always feel important.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Onion Bhajis and Babyhawk
It may sound weird, but I think Indian cuisine is the ultimate comfort food. I'm not sure what it is about those spicy blends of cinnamon, curry and ginger, chickpeas and lentils, stewed meats and rich, creamy sauces. It's perfect for the middle of summer, the dead of winter, and as the spring has sprung, I'm craving Indian. So I'm sharing my recipe for onion bhajis, which was created entirely by me, and therefore is by no means authentic. But it was damn tasty! Feed them to your husband, who claims he hates onions. Feed them to your children, who say they don't like Indian food. Call them 'fritters' if you must, but no one can resist the oily, slightly sweet deliciousness of onion bhajis! Adjust seasonings to your taste, if these ones don't suit you and your family. We like things full of flavor at our house.
Onion Bhajis
2 or 3 onions, roughly diced
2 cups besan (chickpea) flour
1/4 cup white flour
3 tsp gram masala
2 tsp chili powder
1 tsp coriander seeds
2 tsp fresh ginger, diced and pressed through a garlic press
1 clove crushed garlic
2 pinches baking powder
salt and pepper to taste
water
oil
1. Mix together all ingredients in a large bowl. Add 1/2 cup water to your mix, and then keep adding it by the tablespoon until it becomes a sticky batter that holds together.
2. Fill a roomy pan 3/4 of an inch deep with vegetable oil, and heat to deep frying temp. You'll know it is the right temp when a candy thermometer reaches 370 f, or a little bit of the batter sizzles when you put it in the oil.
3. Drop the batter in by tablespoons full. They shouldn't be too large, smaller than an egg is about the right size. If you put them in and they seem too big you can break them up with a spoon while frying. They'll make those tiny yummy crunchy bits that everyone likes to steal when the big bhajis are gone. Don't put too many in at once. Four or five bhajis per regular sized pan should be sufficient. Even I am guilty of crowding the pan, but this is a big mistake, because it will lower the temp of your oil and cause the batter to absorb the oil. Instead of deep frying, you'll be stuck with a sticky oily mess.
4. Flip the bhajis occasionally, so that they don't burn. You know they're done when they are a deep orange colour. Put them on a plate lined with paper towel. Enjoy!
I also tried to make burfi, but it never set. I'm not sure what I did wrong, but I decided to turn it into a tasty ice-coconut thing. It hasn't frozen yet, but I have high hopes for it.
Ender has popped another tooth today. He's such a little trooper. The last few weeks have been rough, but that little tooth gives me such a feeling of accomplishment! All our nights of tossing and turning, drooly sobbing, all of it has lead up to this. The ability to chew. It's no small feat. Despite my prodding, Ender has yet to show any interest in finger foods. The child will bring everything and anything to his mouth except foods. Which makes sense when you have no teeth. But I have high hopes that this one little tooth will change all of that. I will admit I'm going to miss making these gourmet purees, and I dread the idea of having to think of three square meals for this little person, but there's no way around it. My little man is growing up. Soon the milky sweet smell of his breath will be replaced by the smell of Doritos, his perfect baby-powder scented feet will grow and grow and grow until I tear my hair out with frustration at the number of shoes, sitting like nesting dolls, in ascending order, along the wall.
I can't wait.
An update on the Me vs. Babyhawk debacle:
The carrier still hasn't arrived. I stupidly thought that ordering directly from Babyhawk was a good idea. Definitely not. There are Canadian stores which carry Babyhawks and promise DELIVERY within a week. I ordered mine on the 27th of January. It took 12 business days to make, they tell me, and then got shipped, which can take 2 to 3 weeks. When 3 weeks expired, I e-mailed them to find out what the next steps are. Apparently 3 weeks as an outlier estimate means nothing. I was informed that I needed to 'wait'. This confuses me. What is the point of a 3 week time frame except as an indication that there is something wrong with the shipment when it takes longer than that?
The weather is turning nice, and I just want my money back so I can buy a different carrier and get out and enjoy it. The stroller, my 25 lb son, and 2 flights of stairs is too much to cope with, and I need my little man strapped to my back. I am very upset with Babyhawk. I do not recommend them, and I think they have crappy shipping policies and poor customer service. I have been waiting a month and a half, and still no one has apologised. As of Monday, I'm demanding my money back.
Figures that the first thing I ever buy online would turn out this badly.
Onion Bhajis
2 or 3 onions, roughly diced
2 cups besan (chickpea) flour
1/4 cup white flour
3 tsp gram masala
2 tsp chili powder
1 tsp coriander seeds
2 tsp fresh ginger, diced and pressed through a garlic press
1 clove crushed garlic
2 pinches baking powder
salt and pepper to taste
water
oil
1. Mix together all ingredients in a large bowl. Add 1/2 cup water to your mix, and then keep adding it by the tablespoon until it becomes a sticky batter that holds together.
2. Fill a roomy pan 3/4 of an inch deep with vegetable oil, and heat to deep frying temp. You'll know it is the right temp when a candy thermometer reaches 370 f, or a little bit of the batter sizzles when you put it in the oil.
3. Drop the batter in by tablespoons full. They shouldn't be too large, smaller than an egg is about the right size. If you put them in and they seem too big you can break them up with a spoon while frying. They'll make those tiny yummy crunchy bits that everyone likes to steal when the big bhajis are gone. Don't put too many in at once. Four or five bhajis per regular sized pan should be sufficient. Even I am guilty of crowding the pan, but this is a big mistake, because it will lower the temp of your oil and cause the batter to absorb the oil. Instead of deep frying, you'll be stuck with a sticky oily mess.
4. Flip the bhajis occasionally, so that they don't burn. You know they're done when they are a deep orange colour. Put them on a plate lined with paper towel. Enjoy!
I also tried to make burfi, but it never set. I'm not sure what I did wrong, but I decided to turn it into a tasty ice-coconut thing. It hasn't frozen yet, but I have high hopes for it.
Ender has popped another tooth today. He's such a little trooper. The last few weeks have been rough, but that little tooth gives me such a feeling of accomplishment! All our nights of tossing and turning, drooly sobbing, all of it has lead up to this. The ability to chew. It's no small feat. Despite my prodding, Ender has yet to show any interest in finger foods. The child will bring everything and anything to his mouth except foods. Which makes sense when you have no teeth. But I have high hopes that this one little tooth will change all of that. I will admit I'm going to miss making these gourmet purees, and I dread the idea of having to think of three square meals for this little person, but there's no way around it. My little man is growing up. Soon the milky sweet smell of his breath will be replaced by the smell of Doritos, his perfect baby-powder scented feet will grow and grow and grow until I tear my hair out with frustration at the number of shoes, sitting like nesting dolls, in ascending order, along the wall.
I can't wait.
An update on the Me vs. Babyhawk debacle:
The carrier still hasn't arrived. I stupidly thought that ordering directly from Babyhawk was a good idea. Definitely not. There are Canadian stores which carry Babyhawks and promise DELIVERY within a week. I ordered mine on the 27th of January. It took 12 business days to make, they tell me, and then got shipped, which can take 2 to 3 weeks. When 3 weeks expired, I e-mailed them to find out what the next steps are. Apparently 3 weeks as an outlier estimate means nothing. I was informed that I needed to 'wait'. This confuses me. What is the point of a 3 week time frame except as an indication that there is something wrong with the shipment when it takes longer than that?
The weather is turning nice, and I just want my money back so I can buy a different carrier and get out and enjoy it. The stroller, my 25 lb son, and 2 flights of stairs is too much to cope with, and I need my little man strapped to my back. I am very upset with Babyhawk. I do not recommend them, and I think they have crappy shipping policies and poor customer service. I have been waiting a month and a half, and still no one has apologised. As of Monday, I'm demanding my money back.
Figures that the first thing I ever buy online would turn out this badly.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Lotus Feet
I've been lacking inspiration lately, so I'm just going to give a rundown of the events of my past few days, so as to keep this thing alive:
On Sunday, I had plans to go to the Unitarian church. At the last minute (ie. fifteen minutes before we went out the door) I freaked out that I hadn't called in advance to find out more about their infant care that they state exists, on the website. Having never left my son in any kind of public childcare before, not even at teh gym, I was convinced that this was a valid reason not to go. My bad. So, all dressed up and with nowhere to go, we decided instead to take a trip to the Bata Shoe Museum. Mike wanted to go to the Art Gallery of Ontario, since we have a membership that was lovingly gifted as a babyshower gift almost one year ago, but we go there SO much and I'm very tired of their permanent collection. So the Shoe Museum it was!
We saw the permanent collection, which was fun, and then went up to see the chopines. Chopines, for those of you who aren't bizarro historical fashion freaks like myself, are the original platform shoe. They were popular in 16th C Italy and Spain especially, and most of the examples were from there. The Italian chopines were simple, some towering almost three feet high, and the soles were in the shape of flowers so that each step made a little flower pattern in the earth. Leave it to the Italians to turn shoes into poetry. Interesting the way women's feet are frequently referred to in terms of flowers. I'm thinking particularly of the lotus feet (bound feet) of chinese women during the turn of the century.
The shoes themselves were mostly pale leather with flowery cutouts. The Spanish chopines were of equal height, averaging, I would say, around one and a half feet, but much more richly decorated with velvet brocades. These tall shoes were a way for women to have longer, more elaborate skirts to show off. Men attempted to keep up, but mostly they wanted to be able to walk, so their shoes were more reasonably sized.
This exibit was exciting for me because A. It was my first chance to see any antiquated textiles, and B. It is my first foray into the world of historical footwear. Usually I've interested myself in what one can see, such as skirts, bodices and tunics, or what shapes the garment, like underwear. I basically overlooked footwear. I think that I will probably blame this on the fact that as a tall woman, beyond six feet tall, with what I shall call a 'generous' shoe size, I have avoided loving shoes. Isn't that sad? Because I know most shoes won't fit me anyway, I avoid following the trends, picturing them on my foot, or coveting them in magazines. There is something very stifling about shopping based on your size, as opposed to based on your preference. You could give me a room full of shoes in my size and it just wouldn't be the same as picking something out of some random magazine, tracking it down and buying it. That's probably why I love purses so much.
Turns out, it's a very important part of historical fashion. And since most historical fashion wouldn't fit me anyway, and my interest in it is about dressing other people anyway, I might as well start taking notice.
So then, on Monday, we went back to the daily grind of whatever it is we do. Then Mike had a dentist appointment today. Life is comfortably boring.
Oh, and my stupid alma mater seems to be screwing around with my transcripts AGAIN. I seriously can't get a break with these people. Sent them my transcript request on the 10th of February and the charge hasn't come off my credit card yet. I tried to call them on Friday, and it was some concocted holiday. Then again on Monday, and they had above average call volume so they just...wait for it...hung up on me! Same today. I hope I can actually talk to someone soon, because this is driving me nuts!
On Sunday, I had plans to go to the Unitarian church. At the last minute (ie. fifteen minutes before we went out the door) I freaked out that I hadn't called in advance to find out more about their infant care that they state exists, on the website. Having never left my son in any kind of public childcare before, not even at teh gym, I was convinced that this was a valid reason not to go. My bad. So, all dressed up and with nowhere to go, we decided instead to take a trip to the Bata Shoe Museum. Mike wanted to go to the Art Gallery of Ontario, since we have a membership that was lovingly gifted as a babyshower gift almost one year ago, but we go there SO much and I'm very tired of their permanent collection. So the Shoe Museum it was!
We saw the permanent collection, which was fun, and then went up to see the chopines. Chopines, for those of you who aren't bizarro historical fashion freaks like myself, are the original platform shoe. They were popular in 16th C Italy and Spain especially, and most of the examples were from there. The Italian chopines were simple, some towering almost three feet high, and the soles were in the shape of flowers so that each step made a little flower pattern in the earth. Leave it to the Italians to turn shoes into poetry. Interesting the way women's feet are frequently referred to in terms of flowers. I'm thinking particularly of the lotus feet (bound feet) of chinese women during the turn of the century.
The shoes themselves were mostly pale leather with flowery cutouts. The Spanish chopines were of equal height, averaging, I would say, around one and a half feet, but much more richly decorated with velvet brocades. These tall shoes were a way for women to have longer, more elaborate skirts to show off. Men attempted to keep up, but mostly they wanted to be able to walk, so their shoes were more reasonably sized.
This exibit was exciting for me because A. It was my first chance to see any antiquated textiles, and B. It is my first foray into the world of historical footwear. Usually I've interested myself in what one can see, such as skirts, bodices and tunics, or what shapes the garment, like underwear. I basically overlooked footwear. I think that I will probably blame this on the fact that as a tall woman, beyond six feet tall, with what I shall call a 'generous' shoe size, I have avoided loving shoes. Isn't that sad? Because I know most shoes won't fit me anyway, I avoid following the trends, picturing them on my foot, or coveting them in magazines. There is something very stifling about shopping based on your size, as opposed to based on your preference. You could give me a room full of shoes in my size and it just wouldn't be the same as picking something out of some random magazine, tracking it down and buying it. That's probably why I love purses so much.
Turns out, it's a very important part of historical fashion. And since most historical fashion wouldn't fit me anyway, and my interest in it is about dressing other people anyway, I might as well start taking notice.
Pair of Venetian Chopines we saw at the
Shoe Museum, with flower petal soles.
So then, on Monday, we went back to the daily grind of whatever it is we do. Then Mike had a dentist appointment today. Life is comfortably boring.
Oh, and my stupid alma mater seems to be screwing around with my transcripts AGAIN. I seriously can't get a break with these people. Sent them my transcript request on the 10th of February and the charge hasn't come off my credit card yet. I tried to call them on Friday, and it was some concocted holiday. Then again on Monday, and they had above average call volume so they just...wait for it...hung up on me! Same today. I hope I can actually talk to someone soon, because this is driving me nuts!
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