Athletic Supporters

 

The Flyers have made it to the second round of the playoffs for the first time since 2012. They got past Montreal in round one, but now they’re duking it out with the hated New York Islanders, who are a much better team than the Habs. They’re also similarly matched with Philly—though the Flyers offense, which is more powerful on paper, would give us the edge if it was a bit more effective on the ice. We lost a meagre lead and ultimately lost game three, which shattered Basher’s confidence and means the Isles lead the best of seven series two games to one. Game four happens tonight.

I sincerely hope that Philly blows NY outta the arena.

As a pinheaded hockey fan, I wonder if the suspension of play for a couple of days messed with the Flyers’ momentum because they fought (and won) a super second game. Game three was scheduled for the very next day, then word came down that the NHL players were joining the NBA, MLS and (I think) MLB in support of their non-white teammates by suspending play for a couple of days. It’s messiest in the States right now, but systemic racism is an ongoing issue everywhere. Pro sports is as diverse an example as any—so while I may be a pinheaded hockey fan, I also applaud the players who stand in support of racial equality and justice for all.

Hockey, one may argue, isn’t that diverse given the vast majority of players are of European descent, but it’s also a very expensive sport and economic disparity is a product of systemic racism. Kids from economically disadvantaged families can’t get on the ice unless non-profits step up to help them with equipment etc. The number of non-white kids playing pro hockey is growing, but it’s almost painfully slow in comparison to other sports leagues.

How did we explain to Basher, who’d spent all day Thursday gearing up for it, why game three was cancelled on Thursday night?

The bears tend to disregard anything I tell them so Ter, being the Bear Whisperer, got down to eye level and gave Basher the news. She described the unrest and protests happening beyond our bubble, and how people are doing what they can to offer support where they can, including pro athletes. He’s a little, er, slow on the uptake, but as she talked, the other bears gradually abandoned their soccer game and gathered around to listen. Burl and Elliot are the troublemakers, but they’re also the quickest to grasp a concept. They were pretty blunt with their opinion of racist attitudes, but they are also part of a multi-hued ursine community and will notice another bear before they notice the colour of its fur. They just don’t understand social injustice or racial inequality.

They understand solidarity, though. When I got them out of bed on Friday morning, they had rallied the whole gang to the cause. I was unanimously advised to leave the soccer ball in the drawer of my nightstand. No football was played until the playoffs resumed.

Blue for Who?

 

Poor grammar in the title, I know, but bigger than that, there’s been poor language around our house of late. This past week saw our TV flipping between two channels: CBC (Hockey Night in Canada) and CNN (the Democratic National Convention). Granted, the poorest language occurred during HNIC as the Flyers tangled with the Canadiens and ultimately—by the skin of their collective teeth, by the way—won the first round. Round Two, against the hated New York Islanders, starts on Monday. This is where “poor language” will morph into full on “swears”, as Cardigan reproachfully puts it, and you just know he’s aiming the frown at me. The only time Ter uses poor language is when the goalie deserts his post in favour of playing the puck. She’s a Flyer fan by association anyway; her true heart lies in the west, with either Edmonton or Vancouver, and while she didn’t watch the Canucks’ first round, she’s happy that they’ve made it to the second. Against the defending champions, no less.

Meanwhile, over on CNN, the DNC provided an interesting diversion from hockey. I actually preferred the virtual format to the “live” conventions of yore; sure, it was a little odd seeing candidates and their advocates speaking to empty rooms but, for me, the speeches packed more punch without the distraction of a cheering, applauding, stomping, sycophantic crowd. (Let’s face it; no one at these things has come to be convinced. They’re already diehard supporters.) The Republicans get their airtime next week ... and I can’t imagine how on earth they will find enough to convince anyone in eight hours that the present incumbent deserves another term at the White House. In toe-curling fairness, they should be given equal time despite the fear of how high my BP may climb as a result. Coupled with the playoffs, the reading may spike halfway to Mars. I’m an avid orange supporter in one arena, but definitely not in the other.

Ter declared the other day that she’s keeping the blue polish on her toenails until November. With my head stuck in the bubble, I immediately commended her loyalty. “Good for you! Hoping the Canucks will go the distance, eh?”

“No,” she replied, “I’m hoping the Democrats get in!”

Priorities.

Food Porn XII

“COVID Cooking”

Enough already! I can’t eat any more and there’s no space in the freezer! And yet it seems wholly appropriate that in this tapsalteerie world, I have baked an(other) upside down cake.

It came after a crumble and two batches of cookies, and before a batch of muffins. The cookies were an experiment (plus I was bored with my tea treats): a basic cookie dough adapted for GF flour was riddled with chocolate chips and peanuts, and turned out so well that Ter and I had to do another batch to ensure the recipe would work with different add-ins. Baking is a science, after all. Chemical compounds can alter the outcome of the simplest recipe if you’re not careful. The white chocolate/cranberry dough baked up perfectly, but we’ve agreed it needs a hit of orange next time (and there will be a next time!) Maybe for Christmas, because now I have a zillion cookies to munch through. Ter isn’t a sweet fan, so I’m on my own.

The corona virus has taken us through rhubarb season. And what rhubarb! The stalks Ter’s brought from the grocery store have been two feet long, and she doesn’t skimp on the number of them, either. I’ve stewed it, roasted it, frozen it, and baked it into the aforementioned crumble. It also topped the bottom of the upside down cake, liberally dosed with chopped candied ginger and delicious with a scoop of Dulce de Leche Haagen-Daaz. Admittedly, the cake still tastes a little dusty from the GF flour. I haven’t figured out how to improve on that, but perhaps next time (and there will be a next time), I’ll put the ginger in the batter rather in than the under-topping.

The muffins were going to be “rhuberry”; that is, rhubarb and blueberry, until Ter confirmed my mental yellow alert and suggested that maybe blueberries wouldn’t be the best add-in for the rhubarb-based batter. “There are strawberries in the freezer, though,” she reminded me.

Problem solved ... you’d think.

Though whole when stirred into the batter, the strawberries melted in the oven, creating chasms in the final product. I popped a muffy from the pan and it promptly fell over on the cooling rack. They ended up topside down on the rack, which is actually more appealing than the right side up. The rhubarb compote I used in the wet ingredients has made for a weird grayish hue that cries to be hidden by some form of frosting. Maybe cream cheese?

I’m not the only one in the COVID baking groove, either. I don’t frequent the grocery store by any means, but each time I’ve accompanied Ter of late, the hunt for dark brown sugar has been futile. Flour, sugar and chocolate chips have surpassed bottled water and toilet paper as the hoarder’s supply of choice.

Just as well. I need time to consume what already exists before I crank up the hotbox once more.

maybe these have in fact been somewhat nibbled

Bibliography XIV

“The Starless Sea” – Erin Morgenstern

Beautiful imagery, enchanting vignettes, compelling story, too many twists and turns. I got lost three-quarters in and felt vaguely cheated at the end. Maybe I missed something. Maybe I expected too much—and yet the writing itself did not disappoint.

I confess, I was in a scattered state of mind when I read the book. In that respect, I disappointed myself. Still, the main storyline intercut with seemingly unrelated stories would have confused me anyway. Just as I fell into the rhythm of the protagonist’s tale, the momentum was interrupted with a story from another realm. Sensing that these unrelated fairy tales were relevant to the main theme, I trusted all would be revealed as I read deeper into the book. But in the end, I missed the point.

Don’t get me wrong. The writing is beautiful, as magical as in “The Night Circus”, but depending on the passage, there is either too much unnecessary information or not enough where necessary. I admire the author’s ability to put me in a scene where I can hear the merest whisper and smell the faintest trace of cinnamon, so I appreciated the experience of being there. I just don’t know why I was there in the first place.

Yes, I do. This is Erin Morgenstern’s second novel, and I loved her first so much that I’ve read it every Christmas since 2012. Eight years later, I still look forward to the annual delight. Expectations were high on this one; perhaps she felt the pressure and overcompensated. There is a lot of writing in this book. I think it could have been shorter and thus made more sense ... but perhaps, as I say, my expectations were too high. I just don’t know.

I will read a good book more than once. Sometimes it’s simply because I enjoyed it so much the first time. More often, it’s to get a better grip on the story itself. As with a movie, the first round is spent getting familiar with the characters, following the action and trying to predict the outcome rather than noticing nuances. Knowing how “The Starless Sea” ends (sort of), it may make more sense to me the second time.

Am I trying to avoid disliking a book I was so eager to read?

Maybe. I was so confused at the end that I couldn’t tell whether or not I liked it at all.

At least I’m willing to give it another try.

Elements

the view from my bench

One of the many magical things I’ve discovered about Esquimalt is the wilder side of Victoria’s Inner Harbour – this lovely little part of the Capital Regional District features a coastline of tiny mountaintops poking up through the ocean, gusty winds at unexpected intervals, and an up-hill/down-dale topography that provides a better workout than anything I could probably get in a gym. And the same stunning view of the Olympic mountains is as readily available here as it was from the Ocean Room.

A recent flânerie took me, with my Canon, down to Saxe Point Park, the “over the bridge” version of Beacon Hill that features far fewer flower beds and a slightly less cultivated atmosphere than my former stomping ground. I walked the park’s perimeter with the ocean on my right and the urban forest on my left, until I rounded the point and came upon a wooden bench situated with a rock rise at its back and a stunning view of the water out front. By then a rest was welcome, so I sat down on the bench and took a minute to absorb the environment. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath in, let it out, and noted:

The sun’s warmth on my face;

The air stirring in my lungs;

The rock solid beneath my feet;

The sound of water gently lapping the shore.

In short, it was a perfectly pure mindful moment in which I was acutely aware of the four main elements that makes this world so beautiful. Wood and metal were also present in the bench beneath me, but this Virgo counts them with rock in the “earth” category.

This dimension is fraught with contrast. Life is not designed to be easy, but our loving, friendly and generous Universe has provided a glorious venue in which to find respite from the human experience. All we have to do is pay attention to it, and to ourselves. We are connected to the earth in ways we don’t fully comprehend, yet that moment on the bench at Saxe Point defined my connection more keenly than any book or documentary ever could.

It must have done, because I’ve remembered it.

Knighty Night

Looking for something to watch one Saturday evening, we landed on A Knight’s Tale. It’s one of our favourite movies, guaranteed to make us laugh and cheer and all the other warm fuzzy things aroused by an entertaining story wherein an ordinary man overcomes all odds to become a champion. It’s bright, it’s funny, it’s touching, it’s loud; except for a bit of clunky writing in one spot, it’s the perfect popcorn period piece.

“I love that film,” one of us remarked when it was done.

“Me too,” the other replied. “We should do another one next weekend.”

“A knight film?” Since we have a number of them in our DVD library, it seemed a theme might be fun. We began listing titles—King Arthur (starring, appropriately enough, Keira Knightley, bwahahaha), Kingdom of Heaven, Excalibur, even The Court Jester, which led to a round of terrible puns that left us breathless with more laughter:

“Saturday Knight at the Movies.”

“Saturday Knight Fever.”

“Give Me the Knight.”

“Knights in White Satin.”

“Knight of the Iguana.”

“One Knight in Bankok.”

Okay, most of them are song titles, but you get the idea. King Arthur was screened the following week, and Kingdom of Heaven ran last Saturday. Excalibur may be up next, but while pondering further possibilities, I asked Ter if Jedi knights count; if so, the Star Wars saga will prolong the theme for a couple more months. And I almost forgot: Monty Python and the Holy Grail!

It’s likely no coincidence that I am currently writing a story about knights returning from the Crusades, but I do wonder which came first, the story idea or the movie theme. Whichever it was, something has sparked the creative impulse and on my week off, I intend to make it count.

Count. Hm. Ter and I toyed with viewing vampire movies before “knights” fell. Perhaps our next round starts with Dracula ...

Survival of the Flittest

not our visitor, alas

For weeks, Ter has talked about getting a hummingbird feeder. She’s ventured out specifically to get one more than once, but the line ups to get into Canadian Tire are around the block before opening time these days – you’d think the Leps were coming to town but no, it’s probably because the corona lockdown has everyone engaged in knocking home improvement projects off the honey-do list. The backyard will be the primary vacation spot this summer, so get that garden in order!

I digress.

Finally, Ter found a feeder somewhere else and brought it home, where it sat for a few more weeks on the table in a corner, cooking, as my grandfather said when asked why his new suit still hung, unworn, six weeks after purchase. (It must be genetic. I do the same thing; a new shirt is not new if it’s been hanging in my closet for a month before I wear it to work.)

I digress again.

The hummingbird feeder is a tribute to Mum, who enjoyed watching the little guys congregate around the feeder outside her window back in the day, therefore it seemed appropriate that ours be installed in time for Mother’s Day. A sack of sucrose crystals was purchased along with the feeder, so on the Friday preceding, Ter and I followed the instructions by washing out the feeder, mixing up the syrup (wincing slightly at the cherry Kool-Aid colour), and affixing some picture wire from which to hang the contraption on our little balcony.

Oh, yeah. The balcony. Well, the floor of said balcony is angled to allow for drainage when it rains (and when it rains in Esquimalt, it rains); setting the step stool in place took some finagling before finding a relatively flat surface. My balance is pretty good, but while a tumble over the railing from the second floor likely wouldn’t kill me, I’d rather not go there. With Ter at my back and the rail at my knees, up I went to hitch the feeder to its hook.

Ta da! Not a problem!

Within twenty minutes, we had our first customer, a sizeable-for-the-species specimen who stopped by to sample from three of the four ports before zipping off to wherever hummingbirds go after topping up their tanks. The same (?) fellow came by a few more times before nightfall, and has made periodic visits every day since. We don’t always catch him in the act, and the liquid level hasn’t dropped a whole lot, but he’s definitely around. And when the season ramps up, I hope to see a frequent flurry of the little guys. In fact, I’m inclined to sit quietly in a corner and watch for them – a meditative moment with Nature. And who knows? If I have the Canon with me, I might even get a picture. “See that little blur ... ?”

Come and get it, boids!