Dishes

My dishwasher is only washing on the bottom. I know I need to get it repaired, but I keep putting it off because I dread a big repair bill. I know, whinny first world problem. But I’m not here to whine. I’m here to say that washing dishes by hand has been lovely.

I’ve given myself over to the task, taking time to see the pattern on the plates, inhale the fresh scent of the soap, and appreciate the warmth of the water.

My husband and I washed dishes together every night in our first apartment. That was in 1984, he washed, I dried. We talked, we laughed, we flirted. We didn’t have children, we didn’t even have our first cat yet. We wondered how we would ever be able to afford a house, and all the “stuff” you needed to put in it. Dishes were romantic; our dishes, in our home. We weren’t busy yet, we always had time, especially for each other.

We washed dishes together every evening until 1993 when our son was born and we purchased our first home and our first dishwasher. We dropped hand washing without looking back. But maybe we dropped something else too without even realizing it.

We’ve had other homes since then and we certainly acquired all the “stuff” to fill them. We have two kids, two cats and a dog. The speed of life has accelerated. But the kids are much older now. I could certainly have them do the dishes. But I think I’ll invite my husband to join me instead.

 

I think they tie companionship

Slush

I just finished mopping up slush from the tile in the entrance to my home. Even if you are reading this two days or two weeks from this moment, I will likely have just finished mopping up slush again. It’s as common a chore as retrieving rogue drinking glasses from all over the house.

When I whined to my mother that no matter how big the floor mat, the boots are always just an inch or two to the left, dripping into the grout, she of course laughed. Because years ago, she had a mat and I had boots and the world had slush.

So that got me thinking about all the things that stay the same. The way sun feels through the window in the spring, the way the air smells almost sweet in April, the crack of thunder, birdsong, the taste of ketchup on a salty fry, the shape of a snow angel, the rich scent of cut grass. All these little things that were the same for our grandparents, even our great, great great grandparents.

I find that very comforting in a world that seems to change overnight. The next “version” or “update” of something is always just around the corner.

I’m warming up to the idea that women (we all know it was the women) have been mopping up slush for hundreds of years. It makes it feel more significant.

Life gets big and loose. We get so far from ourselves, let alone the distance we feel from generations before us. It’s hard to be clear about our place in the big picture. Maybe slush, sand in a sneaker, the crunch of an apple, the smell of wet mittens; the things that don’t change, are the threads that run through our lives and cinch us all together.

That being said, I’m still going shopping to buy a bigger floor mat.

Kim R.

My New Houseguest

This post appeared last week on another blog I write, so some of you may recognize it. But with so many little details on my plate today, there’s no opportunity for new thoughts. Plus recycling is good right?

I recently purchased a 112 year-old cookbook at an antique show. It was under a table, damaged and crumbling, with a six dollar price tag. I wondered about the kitchens it graced when it was crisp and white and the women who turned its pages out of culinary pleasure or daily duty.

At my own table that evening, I turned the yellow-brown pages out of curiosity. I was looking for a recipe that would drip in flavour and antique charm. Something half-pint and Ma would have whipped up for Pa after he spent a hard day being handsome and honest.

I couldn’t find much that was palatable to my 21st century tongue, in fact it was a recipe for a mushroom sandwich that began with mincing a beef tongue that made me close the cover.

So while I may not cook from it, I will give it a home. It has survived for 112 years. I’m happy to rescue it from the antique show circuit and let it rest again on a kitchen shelf. A story preserved, even if the story is nothing more than crumbling paper and my imagination.

Kim R.

And I thought I loved Chapters..

My writer friend Rhonda Douglas had this link on Facebook this morning. Click the pic to see The 20 most beautiful bookstores in the world.

Me and my Kobo

With passion worthy of a pulpit, I swore I would never buy an e-reader. It’s not a book I shouted. Books have pages that wrinkle, covers that soften and a scent as heavenly as fresh bread. Perhaps I romanticize a little, bibliophiles are like that.

If I bought one of these soulless devices I would be accelerating the demise of real books. Then wouldn’t it serve me right to finally finish my novel, buck all the odds to get it published, only to learn that my years of work would never exist in solid form. No heft or substance, just intangible pixels.

And then I bought a Kobo.

I bought one because I couldn’t afford an ipad. Ipads look like magical tablets from the future. I really wanted a magical tablet. So I thought maybe a Kobo could be a substitute the way we buy a puppy-hungry child a goldfish. I still want an ipad, but in the meantime I’ve fallen in love with my goldfish.

 

For Christmas I received a Kobo cover that looks like an old book, so I can read comfortably by the fire (I never actually do that, I usually read in bed or while waiting outside various buildings for my daughter to finish various activities). I hold the book (see, I even call it a book now) and just tap my thumb down to turn the pages (and to think I believed my life couldn’t get more sedentary).

My Kobo is with me the way some people are attached to their smart phone. My phone is usually in the pocket of something I’m not wearing.

Here’s what I love about my Kobo.

It currently holds 32 books. I go through my day with 32 books always within reach. That makes me so happy. And the number is growing.

I can borrow library books on my Kobo. No more overdue fines, the books dissolve into the ether when their time with me is through. But better still, no more turning a library book page to find a creepy stain or worse, a sticky thing you’re terrified will fall off the before you finish reading.

If I can’t find my reading glasses, instead of the frustrated hunt that takes up my reading time, I just increase the text size.

No one asks to borrow a Kobo. I don’t lend books (except to a very select few) because people often read violently (or so I assume after seeing the condition of returned books) or they read while eating melting chocolate or peanut butter. But far worse than those who sully books are the non-returners. The jolly folks who say that was such a good read I passed it to my sister, and either the sister brings it back from her beach vacation with oily sunscreen spots and an apology for leaving the dust jacket on the plane – or she passes it to her friend’s cousin and I’m left wondering the appropriateness of getting the book’s cover on a milk carton.

Of course, I will never buy my favourite authors digitally, Alice Munro, Ian McEwan, Jonathan Franzen, A.S. Byatt to name a mere few. A book like “Stories About Storytellers” by Douglas Gibson or any short story collection, is meant to slide off a shelf and be dipped into on a rainy day – maybe even by a fire.

Certain books are a part of my life. I buy them beautiful bookmarks and they surround me like a shawl as I put my words on paper.

I would be heartbroken and sad for future generations if all they had were their magic tablets. As much as I’ve fallen for my Kobo, there’s something to be said for old magic.

Kim R.

Turkey Tales

I am hosting the family Thanksgiving dinner again this year, so there is a really large turkey in my fridge.

I love turkey dinner, and I have had great success with them over the years; creamy mashed potatoes, steamed carrots, peas, rich gravy, my grandmother’s sage and onion stuffing, mince tarts and pumpkin pie. I’ve roasted many turkeys and gotten a little cocky about the whole thing.

The last time I made a turkey, my neighbour Jen popped over and asked if I had a meat thermometer she could borrow to test her own turkey’s progress. She promised to bring it right back. I assured her in my smug/humble I’m an awesome turkey roaster voice, that there was no rush, I never used it.

Let me state that I love hosting family dinners, but because my family lives in other cities, it’s usually a three day visit, not just a holiday meal. Getting ready for house guests often leaves me tired before they even arrive. I tell you this as partial explanation for what happened at that last turkey meal.

I was in the kitchen serving up the creamy potatoes, steaming carrots, etc… and my daughter was taking the plates to the dining room where my husband was carving and serving the turkey.

The last plate had left the kitchen and I turned my attention to filling a basket with warm buttery rolls. Then I sashayed into the dining room, roll basket in one hand, half empty glass of wine in the other and screamed.

My father was pouring gravy onto a piece of turkey that was baby pink and covered in ice crystals. Someone who had had more sleep and less wine would have calmly said “Oh dear,” and removed the plate. I dropped the rolls, screamed “No! Don’t eat that!” grabbed the frosty turkey in my fist, and with golden gravy oozing through my fingers, ran to the kitchen and pitched it in the sink.

There wasn’t a sound from the dining room until I burst out laughing and my terrorized family felt it was safe to take a breath. Some of the meat went into the microwave, some back into the oven. The meal was a little disjointed and not really great but we hobbled to the holiday dinner finish line. I still can’t explain my behavior any more than I can explain why my husband didn’t notice that the tender white breast he was carving was becoming turkey sushi as he got closer to the bone.

Mine isn’t the best turkey story in the family. That still belongs to my mom: Christmas dinner at least 35 years ago, the turkey tipped off the platter and bounced down the basement stairs. There are many versions of what happened next, some say we ate only vegetables that year, others claim the stuffing tumbled out of the falling turkey, while my mother insists it had already been removed to a serving bowl, others believe we gave the turkey a wipe over with paper towels and the meal went as planed, but with a little more laughter that normal.

Like a good fish tale it doesn’t matter where the truth lies. I’m sure when my fist-o-turkey story has had a few years to ripen it will include embellished details, like me tripping on a fallen roll and sliding into the cat.

Even though the goal is often a picture perfect holiday, perfection is rarely memorable. On the flip side, food poisoning is a little too memorable. So, sorry Jen, but I won’t be lending my meat thermometer this year.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Kim R.