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.

Trees

It’s crazy how happy that little red leaf makes me. It’s hanging on the little Sunset Maple I bought about a week ago. It’s the only backyard tree on my side of the street.

When we decided to move to this neighbourhood, we chose our lot and house from sketches and projections of the future neighbourhood. Distant future. While picking bathroom tile and kitchen pot lights, we gave no thought to life without trees. We should have. I really miss the trees from my old neighbourhood.

A few years back in Oakville Ontario, Joyce Burnell heard that a 250 year old white Oak tree was going to be cut down to make way for a road. She decided to try to save it. Maybe because she was 86 at the time and understood that there is beauty in age, something worth celebrating not casting aside.

She was told by city council that if she could raise the $343,000 to divert the road the tree could be saved. Through corporate donations, fundraisers, benefit concerts, and Burnell’s complete dedication to the cause, she succeeded.

It’s not unusual for a save-the-tree story to pop up on the nightly news from time to time. People like trees. In fact, William Sullivan, associate professor at the University of Illinois, who studies the effects of nature on human functioning, has found that we actually need trees.

He says that over the course of our evolution, an empty landscape would be cause to feel anxious. Having a tree provides shade and shelter, a gauge for distances, and a landmark for feeling oriented in our surroundings. His studies have shown that trees still create a sense of calm and relieve mental fatigue, in a way that nothing else does. He says that regular contact with trees can strengthen communities and even increase our satisfaction with our lives.

But there is an interesting twist to the Joyce Burnell story that leaves me wondering if the trees benefit from our presence as well.

Not long after she saved the tree, it began to produce seeds, after years and years of not doing so. It was, after all, 250 years old. Likely long past the tree equivalent of a hot flash.

Those seeds were collected and nurtured by a conservation association. Last spring Joyce Burnell died at age 90. This fall, 500 little trees, offspring of the tree she saved, will be available to plant.

Maybe when I sit by my maple, the calm, happy energy, flows both ways.

Kim R.

Fall

I’ve been eyeing my flannel sheets every time I open the linen closet. It’s the cheery snowman pattern that makes me decide it’s still too soon. But it won’t be long.

Last June I welcomed summer. I wrote that summer was a hippie in Jesus sandals, a popsicle coloured, coconut scented time of late nights and simplicity. But hippies tend to be irresponsible, and the late nights take their toll. Luckily Fall always shows up with a warm pie and a plan to put life back on track. Fall is your friend’s cool mom.

Fall drinks full bodied wine and eats soft cheese on warm baguette. Fall sleeps in a little on Saturdays, and then bakes cinnamon buns.

Fall cleans Summer’s pantry of ketchup chips and gummy worms and fills it with nuts and dense whole grain breads.

Fall is children in bright white running shoes and stiff jeans. A transition to new grades, new schools and new resolve. Even if you haven’t sat in a classroom in 30 years you buy new pens.

Fall has plans to stick to a budget, and watch portion size. It’s hopeful and enthusiastic without New Year’s desperation and official resolutions. Fall plans healthy meals while secretly anticipating the mini chocolate bars at the end of October.

Fall is fading light while you clean up the kitchen, tea on the front steps with someone you love and new episodes of 30 Rock and The Office.

Fall sounds like distant trains and smells like wood smoke. It tosses aside Summer’s trashy novels, and reads something thick and thoughtful while stew simmers on the stove.

Summer is still here for now, sleeping on a deck chair, but it pulls a blanket to its chin in the mornings. We’ve had a wonderful time but I need to buy some pens.

Kim R.

50

I was inspired by the classic I AM CANADIAN rant to stand up and claim my new status.

I don’t wear Mom jeans

or a fanny pack.

I don’t say “The Twitter”

or leave my turn signal on (all the time).

I don’t pee when I laugh,

unless it was something really really funny.

I have friends, not a social media network.

I don’t use abbreviations in my facebook status,

except LOL, which I use a lot.

I can proudly do The Hustle, The Bump and The Worm.

I remember VHS vs. Beta,

Avocado vs. Harvest Gold,

and pink, blue and green toilet paper.

Email is not an “old” technology. Reality is not found on TV

And is it just me, or is it really hot in here?

I’m at the tail end of the largest demographic.

The last generation to remember rotary phones

and home perms.

My name is Kim Reynolds and I AM FIFTY!

So this is it

So this is it. The last day of my 40’s. How am I marking the day? Imagine a 70’s soundtrack and slow-motion video montage of me dying my roots, slathering peppermint cream on my heels and using a cover-stick until I look like a headhunter on Gilligan’s Island. (The photo above is from the show, not my mirror, but the only difference is the chunky jewelry).

For the last few months, like The Grinch and his Christmas plot, I thought if I resisted turning 50 I could avoid the whole event. But thanks to the good people over at Coca-Cola, I’ve had a change of heart.

I went to see several movies this summer and before each one, I saw that peppy Coke commercial with teenagers jumping on their beds, playing air guitar, drinking coke and being excited about the future. (You can watch it here).

The first time I saw it I thought, those kids are on the brink of everything, anything is possible. And there I was, in my theatre seat, on the brink of popcorn bloat and menopause.

But like most nostalgia, I was focusing on the glossy good stuff. Those kids are also on the brink of : What should I study? Where should I study? Will it lead to a job? Should I get married? Who should I marry? Is he/she the one? Should we have kids? Can we afford a home? Will we have enough money for the future? Is our child OK? Should I work or stay home? Can I afford to stay home? Do I even want to stay home? How do I find childcare I can trust and afford? Why do we fight all the time? Will I ever sleep again? Should I have taken the other job? How can we afford the car repair? Will the roof last another year? Why are there Cheerios in my bed? To hell with the coke, where’s the wine?

And while the last 30 years were really wonderful and full of great memories, I kinda like knowing that it has all turned out well. Life is good. If anything, I should feel compassion for those innocent Coke kids jumping on the bed. (Do they have any idea how much a bed frame costs?)

So tomorrow morning, when despite my best efforts, the Who’s down in Whoville gather to sing “The old grey mare she ain’t what she used to be”, I’ll take out my cover-stick, slather my heels and get on with it.

Wine, books and backgammon

Ghosts

It’s been a lovely summer so far. We’ve had BBQs and afternoons with a bottle of wine and soft cheeses. I’ve been having a Harry potter marathon with my daughter before we go see the final movie. I’ve read some good books, laughed with some friends. I have only one complaint. I haven’t heard a screen door slam. A red wooden screen door, warped and banging shut thanks to a rusty coil spring; each thwack calling up ghosts.

My favourite is the ghost of my grandfather, sitting all day at the chipped turquoise table on the screened porch of a long ago cottage. He’s listening to baseball on the radio, tapping his pipe full of Captain Black cherry tobacco. Forty years ago he wasn’t a ghost. He was there when I ran by with a popsicle, the door banging behind me. He was there as we all trailed in with wet towels and sandy feet. He was there with his watery blue Irish eyes and deep leathery tan, as the sun set and mosquitoes bumped against the screen and we played hours of crazy eights.

I wish my kids could have known him. It’s hard to share a ghost. The details of his life, the handful of stories, are only that, details and stories. He was so much more.  He was granddad on the porch in summer, who thought I was wonderful. And that’s how I feel every time a screen door slams.

Kim R.

Dancing like Sam B

I’m back. The recent troll has been subdued. Of course there is a beady eyed toad that reminds me I haven’t posted here in two weeks. But I have been working, slowly, on THE NOVEL. My intention to blog daily was born of insanity and die-hard optimism. I’m going to shoot for twice a week.

In my defense, because I always have one, the last two weeks have been filled with birthdays, graduations, end of school parties, even national holidays that require me to drink hard lemonade. I went on a perfect summer day picnic with my husband, daughter and dog, that I wouldn’t trade for any number of completed manuscript pages.

Until routines get back to normal in September getting to everything will be a challenge. Because while my impending 50^th (46 days) fills me with a sense of urgency, I’ve also wisely learned that every chance to enjoy a present moment should be taken. Of course that doesn’t mean watching TV. Unless it’s America’s Got Talent.

Don’t judge me. It’s the perfect show for me right now, and the only TV I’m allowing myself this summer, (unless the new season of Mad Men starts in August).

America’s got talent is an inspiring show. Yes some people are delusional, but how do I know I’m not? They have a dream, something they love to do and they are willing to stand on a stage in front of millions and say “This is me.” Am I really doing anything different here, sitting in the puddle of my manuscript? Don’t I wish my blog had a million subscribers?

So while I giggled at 32 year old Sam B who wants to be a dancer despite being overweight and untrained, he made it to the next round. And the round after that. Who knows how far he’ll go. Who knows how far any of us can go if are willing to risk the judges, the trolls and the beady eyed frogs.

So far, I’ve polished 16,935 words of my novel to the best of my current ability. On to my own next round.

Kim R

And also trolls

There I was, merrily traveling down the road to writing life recovery, working on this blog, recommitted to my novel, feeling that maybe I’d survive the emotional crisis of turning 50 in 60 days, when I picked up a book and unleashed the nasty troll that lives in my head.

The book was and also sharks a collection of short stories by Jessica Westhead. I read the first three stories yesterday, they were fresh and quirky and spoke to the longing and sadness that nests in ordinary everyday struggles. I was really enjoying the collection until the troll grabbed the book and started taunting me.

In 1992 I took a week long course at Humber College School of writing. I was 31 years old, married, working as an editor at weekly newspaper. I took a week off work and went to learn about writing fiction, my passion. The roster of writing teachers was very impressive, Margaret Atwood, Peter Carey, Howard Engel, Richard Wright, Barry Callaghan…. My teacher was Jane Urquhart.

Jessica Westhead was one of my classmates. She was 17 years old.

When I left that course I was really pumped. In fact I was so bursting with creative energy I was pregnant a month later. Life got busy.

So the troll had a field day waving Jessica’s book in my face, “Isn’t she a full 14 years younger than you? Look what’s she’s accomplished. She also wrote a novel didn’t she? It’s probably really good. How’s your novel coming along? Still getting back in the saddle? Maybe you should just shoot the damn horse and give us all a break.”

He tried to get me say mean things about Jessica. But I wouldn’t. I remembered her being a lovely person, open, generous and yes, talented.

The troll did succeed in getting me to say mean things to myself. In fact he had my confidence cowering under a blanket. Eventually my backbone showed up, drove the troll back under a bridge, and made my confidence a cup of tea.

It’s hard to accept sometimes, that we have to travel our own road at our own speed.

Swerving around the trolls.

Kim R

Showers

Why do all the best ideas come in the shower? Whenever I have something I’m worried about or puzzling about, having a shower often invites a solution in a sudden flash of inspiration. This has been happening more since I recommitted to my novel. I keep a notebook and pen just outside the shower so I can jot down an idea or line of dialogue before it slithers down the drain.

But do you know what idea wasn’t a sudden flash of genius? Glass shower stalls. Who thought that was wise? It had to be either a guy of any age or a woman under 22.

I have one of these things. Cleaning it is a nuisance, but that’s the least of my worries. Before I stand naked in a glass box I have to lock the bathroom door. But before doing that, I have to lock the bedroom door. Which I do after I’ve put crime scene tape at the bottom of the stairs, to keep people off the second floor of the house.

Occasionally the dog wanders in before the lock down. She sits on the fuzzy bath mat staring at me, head slightly tilted. I know she’s wondering if I’m some sort of human/Shar pei crossbreed.

I went for years not having a shower at all. When I was 13 or 14 the shower in our home started to drip into the basement. My father decided it would be better to become bath people than to open up the bathroom wall and get the leaky pipe fixed. When I moved out in my early 20’s and no longer had to crouch under a bath faucet to wash my hair, I felt as Homo erectus must have felt lifting it’s knuckles out of the dirt and standing under a waterfall.

Years later my dad had to fix the shower so he could sell the house. I’m surprised that by then my parents didn’t look like misshapen elves.

Kim R