On the Fine Art of Eating Grapefruit

'Tis the season for Texas Pink Grapefruit. I only just found out from a friend who spent some time in Texas that this is the superior variety of grapefruit. I was oblivious to grapefruit quality, previously; I don't eat them that often, so didn't appreciate that it's only now, in winter, that they're as good as this. But now I know. Texas Pink- too delicious.

We're not big grapefruit eaters in this house (hence my ignorance). I was first introduced to grapefruit-eating as a child in Germany, by an uncle of mine. He had spent some time in England and had learned to appreciate English Breakfast there, with its obligatory citrus fruit. Now, I'm thinking, in retrospect, they must have been a very different variety than the lovely Texas Pinks. Like Onkel taught us, we always smothered the top of the grapefruit half with a thick layer of sprinkled-on sugar- and yes, I had a very sweet tooth (okay, okay, I still do), but the grapefruit must have been considerably more sour and bitter, as well; doing that to a Texas Pink would be an abomination.

Now, as to The Fine Art of Grapefruit Eating. Start with one, lovely, round, pink Texas grapefruit (you can substitute other varieties, but it won't be quite the same). Take a sharp knife- I find a serrated bread knife works nicely, but actually, I just use those because there's usually one sitting around on the counter when I do this part of the process. Slice the grapefruit in half, right across its fat little belly. Get a spoon. It has to be a smallish spoon, teaspoon-sized, with a slender bowl and fairly pointy tip- the opposite of an egg spoon, in fact ("The Fine Art of Boiled-Egg Eating" will be another chapter in our series How to Eat Breakfast: The Artistic Way). Now carefully examine the cut surface of your grapefruit, admiring its luscious rosy-orange hue and juicy delectability as you do so. What you are looking for is the perfect starter segment. It has to be large enough to dig your spoon into without crushing the neighbouring segment, but you don't want it too large- the largest one is better saved for a later point in the process. You also don't want it to be situated directly next to a very small segment. Now, being right-handed, I eat my grapefruit in a counter-clockwise direction (I suppose left-handed people might go clockwise? If you are a Left-handed Texas Pink Grapefruit Appreciator, do let me know your grapefruit-eating rotation- it might be a valuable contribution to science.). So I make sure that the segment to the right of my starter point is the right size and shape to be suitable to its role of "last segment eaten". If it's too small, you can't get it out without crushing it, and that would be a shame. So, you have determined your starter point, your oh-so-suitable spoon is poised over the sparkling jewel-like surface- and you plunge in. With a careful twist of the spoon, at just the right point, your first bite comes loose. Aaah- an explosion of flavour, tartness and sweetness vying for your attention- grapefruit at its finest. Chew, swallow. Now, with the flat side of the spoon, carefully loosen the membrane that used to separate the next segment from the one you've just savoured. Pull it aside. Then wedge the spoon behind the next slice, and gently lever it out. Aaah- an explosion of... (oh, never mind). So you gradually lever-and-explode your way around the whole circle, counter- or clockwise as it suits you, until you come to the last piece, which you just sort of dig out- levering won't work any more because there's nothing to brace the spoon against. Okay, so now there's just one more thing to do: get a large spoon, like a soup spoon. Pour into it all that lovely juice which has puddled in the bottom of your grapefruit half- the more skillfully you've levered, the less juice there'll be- and tip it down your throat. Aaah- an explosion... (yeah, whatever).

Life, the Universe, and Texas Pink Grapefruits. Tune in next time to our series How to Eat Breakfast: The Artistic Way, as we explore the crunch and crumble of "The Perfect Piece of Toast".

February

Yesterday, dear people, was St Brigid's Day. Also Groundhog Day, Imbolc, and Candlemas, which, I think, really all amount to the same thing: they're the half-way point between Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox.

Groundhog Day is when the groundhog comes out of his hole, does a tap dance on Bill Murray's head, and if he (the groundhog, not Bill Murray) goes back into his hole we'll know that "Groundhog Day" will still be available in video stores at the end of this year. Imbolc is a heathen festival invented by the Celts, and I'm sure it had something to do with fertility (those heathen festivals usually do). Nowadays we shun said heathen customs on account of their irreligiousness (Easter eggs, anyone?). Candlemas is a much more religious holiday, where, umm- I'm not sure. But I do know that it had something to do with lights, and candles, and that it was the day when European farmers made or renewed contracts with their labourers, way back in half-past-celtic times. And St Brigid's- well, St Brigid (the Irish one, not the Swedish one- the latter has a "d" in her name, supposedly) was the counterpart to St Patrick. I thought I'd read somewhere that they were actually close companions and friends, sort of like Saints Francis and Claire, but I guess I got that wrong. She started a couple of convents, a men's and a women's one, in Kildare, Ireland, and was- get this- an actual bishop. I guess they were a little more open-minded in the 6th century. And then, Wikipedia says, "[w]hen dying, Brigid was attended by Saint Ninnidh, who was afterwards known as 'Ninnidh of the Clean Hand' because he had his right hand encased with a metal covering to prevent it ever being defiled, after being the medium of administering the last rites to 'Ireland's Patroness'." Now I'm wondering where the term "ninny" comes from.

I like feast days, don't you? I think we don't celebrate nearly enough in this day and age. So I don't rightly care what yesterday was called, or what you did to keep it, or even if the feast day was exactly yesterday (some say St Brigid's is actually on Feb. 1st, not 2nd. Whatever.). Pull up a holiday, and celebrate it.

Life, the Universe, and Groundhog Day. Happy Celebrating!

Energy

"Snow Guilt (n): the reluctance to admit to one's enjoyment of a beautiful snowfall if one is not the person who usually shovels the driveway."
Today, I'm having a quite serious case of snow guilt. Because the view outside is very beautiful, and there is no way I would be able to get the car out of the driveway later today if the guys hadn't done the shovelling at seven o'clock this morning. It's their energy that allows me to enjoy the wonderful white vista outside my window.

Which makes me think of the issue of energy. This is my first week "not working", and I'm digging into my house, sorting, cleaning, cooking, baking... All stuff that's been on the back burner for, well, about a year. Most of my energy- mental, emotional, and even physical energy- has gone into my job; now that that's gone, I can spend it on other matters.

And doing all this, it's making me realize that everything we do, everything that happens, comes with a price tag. Everything costs. And in a lot of cases, the cost is energy- my energy. There's this lovely ideology around about how much better it is to do homemade-everything; after all, it's FREE- right? "Don't use your dryer- it's better for the clothes, for the environment, and for your pocketbook!" Uh, yeah, but I pay for it with my energy. "Grow your own vegetables- it's organic, local food, great exercise, and soo much cheaper!" Uh, yeah, except for the cost of my energy and time. "Don't take the car; walk or ride a bike- it's healthier, better for the environment, and cheaper!" Uh, yeah... All of those things, they're healthier, cheaper, better for the environment- and it's human energy, my energy, that pays for it.

And my point is not that these things aren't healthier and cheaper and all that, but that we often discount the energy they take- we discount the cost. Human energy is not even factored into the equation; it's like it's value-less, worthless. Earth energy is valuable (which is a fairly new attitude, globally speaking, and needs more work yet); money is valuable; but human energy is not. And that leads to all kinds of issues- burnout being one of them, and perpetual guilt for some of us...

However. I'd better go and excavate the bird feeder from its featherbed of snow, so the juncos and rosy finches can get at the sunflower seeds. Watching them hop around under the balcony table, searching through the seed husks for something edible, just makes me feel guilty again- and that's a guilt that's easily assuaged, with very little energy expense. As for snow guilt, perhaps I can just let go of it- or better yet, I think I'll convert it to Snow Gratitude: the enjoyment of the beauty of a snowfall amplified by the appreciation of the energy spent by others on shovelling the driveway.

Life, the Universe and Snow Days. It's all in how you look at it.

Stinkbugs and Violets

Stinkbugs. There's stink-frickin'-BUGS in my kitchen! In January! When it's MINUS FIVE outside! Well, yeah, that's why they're inside. It's too chilly for them out there. I hate stinkbugs. They sound like helicopters when they're in flight, and if you touch them, they smell like, well, stinkbugs, with overtones of banana and apple (the delicate nose of chiquita and mackintosh, blended to create the indescribable aroma of a slightly deranged chemist's laboratory, reminiscent of autumn, old socks, and the cat's last accident on the couch cushions. Suggested pairings are... No, let's not go there). Needless to say, you can't squash them to get rid of them. Don't crush 'em, flush 'em. Many-a-one has met its watery grave in the whirlpool of my toilet.

Out-of-season wildlife in the kitchen. There are lots of things that occur out of season, or in places where they don't belong or don't fit, aren't there. (This is where I wax philosophical- don't say you haven't been warned.) Someone once said that the definition of a weed is "a plant that grows in the wrong place." I had a neighbour once who, with a passion, ripped up sweet violets, because they were too vigorous about invading her flowerbeds; she thought they were a horrible weed. Unfortunately, I didn't find out in time, or I would have transplanted them to mine; where sweet violets are concerned, the more the better (just ask Eliza Doolittle, she'll tell you the value of voy-lets). On the other hand, I wage an unceasing, albeit losing, battle against the alfalfa which insists on growing all over my property, whereas a friend of mine would love to have it on hers to feed her critters. And I do grow alfalfa in jars on my kitchen counter- but only to a length of a couple of centimeters, so as to then devour it spread between slices of bread slathered with mayonnaise. Everything in its place. Violets in my flowerbeds (but not my neighbour's), alfalfa in my sandwiches (but not my garden). It's all a matter of perspective.

I just ran across an excellent quote which expresses something along those same lines: "Whether you are regarded as disabled or gifted depends largely on when and where you were born." It's from Thomas Armstrong's new book Neurodiversity: Discovering the Extraordinary Gifts of Autism, ADHD, Dyslexia, and Other Brain Differences. Disabled or gifted- quite. Weed or violet? Stinkbug or...?

No, sorry, that's where the analogy breaks down. I don't think there is a desirable side to stinkbugs. I certainly don't think they would be any good in sandwiches. And now we'll have to wait until spring to find out, because I sincerely hope the one that just took a ride in the whirlpool was the last one I'll see until then.

Life, the Universe, Stinkbugs and Violets. It's all a matter of perspective.

Yorick

May I introduce Yorick? Everyone, Yorick; Yorick, Everyone. My youngest son gave him to me for my birthday, and my oldest son, when contemplating the naming of this new addition to my menagerie, said "You should call him Yorick!" Of course, he was absolutely correct. So now that you've been introduced, when someone mentions the name Yorick, you can say: "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio." But that's only if you have a friend named Horatio, and he happens to be around at that moment.

It's the third Day of Christmas as I write this, and I can't remember what my true love is meant to have given me to go with the partridge in the pear tree and whatever-it-is that comes on Day Two, neither of which I received in my stocking. But that's okay. He probably wouldn't like roast partridge, anyway, and while a pear tree would be really neat to have, around here, we'd have to spray it for codling moth, which is inconvenient. (I just found out that where I live, if you have fruit trees and you're not certified as an organic grower, you're legally obligated to spray your trees. If you don't, the fruit tree police can come and chop them down and send you the bill. Ugh. I guess it makes sense, in a way- but it still rather destroys the illusion of the healthy and natural country life.) Oh, and no, I wouldn't keep the partridge as a pet, either; I believe they're about as intelligent as quail. And I have a hard enough time keeping the cats under control in the house as is; one is trying to climb on my keyboard as I type - a partridge added to the mix doesn't bear thinking of.

So now that the Christmas festivities are past, and we're all laying about, groaning from having overeaten turkey, and still overeating chocolate and brownies and cookies and pie, it's time to start thinking of the new year. I have this fantasy that I'm going to do all kinds of fascinating and productive activities in 2011 - more gardening, say. I long ago learned that most of the green-thumb genes that came from my grandmothers went to my sister, with not much left for me (another illusion down the drains). But I still enjoy grubbing around in the dirt, even if the resulting harvest is less than spectacular. And my favourites are my herbs. There is something incredibly satisfying in running out the back door while the spaghetti sauce bubbles on the stove and quickly grabbing a few sprigs of oregano, thyme, parsley and chives to add to the blend; the flavour of fresh herbs is incomparable. The turkey stuffing this year contained fresh-picked sage, and the parsley I had to dig out from under the snow where it was nicely pre-frozen.

Life, the Universe, Yorick and Parsley. Enjoy the twelve days of Christmas!

2:00 AM

It's 2:00 AM, and I just downloaded Eat, Pray, Love for my ebook reader. No, really, I did. I needed that book today. Especially the part where Liz is up at 2:00 AM, making life-changing decisions. No, I'm not going to walk out on my husband- it took me far too long to get used to him, and get him used to me. A good thing shouldn't be given up that easily, especially if it continues being a good thing (and this one is an excellent one).

But there are parts of my life that need to be given up at 2:00 AM. Namely, my library job. It's taken a year-and-a-half of my life. I've loved this job; it was perfect. To start with. Then I learned how to do it, and the perfection wore off. And the last few months have been, well, to put it bluntly, mostly a drag. I loved the parts where I got to deal with the customers. I especially loved it when my job was the venue for meeting my neighbours- the people who've lived on my street for as long as I have, and I'd never talked to before. I've also loved the parts when I got to deal with kids, got to read storybooks to preschoolers, be silly with puppets (I do that well, even if I say so myself), bring my guitar and sing "Puff the Magic Dragon" to them, or booktalk "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader" and leave the school kids with a cliff hanger just as the sea serpent is about to crush the ship. I've loved recommending Miss Read to the lady who likes gentle romantic fiction, and Ngaio Marsh to the one who prefers Golden Age mysteries. I've thoroughly enjoyed talking about watercolour painting with the art gallery organizer, and about reading skills with the dad who brings in his young boy to encourage his learning.

But then it got lonely. I'm by myself for most of the time. Handing out internet passes to the fruit pickers who came swarming in in the summer got boring; shelving and re-shelving books got tedious; getting stressed about finding the time to reorganize the Junior Fiction became a pain. Even thinking of themes for displays lost its charm, and became yet another "have-to".

So I think it's time to move on. There are other fish to fry- or sauté, boil, bake, or barbeque. And other fish-fryers who could do a better job than I, I think. My customers can do without me. And, what's more important, my kids cannot. The job was wonderful for the time being, but it took me away from my family. When I enjoyed it, it actually benefitted all of us. I was a happier mother, more capable of doing what I needed to do. But now, it's making me a cranky mother, an unavailable mother. I snap at the kids when I come home from work because I'm so tired. I drink too much in order to relax, so when I go to bed I can actually drop off to sleep. I've put on weight from eating too many empty carbohydrates, because I don't have time to cook and eat a proper dinner every night. It's time for a change.

And, just like Elizabeth Gilbert experienced, there's the voice that speaks, clearly and unequivocally:
Go back to bed.

Batwing Returns

Have you ever noticed that Life has no sense of appropriateness? It mixes the deadly serious with the absurd without even an attempt at apology. Well, I figure if Life can do it, perhaps I could get away with it, as well.

You know the saying that "History Repeats Itself"? It does, oh boy, does it ever. Hence Remembrance Day, because if we remember, perhaps there are certain aspects of history, the ones that really matter, we might not be doomed to live over again. At least that is our hope and prayer.

But then there are other aspects that we seem to be unable to get away from. I was looking at the Sears catalogue this morning, and noticed that the batwing sleeve is making a comeback. (What can I say; that's where I get my fashion info. I'm a geek.) Wow, a style I recognize! And then the realization burst on me that, just for once, I'm already ahead of the game! I hotfooted it to the basement, crawled into the storage space under the stairs (something smells down there. A dead mouse, perhaps?), and pulled out the box labelled "handmade sweaters". And sure enough, it was in there: the batwing sweater that my grandmother knitted for me about twenty-five years ago, the last time batwings were in style. Yes, I know this dates me; but if you haven't figured out yet what the "1967" in my blog address means, anyway, I'm not going to spell it out for you.

And yes, this was the very grandmother I mentioned in my last post. By the time I knew her, her black hair had gone all grey. She was an inveterate knitter, but only ever on weekdays- knitting was work, and so not to be done on Sundays. I don't know how many sweaters she made for me and her seven other grandchildren; I can think of at least five for me during my teen years alone. One of them had a gorgeous fair isle pattern around the neck and shoulders and cuffs. My sister got the same one, the colours in reverse of mine; hers had a white body with the pattern in navy blue and burgundy; mine was the dark navy in the body with the white and burgundy on the pattern. Oma said she'd never knit with a yarn that dark again; trying to see the stitches was really hard on her eyes. I remember feeling vaguely guilty about that, as it was my sweater... It was a beautiful sweater; I wore it a lot. I believe I wore it out or outgrew it, which is why I no longer have it.

But I kept the batwing one. And now I'll be in style again for a little while. Or maybe my daughter might wear it, if she wants; she's the same age now as I was when Oma made it for me. History repeats itself, and sometimes, that's a good thing. But please- please!- let's not bring back the mullet. It was a bad hairstyle in the 80's, and wouldn't be any better today. That's one case where history had best be forgotten.

Oh, and one more thing: I did still get a poppy to wear this year, for the first time. And I was glad to wear it.