tollipop

the price of imperfection

On the way home from church today the girls and I tried to decide how crazy we could get with our afternoon and the thing we finally hit upon, crazier than every other idea, was to make fudge.  

Yes, fudge.

Don't tell me putting butter, sugar, cream, and syrup into one pot isn't asking for trouble.

Especially if you do it my way.

Did it turn out?  

No.  Not really.

Listen, dear reader.  Being absentminded is not for the faint of heart.  

If you're going to refuse to follow a recipe, if you're going to launch into the making of fudge without a candy thermometer, harboring contempt for certain ingredients (maple syrup...hello?  you belong on pancakes), timing it so you have to take a break in between to conduct your church choir for an hour when you should, in fact, be finishing what you started, then guess what?

You are going to fail.  You're going to take it on the chin.  

There are probably loads of clichés out there about how failure is the unwitting springboard to some new and totally unforeseen success.  

This much I know: they were never devised by someone who can make fudge.

But consider for a moment: who could've guessed the fallout from my doomed fudge attempt would yield these pretty lollies??

(No, I'm not saying that with a straight face.  I know failure when I see it.) 

What can I tell you, dear reader?  This is not my first time at the rodeo.  I'm no stranger to playing chicken with a recipe.  If you're going to live life on the edge, as I do, if you're going to opt for the hardcore daze, then you'd better get ready for the consequences.  You'd better brace yourself for some ruined fudge and count your blessings if that's the worst you ever know.  

Only don't actually count them, your blessings.  Just round to the nearest ten.

But if, on the other hand, you happen to like the sound of this, if you're okay with succeeding only some of the time, if you think you have what it takes to be as daringly incompetent as I am, then here is the application for my club.  

If you end up losing it before you forget to fill it out, that's how you know you're in.  

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p.s.  One more thing...I was recently nominated for an award at Apartment Therapy...in the category of Best Family and Kids blog.  Oh, how that makes me cringe!  How that makes me wonder!  I'm surprised Tollipop has not been arrested and locked in the pillories by now...do they not screen?  Do they not check for content?!

But I will say I was sincerely touched by the gesture.  And it reminded me it's been a long time since I thanked you for coming here to visit.  It means a lot to think you find my words worth reading.  

I really am working on that novel, by the way.  I don't know what will happen, it makes me nervous to speculate. I'm not even sure I can get it done.  Writing a novel: it seems like such a brash claim.  But I am in the process and enjoying it very much.

If it ever does gets done, this blog and your encouragement will be part of the reason it happened.  

Thank you for coming here. xx

over a gloomy weekend

Instant little sisters!  

We find them in the garden when it rains, beneath the mushrooms.

Other discoveries, though delightful, must stay outside.

The girls persist in making sugar cookies.

So I am stuck eating those.

This time, however, I supervised the concoction of the icing.  I like my icing to be prim, modest, and demure.  

But just my icing.  Nothing else.

The application of sprinkles, as it happened, went unchecked.  

So much for modesty.

A spooky run.  The Dementors were breeding and one tried to kiss me so I conjured up my Patronus, which is a tiny talking turtle.  

They gobbled him like he was a brussel sprout.

Note to self:  next time, conjure a bigger Patronus.

A blue girl, perfect for this weather.

A frail invalid, also perfect for this weather, though I wish she felt better.

We are reading Varjak Paw, by the way...someone here recommended this book and Caroline is exceedingly grateful!

A visit with a favorite auntie who radiates goodness and love.

And a coat I rarely have the nerve to pull off in public.  But I wear it around the house and ask the girls to call me Miss Havisham.  

No one does, though.

No one ever does.

sugar cookies

The other day I finally relented and let Caroline bake some cookies. 

The reason for the stall?  I was holding out for the kind I wanted, thumbprint, while she was stonewalling for the kind which requires rolling pins, cookie cutters, and icing...steps which for me merely translate to: having to wait longer before I can eat a cookie. 

Guess who got her way?

At any rate, I pretty much let her handle the entire operation.  I supervised, of course, imparting the extent of my culinary wisdom which took roughly half a minute. The main thing she didn't know was how NOT to follow a recipe.  And believe me, I had a dickens of a time explaining how this is done:  

"Caroline, trust me.  It doesn't matter how much vanilla goes into that batter. It's a conspiracy anyway, measuring spoons."

Needless to say, she didn't trust me.   

So I had to stand there while she cracked precisely two eggs, went molecular with the baking powder, and dipped the measuring cup into the flour tin, scraping it off evenly with the edge of a butter knife.

Franchement, but Mummy could have used a darkened room and a little aqua vitae after that!

Later that day, Caroline and Izzy assured me they could handle making the icing all by themselves, which is code for you will harsh our buzz in the kitchen, Mum.  Like a fool, I consented, forgetting to lay down the one and only ultimatum I insist upon when it comes to the concoction of icing: namely, that it not exceed the depth and intensity of the watermelon colors. 

Wouldn't you know it?  Just my luck.

Good thing I despise vivid icing so much I only ate four.  

date with izzy

Yesterday I looked at Izzy and said, let's go do something fun.  She was right on board.  I made the same offer to the other girls, but Sophie was hunched over a papercut and Caroline was hunched over a paperdoll.  

Paper is serious business at our house, so I had Izzy all to myself.

This is what we call a mummy-daughter date.  

A brief aside: when asked about differences between Canada and the United States, I often have to wrack my brain for a scintillating response.  We have poutine, yes.  We say toque.  And let's not forget the Mounties. 

One trifling detail is that children call their mothers mum.  Not mom.  Mum. Sort of a throwback to our Commonwealth ties and fascination with such things as corgis, high teas, clotted cream, and dowager duchesses.   

So when I moved to Las Vegas and nothing seemed familiar, nothing reminded me of Canada in the least, I taught my girls this lovely word that felt like home more than anything else.  

For our date, we went to a noodle shop.  Few things make me happier than sharing foods from other cultures with my girls, to watch them try new dishes and hopefully enjoy them as much as I do.  

What is not to love about ramen?  That stuff is amazing.  So yummy, so fun to eat.  

Best of all, to visit with my teenager who is growing so quickly, taking this world in leaps and bounds, and observe how even our exchanges have become. She still asks me tons of questions, but we talk more and more on a similar wavelength and less like a mum and her little girl.  

It's breathtaking, this dynamic. 

What else did we do?  At Izzy's request, we visited a Korean market and stocked up on fun things for lunches plus candy to share with our friends.

And our favorite art supply store, where of all things, she chose...

origami paper. 

lunching with friends

A few days ago my friend Jen texted to ask if we were still on for lunch that day.  I blinked at the text, trying to remember what month this was.  If I had a dollar for every time Jen's texts have saved my bacon, I'd have enough overhead to start up my own fizzy lemonade stand.  

Lunching with friends is a rare event for me...you're more likely to spot a narwhal than see me lounging at a café, dwarfed by Jackie O. sunglasses, viciously stabbing a salad.  

At any rate, there wasn't enough time to doll up so I pulled the just rolled out of bed, two days since a shower look, which should be coming to runways any day now.  I programmed the address of the restaurant into my phone and it promptly led me to a landfill out in the middle of nowhere.  

Franchement, that could have been the end of me.  This is Las Vegas, you know.  All the rumors are true.

Instead, I texted Jen my distress and she directed me back to civilization.  She is very good like that.

There are so many ways to write this story, so many angles.  I could regale you with my ineptness, with the frumpiness of my appearance, I could describe the brilliant spareness of the restuarant, I could rave about the nirvana that is Korean food on a chilly winter day.  The Koreans know how to warm you up, dear reader, they know how to bring you in from the cold.

But what I really feel like talking about is my friends.   

One was born in Korea and immigrated here in the 2nd grade.  The other was born in Vietnam and was airlifted out the day the communists took over.  When I listen to the stories of their childhood, of the sacrifices made by their parents to pursue greater opportunities in this country, I am filled with a deep respect.  I also have my own generations who made sacrifices to come here.  It's a legacy I think about often.

We sat there sipping mugicha and enjoying the crispy grains of rice sizzling against our hot stone bowls. We talked and laughed.  Our children take music lessons together, so there is lots to laugh about.  Jen ordered more kimchi.  I tried not to be jealous of the fact she spoke in Korean.  I mean, she deserves it, right?  But the fact is: I am always jealous when someone speaks another language.  Not bitterly jealous, mind you. Just...wistful to the point of being bitterly jealous.  

As it happened, none of us had gotten terribly dolled up that day...a freedom between us and an interest in deeper things which I truly appreciate with these friends.  

One is a doctor.  One works with musical instruments.  Both run circles around me with their blinding competence, their multitasking and tapestry of schedules.  It's amazing they let me hang with them. 

They would bend over backwards to help me and I would do the same in return.  

Yes, it's my friends I feel like talking about.  When I think of what matters most, when I reflect on life's greatest gifts, certainly one is that of friendship.  Of having good friends and being one, too. 

I feel blessed when it comes to that.

blogging with a text to my head

A recent text from my little brother, Jonny:

Why are you at lunch instead of at home updating your blog?  You have your fans to consider, you know. We made you what you are, and we can take it away.

 

This from the kid I took a charging cow to the gut for when he failed to heed my warning to stay away from her calf.

 

(I subscribe to the notion once you save a person's life you should never let him forget it...especially when he threat-texts you to update your blog.)

 

Hey Jonny: I wasn't even at lunch.  I was home playing scullery maid. Franchement.  I'm waiting until you come visit so we can eat this town out of miso ramen!

.

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Has it really been ages since I last touched down at Tollipop?  Is my cranberry chutney already yesterday's news?  Because I had to take out ten whole cloves to make it and now I'm in the witness protection program, dear reader, waiting for my car to blow up.

 

Only a fool would crush ten whole cloves with the flat of her blade and not expect major repercussions.   And it's not like I can count on my little brother to save me, franchement.  It's more like he's on their side.

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Anyway, beyond that, it's pretty much business as usual around these parts.

 

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If you count cellists in cat hats as usual.  Which I do.  I don't even bat an eye.

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Not to mention this fantastic injury I sustained out on a recent trail run.  I know--it's not that impressive from a blood and guts perspective but just consider the artistry!

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Sophie's club volleyball season started this week.  Say good-bye to my creative little papercutter...say hello to my amazon slayer who breathes fire down the nets.

...

And on it goes.  It's that time of year when my friends text me to see if we can carpool to this or that rehearsal/performance/concert and I have no idea what they're talking about.  Terrifying.

 ... 

So, dear Jonny and anyone else who threatens to topple the Tollipop empire if I don't stay two steps ahead of the curve: there could be some irregularities around this joint for the next little while.  It could be I'm hiding in a corner somewhere, or up a tree, hoping the clove mafia and all my uber competent mom friends find someone else to bully and synchronize schedules with.

 

I'm not trying to be a wise guy.  I'm not trying to make waves.

 

Let's everyone just step away from the calendar and breathe...

did anyone happen to miss any small children over the weekend? because i think they turned up at my place...

There's been a fair amount of activity in our home these past few days.  

My sister came with her three children.  Of course I must sound partial as an auntie, but they are truly amazing kids.  Incredibly smart, incredibly sweet, incredibly cute.

Way to go, Katrina.

Of the greatest blessings in life, one is surely the gift of children.  If not your own, then someone else's...just the pleasure of their company, watching them grow, seeing the world through their eyes.  

This one is named Jack and he melts my heart.  He has always been a little shy around me but with this visit we became fast friends.  He's only 2 1/2 yet speaks very clearly and has for the past year or so.  One afternoon he came looking for me and when he found me I said, "What do you need, Jack?" 

And he said, simply, "YOU."

Then he climbed on my lap and talked to me for about an hour until he fell asleep.

You cannot measure my happiness in having him around.  That goes for all my nieces and nephews...and of course my own girls, too.

They each have such distinct personalities, yet I see in them some glimpse of my siblings--a strange, familiar connection to old memories, some distant, wild rumpus which came down from the northland and still echoes through the trees.

One morning Jack got up and went outside.  When he came back in the house my husband asked, "Is it cold out there?"

His response: "Not the air I was breathing, but underneath my feet it was."

Thanksgiving Day was lovely.  This is the first Thanksgiving I've hosted...well, that's not entirely true.  This is the first American Thanksgiving I've hosted. Eighteen people, with the ratio of children to adults seeming to escalate as the night wore on.

Did it make me reconsider my religious abstinence of booze?

For one fleeting moment, perhaps.  But don't worry.  I'm pretty good at teetotaling and feeling the room spin anyway.

It turns out there's a few logistics to laying out a feast properly.  It starts with realizing you're the mom and if you don't make it happen, no one else will. Holy cow.  Will someone please help me uncurl from my fetal position??  

That news came as a bit of a shock to my system.

But I nailed the trifecta, namely: a pretty table, an exotic dish no one but me, my sister, and sister-in-law enjoyed, and, of course, addictive gravy.

The table: an homage to the woodland creatures of my childhood.  Who better to share one's feast with than some darling, feral varmints?

The exotic dish?  Why, cranberry chutney, of course.  A concoction requiring me to crush ten whole cloves with the flat of my blade (I believe they said knife, but I'm saying blade).

When I read that step in the recipe, I practically shouted eureka!  I knew it was the dish for me.  

But don't forget what I told you about cloves, dear reader. Don't think you can use them without them using you back. Don't think you can go to sleep at night and not expect a knock on the door, and that a lone clove won't be standing there with a baseball bat, calling in a favor.

Oh, and it's never a lone clove.  There's always more in the bushes.

A word about my gravy.  Some people deal habit forming drugs.  I deal habit forming gravy.  What can I tell you?  I've been brewing it since I was three.  It makes the wild caribou I bring down with my bare hands just that much more palatable.

My sister-in-law went to bed that night dreaming about my gravy.  The next morning she texted me to ensure there was enough for leftovers and to provide her with a straw when she returned for lunch.  For the next few days, everything she ate was drizzled in gravy, including the pie.

Last night, my brother called me in a panic, asking how to make gravy.

I was all: Tim, that's like me asking you how to perform surgery.  I cannot distill in one moment wisdom which took me a lifetime to glean.  

But then I distilled it because I remembered the wild look in Maddi's eyes.  

Don't worry, Maddi.  One of these days I'm going to build a factory and in it there will be a river which churns gravy.  Piping hot, savory gravy of the perfect taste and consistency which goes to the very pleasure core of one's brain.  And I will give you a super long straw so you don't have to lean over to drink because I've already reviewed the worst case scenario of that situation and trust me, it's not pretty.

The weekend wore on and there was a surprise appearance by my brother, Matt.  This is the brother we rarely see because he's always off in India doing something much too brilliant for me to try and explain.  

There was one darling girl and her many darling outfits.  

There were easy moments of laying around, watching movies, visiting, and napping.

There was one essential run in the desert wherein nothing could have kept up with me or my thoughts.

There was a trip to a store my sister rarely has a chance to visit.  It was filled with Christmasy things, with exotic candies and objects from around the world.

Cousins kept track of cousins, each thrilled with his/her part of the bargain.

And it went on like this: hanging around, enjoying one another's company, occasionally telling the kids not to put jelly beans in the hot tub, wondering if they'd smuggled an elephant upstairs.

Baking cookies just because Jack's eyes lit up when I suggested it, making me feel like the most brilliant auntie in the whole wide world.

Tell me you wouldn't make a zillion cookies for this face.  I bet you're mixing the butter and sugar as we speak.

And this morning, suddenly, everyone is gone.  The house is quiet, but in a way it still feels full.  I haven't been out to survey the hot tub yet...would it surprise you to know I'll be disappointed if it's not a fine, Eastery egg shade of purple?

ramen sora

Dear reader, as the holidays approach and the temperature drops, there's only one place to find yourself and it's not Starbucks, even though I have nothing against a good cup of hot chocolate.

I'm talking about a noodle house, dear reader.  

Ramen Sora will do nicely.  

These friends make ideal noodle house companions, especially as one is Japanese and could discreetly steer me with such insider tips as: men may slurp their noodles like hogs, but women are expected to be a tad more...how do I say in Japanese?  Discreet.

Too bad she told me that while I was channeling my inner hog!  Oh well--one full body wipedown later and I was practically ready to perform a tea ceremony, franchement.

It's not that I can't be discreet, dear reader.  I can.  Granted, it's a bit more difficult when the food excites me, but Japanese culture has nothing on this Canadian farmgirl when it comes to reserve.

Just let me chain my inner wolf to a rock out in the middle of nowhere and it's game on.   

A word about the broth.  Typically I believe there are three options: miso, shio, and shoyu.

If I were you, I'd chose the miso.  Not that I have anything against shio or shoyu, because I don't.

It's just that the miso is...how do I say in Japanese?  Sensuous.

Can a broth be sensuous, dear reader?  Can it make you blush, look down at the floor, and titter?  Can it make the room spin, can it make you forget what you were talking about, can it hold you spellbound with its unmistakeable look of desire?  Can it make you forget the time?  Can it make you lose your breath? Can it make you speak Japanese?? 

That's miso ramen, dear reader.  It doesn't come on strong, but trust me.

It comes on.  

island style

Dear reader, you know on those nights when you and your husband are trying to figure out what to eat and you finally narrow it down to two choices: Hawaiian or Korean, and no one is willing to budge beyond that point??

Well, Island Style is here to save the marriage.  

It's fusion, dear reader...not hip, mincing fusion which makes you feel like a dolt for saying you'd prefer tap water when the correct response is sparkling, forcing the entire restaurant to inhale so sharply they choke on their purple carrots and all the candles flicker and die??

No, this is Island Style, where the guys call each other brah, the Hawaiian equivalent of bro, which is much cooler than bro but doesn't really affect me anyway since I'm not cool enough to use either.

This is the melting pot of all melting pots, this is where the first dish you see someone eating will be what you want to order because if you don't, you'll never stop wishing you did, this is where if you get the cold wheat noodles the cook will cut them up in front of you using a pair of kitchen scissors that could decapitate a moose.

This is where the kimchi will make you wish Willy Wonka had lived in Korea so you could be reading a book about a kimchi factory instead of a chocolate factory, so you could dream about kimchi grass, kimchi flowers, and an enormous kimchi river that the chubby boy would fall into and get sucked up a pipe to the radish room.   

This is where you'll get the best fried rice of your life.  Yes, your life.  Don't roll your eyes like fried rice doesn't move you, like it's not purple carrots.  Don't foist your ennui for fried rice upon the rest of us simply because you haven't tried it island style.  

Don't be so jaded and world weary, brah.

Because you will leave Island Style feeling happy.  

Why?  Well, the food has a lot to do with it but there's something else...

Just go and you'll see what I mean.  

overcooking for the season

Dear reader, if I waited around for stew weather to materialize, I'd never eat stew.  

Nor pumpkin chocolate chip cookies.

I'd never be able to set the world record for wearing this yellow cardigan six days in a row.

You see my point, don't you?  

I can't afford to wait for these things.  I can't miss out on my favorite season of the year simply because it only exists around here like some über cool boyfriend who is too emotionally distant to show he really cares.

You know?  Like, the signs of his affection are so subtle you feel stuck in an airtight chamber wondering if it's normal not to breathe.  

No way.  

Bring on autumn.  Bring it on like a sloppy puppy who will pant and lick you, who quivers at your touch and gazes at you every day like it's love at first sight.  
Bring it on like that.

Bring on boots, cardigans, aromatic cookies, and hearty bowls of stew.  

That's what an imagination is for, darling.  

So you can have the best of both worlds...in this world.