Have a Seat

The benches, stoops and corners of my neighbourhood have largely all been claimed as the established territory of various homeless individuals. I’ve seen many an argument outside the liquor store for that prime location, and the spot in front of the theatre has been turf to the same guy for at least four years. These are the people in my neighbourhood. On my way home from work, I’ll smile or say hi to many of these individuals, regardless of whether or not I’ve got change to spare. After living in the same spot for four years and seeing many of these faces on a daily basis, these people are my neighbours and it’s hard not to feel the occasional pang at the difference in lifestyle a city block can encompass.

There is one individual, though, for whom I’ve rarely spared a smile. This isn’t a fact that I state with pride, but it is the truth. His desparation scares me and makes me want to turn and look in the opposite direction so that I can avoid imagining the reality of his life. He’s a huffer and he sits on a bench by the subway station. His face is stained from the constant inhalation of noxious fumes and his speech, when he bothers, is an incomprehensible mumble. He shakes constantly and can barely hold up the empty coffee can he uses to gather his earnings. I’ve never contributed. Not out of a moral indignation that any money I give him is likely to end up being sniffed away. I’m not really concerned what someone does with the alms I provide. I walk away feeling good and they do with it as they see fit. That’s the deal, no strings attached. With the huffer though, I just don’t want to get close enough to help out. I give him a wide berth.

Today, on my way to the TTC station, I noticed that he wasn’t at his usual spot. Rather, two teenagers were sitting on his bench, talking loudly and smoking cigarettes. They looked so sure of themselves, so above it all, that they instantly annoyed me. I could hear their vapid exchange of “what she said” punctuated by f-words and other colourful language and it grated on my nerves. Then, before the fire of annoyance could fully ignite itself in my belly, a memory rose to the surface. In my mind’s eye, I saw the huffer, only days ago, seated at that bench, a stream of urine pooling below him. I didn’t have to get annoyed. They were sitting in pee. I walked by and smiled to myself making a mental note to drop something into that coffee can the next time I see him.

Such a Perfect Day

When spring shows up in the Great White North, everyone pays attention. The parks are full, the sidewalks are crowded, the sandals come out of storage and everyone is smiling. On early spring days, even I have been known to grace a complete stranger with a smile – that’s the power of warmth after 6 months of chill. Tuesday was such a day - a sunny high of 26 degrees (Celsius and that’s a beautiful thing) in a week of rain and cold. Without debate or even a hint of remorse over all the work we had to do, Mr. T. and I decided to take the day off and bask in the glory of the first truly warm day of the year.

Tuesday morning rose with sunshine and a lovely breeze. We took our cups of coffee outside and sat sipping the warmth of the beverage as the sun gradually heated our deck. We live on one of Toronto’s busiest streets. Restaurants and shops surround us, and stepping out our front door means stepping into the thick of city life. In contrast, we are incredibly privileged to have the best back deck ever. The best. The second-story deck stretches the entire width of the apartment, spanning both the kitchen and living room, and is almost as wide as it is long. It looks out onto a parking lot and an infrequently used back lane. Along one side is a tall wooden fence, which separates us from our next-door neighbours. Along the other end is a six-story building with no windows facing us, just an endless stretch of light gray concrete blocks. While a wide expanse of concrete blocks might not sound great, they afford us more privacy than anything else could. In addition, two huge sumac trees have grown alongside the building and stretch lazily across our staircase. When the leaves come out, they provide an extra level of privacy, so that seated at our patio table we are invisible to passersby.

We had a lot to do to get the deck back up to standard after having abandoned it for the winter months. Some of our deck-orations had suffered from the winds of winter and had to be replaced. Our propane tank was empty and we needed to rustle up a barbecue worthy meal. However, the warmth of the day and the prospect of not having to wear socks, made all of our errands that much more pleasant. We headed out into the world and got all the supplies we needed. New propane tank, new barbecue mat, new cooking utensils and, of course, beer. As two former vegetarians, we stood at the meat counter and debated whether or not we should give steak a try. After long deliberations and debate, we decided to throw caution to the wind and picked up two strip loin steaks that looked lean and fresh. We also added a wide variety of veggies for grilling as a nod to our former selves.

By 4 PM, we were back outside, Stella Artois in hand, grooving to summer tunes with a plan to move as little as possible until it was time for bed. We talked, we laughed, we barbecued, we ate (and looked back on our vegetarian days with wonder and curiosity – what, exactly, had we been thinking), we drank, and we added and removed sweaters according to the breeze. The feelings of summer overwhelmed us. That feeling that time won’t end, that the sun won’t go down and that you won’t have to go back to school for ages. We knew the next day would bring cooler temperatures, rain and the impossibility of eating outside, but we repressed that knowledge and thrilled in the moment.

While the rest of the week has proved disappointingly cold, Tuesday was a sneak preview to the months ahead of us. We’ve got the propane, we’ve got the right attitude, and all we need is more sun. Come on sun. We’ve got some grilling to do and we are waiting for you!

I Dream So Beanie!

I had friends over for brunch this weekend and had planned a veritable feast with which to regale them. Among the various menu items, I’d included baked beans. I’m French Canadian so the idea of a brunch that wouldn’t include beans is simply unacceptable. However, if you’ve ever made baked beans, you’ll appreciate that this is not a quick endeavour. It involves much soaking and boiling and baking (oh my!). I bought the beans first thing on Saturday morning and was expecting my guests at 11am on Sunday. Piece of cake, right? Well, sort of.

Complicating my plan was the fact that my parents, oblivious to my needs, had gallivanted off to Europe on a hiking expedition. Which was great for them and all but what about my beans? I wouldn’t have expected my mom to bake them on my behalf (although I probably wouldn’t have turned her down if she’d offered) but it would have been nice to have her considerable coaching skills no further away than a phone call. Without my “Ma” to reassure me, I was adrift in a sea of beanie possibilities.

I came home from the grocery store and set the beans a-soaking. That much I could handle. I debated making a traditional batch of beans including either salt pork or bacon or the revised version my mom came up with when two of her three daughters became vegetarians (those days are over but the modified beans live on). Fearlessly, considering the lack of safety net, I opted for the traditional kind. You know, the kind I’ve never made. Phone calls to my sisters proved fruitless – while both supported the idea of beans, neither could help with the reality. Finally, I called my grandmother to save the day and, not content to provide me with one recipe, she called me back with a choice of six and gave me her sound counsel on how to work with the pork part of the picture. Thanks Grand-mere!

I followed the recipe she’d given me adding molasses, brown sugar, dry mustard, salt pepper and bacon to the mixture and put everything in the slow cooker to cook overnight. As a final touch, I laid three strips of bacon over the top of the beans so that the fat could seep through. (As one of the former pesky vegetarians who’d required the recipe modification in the first place, I find it as difficult to read that sentence as I found the action on Saturday). I turned on the slow cooker and set the alarm for 5AM when the beans would be done and then headed off to bed. As I lay there, trying to fall asleep, the smell of baking beans filled the air of our apartment. I tossed and turned with visions of fatty bacon filling my head. I could have agonized over the potatoes still to roast or the quiches to assemble. I could have saved some of my neurotic fixations for the salad but I did not. Instead, I lay there and dreamed of beans.

In my dreamy haze, I tried to talk myself out of what was clearly a waste of a good night’s sleep: “Self, if the beans don’t taste right, you don’t have to serve them.” Or “Self, you are nuts and I’m having you committed if you don’t stop thinking about those beans and go to sleep now!” I woke up every hour and would dazedly wander over to the kitchen to see what was happening. Were the beans burning? (No, not yet.) Would the bacon ruin them? (Hard to tell through the slow cooker’s steamy lid.) I rationalized that the smell was very much like I remembered the smell of baking beans so that had to be a good sign. Still, at 5am, it was a relief to turn off the beans and call the night over.

The rest of the brunch got made and by the time my guests arrived I was so hungry that there was no energy left for worrying about beans. We downed Bellinis by the gallon-full, gorged ourselves on quiche, salad, roasted potatoes, delicious, homemade baked beans and a sensational lemon tart contributed by one of the guests. It was divine! My guests left yesterday, almost eight hours after brunch had begun, drunk, full and happy. I may have foolishly lost a night’s sleep over beans, but the reward of sharing the fruits (or, in this case, legumes) of my labour with a group of good friends made it all worth it in the end. Here's to beans!

Your Box, Your Package

Sometimes, I think I have a very sophisticated sense of humour. I make a clever pun or I paraphrase Shakespeare and mentally pat myself on the back for my highbrow sensibilities. Then, there are other times where I am confronted with the reality that my sense of humour has changed very little since the age of thirteen. I like to giggle and the simple truth is that there is no place better to giggle than a place where you shouldn’t giggle at all.

I remember when I was a kid and our whole family would head off to church on Sundays. Three little girls dressed cutely, accompanied by their upstanding parents. We’d take our seats and, because they were no fools, my parents had arranged a seating system designed to minimize fights in public: one girl, one parent, another girl, another parent, and finally, the last of the girls. This would have worked brilliantly if my father hadn’t enjoyed torturing us and sending us into fits of giggles to my mother’s great frustration. He’d poke us, point out funny hats, stick a wet finger in one of our ears and then look deadly serious when we started laughing. These visits to church fell somewhere between torture and glee. While it was sheer joy to laugh at our own private jokes, it was also painful to hold in the giggles. The key was to laugh only enough that it wouldn’t get us all into trouble – only enough that my mother would not get annoyed with our father and put an end to that morning’s games.

I recently attended a meeting that reminded me of those long-ago mornings. The meeting was a cross-departmental one involving at least 20 of my esteemed colleagues. We’d hired an outside consultancy firm to talk to us about our product packaging. On the surface, there is very little to laugh at when discussing what your product will look like on a shelf. Yet underneath that veneer of seriousness, lay a veritable bomb of mirth, just waiting for the perfect level of immaturity to set it off. I was powerless to prevent it.

The speaker’s first sentence alerted me to the dangerous situation I was in. After introducing himself, he launched into the meat of his presentation by telling us, “If your package is large and heavy, your first job is to make sure your box can handle it.” I chuckled to myself and looked at my neighbours to see if they were similarly afflicted. Straight faces surrounded me. He continued with the following statements:

- What kind of value does your box communicate?
- How will your box be handled – can it bear that kind of activity without falling apart?
- Don’t forget to label your box and don’t forget that your competitor’s box will also be on display.
- What sets your box apart?
- What does your box convey to the end user?

I giggled into my hand. I squirmed in my chair. I wanted to shout to the room, “Am I the only one hearing double-entendre here?” I struggled to maintain outward composure despite the fact that my professional persona was quickly scrambling to hide behind a giggling ten-year old. The more I sought composure, the less I achieved it. It wasn’t the presenter’s fault. He was covering his topic seriously and thoroughly. He was giving us valuable advice that would help us sell our product. However, despite the helpfulness of the topic and the number of people in the room, I really wanted to interrupt him with the very sophisticated comment: “You said box. You said package.”

I’m pleased to say that I didn’t interrupt him nor did I chime in about what, exactly, my box could handle. Instead, I looked down at my notebook and wrote down his comments while quietly giggling to myself. I did make a note to dial in for such future meetings, though, because I’m not sure I’m up to the task. I know on some level, I have achieved the level of maturity and capability appropriate to my age and station (!), but such meetings do force one to re-examine oneself and come to certain conclusions. Mine is that I’m getting older, but I won’t hold my breath for the wiser part. I’ll need that oxygen on reserve for inappropriate fits of laughter.