Curses!

I'm at the airport. I'm waiting to board a flight to Calgary. That's it. Just sitting here. Doing nothing.

Air Canada made me check my knitting needles. I shouldn't have asked but I have a lot of knitting to do. I didn't want to get to security and have to figure out what else to do with two thirds of a pair of socks. Actually I'm not knitting socks but I won't ruin a christmas surprise anymore than air canada already has.

What irks me is that at security it wouldn't have been an issue. Acording to my new buddies at security, there is a ban on metal needles but the current project is on wooden circs so it would have been fine. Stupid air canada, can't keep their policies straight.

Now I have HOURS ahead of me and no wool. I'll have to sleep, because I'll be loosing sleep until the 25th in order to finish Rachel's present. I'm sure this wouldn't have happened on west jet.

I knew it all along — Eat local, Act Evil

Local organic garlic is $1.25 a head. If I am paying a dollar for garlic, I expect to get at least 5 bulbs, a dozen if I make the hike to china town. I have a rule for eating organic: if I peel it, it doesn't need to be organic. I want to reduce my footprint. I just don't like reducing my wallet in order to do so.

As such, I was tickled when I read the piece in Slate (on Slate.com?) that, citing an article in Psychological Sciences by UofT scientists— stated that buyers of "green" products were more likely to cheat, steal and — my favourite — not share.

For the record I happen to believe that certified organic yarn maybe the dumbest product on the planet. I am not so concerned about the pesticides that go into the grain the sheep eat, as I am not going to eat the wool — not in any volume for certain. Some of my favourite wools happen to be organic (same for, and wines, tomatoes) but "organic" isn't what makes me lurv them.

How not to do things

I have taken a job not writing. Just a job. It keeps me fed and sheltered. At the moment that is what matters. And actually I am learning a lot.

I am learning how not to do things. And it's painful. There are days when I am words away from taking off my apron and walking out. There have been days when I have gone so far as to look up the number for Now Magazine, a weekly publication with muckraking sensibilities — think Lincoln Steffens "I have seen the future and it works" — to let them know such a high falutin' shop treats its' people shabbily. But I don't — I am chalking it up to experience.

So far I have learned
-never ask someone to do something you are not prepared to do yourself.
-never ask someone to do something you are not prepared to teach them to do.
-don't ask your staff to do something and then do something completely different yourself.
-if you don't take things seriously nobody else will.
-don't lay your problems on your staff.
-Never put off until tomorrow what can be done right now.
-Keep in mind, some things are better done tomorrow — especially if we closed an hour ago and everybody's shift is over.

Potato Pete says "I'm an energy food!"

I finally got around to catching up on the New Yorker Out Loud podcast. It was about poutine.

I don't mind the notoriety but it has been in the news a lot lately. We're suffering it's renaissance. There are four restos that I know of that serve poutine exclusively in downtown Toronto — recent developments. I guess I see why. It's a comforting food. We're hardwired to like starch, fat and salt in fries, cheese curds and piping hot gravy. Poutine's quality is judged on it being hot and fresh, not on, well, quality.

In retrospect, the New Yorker piece predecessed and probably inspired the ABC News piece and subsequent coverage. I think what miffed me most was that it was such a weirdly urban take on the food. Calvin Trillin cited Montreal as it's birthplace and late night drinking as it's raison d'etre, which doesn't really account for how it spread accross the country. It's hard to explain the local variations. In Ontario, we take our fries with gravy, probably not cheese.

While I concede Poutine is a top notch beer sponge, it was never the beer sponge of choice. After clubbing in Montreal, we always went for falafels. Falafel places are to Montreal are what coffee shops are to Vancouver.

Poutine however rules the ski hill lunchline. It was invented on a ski hill. It warms the bones, sticks to the ribs, and probably clogs your heart and colon, in a way the fortifies us to head back out into the Canadian winter. The ski hill model further explains the spread. Skiers and riders took it hill to hill with them.

Like most of Canadian cuisine, it's not very urbane. But than very little of Canada is.

getting back into it

so that I can get out of it for Christmas.

It has been a lean year. When you are used to writing for work full time it is hard to stay motivated to write for fun, for self-actualization, but especially for free.

The real problem is that I have been so busy working to make ends meet — at odd jobs and retail — that I don't have the time to take care of housework, let alone build the writing business. It's a big leap to back off on a small but guaranteed paycheck, in exchange for bigger ones that are rarely frequent or timely.

It's time I heed my own advice. "Just do it." I will do laundry later, I will sleep next week. I will not knit "just" one more row. Right now I will get back to writing.

Not RIGHT now. I have to get off to the butcher shop — gotta pay the bills.
d'oh.