Tonight, he finally posed for the camera, enjoying a stale blueberry muffin and a mixed salad! Raccoons are noted for raiding dustbins - but some are less shy than others!
Mystery solved!
Over the past couple of weeks, we've noticed the bird feeder has been raided most evenings - and a couple of times we've caught sight of the culprit.
Big Bike back in Nanaimo
The Harbour City Star reports.....
The Heart and Stroke Big Bike is peddling back to Nanaimo, and it's looking for new riders.
In 2008, Big Bike riders in Nanaimo raised more than $44,000.00 to fund groundbreaking heart and stroke research. This year they hope to do even better, with a goal of raising $7 million across Canada.
Big Bike is a bicycle built for 30 that travels across Canada from April to September. It will be making its way along high-profile routes through more than 200 communities across nine provinces. Measuring eight feet across at the wheels and extending 30 feet long, it's a sight you won't soon forget.
Join a Big Bike team, or start your own, and help pedal our monster bike across Canada.
Each team has up to 29 enthusiastic riders, and one driver provided by the Heart and Stroke Foundation, who leads them on a fun-filled 15- to 20-minute ride.
Nanaimo ride dates are June 4 at Port Place Mall and June 5 at Woodgrove Centre. To register or for more information, contact the Nanaimo Area Office at 250-754-5274 or visit http://www.bigbike.ca/
Watch the Big Bike video here!
The Heart and Stroke Big Bike is peddling back to Nanaimo, and it's looking for new riders.
In 2008, Big Bike riders in Nanaimo raised more than $44,000.00 to fund groundbreaking heart and stroke research. This year they hope to do even better, with a goal of raising $7 million across Canada.
Big Bike is a bicycle built for 30 that travels across Canada from April to September. It will be making its way along high-profile routes through more than 200 communities across nine provinces. Measuring eight feet across at the wheels and extending 30 feet long, it's a sight you won't soon forget.
Join a Big Bike team, or start your own, and help pedal our monster bike across Canada.
Each team has up to 29 enthusiastic riders, and one driver provided by the Heart and Stroke Foundation, who leads them on a fun-filled 15- to 20-minute ride.
Nanaimo ride dates are June 4 at Port Place Mall and June 5 at Woodgrove Centre. To register or for more information, contact the Nanaimo Area Office at 250-754-5274 or visit http://www.bigbike.ca/
Watch the Big Bike video here!
High tide at Whalebone Beach
Through the hollow log shaped window......
Only the brave....... 
Calm waters.......
La La La Lanterna
I can't stress enough that the beauty of New York is that around each corner is a gem of a place (or a man peeing on the street).
I love the popularity of back gardens in New York - not so much gardens as glass enclosures - but gardens nonetheless. *There are some restaurants that have actual gardens without a roof, this is a story about not one of those.
The theatre school alum that live here in NYC convened in one such garden the other night and I think you all should go. It's called La Lanterna and it is located in the West Village on MacDougal at 3rd Street.
This is why:
I got there first and sheltered myself from the rain. I was instantly welcomed into the cozy dark interior with tiny wooden tables and a tree lit with fairy lights. The owner, a lovely old Italian gentlemen (who later I saw reading the 'Big Butt' page of an Italian newspaper - or at least I think it was a newspaper) scurried to the garden to see if there was a table available. No. So I sat at a little table and waited.
By the time all my friends arrived, a table big enough had become available and we went to the back (this is incredible for NYC - you usually have to wait hours!). The garden is basically like a greenhouse with tables. And flickering candles. And fairy lights. And a fountain. So not like my grandma's greenhouse at all.
We sat for hours, as the rain tapped on the glass ceiling and the sky grew darker. The food is good, not over-the-top amazing but tasty and enjoyable. They specialize in thin-crust pizzas and panini's. I had the pesto pizza which was flavourful and lovely, especially with the creamy goat cheese. I also had the most delicious cappuccino AND a mind-blowing tiramisu. Like crazy mind blowing. I love love love tiramisu! And La Lanterna's was creamy, light, and flavoured perfectly with marscapone, cocoa and coffee liqueur. I clapped.
The waitress let us sit there and catch up for FOUR hours. How nice is that? I realize sometimes you want to bill, but I appreciated the 'sit and relax' atmosphere. In the dark, the glow of the candles, the sound of the rain, and good friends gave me that warm, cozy feeling I miss sometimes in this big city.
I loved La Lanterna so much that I met my friend the very next day for cappuccino's in the garden by day. As you can see in the pictures I highly enjoyed myself.
It's the perfect spot to sit and write for hours without evil daggers from the servers trying to get you to leave. You almost have to ask them if you can leave.
Conclusion? When in New York and in need of shelter from the rain, a corner to talk to a friend, or a sanctuary from busy Manhattan streets, make La Lanterna your destination.
I am making the Engineer go right now for some damn tiramisu. I am actually drooling. . .
A nation without plaster
Canada is advanced in many ways - but now and again the odd idiosyncracy shines through. I first came across this when debating lumber sizes (note to Brits: it's lumber, not timber) and realised that I was conversing with people who never bought an 8'x4' sheet of plywood, or a length of 4"x2" timber (sorry, lumber) to frame a wall. "You mean 4x8 and 2x4 - round here it's always the smaller measure first" Six months in, and I'm starting to get the idea.
Next is the idea that a 2"x 4" measure actually means 1.5"x 3.5" - and even for rough framing, the lumber is never the size you expect it to be. However, a 4' x 8' sheet of 3/4" plywood is just that, 4' wide, 8' long and 3/4" thick. And everything is sold in standard (note to Brits : standard=imperial, unless you're talking about a car gearbox when standard=manual) lengths - 8', 10', 12' and so on.
Nothing unusual about that of course, except that as a nation, Canada adopted metric distances on its roads many years ago (to be different from the USA, so they say) and food is sold in grammes and kilogrammes. Except mushrooms. Yesterday I bought half a pound of mushrooms.
Back to the building lark. Plasterboard comes in 4' x 8' sheets, and it's drywall, not plasterboard. Why? Because there is no plaster. Back home, plasterboard is covered with a skim of finishing plaster to seal the surface and make it ready for paining or papering. Oh no. Drywall goes up, the joints get taped, screwheads filled and filling compound is feathered in and sanded down to ensure a smooth surface with the drywall panel. Hmm... this sounds like a shortcut to me. When you tape over joints and then apply filling compound, the surface will be higher than the surrounding wall area, won't it? Yep. So you apply some more compound, spread it out further and by the time you've finished, you've plastered the whole wall with polyfilla! The difference is, it then has to be sanded down again (cough!) to get a surface ready for painting.
So, on to the plumbing. It's inches again, not millimetres. I've spent the past 20 years adapting old 1/2" pipework in the UK to 15mm metric, and here I am going back again. Ho hum. It's a good thing it's only 5 km (note to Brits: 3 miles) to the building supplies shop.
Back there, we take our cars across the water to Europe and the clever cars can change from miles per hour to kilometres per hour at the flick of a switch. Same here, of course - so that when you drive across the border to the US, you can switch back to miles. US miles are, by the way, the same as UK miles..... so why is a US gallon only 0.83 of an imperial gallon? So that it converts readily to litres of course (not...) at just 3.79 litres to the gallon instead of the 4.54 litres that we have to buy in the UK to fill a gallon can. So, in the US, petrol (sorry, gas) is sold at a price which relates to 0.83 of a proper gallon, or 3.79 metric litres. Simple eh?
Well, just to confuse the Americans, Canada sells its gas by the litre (so they can convert it readily back to US gallons by multiplying by 0.26417205235814844), whereas back in the UK we buy our fuel in litres and simply multiply by 0.2199736031676198 to get it back to gallons. Why do we convert it back to gallons? It's obvious - it's so we can measure our fuel consumption in miles per gallon!
Canadians have grown out of that, naturally, and instead have adopted the European standard of measuring fuel consumption in litres per 100km. So, a Ford Explorer sells in Canada with a fuel consumption on city roads of 16.2 litres per 100km. Ouch! That's only 17.4 miles to the gallon in town. Unless you're in the USA, then it's just 15 miles to the gallon. No wonder they're called gas guzzlers.
All this became clear when I bought my 2003 Ford Windstar in March. Like most Fords, the Windstar will keep going for ever in a country that doesn't have an annual MOT test to pass. There were dozens of Windstars on the market with a quarter of a million kilometres on the clock (note to Brits: that's 155,230 miles) but, not surprisingly, they are starting to get a bit tired by then. So how do you ask for a car that's covered fewer kilometres in Canada? You insist on a low mileage model of course, what else?
I'm confused. Oh well, it must be an age thing.
Next is the idea that a 2"x 4" measure actually means 1.5"x 3.5" - and even for rough framing, the lumber is never the size you expect it to be. However, a 4' x 8' sheet of 3/4" plywood is just that, 4' wide, 8' long and 3/4" thick. And everything is sold in standard (note to Brits : standard=imperial, unless you're talking about a car gearbox when standard=manual) lengths - 8', 10', 12' and so on.
Nothing unusual about that of course, except that as a nation, Canada adopted metric distances on its roads many years ago (to be different from the USA, so they say) and food is sold in grammes and kilogrammes. Except mushrooms. Yesterday I bought half a pound of mushrooms.
Back to the building lark. Plasterboard comes in 4' x 8' sheets, and it's drywall, not plasterboard. Why? Because there is no plaster. Back home, plasterboard is covered with a skim of finishing plaster to seal the surface and make it ready for paining or papering. Oh no. Drywall goes up, the joints get taped, screwheads filled and filling compound is feathered in and sanded down to ensure a smooth surface with the drywall panel. Hmm... this sounds like a shortcut to me. When you tape over joints and then apply filling compound, the surface will be higher than the surrounding wall area, won't it? Yep. So you apply some more compound, spread it out further and by the time you've finished, you've plastered the whole wall with polyfilla! The difference is, it then has to be sanded down again (cough!) to get a surface ready for painting.
So, on to the plumbing. It's inches again, not millimetres. I've spent the past 20 years adapting old 1/2" pipework in the UK to 15mm metric, and here I am going back again. Ho hum. It's a good thing it's only 5 km (note to Brits: 3 miles) to the building supplies shop.
Back there, we take our cars across the water to Europe and the clever cars can change from miles per hour to kilometres per hour at the flick of a switch. Same here, of course - so that when you drive across the border to the US, you can switch back to miles. US miles are, by the way, the same as UK miles..... so why is a US gallon only 0.83 of an imperial gallon? So that it converts readily to litres of course (not...) at just 3.79 litres to the gallon instead of the 4.54 litres that we have to buy in the UK to fill a gallon can. So, in the US, petrol (sorry, gas) is sold at a price which relates to 0.83 of a proper gallon, or 3.79 metric litres. Simple eh?
Well, just to confuse the Americans, Canada sells its gas by the litre (so they can convert it readily back to US gallons by multiplying by 0.26417205235814844), whereas back in the UK we buy our fuel in litres and simply multiply by 0.2199736031676198 to get it back to gallons. Why do we convert it back to gallons? It's obvious - it's so we can measure our fuel consumption in miles per gallon!
Canadians have grown out of that, naturally, and instead have adopted the European standard of measuring fuel consumption in litres per 100km. So, a Ford Explorer sells in Canada with a fuel consumption on city roads of 16.2 litres per 100km. Ouch! That's only 17.4 miles to the gallon in town. Unless you're in the USA, then it's just 15 miles to the gallon. No wonder they're called gas guzzlers.
All this became clear when I bought my 2003 Ford Windstar in March. Like most Fords, the Windstar will keep going for ever in a country that doesn't have an annual MOT test to pass. There were dozens of Windstars on the market with a quarter of a million kilometres on the clock (note to Brits: that's 155,230 miles) but, not surprisingly, they are starting to get a bit tired by then. So how do you ask for a car that's covered fewer kilometres in Canada? You insist on a low mileage model of course, what else?
I'm confused. Oh well, it must be an age thing.
Hero Hero, Tasty Treat
I am a fairly well-traveled individual, but I must admit that at times I am fairly clueless. It surprises me that sometimes I can be completely clueless in a city that is a) English Speaking and b) North American. But I am and that is all there is to it. It's as if I have to do these 'new york' things (usually with food) and sometimes get them wrong with my indecisive nature. That is why I ended up with the bagel with lox AND grape jelly that one time.
The cluelessness I am referring to happened last week when I discovered that a corner deli near our Brooklyn home is famous for its sandwiches. I LOVE sandwiches. Like really really love them. So my excitement was at an all time high as I set out to Jesse's Deli for a cup of joe (look at my lingo ladies!) and a hero sandwich. Problem is? I don't really know what a hero is.
I go into the deli that is also a corner store - the common thing here right? And I promptly look for a menu behind the glass case of meat. There is none. Uh oh. Maybe they don't serve sandwiches anymore. I dully look around for another patron to see if someone else is ordering a sandwich. Nope.
I look at the Adam's family look-alike behind the cash register and ask if they serve sandwiches. She looks at me as if I am some sort of reject. Of course they do.
Oh right. Okay. Ummm, do you have a menu?
Now she talks to me like I am slow, but in a nice way at least. No. I just pick what I want.
What? No! I may love food but putting it together is not my strong point! I can only follow recipes! I have no ability to create a dish blending flavours together that will sing in your mouth! Same goes for sandwich construction. It's an art! An art of blending the right cheese with the right meat, adding some things like olives or capers to give it a certain 'je ne sais qua' with the right amount of mustard. And now she wants me to make up my own? With her watching? There was like a bazillion meats behind the counter.
Anything? Oh dear.
Now the girl is joined by her dad, who I suspect is Jesse, and her mother, and then what I can only assume to be the brother (family owned joint right?) all watching me in amusement. I smile at them all and say: meat. That's right. I just said 'meat' and that was it.
What sort of meat?
I glance at the case and rack my brain. Ham! and Salami!
Great. What kind of ham? What kind of salami?
Urgh.
Honey ham? Spicy salami?
Cheese?
Yes.
What kind?
Oh. Uh. What kind do you have?
Anything. Cheddar, muenster, provolone . .
Provolone!
Bread?
Bread.
What kind?
What kind do you have? THIS IS WHERE A MENU WOULD BE HANDY!!
Roll, white, multi, bagel, hero . .
Hero? Hero? What's that? I've heard of the New York hero.
They all look at me in shock. Have I never had a New York Hero (insert thick Brooklyn accent here)?
No. I say and smile. I'm from Canada. They all nod and smile then coddle me. It's here that they all start helping build my hero sandwich so that it is the best tasting sandwich ever. It's been such an ordeal but finally the brother passes me over a wax-paper wrapped sandwich and I turn to leave the shop. Just in time for a new customer to say he wants a liverwurst hero with extra cheese. Oh god, I think, that sounds good. Ooooh, I am learning the fun things I can have! Pate hero? HELLO? Delicious!
Anyhoo, I head home with my hero in hand. Proud that I have accomplished yet another New York food fame thing. I get home, sip some coffee and open my sandwich.
I realize I have had a hero. It's a subway. But don't let Brooklyn-ites hear me say it. I am pretty sure the Subway chain is banned in this borough. I can see why. This hero far surpassed anything I've ever eaten there. Still. It was just a sub sandwich.
note: this is not a picture of my hero - but another Jesse sandwich. It will give you an idea of how much stuff they put on them!
Bollywood Bridesmaid
It's been quite some time since I actually talked about the life of a bridesmaid. Which, I must admit, is now over. How odd. For what seemed like forever, I was the go-to bridesmaid with at least 2 weddings a year.
I retired the taffeta and uncomfortable shoes last September, in a dear old friend's wedding. And what a wedding to go out on. It was a four-day Bollywood wedding that had its fair share of drama, colour, and Bhangra dancing. So I am sure this is going to be at least a four-parter friends.
Let's start with ensemble number one. Miss Indian Bride had them made for us in India. They are what she referred to as 'suits' - leggings and a tunic top. Mine was a lovely peacock green colour. And although I gave MIB my exact measurements, the little Indian ladies must have assumed they were in metric, or in imperial, or in some magical measurement that they thought there was no possibility of someone being as big as me. Either way, the leggings didn't go past my ankles and the tunic got stuck on my breasts.
Needless to say, the outfit needed tailoring. But one can't exactly take an Indian suit to any old tailor. One must go to the Indian tailor in Little India. That means I had to find it. And I was with my father. . . .
We traipsed to 49th and Main, searched out the address which was at the top of a tiny flight of stairs above a Bollywood movie store, down a long hallway and into a tiny apartment that doubles as a store front. The little lady pointed me to the change room so I could show her what needed letting out.
Do you see a problem here? Like the fact that the tunic didn't fit the first time?
So I peeled it on again, sans the leggings which I told her to let ALL the way out, stepped out of the change room only to have her shake her head and shoo me back in.
Yeah. I know. I told her it was tight.
Then it happened. I got stuck. Stuck pulling it off my body in such a way that my arms were sticking up and I could not get the tunic up or down.
There are things in life that should never happen.
1. You should never pass gas in a library.
2. You should never pee you pants laughing (in public anyways).
3. And you should Never Ever have your father with you when trying on bridesmaid outfits that are too small. Because inevitably, he will have to come into the change room (which is too small, so you BOTH have to go out in front of the tailor and the grandmother who stares at you with horror), close his eyes (because you yelled at him to do so) and rip a tunic off of your body that will also take your bra halfway up your shoulders.
A moment that we would both like to forget.
The leggings were let out ALL the way only for me to discover that the damn material stretches and is supposed to be gathered around your ankles. Because I let mine out, they stretched so much so, that hem fell past my toes giving me the look of Kermit the frog. So when I forgot, yes forgot, the groom's wedding ring in the car and had to dash out of the temple to get it, a foot of green material extended past my toes and almost hit the bride's aunt in the face.
Bibimbop Me Home
New York is the city that never sleeps right?
Lies! On Sunday nights people go home early and close their restaurants.
While enjoying the music at Carnegie Hall, my tummy growled and gurgled embarrassingly and my thoughts drifted to hot ramen soup at Ippudo . . . .
So we hightailed it to Union Square only to find that our only regular haunt had closed 8 minutes earlier! GAH! I was in the hangry mood, the mood that mixes hunger and anger. I wanted nothing more than my ramen damn it!!
But around the corner sat Sura, a Korean restaurant that was open until 11! We clamoured inside, to find the most gracious hosts (I would not be so nice if two new diners came it 10 minute before closing). The room is comfortable and cozy, with subtle Asian accouterments dangling from the walls and ceilings all melding together to be a comforting and classy place to grab some rice.
If you visit NYC and love Korean, I recommend this find. I am not a Korean connoisseur at all, but I do know fresh and tasty food when I get it. And even though I desperately wanted my bowl of ramen, the hot stone bowl of beef bibimbop did the trick.
It came fast and steaming with lean ground beef and brown rice, only 500 calories! And full of green veggies! Plus really lovely and flavourful.
The bar was well stocked with jars of home-infused soju: traditional Korean alcohol infused with fruits and herbs. They were a beautiful sight with all the colour of the fruit/herb of which was being infused.
I will go back any day for some comfort Korean and a shot of super nice service - which will be quickly opposed the minute you walk out the door and find some idiot urinating on the street yelling at cabs.
All in a night in New York right?
www.suranyc.com
The Symphony Epiphany
The Engineer and I sauntered down to Carnegie Hall to delight in the classical stylings of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. It is our second Carnegie Hall symphony of the year, and my first symphony experience since my parents dragged me to the Winnipeg Symphony when I was a kid (then led by Bramwell Tovey - who then moved to Vancouver and is spending the summer in NYC - is this guy being in every city I am in, a sign I should go see him or something?)
NYU Stern students were given free tickets from the Creative Director, Clive Gillinson, after his talk in the 'Leaders of New York' series. Except our seats were very front row, in front of the cellos. We couldn't see a thing.
My view was literally the ass of some cellist. And I know this is horribly uncouth of me, but my first thought was that I hope she doesn't pass gas during the overtures. I probably would after all. I sometimes pass gas doing lunges.
Due to the fact I could not really see the musicians, my experience was to simply experience the music.
That I did.
I sat there, letting my mind drift to summer fields in Alberta and good books and scones (random I know). I also started thinking about my own career choice and the path I am walking down.
I am an actress. And although I love the actual craft, it has come to my attention over the years, that I don't necessarily like all the crappy baggage that comes with it. Unfortunately, I still can't simply walk away.
I have been in a pretty serious funk recently. It's lasted a fairly long time. What exactly is it in this business that gives my stomach a sinking feeling? And for some reason, the rushing notes from the violins made me realize that I hate permanently watching my weight.
That's it. Not the auditions, or the rejection, or the crappy scripts. It's the sheer amount of time I spend focusing on body issues. In any other profession, I am slim with an athletic frame. In the world of Hollywood, I am 'Bridget Jones-esque'. I kid you not. One breakdown actually used this description.
Lately I have been especially playing into the assumption that there is a game to be played and I have to be willing to play in it. That means working out EVERY SINGLE day (which I do) and laying off all things good, like sugar, carbs, and citrus (damn you South Beach). I agreed to play the game because even my most favorite of the curvy actresses have caved in. Literally. They all lost weight. Kate Winslet is skinnier, Scarlett Johannson is no longer her pretty curvy self, and even Nia Vardalos was surprisingly skinny.
But for some reason, listening to the music, I realized it was a shitty shitty game to be playing. I certainly don't begrudge working out. I love sweating. I feel deep satisfaction in getting strong and having sweat drip into my eyes.
It's the food thing.
Not to say I can give it all up and eat McDonald's. No no no. I love healthy food. Nutritious food that tastes fresh and flavourful is great. But do I have to give up eating dim sum with the Engineer, or fresh butter on hot french bread, or steaming bowls of Thai curry?
I think that the game Hollywood starlets play is a deeply sad one. How could anyone possibly be fulfilled on a life devoted to eating raw food? RAW? That one makes me shake my head in complete wonderment. I mean sure, Demi looks great for her age, but give that woman a chocolate cake already! Sure she is married to a much younger, hot male, but she still looks like she has a pole stuck up her ass. It's the freak-ass raw food! Or refusing to eat fruit? No sugar? None? Like not one cookie here and there or a cup of sweet tea?
All of a sudden, when I realized that I would rather indulge in the amazing delicacies this world has to offer than spend the rest of my life handcuffed to eating only to stay alive, I thought 'nah' it's not worth it.
Hmmm, now what? Maybe I could make a happy career out of being the slightly overweight best friend? I think that is a good theme. Even in the scripts I write, the character I imagine myself playing always is associated with food and is of the round variety (my sneaky way of getting cast). The quirky best friend always has more fun anyways . . . . and you know why? Because she is ALLOWED to eat craft services!!!
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