Just like Martha's except less green and more dead.

When I planted the seeds I imagined a cute little tree sprouting to keep me company in the kitchen. One that would occasionally bear exotic fruit which I would use in salads and baking a la Martha Stewart. When people questioned where this fruit had come from (because people do that), I would nonchalantly mention that I had grown it myself. "But in, FEBRUARY?!?" they would explain. I would cooly brush it off as if it were no big deal... as if the plant had basically gown itself, picked itself, and chopped itself up for my salad. This was the fantasy eluded to by the compostable packaging that my little tree seeds came in. I failed to compost the packaging and I failed to grow a tree.

The packaging claimed that in as little as six weeks a grower could expect to see fruit and, well, five weeks later, there I was, still staring at a pot of mud. My curiosity got the best of me today and I went rooting through the mud to see if anything was going on "down there" and not a single speck of green had started sprouting. What gives? I watered it regularly. Loved it. Talked to it. Gave it a sunny little perch. All I got was mud.... and I have two guesses why;

1. it was a gift given to me by a classmate when I move to Ottawa... two and a half years ago. Perhaps I was supposed to plant the seeds 16 months ago? Perhaps then they would have grown.

2. there may have been a night or two that I forgot to take it off the window sill and froze my little germinating baby in it's sleep.


I have a bad track record with plants. I've been known to mistakenly weed up entire rows of cucumbers and carrots from my parents garden, and there was that time I drove through my mom's flower garden with the lawn mower. My herb garden dried itself out before I had a chance to turn it into anything. On my second try I asked a green-thumber for a bit of advice. She told me not to water too often and to water before the sun came up or the little water droplets would burn holes in the plants. So there I was waking up at 4am, worried that I was watering too little or too much. I succeeded to keep my basil, lemon balm and mint plants alive long enough for us to use them, but failed to keep straight which plant was which. Needless to say, we ended up with lemon balmy pesto and some rather minty gazpacho.

This matters because for the first time in many years I'm going to be able to have a real garden. I've already put in an overly enthusiastic order to Vessey's and am indulging myself with daydreams of cauliflower, beets, pumpkins and artichokes fresh from the garden. Does anyone have any tips or words of advice for someone with a handicapped green thumb? Has anyone ever actually grown artichokes?

I am not a winner and you probably aren't either.

Now, Before you groan, roll your eyes and go back to watching youtube videos of cutesy kittens doing cutesy things, don't worry, this isn't one if those "whoa is Britt, I loose at life" posts, and I'm not going to cast a gloomy old rain cloud on anybodies bright and sunny (all-be-it freakin' cold) day. The cutesy kitten videos can wait five more minutes while you finish reading this.

Now, some people (they're probably a neighbor, or a friends parents), have some natural talent at winning contests. They spend $5 at a social and leave with a new lawnmower, toaster oven, and a $300 gift certificate for skate sharpening; they're the same ones walking away from office Christmas parties with a trip for two to Cuba and two weeks paid vacation, while the rest of us walk away with tea cozies that the boss's Grandma knit in the company colours; they have an uncanny ability to know that there are 982 Jelly Beans in that jar; and when they scratch, they actually win. You know the type. Maybe you are the type (if that's the case, we all secretly hate you and spread rumors behind your back... now you know).

I, like most of you, am not a winner. Yeah, sure, we've all won a coffee with Tim Hortons rrrrrrrrroll up the rim to win... but so has my dog. When every other cup is a winner it's more like a coupon than a contest. If you're like me, you also have your big claim to winning fame that you cling to like saran wrap does to jello (if you've never tried to saran-wrap Jello, then you have no idea what you're missing out on) just to make yourself not feel like a total loser. Mine is a $280 hockey scholarship that I won at a Chinese auction at Lilac Resort Camp Grounds in '94 (do the math, I was eight). Why there was a Chinese auction at a camp ground I don't remember. The real question is "why did I enter to win a hockey scholarship?" I remember really wanting to win the horse race game and I didn't use the scholarship.

Child hood memories aside, I haven't done a great deal of winning things since. Until (you guessed it) NOW!!!!!!! I really cleaned up shop this week. First there was my big score at Safeway. You all know what I'm talking about, this little tear and rip cards that the cashier hands you five of for every purchase of $1. I've been tearing open those things for years... I have enough of them to insulate a house and I've never won a thing... then Monday comes along and BOOM!!! APPLE JUICE!!!! Yes, I am a lucky devil. The fact that I don't drink or like apple juice, means nothing and I don't let that small detail steal an ounce of victory away from my win. I won apple juice.

Then my inbox had a big old surprise for me this morning. As I'm om-nom-noming some serious oatmeal, enjoying my coffee (no, not apple juice, ick), and trashing all of my junkmail that accumulated in my inbox during the six hours while I slumbered.... I stumbled across a piece of junkmail that wasn't. It was/ I was a winner! I won two tickets to the wonderful world of wedding show happening this weekend! YAY ME!!

Now those of you who are reading this and already know that I'm not an overly excitable bride, probably sensed the sarcasm in that statement. And, those of you who didn't already know that white dresses give me hives, and that boutonnières and cursive fonts cause me to hyperventilate... well, now you do. Still, I feel a certain obligation to attend the show. So much of an obligation in fact, that I ended up with commitments to go on the Saturday and the Sunday. A weekend of wedding shows. Good god.

For everyone's safety and well being, I will have Steve in tow on Saturday. He's very good at running crowd control and getting between me and the nancy who just stepped on my foot with her three-inch spike heel and then knocked me in the face with her elbow, all while talking loudly on her cell phone. Steve sees that glint of bête noire in my eyes and manages to get me out of ear shot before I LOUDLY launch into a verbal lecture about how "SOME GIRLS have no CONSIDERATION, for OTHER PEOPLE" ... I am my grandmother.

Our mothers will also be along on Saturday. Mine to point out that "with some scissors and a little help from the hot glue gun, those table covers would make lovely invitations," and Steve's mom to ogle the destination wedding packages and to try one more time to convince us that a wedding in Mazatlan is the way to go. I love you both.

Then on Sunday it's back to the show with my local brides maids. Lindsay will have an absolute cow over the cost of flowers and know where I can get them for one tenth of the cost. Her parents are also the ones who require the help of six people to carry their loot to the car when leaving a social or any fundraising event where prizes were available to be won. I have no doubt that she will follow in their foot steps one day. Jen, on the other hand, will make the whole thing an educational experience with interesting little side notes like "if you have doves at your wedding, and people throw rice, the doves will eat the rice and it will expand in their stomachs, and then they will explode." And I'll counter that with "Sally ate a bag of rice once and she didn't explode." And she'll either tell me about the time her dog ate a box of Lasagna noodles or go into the scientific explanation about why Sally did't explode.

I've asked these two to be in my wedding party for reasons that are obvious. I am ecstatic that they both agreed and want them to know how much it means to me and I've promised not to nickel and dime them to death with small little wedding related things... like tickets to a wedding show. So the freebies will go to the girls and we'll all spend an hour or two eating free samples of wedding cake and entering draws for things that we won't win.

One Great City

I'm going to ask that all readers direct there attention away from the date on my last blog post and play along with me as I do my best to convince you that it hasn't been three months since you last heard from me, and I could make up a story about a time warp, or the internet exploding... but no matter how hard I sell it, you probably won't buy it.

It's a new year so lets start fresh with a little life update. We no longer reside at 42 Park Avenue, which make the the title of this blog a little misleading. I thought about changing the URL, but "415 Stradbrook" just doesn't have that ring to it. "The Wakefield" was a promising candidate with a lot of potential but in the end, I had too many sentimental, schmaltzy, and mushy feelings about Park Avenue to let it die. I'm a sap, what else is new?

Well, not really that much. Sally continues to eat my shoes, I killed a poinsettia and my hippo-teapot got a camel-teapot-friend to keep him company (thanks Jen!). There was a trip to North Dakota where I met my maker in a bottle of Shiraz, and Visa put a hold on my credit card. Steve took a trip to Vegas to drive sports cars, shoot guns, and ogle showgirls. Versache, Coach and Corningware all made an appearance on Christmas morning, and while you were counting down or kissing someone special on New Years Eve, I was taking Sally outside so that she could poop. happy. new. year.

Now lets talk about life in Winnipeg. Unlike in Ottawa, I can no longer wear my pajama pants in public, because nine times out of ten, I run into somebody who I know, or who knows me, or knows Steve, or my mom, or Steve's mom... actually nine times out of ten, they're in pajamas too. In Winnipeg there aren't six degrees of separation, there are only three (and there's no dress code at Superstore)). It's more likely than not that I'll recognize the person in front of me at Starbucks from a University class or as an old co-worker, or that I went to highschool with the asshole who just cut me off.

But, it's a good thing that you know so many people here, because you certainly won't be bussing to Montreal to visit friends for the weekend, and you won't be carpooling to Toronto or New York either. Your road tripping options are limited at best. Fargo, Grand Forks, Regina or Brandon. Take your pick. Realistically you could do all that there is to do in all of the aforementioned cities in a few fun-filled days, but why would you want to?

Lets talk some more about the city where I "got grown" and how it compares to our capital. Parking is $1/hr, not $12; a beer will set you back $4.50, not $7; our liquor commission is still open after 6pm; the ice on our skating path hasn't been destroyed by hundreds of bureaucrats on their way to the office but unless you're wearing every piece of clothing you own, you're going to freeze your everything off while you're on it; sushi is to Winnipeg what shwarma is to Ottawa; our main highway runs around the city, not through it; and your dad might drive an Audi but my dad drives a Ford F250 that makes smart cars wet themselves.

"and in the dollar store the clerk is closing up , and counting loonies trying not to say... I hate winnipeg"

Warning: This post is Cheesy

My opinion of Ottawa is no secret. While I don't "not like" the city, it has grown on me the same way that mold grows on a piece of cheese. We've all been there. Don't pretend you haven't done it. You find your forgotten block of cheddar hidden behind the pickles. Little green fuzzy bits are clambering up Cheddar's southern wall and rather than throw the valuable block out, you cut off the fungal bits and call the rest of the cheese edible.

In this case, I'm the cheese and Ottawa is the mold, and in my two years here, parts of it have grown on me despite my best efforts to cut off the fungus and keep the cheese mold free.

Normally we think of mold as a bad thing (the analogy continues), and it's true that quantities of certain molds can harbor bacteria that makes you sick. But other types of mold are famous for saving lives. Remember penicillin? The superman of mold?

Moreover mold either is, or is essential to the creation of, some of our favorite foods: bread, cheese, yogurt, soy sauce... wouldn't be possible without our good friend mold. Give me a mold free world without yogurt, and I'll tell you to shove it. I'm staying here with yogurt on moldy planet Earth.

Turns out that the cheese (me), is actually made of mold. Trying to cut the moldy bits off is like cutting off my cheddar nose despite my mozza face. Stop trying. Accept the mold... I think?

Basically, in the process of writing this, I realized that I am moldy cheese. I'm just beginning to come to terms with that... or even understand what it means.

Sorry for the bizarre analogy. I hope you followed.

How did this obscure epiphany come about? Well, Steve and I are moving back to Winnipeg. Surprised? So are we.

What surprised me even more is how sad I am to leave a city that I didn't think I even liked. It hit me hard. The majority of people in our Ottawa posse are Winnipeg imports, which means we will see them again. But, they're a great group of friends that I only realized I had as I was saying goodbye. That's my bad. Bad cheese! Bad! Joni Mitchell had it right after all:

"Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you've got ‘til it's gone. They paved paradise and put up a parking lot."


p.s. I googled the whole cheese/mold cutting off thing before posting this to make sure that I wasn't committing some health taboo (it occurs to me that I should have done this a long time ago), and it turns out that this is a totally safe practice to engage in, as long as you cut an extra 1/2" in from the moldy bits... next time I'll use a ruler. Cheese mold ruler! There's a business idea that's doomed to fail.

Life of (pumpkin) π

Growing up Thanksgiving meant turkey, ham, Caesar salad, mashed potatoes, stuffing (I never convince myself to try the stuffing, to me it always looked like something the bird had thrown up), gravy (I didn't take this either; it remindes me of what comes out of the other end), garlic bread, meatballs, holopchi, perogies, other Ukrainian foods that my spell checker doesn't recognize, pumpkin pie, whipped cream, additional assorted diabetes inducing desserts, second helpings of everything and, eventually, undoing the top button on my pants.

One year we deep fried the bird... insert heart palpitations here.

These festive binges included the usual suspects of immediate family members and a few faces that I only saw once or twice a year - and the only things we really had in common were the heaping plates of food in front of us. Conversation was politely forced, as I imagine it usually is when a large group of people who only have turkey in common are forced to politely converse.

At eighteen years of age, to my parents horror, I took the vow of a vegetarian and swore off eating anything with a face. It was deemed a "passing fad" and I was left to fend for myself at the family dinner table. When my first Thanksgiving rolled around, I won't lie, I struggled a little. It's hard to be satisfied with a dinner roll and perogies with the bacon bits picked off when everyone else is chowing down on a meaty feast. That year the topic of conversation was my dietary decision. I threw the first stone. I tried and failed (horribly) to convert anyone at that table to my vegetable loving ways. They, in return, put me on the spot and critically questioned my choice. I was unprepared and I was out numbered. I'm pretty sure even the turkey said "eat me!!" When the pumpkin pie came around, I dove in. This was the one part of Thanksgiving that I could share with my family and enjoy. I hadn't been robbed of this delicious seasonal treat. I had seconds.

I stuck to my guns, I livened up the table talk, I learned a valuable lesson. It was the last time I told anyone they shouldn't eat meat. I hated being attacked for my choice. What right do I have to attack another persons choice? Eat, or don't eat, whatever you want. I'll even cook it for you, just to prove my point.

Last year was my first Thanksgiving in Ottawa. I was lucky enough to have my parents fly in from Manitoba and my favorite franc'o friend, Laura, buss in from Montreal. She brought a sugar pie (only the french could dream up such a food) which I may have well just slapped on my thighs because I ate the whole damn thing. Steve and I rounded out the crowd with a few more friendly faces, I preheated the oven the 425F, poped in two of Loblaws finest frozen lasagnas (one veggie, one meaty). Dole provided us with a tasty pre-washed bagged salad, and a few other side dishes "magically" appeared... I didn't fuss. The grocery store made our meal, I just heated it up. But there was a home-made pumpkin pie (the sugar pie having magically disappeared at this point), and I can take credit for that.

The next day we drove down to Montreal and feasted on smoked meat sandwiches (I ate a really big pickle).

A bit of an unconventional Thanksgiving but no one complained.

This year there was no family, no franco'friend Laura, and no sugar pie. I missed them all.

This year there was turkey, and stuffing and all of the fixings. This year there was pumpkin pie. This year it was all from scratch (except for the stuffing, that came in a box... and I still think it looks like turkey vom). This year I fussed.

I am thankful that the godzilla-bird fit into my oven and that nothing burned or caught on fire. I am thankful that I didn't get saddled with doing the dishes. I am thankful that there are enough leftovers to feed Steve all week and that I will not have to cook.

This year a Spaniard, Palestinian, Somalian, Pollack, Ukrainian, and Yogini sat around a table that was just a little too small and shared so much more than a meal. We shared our stories, our music, our talents... there was sketching, spoken word, and I'm pretty sure the dog broke into a dance. At the end of the night, sugar pie or no sugar pie, my heart was happy.

Today there were no smoked meat sandwiches and no giant pickles. Today there was sunshine, and dog park, and a long run, and a coffee with a great friend, and a coffee with my fiancee, and quality time with quality people, and a really grateful pumpkin on my dining room table.

Next year I don't know where I'll be or who I'll be with. I don't think I will roast a turkey again. Tofurkey maybe, but I am not sticking my hand up a bird's butt ever again. Ever. I hope there will be great friends and conversation, and dancing, and singing and sugar pie.

I hope everyones Thanksgiving was as wonderful as mine. Gobble.

Editors note

Sugar pie is a single-crust pie with a filling made from flour, butter, salt, vanilla, and cream, with brown sugar or maple syrup (sometimes both) often used as additional filler. When baked, these ingredients combine into a homogeneous mixture similar to caramel.

Just incase anyone was thinking of making it for me.... here's the recipe.

Igredients:
Unbaked 9 1/2 inch tart shell
1 1/2 cups brown sugar
2 tablespoons flour
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/3 cup heavy cream

Directions:
Set the oven rack in the middle position. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Combine brown sugar, flour, and salt in a mixing bowl. Sprinkle mixture evenly over bottom of tart shell. Add vanilla to heavy cream and pour over mixture, spreading lightly with an offset spatula. Bake approximately 35 minutes, or until pastry is golden brown and filling is dark and bubbling. Cool on a rack. Serve slightly warm.

Turtle Crossings

I have a confession to make. Every so often I see complete strangers on the street and I fight back the urge to run up to them and invite them to my place for a sleepover. Creepy? Yes.

Usually these people have large backpacks and look like they haven't showered in a few days. I get all nostalgic about my own time traveling and remember all of the people who helped me out, and the urge to pay it forward wells up in my throat. Steve recently pointed out that these people with big backpacks were likely on the their way to do laundry. Blindingly simple logic, but I had managed to overlook it. In my mind everyone with a pack was a worn and weary traveler looking for a place to rest their tired heads and my couch would be the perfect place! This, I'm sure, is a symptom of Couch Surfilis (like syphilis but without the rash).

A year ago I became a participating member of the Couch Surfing community and since then I've participated in almost every way possible. First I mastered the art of surfing, finding hosts all over Europe and the Middle East. Simple in theory, but a fine art in practice. In the beginning I surfed solo, staying only with couples or other women for safety reasons. Smart and practical but unnecessary based on my experiences and the people that I've met thus far.

When Steve met up with me we surfed together - and also stayed in a few hostels -for the remainder of our trip. When we weren't surfing, and sometimes when we were, we went to "meetings" (read: beers) to meet up with other surfers and hosts. It was a great way to meet people that lived in the city as well as travelers who had just been where you planned to go, or going where you had just been. To each other we would make invaluable recommendations, share a few drinks and, in less than a few hours, become unbelievably good friends.

After getting ourselves settled in Ottawa, Steve and I agreed that it was time we opened our doors to travelers passing through. To date we've hosted fourteen. Sometimes we share a meal, sometimes a beer, sometimes nothing more than stories. Sometimes they do the dishes and that makes Britt really happy (what's up with the third person???). We just said goodbye to two lovely sister's from Germany who had rented a car to tour the Great Lakes area. Talking to them last night we were discussing national parks and what they would see there. "You have a lot of turtles, no?" one of them asked me.

"Hmmm, well yeah, I guess... we have a few. I wouldn't say we have a lot." Maybe they don't have turtles in Germany, I wondered?

"But we see signs everywhere for them." Signs, now this was a new one to me. I had yet to see a turtle sign in my entire time in Ottawa. "It looks like this" she said, drawing with her fingers in the air....

"Oh, those are for speed bumps!" I laughed, she looked confused. I explained what I speed bump was. She joined me in my continued laughter. This moment was brought to you by Couch Surfing.

Last weekend Steve and I drove out to Alexadria Bay, New York. What was there? Not too much. Just our good friend, Adam, that we had met in Florence, spent more time with in Rome and have successfully kept in touch with since (thanks Facebook). Turns out he's from Syracuse New York, only four hours away - driving, not flying, which is incredibly close when you think about all of the other places that he could have been from. He drove two-hours, we drove two-hours and we met in the middle, Alexandria Bay, where we camped and paid tribute to our Couch Surfing introduction by hosting our own CS Meeting (read: drinking beer). This time Steve suffered the hang over the following day and I was off the hook.

Adam was nice enough to bring the lovely Alexa along with him. A fellow Iron-Manning american who provided hours of the entertainment that only real Americans can provide. Another lovely memory (and friend) sponsored by Couch Surfing.

two thousand and sixty nine kilometers

In the same amount of time/distance you could theoretically drive from Ottawa to Dallas, Texas; Omaha, Nebraska; Orlando, Florida; New Orleans, Louisiana ... or Winnipeg, Manitoba.

Google estimates the drive from Ottawa to Winnipeg to be 25 hours. Our GPS gives a more realistic suggestion of 32 hours (I think it accounts for sleeping, road side assistance and pee breaks), and if you decide to stick to the Northern side of the border, you're looking at an additional four or five hours of road time - this is all assuming that you don't hit a moose, get lost or get left on the side of the road during a particularly heated spousal disagreement.

We've made the drive several times now, under varying conditions. We've taken friends along for the ride and we've subjected our dog to it. We've camped along the way and we've stayed in seedy motels. We've been pulled over at the border. We've had our vehicle searched. We've narrowly missed speeding tickets ... and we haven't always been so lucky. We've killed ourselves and made the drive in record time, and we've also taken our time and done it at a more enjoyable pace, but every time we make the drive home (and we're driving "home" either way you look at it), a few things stay the same...

1. I'm always grumpy when we leave.

2. Steve's in charge of music, but I burn a few CD's just incase.

3. Britt eat's out of the cooler full of tasty veggies, yogurt and fruit. Steve eats out of every Harvey's, McDonalds and Burger
King that we pass.

4. We get pulled over at the Sault Ste Marie crossing. Always.

5. We stop for Subway in Duluth. Always.

6. Once we're in the good'old USA, it's every man for him/herself. We're in a cup-to-cup coffee consumption race to see who
can injest the most carcinogenic creamer substitutes in a 24-hour period without getting sick. We alternate stopping to pee and stopping for coffee until 1pm, then we switch the soda.

7. There will always be an unaccounted for roadblock/accident/detour.

8. There's a great bakery just outside of Marquette. Stopping there is as mandatory as stopping for gas.

9. The last three hours of the drive and always, always, always the longest three hours of our lives.

In a weeks time we'll be homeward bound one more time, which means that in about a week and a half we'll actually be home - insane when you acknowledge the fact that we could just fly and be home in two hours. I bitched when I had to travel through Toronto, adding on a few extra hours, but even then I was in Winnipeg for lunch. I'll try to keep that in mind the next time Air Canada pisses me off (I already know that I'll forget).

When I leave next week I'm going to have a difficult time remembering why I'm driving West to Winnipeg, when I could just keep on heading South and be in Orlando by Saturday. But, then again, it's hurricane season down there and I would miss out on driving through cool places like Ashland, Wisconsin and Ispeming Michigan.

Winnipeg it is... yay.