Attention Male Shoppers...

photo courtesy of tracey.blanco on flickr

Due to the fact that I am, against my free will, in the grocery store about forty three times a week, I am confident with labeling myself a heavy user of said establishment. On that note, I am going to use this space to express my grievances with the *MALE SHOPPER.

Now I know this write-up won't be deemed politically correct in (what is supposed to be) a gender-respected society, but there are some serious infractions that need to be addressed.

*note: I know there are some exceptions (Spanky, perhaps you're reading this) but I know this speaks for the majority:

1. When you (yes, I mean YOU - the male shopper) need to linger over a shelf's selection, park your cart to the side of the aisle. Do not park your cart in the middle of the aisle while your eyes search for an item on your list; clearly written in your wife's hand-writing.

2. Don't stress. I know you were sent to get a can of diced tomatoes. The fact that there are several brand names shouldn't confuse you to the tenth degree. Stop clogging up the aisle with your cart and your stupified look as you survey all the cans. Just pick one. Not necessarily the cheapest one either. Splurge a little for that pot of chili she's going to make for the family tonight.

3. Most of my frustration is experienced in the produce section. Here's a thought. Bag your fruits and vegetables. Don't let them roll around in the cart and then pile them on the conveyor belt at check-out. It's in everyone's best interest if you group your selections together.

4. When you do come across the roll of bags in the produce section, grab a whole bunch while you have your chance. That will prevent you from stationing your cart in front of the bins that everyone is trying to access while you aimlessly (with much bewilderment) search for a bag while walking around with six bruised apples in your hand, and a watermelon in the other.

5. Do not bag vegetables and fruits together in one bag. This creates a massive hold-up at check-out. Much appreciated.

One day, as I was in checkout waiting for a man to pile his sixteen oranges and twelve kiwis on the conveyer belt, I perused through a 'Bon Appetit' issue and came across the most amazing dessert. It is one I now treasure and make on special occasions. It was time well spent alongside the agony in watching him complete his purchase. So, to him, I say thank you. For the rest of you, I leave you with the recipe. It's a lot of work, but well worth it. Just like the man in your life.





Molten Lava Cakes

Sauce

• 4 1/2 ounces bittersweet (not unsweetened) or semisweet chocolate, chopped
• 2 ounces unsweetened chocolate, chopped
• 1/3 cup hot water
• 1/4 cup light corn syrup
• 3/4 teaspoon peppermint extract

Cakes

• 5 ounces bittersweet (not unsweetened) or semisweet chocolate, chopped
• 10 tablespoons unsalted butter
• 3 large eggs
• 3 large egg yolks
• 1 1/2 cups powdered sugar
• 1/2 cup all purpose flour

• Vanilla ice cream

For sauce:
Stir both chocolates in top of double boiler over barely simmering water until melted. Add 1/3 cup hot water, corn syrup and extract; whisk until smooth. Remove from over water. Cool slightly. (Can be made 2 days ahead. Cover; chill. Before serving, rewarm in saucepan over low heat, stirring constantly.)

For cakes:
Preheat oven to 450°F. Butter six 3/4-cup soufflé dishes or custard cups. Stir chocolate and butter in heavy medium saucepan over low heat until melted. Cool slightly. Whisk eggs and egg yolks in large bowl to blend. Whisk in sugar, then chocolate mixture and flour. Pour batter into dishes, dividing equally. (Can be made 1 day ahead. Cover; chill.)

Bake cakes until sides are set but center remains soft and runny, about 11 minutes or up to 14 minutes for batter that was refrigerated. Run small knife around cakes to loosen. Immediately turn cakes out onto plates. Spoon sauce around cakes. Serve with ice cream.

produce photo courtesy of Ron, Ron, Ron on flickr

A Musician's Wife

Funny how doing laundry and the discoveries of wet, wrinkled items unearthed from pant pockets and lint traps can be very telling of a home. The other day, while doing a load of darks, a large, tangled mass of clothes fell out of the dryer as I opened the door.

I wasn't surprised to discover that a broken guitar string had weaved its way in and around my now injured wardrobe; its stiff wire tying the whole load together in a bunch. This string, once a weighty contributor to the ever-present noise brewing from our basement, is now a lifeless nuisance in my laundry.

Nowadays, I don't even try to calculate how my kids' guitar strings end up in the wash. This due to the promise I made over a decade ago, long before they were even born. The guitar string I work to free from its handy work brings me back to the moment I signed up for this sort of mishap fourteen years ago.

The first time my husband asked me out, I was in a bar playing pool with my friends. When he popped the question (do you want to go out sometime?), I turned my head towards him and found myself locked in his sweet stare; those big, green eyes deflating any strength I had in saying no.

We fell in love pretty fast. A few movies and a couple dinners later, we both knew this was the real deal. Things grew serious quickly and we both seemed comfortable with this force pulling us toward our future. So when he said, "Tracey, there's something you need to know about me," my girlish heart dropped in fear. Here it comes. The end of this great ride.

"I have another love," he explained, "and it's my music."



Jeremy went into detail about how he will always work gigs on top of his full-time job. That the home we'd live in together would always be a noisy one. That when he needed time to write and play, I would have to respect it. So many times, he said, his musician buddies were asked to quit by their girlfriends or wives; wanting to pull them away from music and he didn't want to live with the same pressures. Was I, he asked, able to live in a musician's world?

Even though I had a minimal musical background, I was pretty relieved to hear that this was his deep, dark truth . Was I willing to share him? With another woman - never! With music - sure, why not? I could definitely handle that. I was proud of his dedication and talent.

Over the next few years, I learned about the idiosyncrasies that came with this world, including losing parts of our homes to his studios and pieces of our time lost in music stores, jam sessions and rehearsals. I even embraced feeding the masses for band retreats and live shows. Our house, as promised, is noisy. Sometimes I move with the beat. Other times, I just want to beat him.

What I didn't count on was that this wonderful world of music would multiply around me. Three-fold in fact. Today, I not only share my life with one musician but four - by way of our daughter and two sons who have passionately decided to embark on their own journey of sound.

I'm definitely still learning how to be a music Mom. This is new territory for me. What do you do when a band breaks up because someone didn't play with the guitarist at recess? And what do you serve the band for dinner when there are potential peanut and milk allergies? How do you teach compromise to a nine-year-old singer who wants to branch out into playing guitar and bass and drums? Did I mention how loud our house is these days?
Surely, the positives must outweigh the negatives. Turns out, they do.

There are very few activities that require more use of the brain than playing music. In fact, because they use both hemispheres, musicians show a larger capacity for creative or 'divergent' thinking even when not strumming their instruments.

Research at the Universities of Wisconsin-Oshkosh and California-Irvine found children who are exposed to musical training enhance the activity of crucial neural systems and spacial reasoning. Music improves a child's math, language and memory skills.

A massive two-year study in Switzerland scientifically demonstrated that playing music improved a child's verbal and reading skills; thanks to increased levels of concentration, self expression and memory.

Researchers at Brown University found that under-achieving students, when enrolled in a music program, were able to catch up to their peers academically in seven months. After a full year, they surpassed them.

My husband often interacts with teenagers through his music. I have seen the miraculous transformation with these kids when they are taken in by his guitar playing. Teenagers who appear closed off and reserved, magically come out of their shells; wanting to learn and discuss a subject that seems to be the gateway into their thoughts. As a Mom, I don't take for granted that music seems to be the ticket that gains us admittance into our children's lives.

When I first surrendered to my husband's musical community after his admission, I concede I was naive to what I was saying yes to; that it meant much more than tolerating bass-induced vibrating china cabinets. I realize now that he was handing me a very exclusive invitation to be a part of my children's personal and private worlds.

It's true that I may not have realized what I was signing up for when I made that promise years ago. But those guitar strings have had a miraculous way of weaving themselves not only through my laundry but also through our family - binding us together in one tight knot.

guitar string photo by arya.hamedi

Black Beans

photo by Susan/The Well-Seasoned Cook on flickr

My entire family loves black beans. Even the kids. I crave this nutrition-packed legume and I find it has made an impact in a lot of our home cooking. From Tex Mex Potatoes, to pan-fried black beans served atop a salad, they are a big Green Household Favourite.

But when I came across a recipe for Black Bean Brownies, that's where I had to draw the line. No one messes with my chocolate! Black bean brownies sounded, well, repulsive. In an attempt to replace the evil white flour, these legumes are being asked to party it up in the mixer alongside the chocolate chips.

As revolting as it sounds, how can I turn my back on the idea that my two favourite foods, when intermingled, could form the perfect marriage? So I'll be trying it out this week and I'll fill you in on whether they make the grade or not. If so, I'll post the recipe.

If you've never been one to stop in the canned vegetable aisle long enough to throw a couple cans in your shopping cart, you may want to rethink this next time you're in the store. And here's why:

• The Journal of Agriculture and Food Chemistry notes Black Beans as an antioxidant Superstar
• High in fibre, great for lowering cholesterol
• Prevents blood sugar levels from rising after meals (good for diabetics)
• High in protein - muscle building power
• Protects against cancer; even known to reduce the number of pre-cancerous cells
• Very heart healthy
• High in folate and magnesium
• Replenishes iron giving you more energy

FYI, canned black beans are equal in nutrition to those you cook yourself. Throw them in a pot of chili, use as a pizza topping or scatter them on your nachos. I can't leave you empty handed until the brownie experiment so I'll post the Tex Mex Recipe. Enjoy!


photo by arsheffield on flickr

Tex-Mex Potatoes
We usually do this up as a main course but it also serves well as a side dish.

2 cups salsa
1 (15 oz) can black beans, drained and rinsed
1 large can of corn niblets
3 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro
*6 baking potatoes: cooked, baked, halved with potato pulp scooped out
Reserved Potato Pulp

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Combine salsa, beans, corn, cilantro and potato pulp. Season with salt and ground black pepper.

Refill potato skins with potato mixture. Bake for 20 minutes; top with sour cream and cheese if desired.

*to prepare potatoes, place in 350 degree preheated oven and bake for 45 minutes or until fork tender. Slice off the tops and scoop out potato pulp.

Blessings in Disguise

Don't you love blessings in disguise?


photo by popsdigital on flickr

Sunday we awoke to ambitions of enjoying the last day of Christmas break on the slopes. All pumped and ready to go, we dismally looked out the window as reality hit hard. Windy and temps of -25 sent images of skiing with three whiny kids and frozen toes. Ick. I'd rather stick my tongue to a metal pole.

So we set our sights on checking out a brand new indoor biking facility in Markham; this new arena promising 90,000 square feet of fun. Ah, to blow the dust off recent memories of bike rides spent under the canopies of Glen Major (was that really just 45 days ago that we felt the sun on our faces as our tires spun freely over Three Rock? Sigh...).

With bikes curiously wondering what they were doing out of storage in the middle of winter, we arrived at JoyRide-150. Our eyes widened as we took in the scenery: scads of pump tracks, woop-dee-doos, logs and obstacles. They even had an X-track that you could do laps on for those yearning for the trails. Our family ranged from beginner to intermediate so we were relieved there was something for everyone.



While my boys rode off and hit every jump they could find, my daughter meandered through the beginner section; a little nervous about spreading her wings (or tires) to other parts of the park. We chose to go and watch the boys at the foam pit for a change of scenery. Here, bikers can launch themselves down a ramp and up another, catching some air at the top and landing in a big pile of foam. The boys and I gave it a go and soon discovered the freedom of landing without injury.



We decided to break for lunch and enjoyed our packed sandwiches and yogurts (yes, you can bring your own food, although they sell pizza and other stuff at the vendor counter). Two fireplaces and big screens were this area's focal point but I was too distracted by the alluring scent of someone's crock pot full of chili. What a great idea. Definitely packing my own crock pot for our next visit.

As the day wore on and we all became accustomed to the terrain, I was amazed when my daughter announced she'd like to try the foam pit. I was really taken aback by her bravery! As she stood high on the ramp with her front tire on the edge, I was so proud of her. She was about to do something she clearly feared. With teeth clenched (mine, not hers) she threw her front tire over the ramp, cruised at top speed and up the launch, landing soundlessly into a cloud of foam cubes. Way to go, Sam. Perhaps an inspiring lesson for us all when we feel fear gripping our ambitions.

Turns out this place will be the perfect mental therapy for surviving the long, winter days that loom ahead.

I urge each family to check out JoyRide for their own biking adventures and memories. You don't have to be die-hard riders to love this place. The $25 per person is well worth it, cheaper than any lift ticket, and you can bring your own equipment (that you probably have in your garage as I type this). Some other info that may help you plan your trip:

• It's a bit chilly inside the park so plan to wear a sweatshirt until you get warmed up.
• You can rent bikes for $15 (Jeremy and I did) but know that they come with no gears.
• Rental bikes cannot go in the foam pit.
• I wouldn't suggest clipping in for this park. Some people were, but you start and stop quite a bit for other bikers.
• The atmosphere is very comparable to a ski resort; so you can pack your own lunch or buy it.
• They have lockers but you need to rent a lock (or you can bring your own).

A final thanks to the gusting winds of Sunday. Without you, the day wouldn't have been possible.

http://www.joyride150.com/

Wishing you all a fantastic and memory-filled holiday season. Merry Christmas! See you all in 2010.

Tracey

In the Driver's Seat

It's amazing to me that life's most insignificant moments (or so it seems at the time) end up defining us the most. I share one of these moments in my life with you guys. I hope it inspires you to conjure up your own from the forgotten corners of your mind. And if you're willing to share ~ even better. xo

In The Driver's Seat

It was the summer of '83 the first time I drove my Dad's car. We had pulled into the arena's vacant parking lot where my brother's gymnastics practice had been held. As he exited the car to fetch my brother, he instructed me to wait. I was left with the keys to entertain myself with the radio.

As I climbed from the backseat to the front in order to control the song selection (a rare privilege for the youngest of four kids), I slid comfortably into my Dad's spot. As I rapidly twisted the tuning knob that skipped over static and jumbled voices, my ears and fingers searched over the band waves for a likable selection.

Somewhere out in the city, a DJ randomly thumbs through his archives and pauses on an album cover featuring four band members doing their business on a cement piling in England. Sliding out the vinyl from its cardboard cover, his hands carry it to a turn table. He carefully places the needle in the groove that sends The Who's 'Baba O'Riley' through the receivers in his broadcast area. Meanwhile, my Dad's car keys still dangle from the ignition of his 88 Oldsmobile and my tuning fingers find what they were looking for.


(I don't need to fight...)

Perhaps it was the pure energy of Roger Daltry's voice that inspired me. Or perhaps Pete Townsend's power chords. Or maybe it was because I sensed I was on the verge of my own 'Teenage Wasteland'. But whatever it was, it influenced me to do something I never thought to do before.


(...to prove I'm right)

Fumbling down the side of the driver's seat, I find a network of switches and I blindly work automatic buttons that inch me closer to the dashboard. The switches pull me as far forward as General Motors would allow. Gripping the leather steering wheel with one hand, I turn the key with my other. One click further towards the dashboard brings the engine to life.

As I take my left foot off the brake, the car crawls forward. It's hard to believe I am responsible for making it move. So many times I had traveled by car, but this time it was me at the helm, in control. I press hard on the gas with my right foot and the car powerfully jumps forward. Panicking, my left foot finds the brakes as hard as my right foot had come down on the gas. Everything lurches forward then slams back; from loose change to scattered cassette tapes. And me. My heart races and I let out a weighted breath. I sit still for a moment, there in the late night, my arms hugging the steering wheel.

My eyes fix on the key ring rattling against the steering column. My hand hovers above the swaying set, my intention to stop its movement. But instead, I find myself continue just to the right of them. I reach for the volume and turn the chrome knob clockwise.

Music drowns out the hum of the engine and Keith Moon's drums explode within the car's small space. It swells my head and I am nowhere else but inside the song; the fusion of instruments pumping my adrenaline and I haven't even moved from my seat. With two hands on the wheel and my eyes transfixed on the windshield, I press the gas once more, this time with a steadier foot as the night sky opens itself before me.


(Sally, take my hand. We'll travel south cross land.)

My right foot gets real comfortable as it presses the pedal closer to the floor boards; the speedometer responding to its demand. My hands cross-cut over one another around the wheel while tires squeal over the asphalt. Only the stars above are witness to my antics. Them, a couple of lamp posts and the members of The Who.

It was a defining moment to move that car on my own for the first time. Without sitting on my Dad's knee while he reached the pedals for me. I didn't go far. Just a few donuts over the faded white paint marking the vacant spots that would house parked cars 12 hours from now. The exact number of my age at the time.

In that moment, I felt the world was laid out before me across that windshield, urging me to fill its space with whatever I wanted. Everything felt real and possible. I was excited for me. I remember feeling thrilled for my life. I was going to do great things and I was in control to make all those things happen.


(...before we get much older...)

When the song ended, I rolled the car back into its original location. I put the gear shift back in park, just where my Dad had left me before he went into the building. As he walked out of the arena with my brother; a gym bag slung over his shoulder, I was soon shifted to my usual spot in the backseat where all little sisters go. To them, no momentous occasion had taken place.

As we headed home, I hummed the tune that had radiated from the album now resting on a shelf in a DJ booth somewhere in the city. To my father and brother, nothing had changed.

But for me, everything had.