Dear Adriana

Dear Adriana,

I believe your email was sent to me in error as I am certain we have never been facebook friends. While it is true I would delete anyone with such an appalling lack of social skills -- really, women who have just met don't broach subjects like that until after a second bottle of pinot grigio -- I would definitely remember your utter disregard for the English language. A second grader, even one of the dimmer ones, could outclass that pitiful, mostly punctuation free, stream of semi-consciousness you sent me about your home-based web business.

Based on your writing alone, I am not surprised your boyfriend broke up with you, even if you are, as you say, "a super horny gurl." FYI "girl" is spelled with an "i".  I will say I am relieved to know you have a cat. Hopefully BOO can provide you with some measure of purpose in what appears to be an otherwise shallow and trite existence.

I also don't think you should tell people your astrological sign. I mean really, Virgo? In the context of your email, it is impossible to see anything but irony in that declaration.

I feel I must also point out that it is passé to lie so extravagantly about your age.  You say you're 23, but your URL clearly says 1975. It's not like everyone won't know the difference when they click on the link. I know what a 39 year old woman looks like. I see one naked every morning when I get out of the shower. In case you've missed it, like you missed spell check, it's called fucking gravity.

So thanks for your VIP password, but I'll take a pass. I also have no interest in helping you "move your shit", nor "hookin' you up with a jbo". I suggest you stay wherever you live currently and use that "dam lapotp" to bring knowledge into your living space, instead of using it to transmit spam and video of your old ass into the world.

Sincerely,

Never Your Facebook Friend

The tragic case of Joellan Huntley

Every single thing about the Joellan Huntley story is tragic. In 1996, a car swerved to avoid a dog and hit a power pole in Centreville, Nova Scotia. There were four kids in the car, the oldest the 16 year old driver. The driver lived, but his eight-year-old sister and 15-year-old friend were killed. His girlfriend Joeallan, was irreparably injured. She cannot move or speak.

Her family endured eight years of litigation against two insurance companies to receive two settlements, one for a million dollars and one for half a million dollars. Of the first settlement, the parents have spent about a third on Joellan for therapeutic care not covered by MSI. They have budgeted the funds to last the rest of her life and have offered to give the province what's left when she dies. The second award went to the province.

That half million dollar settlement the province received is tapped out, so after eight years of doing absolutely nothing in pursuit of the other settlement, the province has the parents back in court. A 2003 law change, I'm assuming the same one that absorbed the second settlement, says the province has the authority to recoup costs for care from insurance settlements.*

The province went after the other settlement, but public outcry has caused the government to call for a review of the policy (a law) that landed them there. The premiers promise that changes to the policy (still a law) will be compassionate and “reflect the values of Nova Scotians”.

I'm hoping the values of Nova Scotians includes the right to receive compensation for injury, in particular, in cases of catastrophic injury. The purpose of damages is to place the injured party to the position they were in before the injury occurred. It's impossible to put Joellan in the position she was before the accident, so the settlement reflects the cost of human life earnings plus loss and suffering. The tally of that is capped at a million dollars in Nova Scotia. The second settlement was from the insurance of the dog owner for not securing their dog.

That the province is reviewing the law is of little comfort to the family, whose case is due back in court on January 9th. They want the case put on hold until the review is complete.

I am torn about the review. When the province is being an asshole, I want them to stop being an asshole, but at the same time, I really do want the courts to scrutinize this law. There is no case law on it that I could find in the NS courts database, Canlii.or, or the newspapers.

The judge is breaking his own trail and his comments so far have given me hope.

The best was when he questioned why anyone would hire a lawyer in cases of catastrophic injury if the awards would be taken by the province. He was right, why would any family subject themselves to year after year of reliving a tragic event to achieve the exact same result of doing nothing?

You wouldn't. This is why this law is wrong. Each and every one of us has the right to be compensated for the injuries we receive should we choose to pursue them. Damages are a enduring legal concept. Any law that claws back compensation for the catastrophically injured takes away their right to compensation. It negates every reason to pursue compensation. It deprives them, the most helpless among us, to the same rights to which we are all entitled.

* In the case of automobile accidents, the province collects a levy on every insured vehicle to pay for situations like this.

This wasn't selected #1 (Or Manec's maze)

In my quest to write more this year, I entered a fiction short story contest. Unsurprisingly, my first effort did not land me among the finalists, but it did force me to step way outside my comfort zone, both in writing and in the submission process. Bio? I didn't want to write a bio, even if it was just a paragraph. I also wasn't terribly keen on sharing the submission either.

I have issues sharing non-work writing. This blog is to work on those issues.

I entered the contest I did, because there was no entry fee. The theme was "underground", which made me remember a story I wrote in university, based on a beer-and-donair induced nightmare. I rewrote the story and submitted it, though I admit the topic was a lot less travelled in my 1993 English 100 course. Hunger what?

The actual mining activity is based on two types of mining currently performed by children in the poorest countries. I needed something terrible and there's always something in the world that's worse than what you can dream up.

So here is a weird and non-uplifting story about a fictional underground character.

Manec's Maze

Manec was full for the first time in his life. He thought about what full felt like as he rubbed misshapen fingers across his ribs, over the hard lump of food in his stomach and down into the cave in which his belly button sat. Hunger was a constant, but no matter how much he thought about the strange and wonderful things he ate this day, he couldn't imagine another bite. Not without throwing it all away by vomiting. Not when he needed his strength more than ever before.

Manec didn't know how old he was when he was moved from the water pits to the tunnels. He did know when he arrived, stretching as tall as he might, he could just graze the top of the tunnels with his fingertips. Now there were places he had to duck as he carried buckets of ore from shaft to machine. It was grueling work, all hours of the day, but it was still better than the water pits. He missed the sunshine, but he hated the water more.

Yes, the tunnels were a step up, despite the same empty gut and the bone-wrenching work. At least he was dry and could breathe without a tube in his mouth.

Now things were about to change again. To become better than Manec was fully able to comprehend, given life this far. A house, a wife, and gold to keep both. From his first day in the tunnels, Manec knew it would be so.

The new boys spoke of nothing but the Maze the day Manec arrived. Manec had never heard of the Maze. His replacement in the water pit died the day before he was to be moved and it took two days to get another child. The other new tunnel boys had received their first lesson on the Maze the night before. They were ablaze with it. The older tunnel boys slyly looked down their noses at their new and ignorant brethren. Older, bigger, and stronger, their opportunity in the Maze lay far closer.

Each year the biggest and the strongest boys from the tunnel were taken into the city to compete in the Maze as part of the Glorious Festival. Manec didn’t know what else occurred in the Glorious Festival, but he knew everything there was to know about the Maze.

The Maze was a monstrous and barbaric wonder of spinning blades, false floors, and blasts of fire. The correct path at the correct time would get a runner to the finish. All other paths and times would end in death, but to the winner came wealth, marriage, and a prize beyond measure: freedom.

The victor of the Maze was released from life in the mines and given one of luxury on the surface. In a life below grade, the tunnel boys dreamed of nothing else. They toiled without complaint, shouldered the heaviest loads, and ran when they were exhausted. The tunnels were an opportunity to train for the Maze. As the foreman said, hard work would make them strong; set them free. It was also good for thinning the competition, the weak and the sick always died. It wasn’t that the remaining boys weren’t saddened by the deaths, but dying was as common as the calluses on their twisted hands. One less boy was one more chance at winning. It was as simple as that.

Equally as simple for Manec was the knowledge he was going to win. He didn’t remember life before the mines, but he knew he had worked harder than any of the other boys since coming to the tunnels. He was bigger and stronger, and he could make more trips from the shaft to the machine than the rest of them. The foreman's stripes hadn't raked his back in ages; not since he could touch the tunnel ceiling. When it came time for monthly lessons on the Maze, Manec listened hard, keeping every word in memory. Every trick, every tip was embedded in his brain. He created rhymes of his lessons and sang them under his breath as he laboured.

Now in the dim light of the room in which they were locked, the other tunnel boys slept on pallets; their breathing ranging from soft snores to the raspy wheezes that came from inhaling the ever-present rock dust. There were no windows in the room, but there was a sweetness in the air that only comes above ground. Manec hadn’t been on the surface since he left the water pits. The tunnel boys live underground, but his thoughts turned more and more to the surface as the pain from his stretched belly eased.

He wondered if there was a way he could see the sky before the Maze. Manec new the layout of the Maze inside and out, but he knew nothing of the structure around it. Perhaps in the morning, a shaft of light would shine through a gap in the mortar through which he could see outside. As one who would soon control his own destiny, Manec picked the section of the wall that looked the worst for wear, and tucked himself and his pallet as close as he could. If there was a chance of sun, he was going to see it.

Manec didn’t know it yet, but his desire to see the sky would change the course of his life. Because he didn’t know, he fell asleep.

“Ain’t no one wins the Maze”, a man’s voice rang through the wall some hours later, waking Manec. The words so foul in his ears, no one wins the Maze, snapped him to attention. Sure enough, last night’s bed positioning did turn into this morning’s crack in the mortar. He could see the faint rays of dawn creeping through the opening. He pressed his face to the crack, only to rear back as liquid splashed and the smell of piss filled his nostrils.

“What do you mean no one wins?” Asked a second voice with a different accent.

Despite what was obviously someone urinating on the other side of the wall, Manec shoved his ear to the crack. If it was about the Maze, he had to know what they were saying. A little piss was nothing. Winning was everything.

“Do you really think they’d let a miner become a freeman?” First Voice said. “To let any freeman think there is any route, no matter how impossible, back from being cast into the mines?” He sounded assured, like he knew what he was talking about. And a little drunk.

“Well then why have the damned thing if nobody can win it?” Second Voice asked. His speech was also slightly slurred. The Glorious Festival was evidently in full swing.

“Order!” Says First Voice. “The PM has to maintain order! Once you’re in the mine, there is no escaping the mine. Not for you, not for anyone in your family. You all live in the mines, you all suffer in the mines, and you all die in the mines. It’s how he owns us all."

A puff of mortar dust falls to land on Manec’s cheek from someone striking the wall on the other side. A second stream of urine joins the first. It trickles through the crack in the mortar to which Manec’s ear is pressed. He does not move.

“So why do the miners do it?” Asks Second Voice. “I saw them earlier and the scrawny bleached out bastards were reveling in it. Proud as peacocks they were.”

Manec flinched. He didn’t know what a peacock was, or what revelry meant, but he knew what scrawny bleached out bastard meant. He’d heard it for a long time. It meant tunnel boy.

First Voice cracked a loud laugh. “Order! They tell the poor bastards they can beat the Maze and it keeps them in line till they grow too big to work the tunnels. Then––” First Voice finished his sentence with a gesture Manec couldn’t see, but he felt he understood the gist of it.

No no no no no! Thought Manec. This cannot be true.

Manec wanted the men to stay and keep talking, but the steady streams were turning to spurts and drips. Their business at the wall was nearly finished.

"Come old man, I fancy another drink before the slaughter,” said First Voice. "If we make it quick one, we can still get good seats."

“What?” Asked Voice Two, doubtfully. “After all you just said, you still want to go?”

“Yes, man!” Exclaimed Voice One. “They ain’t my family. I’d kill my own family before I’d ever let them rot down there. And I’d sure as hell kill any family member of mine who threatened to put me down there.”

Manec heard the rustle of clothing being adjusted. “Besides, a few of those scrawny bastards make it a good long ways before they bite it.”

There was the sound of shoes crunching gravel as the conversation moved away. The last thing Manec heard was “I want to see if anyone makes it further than last year."

Manec fell on his back and hot bitter tears leaked down the sides of his face to soak into the rough weave of the pallet. It was the first time Manec had cried since the water pits. He lay there and wept until the guards came to collect the boys for the Maze.

The boys were shuffled through corridor after corridor until they came to a circular room. Sunlight streamed through a hole in the ceiling. The tunnel boys were near blind in the bright light, blinking like cattle in a feedlot. Instinctively, they edged up against the wall, away from the light that hurt their eyes. All but Manec, who walked to the center to stand in the circle of light.

He had to know for sure if that man was telling the truth about the Maze, but how?

As Manec wracked his brains, a guard carrying a bag entered the room.

“Listen up, boys!” The guard shouted out. “Reach into this bag and grab one ball. The ball you draw has a number on it. You all remember numbers, don’t you?”

The boys nodded. None of them could read, but numbers were a part of their Maze lessons. Numbers were also needed in the mine.

“Good!” The guard said. “When your number is called, go through that door,” pointing to the opening across from the one where the boys entered.

Some of the boys rushed to collect their number. Others hung back and had to be prompted to put their hand in the bag. Manec stood in his pool of light until all the other boys had drawn their numbers. How to be sure?

“Hey, idiot!” Shouted the guard. “Get your number.” Manec drew the last ball from the bag and the guard retreated from the room.

Manec looked at the number in his hand. A two. Using his fingers, he counted 19 boys in the room including him. How to be sure, he thought again.

He looked at the boys. Some were animated, wholly invigorated by what was about to happen. They razzed one another on. A listless few stared vacantly at the opposite wall. For them, today was no different from yesterday or the day before. They were only what they were told. Two of the boys looked positively sick.

Manec approached the closest sickly one. “What number do you have? He asked.

The boy held up a trembling fist, opening it to reveal a one. “Good luck, my brother,” whispered Manec, clasping him on the shoulder before he headed to the other stricken boy.

“What number do you have?” Manec repeated. The boy held out his hands to show a 19 cradled within. He was shaking so badly he needed both hands to hold the ball.  Manec said, “I’m a two, trade with me. You won’t have to wait.” The boy nodded and they traded.

Manec, now last, returned to his place in the sun and settled himself cross-legged to wait for his number to be called.

A guard poked his head through the entranceway and called out for number one. Pale and drawn, number one walked through the opening. The boys could hear the roar of the spectators minutes later, a furor that ended almost as soon as it started.

The guard called number two.

The scene repeated itself. Sometimes it was only minutes before the guard returned, sometime stretched closer to half an hour; and sometimes the guard had to drag a screaming boy by his ear through the door.

Eventually Manec was alone in the room. His question of how he would know answered. His plan in order.

“Nineteen!” The guard called out. Manec rose and followed the guard to the start of the Maze.

As his lessons instructed, the Maze started from a raised platform. From the high vantage point, Manec could see it laid out in all of its barbaric glory. Vicious spinning blades jutted out of walls, teeth glinting in the sun. Burst of flames screamed up from the floor at random intervals. Elsewhere, massive axes swooped down from overhanging beams. It was the stuff of nightmares.

But Manec wasn’t scared. He knew exactly what he was doing. When the bell sounded, Manec took his time weaving through the hazards. All was exactly as laid out in his hard-learned lessons. He knew right where he needed to be.

When he reached the highest point in the Maze, he stopped and looked out at the spectators. They were cheering wildly for him. He looked upwards and saw the sun and the sky through the vast opening of the stadium roof. It was breathtaking. For the second time today, Manec’s eyes welled up. This time for the beauty of it. The clarity he felt.

He heard the cheers turn to jeers as he remained still, rejoicing in the feel of the sun on his face. The crowd, deprived of their spectacle, quickly turned mean, screaming for his head. He heard shouts for the guards, but still he stood there.

For the first time in his life, Manec was not doing as he was told. From the moment the bell rang his actions, every step, every leap and every pause, were as he chose. It wasn’t until he heard the footfalls of the guards closing in that Manec roused himself. He stepped forward and raised his gnarled fingers to the sky. He looked up to the sun, took a long deep breath of sweet surface air, and leapt forward into the spinning blades below.

Blog housekeeping note

I would love to say I wrote 17 blog posts so far this month, but I just wrote one. Two if you count this post. The other posts were stories, recipes, and notes I wrote in other places and added here so they are all in one place.

I also added the page links above to organize blog posts into categories, because I am neurotic.

Remembering Swissair 111

I wrote this on September 2, 2013.

Flight Swissair 111 crashed off Peggy's Cove 15 years ago tonight. At the time, I was at a house party and my friend's father called to say he heard reports of a plane in trouble on his police scanner. We turned the TV on and waited for news. When the reports came in, the party was forgotten as we watched through the night and into morning.

Back then, I worked as a cook in a seafood restaurant on the Halifax waterfront. I remember the first waiter who came into the kitchen with tears in his eyes. Everyone at his table of six was crying. They were family members of the victims. We had a lot of families in those first few days after the crash. The dining room was scattered with tables of grieving people. They tipped well, but no one wanted the money. The kitchen staff, who ate at work, stopped eating fish because it came from St. Margaret's Bay.

We talked about the crash constantly at work, repeating news stories we had seen on TV or read in the newspapers. We had to talk to one another for news. Cell phones were not smart and even for folks with Internet access, it still wasn't terribly useful.

As the days went on, the search and recovery effort continued and the families dwindled. Things appeared to be getting back to normal at work a week and a half after the crash. Expecting a quiet Sunday night, we were blindsided by all the out-of-town media wanting to make the most of their last night on expense accounts before returning home. They ate and drank and ate and drank; consuming every lobster in the tank and every last piece of fish. The same fish we wouldn't eat. Perhaps they wanted some relief from the horror they spent their days covering, but it felt obscene after all the families we'd fed.

Eventually 98 per cent of the plane was recovered and much of the cargo. All 229 victims were identified. Only one was visually identifiable. Most news coverage doesn't say it, but it was an infant who was too small to be belted in. The remains that couldn't be identified were buried at a memorial in Bayswater. Another  monument was erected just outside Peggy's Cove.

I'm sure I've forgotten half of everything that has happened in the last 15 years, but the crash and the days after stick with me.

http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/story/2011/09/12/f-swissair-crash.html

1997-2012: The Story of Sport

Sport was born in Lochkatrine, Nova Scotia, in 1997. He was from the last litter of Australian shepherds mom and dad raised. As there were no plans to register the pups, they left their tails. For Sport, that tail grew into his crowning glory: big, fluffy, and an unfailing indicator of his mood.

Sport lived with my folks for the first four years of his life. During that time, he was expertly obedience trained by my mother and spent his youth frolicking in the country with the other dogs; including learning the hard way that chasing horses gets you kicked in the head.

Sport’s life changed forever in the Christmas of 2000. Shawn and I were home for Christmas and late one night after everyone else had gone to bed, Shawn was sitting in the kitchen and Sport, the unusually reserved Aussie, made his way over to say hello. It was love at first pat—for Shawn.

The very next day he told mom if he could have any dog at  the house, he’d take Sport. My mom, who at that point, had a dozen dogs underfoot on any given day, said if we had a place to keep him, we could have him. When mom made this promise, she was thinking years down the road when we bought a house and if we still remembered.

We moved as soon as our lease was up in July. No more carefree downtown living for us, we were dog owners. It was off the relative boonies of Fenwick Street, off the Bay Road and on the wrong side of the Armdale Rotary. It was an adjustment for all of us, especially for country mouse Sport. The trying desperately to get back in the car with Bernard, my brother in law and dog deliverer, as he was leaving was a dead give away. For years afterwards, Bernard was the recipient of many a Sport stink-eyes.

My mom, understandably upset with losing such a beautiful dog, offered to come and get him if it didn’t work out. She said if Sport was happy, his tail was up. If his tail was down, he wasn’t. Well, his tail was definitely down for the first few days. The first obstacle to overcome on the path to getting that tail up was breaking his training. A rural dog has an acreage in which to do his business. Sport was trained not to go on his leash because having a dog crap in an obedience trial is highly disruptive. Having a sad little blue dog who looks like he’s going to bolt to Antigonish at any moment does not inspire off-leash levels of trust. Twenty short hours later, Sporty let go in the paved drive in front of the house. No lifted leg, and in those days, he’d try for the splits. There were rousing cheers and applause from Shawn, our friends Lori and Jay, and I believe the downstairs neighbour. For the first time, the tail went up.

From then on in, Sport was a bodily-function machine on walks. No tree or telephone pole was sacred.  If he could make you crawl under a tree to collect his solid leavings, all the better. His obedience training took more hits, some intentionally, like enjoying the full length of a leash, and some were completely spontaneous, like his brief period of coffee-table thieving and his perpetual garbage plundering. The plundering was consistently followed by explosive diarrhea, but even a great dog has a hard time knowing what is good for them all the time.

In all other respects, Sport was the perfect dog. Never a flashy, in-your-face, Aussie, Sport was always the model of decorum. No game of fetch or stick, no slavish devotion to chew toys, Sport was just Sport: a constant companion and sounding board; never more than four feet away. In all of the photos taken at our house, you’d be hard pressed to find one without at least a part of Sport somewhere in the frame.

Sporty moved with us to our first house in the north end of Halifax. Even though he achieved off-leash (and high-tailed) privileges within a couple months of arrival, we all enjoyed the fenced back yard. It was while we were in the north end that Sporty gained a cousin, Geraldine’s German shepherd Charlie. An unlikely pair, a towering German shepherd and a little blue Aussie, the two became best friends and had many amazing adventures over the years, terrorizing parks, beaches, and Geraldine most of all.

The adventures continued when we moved to Dartmouth in 2004. There were camping trips and seaside getaways. Always one to be alongside, Sporty made it very clear that any bed but the one at home was to be shared by him. He made best of friends with the neighbours, especially with Roger, his walking and running cohort.

In 2010, our introverted Aussie was starting to slow down. As much as it pained us, we began succession planning. At the end of May, I brought Spartacus, an eight week old blue merle, home from the airport. For the next eight months, that growing puppy tormented Sport on a daily basis. It got worse as Spartacus got bigger, the pinnacle witnessing Sport drug across the floor by that fantastic tail of his. The vet assured me they would become best friends. We just wanted Sport to put the boots to the obnoxious puppy. At nine months, it happened. Suddenly Sport was the boss and Spartacus listened. All that time, Sporty was just waiting for Spartacus to grow up.

As time went on, we could no longer ignore the changes in our gentlemanly dog. I finally said to Shawn, it’s time and on Monday, August 27th, 15 years after he came into this world, we said goodbye to Sport. Our first dog, our beloved dog, and in the words of an old roommate, “the gold standard in dogs.”

F***ing smoothies

This was a couple years ago. I am not currently on a health kick.

I'm on a health kick. Again. This morning I made myself a breakfast smoothie for work. Smoothies are a very recent addition to my diet. I always make them with yogurt, frozen berries, and milk. This morning, I decided to add ice because I thought "slushy for breakfast."

At my desk, I take a swig of my smoothie, nothing happens. It's too thick. It's all stuck at the bottom of the cup. I tip the cup up higher. Still nothing happens.

So what do I do? Do I go get a spoon, or dig for a straw? The office kitchen has everything, I'm sure it has straws. For that matter, I'm sure if I looked around my desk I could find one. But no, that would be smart. Instead, I tip it higher and give it a shake.

Next thing I know I have the entire smoothie, in cup shape, sitting on top of my face. It's up my nose, it's running towards my ears, it's all down the front of my clothes. It's a f*cking mess! I am a f*cking mess!

I tip what I can back into the cup and spend the next five minutes cleaning myself up with Kleenexes in my cube. At which point I'm in a decent enough state to go to the kitchen for a good scrubbing.

Thank whoever is holy I decided to wear a blue dress. It was a blueberry/blackberry smoothie. Exact same colour. Also thankful I'm no longer blowing blueberry seeds out my nose.

Simplified turducken

1 3-8 kg turkey
2 boneless skinless duck breasts
2 boneless skinless chicken breasts
2 boneless skinless chicken thighs
1 package butterball frozen stuffing, thawed, and five slices of bread, cubed small
1 carrot
1 celery stalk
1 large onion, quartered
1 tbsp butter
1 cup water or beer
2-4 bamboo skewers
Meat thermometer

Set oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

In a mixing bowl, break apart stuffing and toss with bread cubes. Place in refrigerator.

Lay a wet dish cloth flat on the counter and place a large cutting board on top to hold your cutting board stationary. Place the turkey breast-down on the cutting board with the tail facing you. Starting at the neck, slice the skin to the bone all the way to the tail. Peel the skin back a bit so you can see what you are doing and slowly cut the meat from the bone, separating the joints where the wing drum connects to the breast and the thigh connects to the hip. Don’t worry if you are making a hash of it; just try not to poke holes in the skin. You can trim off any meat that was left behind after you get the carcass separated.


This is a chicken, I was making non-simplified turducken and deboned all three birds.

Toss the turkey carcass and the giblets in an ovenproof pot and place it in the oven to brown.

Lay the turkey skin-side down on the cutting board. Tuck any trimmings from the carcass and season with salt and pepper. Spread ½ of the stuffing evenly over the turkey.

 

Butterfly the duck breasts and lay them flat on top of the stuffing and season with salt and pepper. Spread ¼ of the stuffing evenly over the duck breasts.

 

Place the chicken breasts side by side (above where the turkey breasts are buried) and a thigh on either side of the breasts and season with salt and pepper. Spread the remaining stuffing evenly over the chicken.



This next part is easier if you have help, but can be accomplished alone with a little swearing. It is probably easier if you use a needle and butcher’s twine but I can’t remember to buy them.

Firmly grab the skin and pull the sides of the turkey together. If you have help, have them stick their hands under the turkey and help lift and hold the two sides together. If you’re going it alone, get both sides of the skin pinched together in one hand. Use the other hand to poke the skewer through both sides of skin. Bend the skewer back and stick it through both sides of the skin in the other direction. You can use as many skewers as it takes to get the two sides to stay together. The bird gets flipped over in the next step and nobody can see if you make a mess out of it.


 
Gently turn the bird over and place it in a roasting pan with the vegetables and the water or beer. Rub the butter over the turkey skin and season with salt and pepper. Stand back and admire your work, then stab it through the heart with the meat thermometer.



Take the turkey carcass out of the oven and put the turducken in the oven, covered. Turn the oven down to 325 F. Use the carcass to make stock (fill the pot with water, add a bay leaf, some peppercorns, some thyme and boil it for about an hour).

The cook time for a turducken is approximately the same as a stuffed turkey because bones take longer to cook. Plan on it taking four hours minimum. The turducken is cooked when the thermometer reads 165 F.

 

If the turducken boils dry (you will here the pan sizzling), add a ladle of stock and return to the oven. When the turducken is within 20 degrees of 165, remove the lid and let the skin brown. When the turkducken is within 5 degrees of 165, remove from oven and let rest for 10 minutes. Transfer the turducken to a serving tray and use the drippings and the stock to make gravy.

honey garlic ribs

Preheat oven to 400°F

1 large rack of back ribs or side ribs
Salt, pepper, garlic powder, onion powder
1 bottle honey garlic sauce
1 can coke or pepsi
2 tbsp brown sugar
2 tbsp soya sauce

Separate ribs by cutting between each bone.

Place ribs in a dutch oven. Season with salt, pepper, garlic powder, and onion powder (use lots, should look like it snowed seasoning)

Place ribs in oven uncovered for 15 mins then stir ribs around in the pot and leave in the oven for another 15 mins.

Remove ribs from oven and reduce heat to 300°.

Add one bottle honey garlic sauce, one can of Coke or Pepsi, 2 tbsp soya sauce and 2 tbsp brown sugar. Stir. Cover with lid or tightly wrap with tinfoil.

Return ribs to oven for 1.5 hours. Check tenderness (meat has shrunk from bones and bones pull away easily from meat when twisted).

When ribs are tender, remove from oven. Serve with fried rice and stir fried veggies.

Beef Stew and Dumplings

1.5 lbs boneless stewing beef or 2 lbs bone-in stewing beef
Salt and pepper
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1 large onion chopped
2 ribs celery chopped
2 cloves garlic minced
1 cup red wine
10 cups beef broth (I used powered stock because that’s what I had)
1 cup diced canned tomatoes with juice (optional)
2 bay leaves
1.5 cups diced carrots
1 cup diced turnip
2 cups diced potatoes
1 cup chopped cabbage
1 tsp thyme

Season beef with lots of salt and pepper. Add vegetable oil to dutch oven and place over high heat. When oil just starts to smoke, add beef. Cook until beef is very brown. Reduce heat to medium and add celery, onions, and garlic. When onions and celery are soft, add red wine. Let simmer for two minutes. Add beef stock, tomatoes if using, and bay leaves and bring back to a boil. Reduce heat to low and cover. Simmer for 1-1.5 hours, till beef is tender enough to pull apart with fingers. Add turnip and carrot and simmer for 20 mins. Add potatoes and cabbage and simmer for 20 mins. If adding dumplings, follow recipe below for dumplings. Add thyme and simmer for 10 minutes. Taste and season with salt and pepper if needed. If desired, thicken broth with 1 tbsp corn starch mixed with 3 tbsp water.

Dumplings
1.5 cups white flour
¼ cup white sugar
½ tsp salt
1 tbsp baking powder
1/3 cup margarine
1 egg
2/3 cup milk

Mix dry ingredients in a bowl and cut in margarine with a fork till crummy. Beat egg with milk and slowly add to crummy mixture. Mix just until a soft ball of dough forms. You may need to add a little more milk or a little less of the milk and egg mixture (I didn’t measure anything when I made them last night so I could be a little off on the wet ingredients). Using a tablespoon, drop mounded spoonfuls into broth (balls about 1 ¼ inch in diameter). Replace lid and simmer for 10 mins.

KFC macaroni salad knock off

1 box macaroni and cheese

1/4 cup finely diced green pepper
1/4 cup finely diced onion
3/4 cup mayo (whipped salad dressing is more like KFC)

Cook, rinse and chill noodles. Mix peppers, onions, mayo and cheese packet. Add noodles and mix well.

Even better the next day.

Salt fishcakes

1 lb salt fish (soaked for at least 20 mins)
2 medium sized potatoes peeled and quartered
1 rib celery diced
1 small onion diced
1 tbsp margarine
1 tsp summer savoury
2 eggs beaten
Vegetable oil for frying
Flour or breadcrumbs

Drain fish and rinse in cold water. Place potatoes and fish in a pot. Cover with water and boil until potatoes are soft. Drain.

Cook onions and celery in margarine until soft. (I microwave them in a bowl)

Separate potatoes from fish into a bowl and mash potatoes with a fork until smooth. Add in remaining ingredients and mix thoroughly.

Cool in fridge until mixture is stiff enough to roll into balls, about an hour. Form into balls and roll in flour or breadcrumbs. Brown fishcakes in vegetable oil in a frying pan.

Serve with baked beans and green chow.

There is no baked bean recipe on this blog, because I hate beans.

Banana Bread

I am trying to find a banana bread I like. I liked this one better than others I've tried. I think it's the chocolate chips.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

3/4 cup melted butter
5 overripe bananas, pureed
1 1/2 cup brown sugar
3 eggs
1 1/2 tsp vanilla
2 single-serving yogurt cups (200 g)
2 1/4 cup flour
1 1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp baking powder
1 1/2 tsp salt
1/2 bag semi sweet chocolate chips

Cream butter, bananas, and sugar. Beat in eggs, vanilla and yogurt. Blend flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Add to banana mixture until just combined. Add chocolate chips.

Pour into a greased 9 x 13 pan and bake for 45-50 minutes.

Barbeque ribs

Preheat oven to 285° F

Dry Rub
1/4 cup paprika
1 tbsp salt
4 tbsp brown sugar
2 tbsp freshly ground black pepper
1 tbsp onion powder
1 tbsp garlic powder
1 tsp oregano

full or half racks of pork ribs, side or back doesn't matter, as many as you want to teat

Mix well and rub into ribs on both sides till completely covered. Store any leftover rub in a container for next time.

Wrap each rack in a double layer of tinfoil sealing all edges. Set ribs on cookie sheets curved side of the bone down and place in oven.

Bake for two hours. Open up end of tinfoil and see if meat has shrunk from bones and bones pull away easily from meat when twisted. If this doesn’t happen, leave in oven for another half hour.

When very tender, remove tinfoil from ribs and coat with favourite barbecue sauce. Lightly grill ribs on barbecue or return to oven for an additional 10 minutes.

Dear Mr. Mrike, take five

DEAR MR. MRIKE,

My good dear friend. My email address just won $25 million UK pounds Stirling in the BRITISH UK NATIONAL EMAIL LOTTERY. I have no need for such wealth and I wish to share it with you, my good dear friend.

I just need the following information from you:

Bank account:
Phone number:
Social Security Number:
Residential address:
Credit card number:
Date of birth:

DO NOT DELAY IN RESPONDING! THIS IS A TIME SENSITIVE MATTER!!!!

Regards,

Your dear good friend

PS, ALSO SEND YOUR DRESS AND PANTY SIZE, BUT NOT YOUR SHOE SIZE!!!!

Dear Mr. Mrike

Dear good friend,

There are so many internet scams these days, I feel it necessary to request further validation to ensure you are who you say you are.

Please send me a picture of you sitting at your desk at the central bank of Nigeria. To prove you are serious, be completely naked in the photo. Not even shoes. This is very important.

I wish to receive the funds in freshly ironed Canadian one dollar bills. While it is true that Canadian one dollar bills went out of circulation almost 30 years ago, I am as confident in your ability to find them as I am that your email is legitimate.

To recap: naked photo taken at your desk. Absolutely no shoes! NO SHOES!! Funds in Canadian one dollar bills. Ironed!!!

Best regards,

Your dear good friend.

PS, NAKED PICTURE MUST BE IN COLOUR!!!! WITH A TIME STAMP!!! DON'T FORGET TO SMILE!!!!!

Dear Mr. Mrike, take four

Dear Mr. Mrike,

My good dear friend. There is something wrong with your email as I've not yet received a reply to any of my emails. You should get on that. We have business to conduct.

And I miss you soooooooo much!

I had a terrible dream last night. You were hit by a car at high speed and horribly injured. Many many broken bones. My car also sustained significant damage, you strong boned man. Rawr! *kitty claws* Thankfully, it was not real, because you and my car have so much to live for.

You both have me, Mrike. ME!

While I've been waiting for you to sort out your email problems, because I know there must be a problem, you found me, Mrike, I didn't go looking for you. YOU FOUND ME!!! I've been working on a side deal. It's something I think can be really good for us. Not to give too much away, it involves my email address and the National UK British Lottery.

It's a winner.

I am not going to bother with a recap on this email. With the bond we share, my words flow through your blood as your all-caps words do through mine. You know exactly how to make those photos good for me.

*HOT*

So don't be shy, let the magic happen. Invite your friends. Just make sure the file size isn't what's hanging up your email. A Dropbox link will be fine.

I read origami is soothing, so you enjoy folding those one dollar swans. I want only the best for you.
Best regards, my good dear extra best BFF!

From your very very best super special BFF (and soul mate)!

PS, JPG, TIFF, PNG, BMP, AND PDFS ARE ALL ACCEPTABLE PHOTO FILE FORMATS.
PPS, THE SHIRT YOU WERE WEARING YESTERDAY DID NOT GO WITH YOUR EYES AT ALL. I'D RATHER YOU NOT WEAR IT AGAIN.

Dear Mr. Mrike, take three

Dear MR.MRIKE CHUKWUMA,

It feels like an eternity since I heard from you. I hope you are okay. I had a vision of you crushed in a horrific bowling accident. In another vision, you were locked away in a prison cell with those monsterous email scammers I told you about.

If either of those are true, dear friend, have no fear! When our deal comes together, I will pay your hospital bills or your bail. Or both. Then we can be together forever. FOREVER!!!!!

*hearts*

My ex-friend said my visions are just violent daydreams, but the one I had about him after he said that TOTALLY CAME TRUE!

But I digress, I want this deal to work, Mrike. I want us to work. Together we can get through anything! So I've had time to review yesterday's email, and I think I found a few improvements I can make.

I have been told I can come on a little strong. I know I need to work on that. It hurts so much on the inside when that cold and callous restraining order is served. So to take the pressure off, you can take the naked picture in the bank vault. That way you can lock the door and ease into it. Do what feels good for you, Mrike. But take a couple desk lamps with you so the lighting is good.

Funds still in Canadian one dollar bills, but if you were crushed, you don't have to iron them. Your hands didn't look so good in my vision. Kind of floppy. If you're in jail, you'll probably need something need something to keep busy, so you can fold them into origami swans. I love those little swans. They burn so well. But be mindful of the edges, the currency is old and we both know they aren't making any more.

I am confident these minor tweaks will quell any misgivings you may have. I want everything to be perfect between us. PERFECT! This is just the beginning, Mrike. As the song says, we have only just begun. JUST BEGUN!

So to recap: Naked picture of you, your spouse, or an attractive family member in the vault. All two or three of you would be equally acceptable. Or even better, now that I've written it down. Make sure the lighting is good. Use your imagination. Do I even need to say no shoes at this point? NO SHOES! Funds in Canadian one dollars. Wrinkled is okay if you've been horrifically maimed, otherwise, swans. Even if you're not in jail, swans.

Best best best regards, my BFF,

Your best best best BFF!!

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

PS, DO YOU BELIEVE IN SOULMATES MRIKE???? BECAUSE I DO!

PPS, REMEMBER TO CHECK THE FOCUS AND TAKE A COUPLE TEST SHOTS!! SEND ME A COUPLE AND I'LL CRITIQUE THEM FOR YOU!!! IF YOU CAN GET WIFI IN THE VAULT I CAN SKYPE IN. JUST LET ME KNOW, BIG BOY!!!!

Dear Mr. Mrike, take two

Dear MR.MRIKE CHUKWUMA,

My dear good friend. It has been three long days since I responded to your email and I still have not heard from you about our business deal. Not even so much as an auto reply saying you are away. It has me feeling a little sad. And lonely.

I have since reread my previous email to you, Mrike, can I call you Mrike? I may have handled a couple things more professionally.

You will notice I addressed you by your full name, not a generic salutation. I've heard of some people, hurtful meanspirited people, who buy email lists and send everyone on the list the exact same message! And even worse, it is fraudulent! Lie upon lie upon lie. It's simply terrible, Mrike.

But that's not me! My words are only for you. ONLY YOU, MRIKE! ONLY YOU. The way you used all-caps to shout the brilliance of this deal was masterful. I felt an immediate connection. It was like we bonded through the magic of words in the world (wide web). *hugs*

I may have also been a bit forward with my request for a photo of you naked at work. Some people are shy, I get that. A naked picture of your wife at your desk will do. Or your husband, which ever way you roll is A okay with me, Mrike. The no shoe-rule still stands obviously.

The funds still have to be in Canadian one dollar bills, but I don't want your hands to be too tired to respond to all of my emails, so you can take breaks while ironing. I'm good with the delay.

I trust this email will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt the sincerity of my intentions, intentions that echo yours, and I await your response with bated breath.

Breathy, bated breaths.

To recap: naked photo taken at your desk. It can be you, your wife or your husband. A good looking sibling would also do, if different from the aforementioned spouse. It's okay if they are the same person. Who am I to judge? No shoes!!!! I can't stress that enough. NO SHOES. Funds in Canadian one dollar bills. Ironed, but take your time.

Best best regards my dear good friend,

From your very best dear good friend.

PS, PHOTO MUST BE 300 DPI!!! NONE OF THAT 72 DPI CRAP THAT GETS FUZZY WHEN YOU ZOOM IN ON THE GOOD BITS!!!!!

PPS, I CAN'T FIND YOU ON FACEBOOK!! ADD ME SO WE CAN BE FACEBOOK BFFS!!!!

What difference will 12 years make?

A while ago, while researching a paper for work I ran across a paper that quoted an Irish judge named MacKenna, in which he discussed the task of weighing evidence. It stuck with me.

"This is how I go about the business of finding facts. I start from the undisputed facts which both sides accept. I add to them such other facts as seem very likely to be true, as, for example, those recorded in contemporary documents or spoken to by independent witnesses like the policeman giving evidence in a running down case about the marks on the road. I judge a witness to be unreliable if his evidence is, in any serious respect, inconsistent with these undisputed or indisputable facts, or of course if he contradicts himself on important points. I rely as little as possible on such deceptive matters as his demeanour. When I have done my best to separate the true from the false by these more or less objective tests, I say which story seems to be the more probable, the plaintiff's or the defendant's."

Like most Canadians with an internet connection and a Facebook page, I learned of Ghomeshi's termination from CBC last Sunday morning. I was on vacation in New England. First I read his side of the story, which had appeared in my newsfeed. When I met up with a Canadian at lunch, I asked if she "knew about Jian" Ghomeshi. She didn't. I explained what I had read, and immediately blurted out my problem with it. Which was that the CBC, that ever liberal bastion, would fire one of their beloved and income-generating stars for engaging in sexual activities described as milder than 50 Shades of Grey, a bit of fan fiction that was just risque enough to be wildly popular with millions of soccer moms. To be milder than that, would really just be sex, and we're taking about the CBC.

In the context of Justice MacKenna's quote, Ghomeshi contradicted himself with his own testimony. It didn't fit with the facts, which was that CBC terminated him based on information that made it impossible for him to remain in their employ. When I read the Toronto Star account of the story later that day, with the independent accounts of the four women he abused, it pointed to a far more compelling reason for his termination from CBC. As time passed, the number of abused women increased to nine.

It's like that old proverb, if one man calls you an ass, consider it. If five people call you an ass, buy a saddle.

If nine women independently come forward with remarkably similar accounts of you of being a sexual predator, you are a sexual predator.

In the beginning, Ghomeshi had staunch supporters. He had less supporters after the Star article broke, and less still as more women came forward. Several articles were published on the steady decline of "likes" on Ghomeshi's Facebook page. They gave hourly ratios. His new PR team dumped him. His old PR team dumped him too. The tide of public support as expressed through social media shifted to the women. There are some who remain unwavering in their support of Ghomeshi, but it is a definite minority. The problem with blind faith is that it is blind, look no further than Ford Nation for proof of that.

There are also those who are stalwart supporters of the justice system as the only determinate of guilt. For them, that the women didn't go immediately to the police and file reports means it probably didn't happen, or it maybe it wasn't that bad, or maybe they just changed their minds afterwards. If there is a silver lining to be had in this black and white view of justice, it is that the people who believe this are most likely people who have never been sexually assaulted. The people who have, well they know exactly why those women didn't report it.

The justice system is especially cruel to victims of sexual assault. In particular, when it comes to victims of sexual assault by people with power, whether the powerful be employees in residential schools, Christian brothers in orphanages, a wealthy celebrity, or a former premier of Nova Scotia, whose list of accusers spanned more than 30 women and four decades, all with similar accounts of being attacked.

"...nearly three dozen women – babysitters, job seekers, law clients, party workers, journalists, a legislative page, even an oil company executive – most of whom did not even know the others existed, had all told police remarkably similar stories about how Regan had attacked them. 
Silently. 
Without preliminaries. 
Pawed them. 
Groped them. 
Stuck his tongue down their throats. 
Sometimes more. 
And then, when it was over, acted as if nothing had happened."

In 2002, after a nine year battle, Nova Scotia prosecution services announced that they would not proceed on eight remaining sexual assault charges against Gerald Regan, former premier and federal cabinet minister. The Crown gave the age of the allegations, the cost to go forward, and the age of the defendant as reasons not to go forward.

I was studying public relations when the Regan decision was announced 12 years ago. At that time, social media was largely conceptual. I learned about it in school, but I didn't understand it. News stories were still read on once-a-day newsprint and user-generated content was limited to call in radio shows and letters to the editors. That April day Regan and his high-priced lawyer declared vindication on all charges, and 30 women lost to Regan all over again. After a few days of reporting, life went on.

If it wasn't for a recent comment I read on a news story about Ghomeshi, I wouldn't have remembered the Regan case. It is an eerily similar story of sexual predation by a person in a position of power that went on for years. Back then, there was no medium for people to express collective outrage; no way to sustain that outrage. Today, we have the medium. In the last 12 years, I've watched social media evolve from a theoretical concept to a mechanism capable of influencing world events.

With it, can the Nine of 2014 achieve the legal justice the Thirty of 2002 were denied?

Memo to agriculture minister

I may be a Liberal to my very core, but I am not celebrating [one year in office]. I am trying very hard to understand Keith Colwell's recent performance as agriculture minister. The only conclusion I can draw is that Colwell knows absolutely nothing about agriculture in Nova Scotia. You see, I grew up on a sustenance farm in Antigonish County. We had a dairy cow that was bred beef every year and we also raised our own meat birds and laying hens. It was how my parents managed to feed four kids while working and living around the poverty line, like so many rural residents. We weren't alone, most of our neighbours did the same. It is a way to make rural life work. Not everyone wants to live and raise their kids in a city.

So when I see the agricultural minister on Sun News, of all places, stating his absolute support for the turkey board's decision to shut down small processors right before Thanksgiving, I have to wonder about his suitability as minister. These turkeys were bought and raised to be ready for the holidays/winter food stocks. Since you have to sign an affidavit to buy those chicks, the turkey board could have made their stance known then and let people decide whether they wanted to continue knowing they would be forced to use a provincial processor.

Instead, the board lets these people buy and raise the birds for months and then shuts down the local processors. Unless there was some documented evidence of how these local butchers were failing public heath, this could have waited until next year's crop of chicks. In Gordon Fraser's case, I suspect after 36 years of processing birds without incident, he probably could have made it through year 37. It was either a stupid, short-sighted decision or an intentionally-malicious decision on the part of the board. Having reviewed the social media efforts of the turkey marketing board, I'm leaning towards the former.

Even then, it still would have been the wrong decision. Most farmers have other jobs, and sustenance farmers definitely have other jobs. For the ones that don't possess the knowledge and facilities to butcher their own birds, they have to find time outside of work to get their birds to the butcher and picked them back up. Gas is also expensive. If it means a day or two off work, possibly without pay, and a long drive to get them to a provincial facility, they may not do it next year. And that is the exact opposite of what an agriculture minister should want.

I am aware that this province is in a deep dark fiscal hole and farming is, decidedly, not glamorous. Nor is it lucrative. Farmers just grow our food and food for their own families. As agriculture minister, the job is to support those that are already farming, especially the ones doing it to feed their families, and to bring in newcomers. Our rural communities are struggling with declining and aging populations. Either we want people to live there or we don't. If we want people to live there, we need to find reasons for them to live there. Food, by way of farming, can be a reason. There's the eat local movement, there's the sustainable food movement, the slow food movement, the organic movement, and the farmer's market/meet your farmer movement, and of course, basic food security. Then there's foodies, there's tons of those. Did you know artisanal butchery is a thing? Heritage turkeys and pigs? Agriculture won't solve our deficit, but there's an awful lot of people willing to pay top dollar for the right agricultural products. We just need to grow them and we've got the land and the communities to do it.

I've met lots of folks who love rural life and working off the land, I have yet to meet a call center worker who shares the same enthusiasm for their job. If the current rules make it harder for people to grow food, then the rules need to be modernized. It's a majority government, you have the power to pass legislation. Proper food safety is adaptable to the environment in which it occurs. You can start with new rules for local processors, because we can either make it easier for people to live in rural communities or we can relocate them all to urban centers and frack the countryside into oblivion.

I know which future I want for Nova Scotia.

As an aside, I noticed today Colwell's latest step as agricultural minister is to craft a law making it illegal to abandon animals, with a special focus on cats. As an animal lover, I applaud the sentiment, but aside from shameless vote buying what is this going to accomplish? Many cats and dogs are abandoned at or because of sexual maturity when there is no money to have them fixed/deal with offspring. What penalty will be imposed on someone with no money? Beyond farming it out to an agency, what plan is in place to enforce these new laws? How do you prove abandonment without proof of ownership? Cats aren't licensed. Will it be cheaper than subsidizing a spay and neuter program, one that would not penalize people for being poor?

The time to pander for votes and go for easy wins is somewhere in year three, not now.  Now is the time to fix things.