Don’t begrudge the nuts you get

February 27th, 2008

It isn’t every day you see someone ask for free nuts. And get them. Making his way home on Family Day, a man found himself in a restaurant that sells a lot of ice cream. Having just eaten a sandwich, he was looking for something to wash away a lingering taste of olives; which, from the looks of things, was the closest he had been to a vegetable in weeks.

So, he ordered a hot fudge sundae. When the person taking the order asked if that would be all, he said “Not unless you feel like sprinkling some nuts on top of that syrup.” Once again, he had vegetables on his mind, and nuts certainly qualify. To a man like that, there really are only three food groups—animal, vegetable, and mineral—and if you get a mix of all three on a regular basis, you will live a long and healthy life. The employee understood this man somehow and, impressed with his good manners and jovial nature, asked what kind of nuts he would like. He enquired as to his choices, and she rhymed off about three or four varieties of peanut, with enticing names like Spanish and Jumbo. When she moved on to the pecans, the man stopped her in her tracks. “Hold your horses right there,” he said, “because pecans it is.”

Pecans, however, it wasn’t. Two spoonfuls into that sundae, he laughed and said: “These are clearly walnuts.” “What?” was the incredulous response. “Walnuts. There are walnuts in this sundae, not pecans. The management must be informed of this hoodwink.” No one uses a word like hoodwink anymore, and it was a good choice, given the circumstances. Without a hint of embarrassment, the employee said she couldn’t really tell the difference, on account of her allergies. She explained that she was terribly allergic to nuts, and didn’t like to get too close to them, if possible. The man understood.

Anyone who spends a lifetime avoiding nuts probably wouldn’t know a walnut from a pecan, kind of like the person allergic to seafood who can’t tell the difference between a lobster and a crab. He decided, after putting this innocent person in peril over a simple hot fudge sundae, that his walnuts would certainly do. They were actually pretty good walnuts, he assured her; not at all like the bitter and neglected ones you often find at the bottom of the mixed nut bowl at Christmas time. He thanked her gratefully, and decided the moral of the story, if there was one at all, is to never begrudge the nuts you get.

With the amount of food allergies cropping up these days, people who love a vegetable with their ice cream may one day find it hard to get any nuts at all. The secret is to avoid white ice cream, and go for the ones with plenty of added colouring. A number of the dyes poured into ice cream these days are vegetable based and, for my money, that counts as a serving of vegetables. Find an ice cream with a dairy ingredient or two, and you’ll have a serving from the animal food group as well. Yes, eating a balanced diet is easier than you think, and healthy food choices don’t have to drive a person nuts.

There’s nothing like a bag of nails

February 20th, 2008

One of these days, before too much longer, I’m going downtown to buy a bag of nails. There really is nothing in this world quite like a little paper bag filled with a few nails, and I’ll miss it when it’s gone. When MacDonald’s Home Hardware clears out some shelves next month, a bit of history will disappear with them.

We live in an age where packaging is everything. It’s not about what you sell, but how you sell it; and it is getting harder and harder to find anyone who will sell “some” of anything. A few still do, and I appreciate that.

I appreciate being able to go into a store on main street that sells lengths of chain. When they ask how much chain you need, and you say enough to fit around my neck, and they say chain for the neck is it? getting married? you say no, it’s for a costume, and all I need is some to do the job.

I appreciate being able to go into a store on main street that sells tubs of sugar. When they ask how much sugar you need, and you say about ten pounds or so, and they say ten pounds is it? baking pies? you say no, it’s for an apple cider recipe, and all I need is some to do the job.

I appreciate being able to go into a store on main street that sells bowls of meat. When they ask how much meat you need, and you say about the size of your fist or so, and they say deli mix is it? early lunch? you say no, it’s more like a late breakfast, and all I need is some to do the job.

I appreciate being able to go into a store on main street that sells pieces of fabric. When they ask how much fabric you need, and you say about the size of a pocket or so, and they say fat quarter is it? going quilting? you say no, it’s to put patches on the patches of my old blue jeans. Well, they used to be blue, and they used to be new, and they used to clean, and all I need is some to do the job.

I appreciate being able to go into an establishment on main street that sells cold beer. When they ask how much beer you need, and you say enough to quench a powerful thirst, and they say pitcher of draft is it? late breakfast? you say no, it’s more like an early lunch, and it’s twelve o’clock somewhere, and all I need is some to do the job.

Basically, I can appreciate any place that doesn’t feel the need to wrap everything up in a pretty little package. There has been a push in various circles lately to ban plastic bags, to keep them out of landfills, and make the world a cleaner place.

India, for example, has started to seriously crack down on its use of plastic bags. It seems that cows, which are sacred there and free to wander anywhere they like, have been strolling into landfills and munching on plastic; and there is nothing sacred about a cow with 50 kilograms of plastic clogging its digestion. Plastic bags are only one small part of a larger problem, but it certainly couldn’t hurt if we also tried to cut down on the dizzying amounts of packaging we cram into them.

One little bag of nails is not going to solve the world’s waste management problems, but it is going to fix my squeaky floorboards and loose pieces of trim—and I won’t need 100 or 500 or 5,000, or the packaging that a handful of nails now comes in. All I need is some to do the job.

Just slip out the back, Jack

Ah, St. Valentine’s Day. Can’t you just feel the love. It is that one day out of 366 that love reigns supreme; a day reserved for flowers, candy, lipstick and lingerie; for telling your true love your true feelings; for looking deep into their eyes and wondering what on earth you were thinking when you agreed to get married in the first place. Could you really have been that happy, or that drunk?

Yes, true love is hard to find; and when you get it, you want to hold on tight and never let it go. People fall in love for all sorts of reasons. Finding a soul mate, that person who truly understands you, who has seen the real you and loves you anyway, seems reason enough. Finding a girl with a boat and motor, or a really hot sister, may not be a good reason, but could still work. You never know. In case it doesn’t, and you find yourself falling out of love as hard as you fell in, take heart.

There must be 50 ways to leave your lover. Paul Simon said you can slip out the back Jack, make a new plan Stan, hop on the bus Gus, or drop off the key Lee, to set yourself free. Just don’t do it on Valentine’s Day. That would be really mean. If you find you are yearning for the single life this week, instead of a single red rose, there are ways to soften the blow as you drop off the key and set yourself free. Just be prepared to protect your plums when the apple of your eye doesn’t see things quite the same way as you do. For starters, head on down to your library or bookstore, and pick up one of those Change Your Identity Overnight books. Freedom could be as simple as a new hairstyle or a clean shirt. You could go all the way and send your personal banking information to a rich prince in Nigeria who will assume your identity and spend your life savings. You could always tell your partner that you are going to spend every weekend from now on visiting your parents, or that her parents and their sweater-wearing dog will be moving in by the end of the week. That, of course, is a lie; but you are already very good at lying, and have been ever since you said the dog looked cute in his little sweater.

Open every conversation with “We have to talk...” and finish with a heavy sigh and something like “Relationships take work...” or “Sometimes change is a good thing...” Stop washing, and that includes the dishes, the dog, and the laundry. After a couple weeks the flies buzzing around the room should drown out her favourite television shows. Tell her you are making the world a better place by conserving water, and then wash your car or truck at least three times a week. Begin an aggressive new composting program by vomiting in the backyard every time you come home drunk, which should be more than three times a week, assuming you want to achieve the full effect. Every time you go out and see someone worse off than you, tell her how much you envy the guy. When you meet a former partner, tell her how good that person looks, and then drift off like you are fondly remembering the past.

Either way, it’s going to take work, and no one said it will be easy. Come to think of it, flowers and candy may not be such a bad idea after all. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Balancing a tea cup on an onion

February 6th, 2008

Back when I was a freckle-faced scamp, and winter’s winds whipped the snow into a frenzy, Mom would make sure I never went outside without a hat on my head. I didn’t really need one, I argued, because Dad used to cut our hair with a steak knife and a bit always fell over my ears; but Mom wouldn’t listen. She was our wind chill warning before the world had ever heard of such a thing. I didn’t want to wear a hat then—and I still don’t. Some people just don’t have the head for a hat, unless they start making them out of hollowed-out pumpkins.

Hats have been around for a very long time, and it is impossible to say when the first small animal was pulled over a head as protection against the elements. I can just picture a mother tugging a rabbit over little Og’s head as he left his cave, trying to escape his neanderthal dad and another haircut with those savage stone hand tools. One of the first hats to be depicted in artwork was found in an Egyptian tomb, and shows a man wearing a straw hat. It is a coolie-style hat, a lot like a lampshade, common in places where people want to avoid the sun. Since its invention, the hat has come and gone as status symbol and fashion statement.

Today, the most popular hat in western culture, as well as Japan, is the baseball cap. Experts estimate the average North American owns more baseball caps than clean underwear. In fact, if you were to place all the ball caps in Canada in a straight line, you would be working for the government. In 1860, a team known as the Brooklyn Excelsiors wore the ancestor of the modern, rounded-top baseball cap. The style was functional and fashionable, and surged in popularity. In the 1940s, latex rubber was used to stiffen the inside of the hat, and the modern baseball cap was born. Still, there are those of us who can not comfortably wear a ball cap.

I know a good natured and rotund fellow named Red, whose head is useless for hat wearing. You could slip a large bowl over his melon, and not find a gap wide enough to wedge a playing card in. He doesn’t even leave his house around Hallowe’en, in fear that all the kids are carving him hat-o-lanterns. Putting a hat on Red’s head is like trying to balance a tea cup on an onion. A person could easily feel sorry for Red, but he made out okay. He met a girl on the internet, married her, and now spends his days in love, hand-in-hand, looking for that perfect pumpkin to hollow out for special occasions. Just about the only hat we the cranially-challenged can get away with wearing is the tuque, generally considered Canada's national winter hat, like the fur hat in Russia.

Countless Canadians have worn a tuque for protection from the cold, but it hasn’t really caught on as a fashion statement with the rich and powerful. The most famous tuque wearers, all leaders in their fields, include marine scientist Jacques Cousteau, movie stars Bob and Doug McKenzie, and Mike Nesmith of the Monkees. U2 guitarist The Edge is also a tuque fan, but he’s no Mike Nesmith. Monkee business aside, I’m glad I have a tuque to wear when I leave my cave. It still beats one of Dad’s haircuts.

Next time you throw a train...

January 30th, 2008

During the summer of 1970, a series of music festivals took place across Canada. Following the first concert in Toronto, the musicians and their assorted friends and roadies (or was it railies?) traveled by private train to the remaining festivals in Winnipeg and Calgary. They played, partied and boozed it up every mile of the way and, at the end of the line, headliner Janis Joplin and festival organizer Ken Walker exchanged a case of tequila and a quart of Southern Comfort, prompting Janis to exclaim: “Next time you throw a train, invite me, man.”

While certainly not to that bold or bleary-eyed extent, that is how I felt recently when I had the good fortune to join three siblings in a living room as they unearthed their old model train set. I don’t know very much about model trains, only that this one was a Williams relic, and had more metal parts in it than the car in my driveway.

The fun began innocently enough, just as it did so many years ago, with one engine turning a simple oval. That just wouldn’t do, just as it didn’t years ago, and it wasn’t until we raised the corners that the engine hit its top speed. Before long, the train was smashing into a Matchbox tanker truck filled with toxic chemicals, knocking over a plastic grizzly that was clearly rabid and enraged, and toppling a line of toy superheroes stacked up like dominoes. There was even a rock slide of genuine pieces of the Berlin Wall, brought home from a recent tour of Europe. It was obvious the engineer was asleep, drunk, or both, and would soon be looking for another line of work.

In order to properly elevate the corner under the coffee table, and the newly-christened Dead Man’s Curve after the straightaway, a number of old VHS tapes stepped in as building blocks. The faces of the stars on the boxes were like giant billboards for the disaster area in the middle of the track that was once a quiet little railroad town. The action escalated quickly, until it reached a point where the engine began pouring plumes of white smoke thick enough to set off the smoke detector. When the power supply gave up, the train stayed on schedule with a motorcycle battery hauled in from the garage, a few feet of heavy wire, and a light touch on the controls. The boost in power really got things moving.

Someone came up with the idea to add a jump in the tracks, a rare feat for any train, and soon the engine was sailing through the air like Sandra and Keanu and the bus from Speed. For the grand finale, our brave conductor fashioned a flaming hoop out of toilet paper and a coat hanger, and ploughed his locomotive through a deadly ring of fire. Not even the resident hobo and his toy farm animals remained on board for this ultimate spectacle of daring. None of us could remember the smoke detector sounding off so much when we were kids, probably because we didn’t have one, or more likely because Mom would have stepped in well before that point with a wooden spoon and a smack behind the ear, and opened a window or two.

In the end, it was a night of smiles and memories. I just hope the next time they throw a train, they invite me, man.