I am doing a bunch of posts on my eating habits this week. If you’re interested, here’s breakfast.
Lunch is a big problem for me right now. One thing I loved about freelancing was making a fresh lunch for myself. It felt so spoiled. It WAS so spoiled. Usually I would have a sandwich, usually involving avocado and/or onion and/or tomato and/or some kind of green and/or cheese, or maybe some pasta with parsley and garlic. Or leftovers, of course.
The last time I had a Job, I just took leftovers for lunch, which is the easiest thing. The problem now is that I never know where I’ll be at lunchtime—could be an H1N1 clinic in Etobicoke, could be the courthouse, could be outside a random criminal’s house, waiting to pounce—so I can’t take fussy things that need to be assembled and/or heated. This is a pain for me, especially because I am not too big on sandwiches made earlier in the day because of the mush factor. I don’t like buying my lunch because it’s so expensive to get anything that doesn’t suck.
Mainly I have been taking leftovers and eating them cold, which is often unsatisfying—example a, that beautiful pad thai up there, tonight’s dinner. Tomorrow I’ll likely be eating it on the run, room temperature, out of plastic, with a plastic fork. A travesty, right? Alternately, I’ll take hummus and sprouts or egg salad in pita and eat it mushy and feel sorry for myself. If you have another idea, let me know.
I am going to do a series of posts on how I eat this week, just cuz. Let’s start with breakfast, natch.
I eat breakfast every day no matter what because I wake up starving. Even when I am on 7 a.m. shift, I wake up early enough to eat at the table. Most workdays I eat either oatmeal or yogurt and granola. I like something really hearty in the morning, because no matter what I’ll have a growling stomach in two hours. I usually put rice milk and maple syrup in the oatmeal, and maybe fruit, if I have the time and patience to cut it up. NEVER raisins, because raisins are really the only food that I absolutely despise. I love a cup of black tea with milk, although lately I’ve been having green, because I am so bloody caffeine sensitive that anything stronger than green just makes my nervous system throw a fit.
If I run out of those things, I’ll probably have peanut butter on toast. Le Jenk (otherwise known as the boyf) has peanut butter on toast six out of seven days, without fail. I swear his bones have pb in them instead of marrow. I find it a bit too thick and sticky first thing in the morning, so I always have to have honey or jam on it. I might also have avocado or cheese on toast, or maybe a boiled egg, which are all yummy but will have me hungry again by the time I get to work. I like to have a small glass of OJ before I make my breakfast, to get the blood sugar running.
On the weekend, we usually have a big eggy breakfast, with potatoes if the time/patience continuum is friendly. This is usually a brilliant frittata concoction that Le Jenk is an expert at, with whatever herbs or cheese or olives or veg we have in the fridge, always always always eaten with hot sauce or salsa. I don’t often have breakfast meat, largely because I am totally spoiled by the amazing breakfast sausages from the sausage stand at the St. Lawrence Market and it’s kind of out of the way for me to get there and nothing else is good enough. Two or three times a year I will be hungover enough to need bacon immediately, at which point I will buy it from the overpriced convenience store under my house and then eat within three days and then feel sickeningly satisfied. Yves Italian veggie sausage is pretty good at breakfast, too, but it’s pricey so normally I only buy that when we are going to the cottage with vegetarians and are on breakfast duty. Occasionally we will make pancakes or French toast, which is awesome because maple syrup is one of my favourite things on earth, but I don’t have enough of a sweet tooth to make it very regularly. I usually go on a pretty heavy pancake kick during wild blueberry season.
And I think that’s it for breakfast. Oh, I rarely go out for brunch because standing in line to eat first thing in the morning makes me want to bite glass, especially when the food is rarely as good as what I could make at home in less time, for less money. It’s nice not to have to clean up though.
On Tuesday, a piece I wrote about Church Street in Toronto ran in the Star. Historically the city’s gay village, the area has been seeing veteran businesses priced out for quite a while now. My story was about whether that’s a bad thing: namely, whether 20-something queer kids feel a connection to, or need for, the Church-Wellesley village.
The same day, Matt Mills at Xtra wrote a critique. I couldn’t respond quickly, cause working a real job is killing me. But now I have some time, so pretend you still care.
First, Mills should really have worked harder at spelling my name right all the way through. Especially since he ignored a strong theme in my piece: whether Church is too homogeneous. It’s hard to say that the white men on Church are willing to expand their definition of the village’s identity when Mills can’t even spell a 10-letter surname properly a few times. Without addressing how Church does or doesn’t welcome queers of colour, transgendered people and those without wads of cash, Mills’ critique isn’t really about what I wrote.
That said, my argument wasn’t as tight as I would have liked. A feature at the Star maxes out at 2,000 words, which is tough for a meanderer like me. I find it difficult not to quote every single person I’ve interviewed, but I really need to start seeing chats as background research, not always essential to the reader. Leaving out a great community organization like the 519 was definitely a hole. I was playing phone tag with someone there, and then the deadline bit me. As a writer, it’s a challenge, but a fun one: working within the confines of 21st century space. I think I’m already getting better at it.
However, I never said that it was a bad thing that Toronto’s queers hang out elsewhere (opinions on the Queen/Beaconsfield “Queer West Village” were cut for space). The question was whether Church Street still nurtures sex/gender pioneers. The addition of a trans march at Pride this year was pretty awesome, but Halloweek and a trade show, however fun, don’t convince me. That’s corporatization, which is exactly what I was talking about. It’s gentrification, the same thing that’s happening everywhere else: Greek people hardly live around Danforth anymore; ditto south Asians and Coxwell. Making money on a now-defunct cultural identity isn’t exclusive to Church. Given how important Church-Wellesley has been to this city, I was just wondering if that mattered.
The Gossip killed it at the Opera House on Wednesday. JD Samson and MEN opened. Talk about a dance party. It was hot and sweaty, and I liked it.
The always-pithy Kate Carraway made a plea yesterday for the reappearance of Kathleen Hanna, and I concur. In the meantime, though, JD and Beth Ditto are still bringing it. For an encore, they led the crowd in a singalong of “What’s Love Got To Do With It?” I think that’s what you call a perfect night.
One of the things I’m hoping to gain out of being at the Star is a basic ability to like, take photos and then (even harder) take them off the camera. Last week, I treated The Jenk to a wine tasting at Crush for his birthday—we took lots of photos of cool wine labels but they are, unsurprisingly, still on the cam. Still, I wanted to do a quick post: it was a delicious, educational time. Crush has a rotating series of wine tasting evenings (I wish we had known about the one with charcuterie, the night after ours) that are both comprehensive and affordable. Ours rotated through September’s new additions to their list—ten tipples, $35. Not shabby. (Incidentally, he saw the price on the blackboard, so I’m not being quite as gauche as you think right now.)
Best wine of the night was Meritage Okanagan Valley from B.C.’s Laughing Stock, an intense, fruity, chocolatey, moreish blend of the five Bordeaux varietals. Oh, how I wish I could taste a one or two of their other bottles (this one retailing for $60 and all). Best labels of the night go to the noir sketches from Organized Crime, a Beamsville winery that offered us a very refined Sauvignon Blanc and an almost candylike Riesling. Oh, how I wish I could try a few of their reds. I’m a scandalously bad wine writer, but I also liked a white Italian Verdicchio with a crazy long name (ask if you want it)—it was bright and sprightly, with peppery bursts on the end. There was a silky red selection from Toronto’s own John Szabo (Canada’s only Master Sommelier), who has a new winery in his Hungarian homeland, and a Grand Muscat from Australia’s Seppeltsfield that would make as good a digestif as a brandy, if you wanted something thick and sweet. Crush sommelier Eric Gennaro was friendly, generous and helpful, as were all the wine agency reps who shared their appetizer platter with us. Oh, if only I could afford a case of wine—or if only we Ontarians weren’t shackled by the tyranny of the LCBO.
Young South African runner Caster Semenya is being treated with revolting indecency. It was revolting for Australia’s Daily Telegraph to get excited about its “scoop” without thinking about the human being whose most private self is being paraded for public comment. It’s revolting that people seem to think that “hermaphrodites” (a term that should be erased, forever) purposely disguise themselves to take medals away from the “real women” that deserve them. Everyone who has neglected to consider the person at the heart of this story needs to feel ashamed of themselves and then read Jeffrey Eugenides’ brilliant Middlesex, immediately. The fictional tale of a young intersex person in late ’70s Detroit, it’s an epic family saga, a rollicking ride through a juicy bit of American history—and a touching personal story that illuminates the emotional wreckage of being “different” in such an intimate way.
Sport officials have known that there are more than two sexes since as far back as 1932, when Poland’s Stella Walsh won the Olympic gold in sprinting before being “revealed” as having both male and female sex characteristics. More recently, Indian runner Santhi Soundarajan was stripped of her medal for “failing” her gender test after the 2006 Asian games—she’s come out in support of Semenya, saying that the humiliation she faced led to such severe depression that she attempted suicide. This isn’t a new situation, so I’m not sure why there aren’t rules about privacy and protocol, to stop young people’s hearts from being ripped out publicly, again and again.
I’m not a huge sports fan, but my youngest brother is, and he sent me a really smart email arguing against sex categories in sport. Here are some excerpts. Read and enjoy—and if anyone is aggregating pro-Semenya posts to encourage her in this very dark time: Caster, you were born to run. Do so with pride.
Guest post, by Mystery Brother
The whole point of sports (especially individual sports, and perhaps especially track and field) is to award people for having superior bodies. We all know that biology plays the largest role—comparing two athletes’ blood cell and fast-twitch muscle counts allows for a pretty accurate prediction of who’s going to win the race. For some reason, we celebrate their victories as if everyone was on an even playing field and there’s something special about their character that allowed them to win. We’re celebrating their superior bodies. but then we impose a random, arbitrary separation, where if your body is too good for the particular task you have to compete in a separate category.
The reason I think female only races/leagues, etc. make sense right now is because our socialization does not encourage girls’ participation in athletics to the extent that it encourages males. We’re not even rewarding the best bodies. Many people have noted that the female body is actually better suited for both long distance running, and kicking in football. Catharine Mackinnon has said she expects women to outrun men in marathons within a couple generations.
If we’re trying to reward the best bodies, the argument that “the average” man has more muscle than “the average” woman doesn’t make any sense—both men and women (and all people not so easily classified) are on a spectrum of athleticism, including things like testosterone levels, white/red blood cell counts, etc. It doesn’t make sense that men at the bottom of their bell curve are forced to compete against men at the top of the curve, but women at the top of their curve (who are superior to many men), can’t. (DB’s note: golfer Michelle Wie has chosen to play in men’s leagues—she hasn’t won yet, but she’s still trying) If we justify it based on differences in biology, we’re missing the point and ignoring the fact that sports are *trying* to reward superior biology.
There’s an amazing list of sports that used to be mixed sex (such as archery), until women began legitimately competing with men (and beating them, like Rusty Kanokogi, the Mother of Judo), at which point the sexes were separated. Often, the rules for the women league are altered ever so slightly, arguably just so comparisons couldn’t easily be made (think: WNBA playing with a different ball and shorter quarters; marathons being different lengths for men and women, etc.)
In a world with no sex classifications in sports, women will be properly recognized and rewarded for their achievements. More importantly, no one would be put throught the shit Caster Semenya is going through, ever again.
Is that head about being busy? Dunno. Point is, I’ve just started a gig at the Star, and the orientation is exhausting. As the actual reporting promises to be, as well.
So, here’s a weak post on what I’m thinking about. On my mind is: Caster Semenya, how wretched it is that we knew she might be intersex before she did, how devastating it is that she’s on suicide watch, how angering it is that people are acting as though “hermaphrodite” athletes are schemers who aim to rob “real” women of their medals. I’ve found Kate Bornstein on Twitter (and she read this blog, c-razy); she’s a longtime transgender writer and activist who has a lot of smart, touching things to say about gender and sexuality and how it affects us all, everyday. You should read her stuff, now.
I’m also thinking about tomato season, my favourite crop of the year. Yummy. You should make this drink and also a salsa where you roast about four medium sized tomatoes (heirloom is nice, but anything ontario is fine) and blend ‘em up with two cloves of garlic, two chipotle peppers (and some of the liquid from the can) and a pinch of salt, then stir in some coriander and green onion.
The salsa was a hit at a party I went to for the season final of True Blood, which was sadly pretty disappointing. It was awesome when SPOILER Sam ripped out Maryann’s black heart, though, even though I kind of liked her. Best line of the night goes to Jason - “If a tree falls in the forest, it’s still a tree, ain’t it?” But yeah, weak. SPOILER How boring that Eggs died. He never had a personality to begin with. We knew Maryann was going down, that dragged on too long. There should have been more juicy cliffhangers, says I.
I’m also sad that Lisa Ray has bone marrow cancer (I interviewed her once, ages ago, and she was completely lovely), and pissed off that environmental polluters (who have had a big part in raising Canada’s cancer rate from 1 in 10 in the 1970s to 1 in 2 today - stat from Wendy Mesley’s CBC cancer special about four years ago) are poisoning water all over the U.S. and everywhere.
Starting at a new yoga studio today. I already miss my old teacher, Kaya at 99 Sudbury, who was about the only good thing about that gym. She was awesome, but I’m sure this new spot has something to offer. Non-attachment, right? I like a hatha/vinyasa mix, lots of hip and hamstring work, challenging but not show-offy, with classes changing all the time, sometimes slow, sometimes fast. Not that I’m picky or anything. Downtown studio, suggestions welcome.
I was in Chicago for the August long weekend and randomly happened upon their Critical Mass ride. It was so huge! And the city is so cyclist friendly! Bike lanes in the downtown core, imagine!
So it’s not surprising that it was the Chicago police, and not the Toronto police, that put out this video. It’s very educational, in both the good and bad sense: perhaps a bit unsophisticated, but very, very useful. Interspersed with horror stories by bike commuters and bike cops are voiceovers outlining the driving laws pertaining to cyclists. It’s not just annoying to turn right in front of a bike, park in a bike lane or squish a rider over to the curb, it’s illegal. The police officers in this video encourage their colleagues to enforce these laws—wouldn’t it be nice if the Toronto police did that too, instead of just busting cyclists?
The vid also admonishes cyclists to behave themselves too (I’ve been practicing my driving lately, and realized that not having a front light makes me an idiot). Sharing and caring: it’s time to go back to kindergarten, everybody.
Here’s a piece I did for Green Living, an interview with director Peter Mettler, whose awesome tar sands film Petropolis is at the Toronto International Film Fest next week. To skirt private property laws, Mettler (Gambling, Gods and LSD; Manufacturing Landscapes) and his crew filmed the tar sands from 1000 metres in the air, using military grade camera equipment. The result is jaw-dropping.
I love True Blood as much as the next person—a lot. I’m a sucker for a good soap opera (Y&R, 20 years and counting) and a dose of the supernatural is definitely spicing up the soapy stew of heartbreak and deceit. I’m into the humid Louisiana scenery and the jumble of complicated characters (it does need some black vampires and black history, but the groundbreaking Lafayette makes up for a lot). I cannot get enough of the sexy, spooky opening credits, although that decaying fox is almost too much for me. But why, oh why, is Season Two giving hedonism such a bad rap?
Hello - SPOILER ALERT. Don’t blame me if you learn something you don’t want to know.
Pretty soon after meeting Maryann, I knew she was in on some Horned God shit. I’m not an expert—I didn’t know about maenads, specifically, but Wikipedia says they are indeed the craziest of Dionysus’ ecstatic followers, known for losing their minds in a frenzy of sex and drinking. Ok, so it’s always possible to go too far, and bloodthirsty party animal Maryann is certainly making for some good television. But let me take a minute to outline some other ideas on ecstatic indulgence—my name does come from Dionysus, so I need to defend my own.
When Daphne was giving Sam the Maryann breakdown at the lake, I don’t get why she likened the Horned God to Gaia and Isis. Both of those two are ancient earth mothers, hardly associated with excess or partying. Inexplicably, she left out the most famous Horned God, Pan. I have a soft spot for Pan since reading Tom Robbins’ Jitterbug Perfume way back when: Robbins is brilliant reading for anyone who wants a poppy crash course in theology, and he portrays Pan as a sympathetic, if curmudgeonly, character. Like True Blood’s Queen of the Vampires, Robbins (and Marie Phillipp in the also fun Gods Behaving Badly) surmises that gods only exist as long as people believe in them. Since the appearance of Jesus, Robbins’s Pan is literally fading, from a powerful, stubborn goat god whose piping once spurred endless orgies to a morose, invisible, funky scent that might get your panties a little wet.
In Jitterbug Perfume, the association of the Horned God with the Christian devil has turned the earth into a drab, boring place, where pleasure is demonized to the point that even perfume is seen as suspicious. Pan brought humans closer to heaven by allowing us to shed shame, and to lose him is to lose a part of our innate selves. Another ancient pleasure practice is, of course, Tantra—most of us, post-Sting, think Tantra means “having sex for a really long time,” but it’s far more complicated. Practicing Tantra means, in part, adhering to all of Hinduism’s ancient practices (yoga, breathing, diet, worship) to create a spirituality where thoughtful appreciation of earthly enjoyment might just crack open a window to the divine.
Right, so, we’re talking about T.V., so I’ll try and chill out a bit here. I’m just saying—True Blood is a hedonistic show, man, what with the fangbanging and V (oh, if only that were a real drug). Sookie might not have abandoned herself to Bill’s wiles if it wasn’t for the Horned One, so let’s give the god a break.
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