Self-Immolation and The Return of Hunger (I Always Did Want More….)

“When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire.”

This ever-quotable line was written, as far as I can tell, by Torquil Campbell, lead vocalist of the pseudo-indie menage, Stars. Every hipster and soundtrack-loving music fan has heard the graciousness of those words uttered with distinguished authority at the very opening of arguably their best-known song, “Your Ex-Lover Is Dead” – a windy-ballad about the conclusions we make and the stories we tell ourselves when we reflect back on a past relationship.

Clearly, it has to do with the exhumation of old, sticky feelings when confronted with someone you once kissed and called your own, and the subsequent self-immolation that happens during the memorial period…that is, until you realize that holding the torch is making your arm ache and you aren’t any kind of martyr for doing this.

..when you realize that you would be better return to your life,  return to the centre of your universe, or less be reduced to ashes.

I’m kinda Jungian, so it’s all synchronistic to me…these are the lessons we face following any of life’s disappointments and jilted shocks,  not just relationships. The loss of a parent, a quarter-life crisis, a haunting return of childhood trauma, the diagnosis of a chronic illness, etc., etc. All the aforementioned have been experienced by people I know. 

The first half of 2010 hasn’t been kind to a good chunk of us, really….

I want to wrestle this song to the ground – I want to pull out a metaphor, pluck out a plum lesson from its jaws and summarize that there is more to that line than just a Purple Heart anthem for lost love. There’s even more to it – you can burn away a hang-up, a compulsion, a narrative, an idea. You can embrace a new norm, and then realize it’s dysfunction, and like a ’67b bra-burning post-grad student, turn your face away as you burn that silky, once-appealing concept up in your hands.

I think I went a good two months where I completely forgot I even had this blog.

It was a shitty few months there between winter and spring 2010; I discovered, as a writer and somewhat creative person, that I’ll never really be like Byron or Poe or Shelley or (Insert Dramatically-Deep Writer’s Name Here). Fuck, I won’t even be a Marilyn Manson or Eminem, penning out my self-indulgent anger in vulgar quasi-lyricism. Nope – when I am in the throes of woe, I sulk into my everyday routines and become lazy, lazy, lazy. My spark has bit the dust. The artsy-worded side of my brain has left the building.

So yes, part of it was having to concede that a romantic relationship I wanted was dead and I was making like Tom Petty in his “Last Dance for Mary Jane” video, trying to slow dance with the corpse of something lovely and now expired (Admittedly, I was the executioner. I couldn’t take the heat of postmodern relationship structures…).

But it wasn’t just the dead relationship that had me blue. My friendships skidded through the dirt for a while. Tensions rose between myself and my parents. My job as a social worker – which had long been a saving grace, a point of context, a seat in which I knew I had a place and a  purpose – felt mundane and uninspiring. I was getting tired of it all. Really fucking tired. Kensington Market, Little Italy and Annex became skeletal beds of where I breathed and slept – the charm and character was gone. I didn’t care about writing a review anymore. I didn’t care about the new Indian takeaway on Augusta, the dessert-discovery on Harbord, the several gelaterias all clamouring for attention on College. I went on a diet and called it a day.

At some point, you gotta get over yourself. I’d like to tell you (and myself) that I did. Sorta….well, trying to anyway..

The point is, I’m back to the blogosphere. I need to write. I need to review, to rehash, to rewind and finally,to  respond to this hive of life that surrounds me. Emotions hang in the balance, burn to the ground, or flourish into well-adjusted good will…but life goes on.

I go on.

The true constant is that there is a good life to live, good things to do, good people to carry us on the days and nights when we feel alone, good places to be in the heart and  down the street. Best of all, good things to eat and write about.

Burn, Baby, Burn....

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Now, back to my pudding……..mmmm….pudding.

A Valentine’s Love Letter to my Community

“An appropriate symbol for the process of celebrating life, enduring limits, and resisting injustice … is the beloved community…. The beloved community names the matrix within which life is celebrated, love is worshipped, and partial victories over injustice lay the groundwork for further acts of criticism and courageous defiance. From within the matrix of beloved community, there is a solid basis for social critique and self criticism: the life-giving love constitutive of solidarity with the oppressed and love of oneself.” ~ Sharon Welch, The Feminist Ethic of Risk

Here we are….another Valentine’s Day.

Walking through the Eaton’s Centre over my lunch break, I stole a glance at the inside of Carleton Cards. The aisles were stuffed to the brim with people on their lunch break, trying to find an accurate break-down of their affections for their lover in a 5″ by 7″ card that’s priced the same as what their lunch probably cost. Further along the path, going towards my gym, I see a new floral store has temporarily set up shop in a leased retail space, selling these spindly, bruised roses for $11 a stem. I counted at least 6 people looking at them.

I shook my head. That sort of pressure is ridiculous. Romantic gestures are important, but not when it’s prescribed and prepackaged. Not to mention a total rip off.

Don’t get me wrong. I actually really like Valentine’s Day. It’s the day when love is recognized, and appreciated – and while one may argue that we must tenderly hold reverence for the fragility and beauty of loving relationships on a daily (or at least  semi-regular) basis, we all know that that’s not the case. People are busy, lives are hectic, egos and insecurities collide and stew…gestures, expressions of love, kind thoughts and actions, psychospiritual sexual intimacy, that in-the-moment-just-want-to-kiss-you-,-press-my-body-against-yours-and-feel-your-heart-pound-through-your-chest-and-into-mine, all tends to get lost in the shuffle. And so, for those of us who haven’t quite succumbed to the notion that every holiday is a commercial write off, Valentine’s Day serves as a time where we can remember that we are as much lovers as we are fighters. Maybe even moreso.

I remember a conversation I had with my dad this past summer, just after my 25th birthday. It was a few weeks shy of my parents’ 40th wedding anniversary, and I marked a one-year anniversary of being single after 3 1/2 years of being with my ex. We were talking about the sustainability of relationships. My parents had raised me to believe that most marriages and long-term partnerships were like theirs – solid, constant, devoted. But as I grew older, divorces and separations in my family and extended community circle multiplied. Many of those who remained married (as good Catholics do), suffered quietly in loveless partnerships. I came to realize that most women did not so fiercely protect their husband’s well-being, the way my mother did….nor did most men shower loving affection and consideration towards their wives the way my dad does. My parents hold hands when walking through the mall, they talk and giggle, debate, and drink their coffee together every morning. They certainly don’t have a perfect relationship, but definitely an ideal one. Their mutual enjoyment of each other’s company, after 40 years of marriage,  nowadays seems like an exception to the rule.

I told my dad I believed this now – that durable love is rare. Furthermore, after speaking about my own personal, spiritual and career goals with an Aboriginal elder at camp this summer, I had come to  an understanding that I should devote myself to the work of trying to help and protect others in my community. I wasn’t cut out for this romantic-partnership-domestic stuff, no matter how lovely it seemed. I may never find a partner, and I was actually at peace with that. Besides, I don’t handle myself very well in relationships – the vulnerability rattles me, knocking me off-balance, landing me ass-over-tea kettle in my own awkward emotions.

My dad considered what I had to say and shifted uneasily in his chair. He told me he didn’t like the idea of me being the mistress of the community, and didn’t believe I would never find a partner. He admitted that the relationship he had with my mom was indeed quite devoted and actively romantic, unlike some other couples we knew.

“That’s why they must also be your dearest friend”, he said, “You know, Emily…partnerships are essentially very close friendships. It’s about two people, with their backs against each other, hands clasped together, ready to take on the world.”

But I believe we can be partnered to many things, not just people. Partnered to our passions. Partnered to our ideals. Partnered to our jobs. Partnered to our communities. Ideally, these partnerships nourish our minds and souls with new knowledge and understandings, electrically charging our inward thoughts with bold concepts, awakening us to a higher ground. Likewise, every individual brings in their unique approach and understanding into the ever-constructing narrative of our abstractions and environments

 On this Valentine’s Day, I cannot help but appreciate the partnership I have with my community- which, for me, centres at core in Kensington Market, but branches out into the Annex and Little Italy. Coming to first live here in August 2008 was a bit like going on a first date – I knew a some of the background of the area, liked the values it represented, and felt seduced and attracted to esthetic appeal. I wasn’t expecting much, just that it could be a cool place to live. Perhaps I would find something better…perhaps I would want to go further into the sinews of the west-end Brownstones, or live somewhere exotic like Gerrard and Greenwood, or maybe I’d like the familiar pseudo-suburban yuppiness of Yonge and Eglinton.

But since moving here, I discovered that once I got past the gorgeous face and body of the area, there was more to be offered about this place: the idealist part-time workers, students and bohos who imprint the streets and rent here; the constant lineup of small venue concerts, poetry slams and djembe jams. The hidden gems of the Green Room and the corner of Clinton St. and Henderson Ave. I was romanced by the arboured pathways through Trinity College, playfully tickled by thick, warm afternoons in Bellevue Park, sweetened by the gelaterias, soothed by the Zen Buddhist temple, sparked alive by the sonorous cacophony of P.S.K. The area challenged me, held me, taught me, nurtured me, annoyed me, played with me, sang to me,  wrestled with me, fought with me, read to me, danced with me, and so on…stretching me out of my comfort zones and into a whole new field of self-exploration and understanding. I came at once someone completely new, but then wholly myself. I couldn’t help but fall in love.

Beloved community….how dearly I do love you! How tenderly I hold the cherished lessons you have taught me in my chest. I am so thankful that I am here. All my life I’ve wanted to be somewhere where I could  feel both grounded and alive. Somewhere to feel, as they say, ‘bien dans sa peau’. You took me by the hand, brought me closer and closer to you, and gently undressed me, exposing my good qualities, and my bad….and loving me for it all the same. In you, I have come to love myself. In you, I have found a home. And even if this all ends, and I end up leaving you for a new community, and new borough to rest my head,  I  know that the precious affection between us would never go away. This love for you, my community, I can say with total sincerity and deepest honesty, will not fade.

About a month ago I stumbled upon the photography of Nick Brandt, a eco-conservationist and photographer who takes dramatic wildlife pictures set in the east African bushes and plains.  Through the portfolio of warrior elephants and limp-lipped chimpanzees, he includes several pictures of lion prides. The one below, called Lions Head to Head Masai Mara, was by far my favourite. For me, it perfectly represents what I believe is my ideal partnership – two entities, autonomous and equal in strength, both lodged firmly in community, yet together devoted and looking out towards what comes over the horizon.

Here, in Kensington Market, the Annex, and Little Italy, I feel I have my back to my pride. Our hands clasped together. Safe and strong, through this  communal relationship, I can truly take on anything that comes my way.

Food Review: A raw deal at Fresh On Bloor

 

I always liked cows. Cows are awesome.

And pigs. Pigs rule…

 I mean, sure they smell. Yes, they wallow in filth. Cows chew their vomit. Pigs are well….pigs. But the seemingly instinctual dirtiness of these animals doesn’t really detract  me. I like these creatures. Cows are like the Buddhas of the farm….chilled out freighters of hide and udders, lowing deeply as if in an over-long exclamation of devotion. Forgive my sacrilege, but when you think about it, moo sounds a lot like the Hindu sacred syllable of “om”, but backwards.  Kind of.  Sorta.

And pigs! Who doesn’t like a fat pig? Sure they bite, but they are apparently as smart as three-year olds, or at least your family dog.  Give the smartest pig and my gorgeous three-year-old nephew Oliver a block puzzle, and I’d say we’d have a nearly equal match (both will have, at some point, chewed on the puzzle pieces I’m sure). At the very least,pigs could probably out-do Rover in getting your slippers and playing dead.  I mean, they just don’t want to. Pigs have some pride, you know.

It’s this love of pigs and cows that keeps me from consuming them. As a rule, I don’t eat red meat.

Chicken and fish…that’s another story.

When I was 12, I decided to hark the momentous passage of my entrance into womanhood by giving up my faith (seeya Jesus!) and giving up my red meat (no thanks Arby’s!). While other kids in my class dutifully sewed their confirmation sashes over Big Macs, and picked out their sacred names with their sides of bacon, I poured over Egyptian mythology and ate a turkey sandwich. In the small-town confines of the Franco-Catholique communité d’Aurora, it was mildly scandalous. Pas de Jesus, ni de tourtière? Mais comment? Surprisingly, my parents were more-or-less supportive of it.

It wasn’t until my third year of university that I considered taking it one step further. Vegetarianism seemed like a daunting step into the leafy-unknown. Yet after several viewings of Meet Your Meat, an ambush of leaflets from PETA protestors at Dundas Square,  and a few bad seafood subs from the residence cafeteria, I felt I could take the plunge. Giving up chicken, turkey and fish wouldn’t be so bad. If all else failed, I liked the Yves substitutes. Their bologna’s pretty good.

In a society increasingly “concerned” (or at least, its a part of the pop vocabulary) about global warming, vegetarianism is a great individual initiative to curb greenhouse gases, lighten dependance on fuel sources, ease dependancy on agro-industrial farming and most importantly, show meaningful compassion to all creatures big and small.  It’s a noble cause, especially for those of us that love the quarter-chicken with Chalet sauce. I’ve met many vegetarians who found it was easy enough to slip into the lifestyle, as they never much cared for meat to begin with. For those of us who make good use of our canines, it’s a much harder sacrifice to make.

I lasted two years.

I’m not proud of it, and to my credit, I started off very strong. In January 2005, after making PETA my internet homepage, I renounced all animal products and jumped earnestly into veganism. I poured over cookbooks, researched dietary supplements, and created a bulletin board in my university residence about the value of vegan lifestyle (which was torn down several times and stapled with “FARMERS FEED CITIES“  leaflets). No matter. I drank my soy milk. I learned to cook tempeh. Dark chocolate was…well…not as good as milk chocolate. Whatever; sacrifices had to be made.

I kept it up for several months; yet I remember the breaking points clearly. One was Easter that year….my sister had made a glorious chocolate-and-cherry bread pudding for breakfast. I remember clearly pouting over the gooey corningwear, rummaging through my brain for all the reasons why I wasn’t grabbing a bowl and spoon right this second and stealthfully consuming this casserole-dish of milk-and-eggy goodness. I sneaked a spoonful, and that was the start of the end.

By July, I had had enough of it, and decided to hang up my animal-free ways and just be vegetarian. Much easier. I kept it going, until I started traveling to Europe.

 My first destination was Italy, and that was easy enough – I could definitely get by on Caprese salads and Margarita pizzas. But Malta, Holland and Switzerland were another story. Counties like Spain and France wouldn’t have any of it. And as I started to grow and change during my travels, I became keenly aware that meat consumption provided me with a greater physical sense of well-being. I can’t explain it, nor excuse it. I just felt better eating meat. I returned to Canada with a broader mind and diet; the Tofurkey no longer made an appearance at the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner table.

Again, not proud of it. It is what it is.

It’s been nearly two years since I’ve been eating meat, and I still eat a fairly vegetarian diet, as I tend not to cook much. A good chunk of my friends are vegetarian, and out of respect for them I’ve now made a habit to try not to eat meat when I’m in their presence. Living in Kensington Market, I’m a bit on an anomaly – hipster white kids who live here aren’t usually into animal flesh. Despite my regression, I still hold a great deal of affection and admiration for vegetarianism, veganism, and the whole lifestyle. I bake vegan all the time, I flirt with information packages and Facebook communities, but I can’t bring myself to re-partner with it. Vegetarianism is like a relationship that just won’t work, despite the fact that you like the other person – when it starts,  it’s sexy and it’s enticing,  you feel healthy and strong, and you get excited to see where it goes…but in the end (for some us), it can leave you frustrated, unsatisfied, and wanting of something with a bit more substance to chew on.

…and that’s as close to a food and relationship analogy as I’ll ever get…

The Lowdown: Fresh Restaurants is the brain child of Gen-X juice entrepeneur, Ruth Tal. Tal has certainly come a long way from serving up smoothies at Edgefest and from her take-out counter across from the Chum City Building (known at that time as ‘Juice For Life”). What started as a smoothie stand has now branched out in Toronto’s hippest vegetarian chain, with three locations in neighbourhoods that are frequented by the socially-aware, environmentally conscious and under-30. For the purposes of this blog, I only reviewed the Annex location at Bloor and Spadina, however it should be noted that Fresh has two more restaurants eager to dole out bowls of brown rice and jicama-goodness: one at Queen and Crawford (close to Ossington); the second at Spadina and Richmond. The chain has grown with such success, that Fresh now has a corporate office on Queen St., and has added cookbooks and reusable bags to it’s items for sale. The menu is entirely vegetarian, with the majority of the mains and appetizers being vegan as well. As one would expect, Fresh espouses a commitment to healthy food, free of additives and preservatives, and makes a point of following through on their name (their motto: “It’s called ‘Fresh’, not ‘Frozen’).

The menu is primarily Cali-Asian and Middle-Eastern inspired, consisting of salads, burgers, wraps, and signature “Fresh Bowls”, filled with veggies, legume-based proteins and your choice of brown rice or soba noodles. They also have a wide variety of appetizers(they’re famous for their sweet potato fries), a laundry-list of smoothies, juices (hot and cold), and desserts. The atmosphere is indie-chic, with seats packed nightly with Annex gurus, U of T students, veggie die-hards and out-of-town youngsters coming from shopping trips in Yorkville. I must confess: I have an insane crush on the primarily female waitstaff at Fresh on Bloor. The place is bused and waited on by some of the most darling, pixie-haired, sweet-cheeked granola  grrrrls you’ll ever see . It makes me wonder if Fresh has a policy that all staff must look the result of a copulation between Ani DiFranco and a Cupi Doll. They’re Suicide Girls, but they look cuddly as hell. I wasn’t counting on getting all nervous and starry-eyed while ordering my food, but I can’t help at gawking like a teenager. They’re just so cute!!

The Great: Aside from being adorable, the service at Fresh is spritely and efficient, which is especially good since you may wait as long as 20-minutes to get a table on a busy night. Servers have clearly sampled the wares, are patient as customers pour over the extensive menu, and can give you pairings of smoothies with your entrees. Fresh also has a well-groomed take-out menu which demonstrates that their  eco-consciousness spans past their in-house dining. I was delighted to see an entire arsenal of biodegradable, recycled  (and leak-free!) take-away containers and bags included in my take-out order.

At my first visit to Fresh, back in 2008, I was told that the joint had some of the best Sweet Potato Fries ($6) in the city. For a place that centres on health-conscious food, I am pleased to say that they have not forsaken this approach when it comes to the fried spuds - they are delicious, savoury, and satisfyingly stringy without being too greasy or gut-rotting. Fresh also makes delightfully yummy baked goods that are often vegan; perfectly sweet and wholesome finishers to your meal. Bests: Big, soft and chewy Double Chocolate Chunk cookie ($4); or the refreshing and moist Mint Chocolate Cupcake ($4).

The Good: Despite expanding their repertoire to food, Fresh hasn’t lost sight of it’s juice-bar roots. It’s advised to keep a menu after ordering if you would like more time to carefully choose a drink, as the options are expansive:  Patrons can select from 14 different fruit smoothies (small, $6), 18 different shakes  (small, $7), 14 different juices and elixirs (small, $7), plus a gaggle of coffee-based drinks, teas and other assorted beverages. It’s daunting, but the right choice can result in a tasty brew of fruit, veggies and soymilk that beats out any malt shop or Booster Juice. For cold winter days, an Apple Pie Smoothie is a real comfort, and surprisingly delicious given that it’s not as sweet as one would expect. For those who’d like a pucker-your-lips kiss of sugar, there’s the Skinny Dip Protein Shake (which tastes a bit like Hubba-Bubba, if you’re into that..which I am), and for the keener greeners, there’s the very beety Beet Root Frappe vegetable juice. Just try not to get a purple lip out of it.

The Bad: I didn’t want to write this part. Really. I like Fresh. I like the idea of a boutique eco-and-veg friendly spot, hip enough for the meat-eaters and wholistic enough for the tree-huggers. I like that they so earnestly care about their carbon footprint. I REALLY like their sweet and peachy waiters. Alas, after going back to Fresh on Bloor 3 times for this review, I came away less and less charmed with the food, and a dimmed affection for their eager-beaver rhetoric of good, wholistic vegetarian cuisine.

To start, it would seem that Fresh has gotten ahead of itself with it’s massive menu. The restaurant would fair better to provide half of what they offer, and do these dishes very well. Instead, patrons will feel slightly overwhelmed by the extensive spectrum the options- everything from salads, bowls, burgers, soups and assorted apps, wraps, etc., etc. In our wealthy and abundant corner of the world, choices can be a real privilege. At Fresh, with so many options and choice for add-ons (do you also want gorgonzola cheese, soy-cheese, rennet-free cheese, grilled tempeh, marinated tofu, salad topper, all at an extra cost?), too much choice can be burdensome. A good menu is creative and succinct. You practically need a summit to decide what to eat here. Staff is helpful in trying to assist in making a decision, but I prefer to be able to figure out what I want in under 10 minutes.

I won’t go into great detail about individual flops of the various entrees sampled (and many were sampled - from the musty-tasting Miso Burger, $9.50,  which bordered on sulphuric….to the I’m-honestly-bored-of-chewing Buddha Fresh Bowl, $12-14). What I will say is that greatest heartbreaker about Fresh lies in it’s violation of one of the crowning qualities of veggie grub- great taste. In fact, after all my visits to Fresh, I became painfully aware that it is woefully guilty of committing one of the great cardinal sins of vegetarian cuisine: it all tastes the same! The majority of the burgers, salads, Fresh Bowls, wraps and appetizers are palletted in one of the following three flavours : nutty (Power House Fresh Bowl, $13-15; Miso Burger); green veggie ( all salads, Holiday Wrap $9.50), or earthy ( Buddha Bowl, White Bean Dosas, $8; Energy Fresh Bowl, $13-15). Where is the tumeric, the cumin, the asofetida, terikyaki, the lavender essence,  the chili sauce, the savoury garlic? Heck, can I get a jalapeno? Some ketchup? Forgive the crudeness, but even inexperienced foodies like myself know the crux of good vegetarian lies in the layering and combination of flavours. There is a Cinderella-type quality to vegetarian food that takes healthy-but-bland ingredients, and dress them up in elegant spices, gorgeous extracts and poised herbs. Here, if Cinderella was the lowly tofu steak in my Fresh Bowl, girl would still be scrubbing the dirt floor long past the stroke of midnight. While I appreciate the high, wholistic, health conscious salt-of-the-earth quality of the ingredients, dishes should not taste like earth. It’s as if Fresh has been so preoccupied in brain-storm of it’s menu, or the edgy ambiance of it’s restaurant, that it forgot about flavour of the food.

Trying Fresh once and a while, you may not mind the general lack of taste. Try it several times, and not only do you become disenchanted with it, but the price of the food as well. Bland vegetarianism is a crime unto itself – but bland vegetarian that’s expensive?  That’s a slap in my veggie-friendly face. If you’re just going for a burger, it’s not bad. But a bland burger needs an add-on, which Fresh does provide - at a $2 surcharge. Pair that with anything more than water, and you’re walking away at least with a $20 bill per patron after tip (or sometimes before). In an area  that greatly caters to vegetarians, there are so many other eco-friendly, tasty veggie spots that will cost you half of what you’d pay at Fresh. Even their Prix Fixe Menu ($21) feels like a rip-off by the end of the meal. Good vegetarian is worth it’s weight in gold (Le Commensal, anyone?) Fresh’s quality ingredients do not justify the high price of uninspiring chow.

The Bottom Line: A friend once told me that she would only consider being vegan if she had her own chef, making her tasty vegan meals and snacks everyday. She felt that the vigilant supervision of her nutrition, dietary upkeep, social sacrifice,  and the effort to hunt down much-needed ingredients would all be too much for her to sustain in the long run without someone preparing it all for her. Sometimes I feel that way too – as much as I love chicken and fish, or a good turkey dinner, I could give it up for someone who’d prepare me a delicious seitan stirfry or bulgur chili, or who would supply me with a vegan dish so I’d have something to nosh on at the next dinner party. Sadly, neither of us are in the position to employ private chefs; and if the chefs prepared humdrum meals like the menu at Fresh, how guilty would I feel hiding the evidence of my Harvey’s take-out bag?

In closing: To those who remain steadfast in their vegetarian ideals, my admiration and respect. To those who know how to truly express flavour and taste through the thick veils of beans and tofu, I salute you!  May you continue to make the world a more yummy, veggie, friendly, and healthy place.

Fresh On Bloor, 326 Bloor St. West, Toronto, ON. 416-531-2635.

Hours: Monday to Friday, 11:30am – 10pm. Weekends 10:30am-10pm.

Price: $$$ (out of $$$$$)

Cash, Debit and Credit accepted.

Cold Cut Poetry

Moved by this blustery, blue Sunday afternoon, I wrote a poem in Moonbean today about escaping an all-consuming drive to re-decorate, being slightly deranged from a bit of cabin fever, and the consequences thereof.

God bless me, there’s starlings strewn atop the wire by my window! Grabbing my keys, I counted ten by twos.

Sitting like an electrically-charged posse, they’re just a tiny gang in the cold. When I leave the house, they loitering on wires, gables and lamp posts. Flighty punks in the empty laneways.

There’s some shelter in the coffeehouse. The man beside me says he’s just a peasant, and is much less threatening…until he starts repeating “Gunpowder, gunpowder – no. …NO!” And makes the waitress laugh.

I pull out a pen and notebook to bubble my awareness: So it’s coffee and all-jazz radio. It’s twenty after four and Sunday. It’s listening, sipping, stopping, leaning; against the wonky wooden table.

I cup my ‘joe with two hands and hear someone say “Who can beat Rosemary Clooney?” And I hear “Do you know Grace? I swear you know her!”

Only sometimes. She eludes me when I’m hungry, or when the arm beside me failed to reach out in the dark, and I was cold. The weight of the drama crown may be hefty, but if I have sniffle in bed, cold and stark, then no, I don’t know Grace.

Four forty-five and the coffee is still hot. I’m not really thinking, just unsure if I want to write more or just read. The book I have is historical fiction, and this poem is about the present. Yet the narrative is all the same – some old story. Some longed-for company or resolution, an imagined happy ending. The disappointment lingers in me like the  smell of dog shit at the bottom of someone’s boot (not mine). Plain as day, it’s there, awful and embarrassing.

I know I’m scowling. Goddammit. Scratching the paint off the table doesn’t help, but I do it anyway.

The man beside me burps loudly and snaps me back to all-jazz radio and the sound of the espresso machine. I sigh and  take a good chug, being finally delivered to the last few dregs of Devils’ Brew.

That’s the only resolution for today.

Solstice and Silver Bells: It’s Christmastime in the Market

Do it, Do it!

Ohhh, I’ve been so lazy in updating my blog! Agh! I suppose a lack of discipline and a nose-grinding work schedule would be largely the culprit, but in the spirit of the season, let me chuck up my complacency to something more festive.

IT’S ALMOST CHRISTMAS!!!!! YAY!!!

And to this, one might say: well, you haven’t updated since Halloween. And I would reply in earnest: Yeah, but I’ve been celebrating Christmas since November 1st, I just haven’t had the time! Really! Christmas is not just one mere day of rum-caked and spiced scented festiveness. It’s a whole 5th season for me, distinct and dearer than the doldrums of the rest of the winter season.

When November 1st hits, as I find my mind becomes single-minded into preparations for this holiday, others tend to watch over this enthusiasm with mixed emotions – some think it’s cute, others are disdainful. Some find it achingly annoying that on December 1st, I know that EZ Rock plays non-stop Christmas carols, and I tend to dutifully listen to that station during my work day (oh, my poor co-workers..), and some find it tolerable when I correct them that it’s  ”Eleven Piper’s Piping, not Seven!”. Some couldn’t care less.

But oh, I care.

Christmas is my cherry-on-top, my release to emotion and generosity, my ritual dance, my anchor to what was good in my childhood, my sensual stay-cation from the regular routine of life. Christmas fills my world up with safety and familiarity, turning me soft , wistful and surprisingly calm. Christmas is the living funeral and the wake of the year – a time to give cheers to the death of the past 365 of life, and the birth of a new cycle.

I really, really love Christmas…..

I always find that the festive season provides me with a good measure of how I have managed to stamp my footprint into existence over the past year. People seem much more friendly and affectionate, letting me know where I’m at, and where I stand.

This morning, I saw the shop owner of Mexican Foods (I think it’s actually called that ) on Baldwin St as I walked to work. Normally he and I exchange a daily hello as he opens his doors for business, and yet today he comes and takes my arm like a gentleman.

“Good morning, miss” he says to me in a heavy Spanish accent, his hair perfectly combed. Bemused, I say the same.

“It’s almost Christmas,” he tells me, “Are you ready for Christmas, enh?’ . I smile and say “I think so. Almost!”  He grins. “Good, good.” Then he releases my arm and we wish each other a good day.

A week ago I made eye contact with a bespectacled man with a greying beard and trench coat that I’ve seen around the neighbourhood a few times before. I spotted him while paying for my coffee at MoonBean, and carried on with my errands. Climbing on the streetcar 5 minutes later, I see him sitting in the back and we introduce ourselves. He’s Jim, a photographer. He says he recognizes me, sees me around the market all the time. We briefly discuss a common annoyance of very messy roommates before exchanging blog information as we part in different directions at Spadina. I really liked that he recognized me.

Last Friday, my coworker Alysa and I held a ‘Chrismukkah‘ party at her house, inviting our friends and family. Celebrating the two light-bearing holidays felt  (at least for me) natural; two distinct and unique holidays that shared neutral ground in chasing away the cold hard darkness. It was actually a great way to bring people together, of all backgrounds, and wish them well before the start of the New Year. As the ambassador of non-religious Christmasness, I dressed up in a red-velvet elf dress, complete with candy cane stocking and a Father Christmas hood. I rocked the jingle bells and furnished the potluck dinner with garlands, poinsettia, peppermints and gingerbread.

As we stood together by Alysa’s window to light the Menorah, she offered if someone would like to do the honours; I volunteered. After about a good 5 minutes of debate amoungst those who were Jewish if it was best to light right-from-left, or left-from-right, I got the go-ahead, took a single taper and lit the candles one by one – left to right. Getting ready to head out to the Festival of Lights on Monday, I asked Alysa if she thought it was ok that I had been the one to light the Menorah – being  that a) I’m not Jewish, and b) I’m not Jewish, participating in a sacred Chanukkah ritual while dressed in an red-and-white elf costume.

Alysa’s eyes grew serious and she gave a half-smile. “Yeah. I mean, why not? Whatever, it’s my house.”

“I know, but I just….wouldn’t want to offend someone.”

Alysa thought for a minute.

“You know, what we did was beautiful. No, seriously. 50 years ago? 50 years ago in say, Europe? This would have never have happened. Chrismukkah wouldn’t have happened. You and I probably wouldn’t even be friends.”

I quietly protested that I would have still been her friend, or at least I’d like to think so. But she has a point.

We got to the Festival of Lights; Augusta Ave. was already packed. Chunks  of people were there, armed to the teeth with warm winter clothes, many carrying homemade lanterns and torches. We unglued ourselves from the main throng and watched from afar as Red Spectacle Arts paraded down the street with ghostly puppets of Caribou and Moonfaces. Once that had cleared, we walked past the displays of silver wolves atop of Shay’s and Coral Fish Market, and a lone flute player standing amoungst cut-outs of Native-inspired animals. We see one traditional Aboriginal drummer at the corner of Baldwin and Kensington Ave., then travel south on Kensington to watch further drumming by Marie Gaudet, a woman who is active within the Native community I work for. She sings a few songs, as my mind wanders and observe the rest of the festival around me, I find myself surprisingly singing along to many of songs being drummed out by Marie. Who knew I remembered the words? I smile to myself, my breath clouding in front of me.

The night ended on Cara’s couch with a bowl of chili and throngs of locals and friends of hers, or her roommate Bruce’s. I’m caught between trying to carry on a conversation about Untouchables in India, and veganism, and a two-year old that keeps toddling to my knees, reaching out for my spoon.  Leaving at yet another “reasonable time” in order to get up for work the next day, I wish people I know and random strangers a Happy Solstice and set off for the burrows of my bed.

So tomorrow I return back to the suburbs, to home, where my Christmas tree glows by the piano, mom has Nat King Cole on the stereo and my stocking is waiting by the fireplace to be hung. My family will ascend on Thursday, and I will be in my new red-satin Christmas dress and heels, spinning in the smell of the food and my mother’s mandatory pre-dinner anxiety. I’ll have chocolate underneath my newly manicured finger nails. I’ll be cursing having to wear pantyhose. I’ll read the Nutcracker and sip hot chocolate, before going for a massage scheduled that morning, because that’s my personal Christmas Eve ritual. I’ll hold the white ball ornament that says “Baby’s First Christmas 1984″. I’ll think about how much I’ve changed over the past year, and how much more growing up I still have to do.

But it’ll be Christmas, and all this comes with it – all this joy, this community, this beauty, this death, this familiar place, this warmth, this light; all the love and regret, the loss and renewal, comfort and joy, merry and bright. It all comes to a head here. I will fall on my knees to hear the angels voices. I will thank the Greatness for another year speant in the presence of love.

 

Una Bella Muerte: A Review of Pedestrian Sunday for October 25, 2009

I wouldn’t classify myself as the macabre sort (not at this stage of my life anyway), but I have a current obsession with El Dia De Los Muertos, or the Day of the Dead. This traditional holiday, steeped deeply in the Catholic and Indigenous roots of Central and South America, is celebrated around the cusp of Halloween, typically coinciding with All Souls Day of November 1st and 2nd. Families prepare highly ornate miniature altars in their homes to remember and welcome the spirits of those who have died, and prepare favourite foods and ofrendas (small toys for children, shots of liquor for adults) in anticipation for their arrival. In Mexico, the festival is symbolized most recognizably by La Calavera, or the skeleton, which shows up everywhere from the food (sugar and chocolate skulls), to collectable, decorative figures of skeletal noble women known as “La Catrinas” . The celebration is meant to be light and festive, with people gathering at cemetaries to tell funny or endearing tales of their deceased loved ones, and adorning their graves with marigolds, jewlery and candles.

I love this holiday for so many reasons. First, there is the mixture of the sacred and the profane – beautiful painted skulls mixed with in with symbols of the Virgin and Sacred Heart (you can decide which is sacred and which is perverse). Secondly, it’s a striking and gorgeous contrast to the soul-sucking, black-stocking, sterile and hopelessly sombre approach to death that I have experienced in my lifetime. We WASPS can and do many a celebration right (Christmas? New Years? Birthdays?) Why can’t death be beautiful, ornate, lavish or even ridiculous? Why must we shy away from this universal experience, and deny the beauty and celebration of a soul passing back to the beyond, that incomprehensible  “otherside”?  To me, it seems like a much healthier and saner approach to death than having to mill around a small church basement, eating finger sandwiches and signing condolence books.

The experience of death came to me much later in life, but it came in a steady stretch. Since the death of my granddad when I was 21, I have lost 5 family members and 1 family friend. They died of cancer, from old age, by accident – mostly recently, some were murdered. On the flipside, since I was 21, I’ve witness a constant death within myself of identity, of feelings, beliefs and values. Ideals passed away, self-proclamations croaked, lovers and friends closed the caskets on relationships. It has been a constant reminder to me of all the cliche’s about impermanence - nothing stays the same, nothing lasts forever, and there is no assurity in life but change and death,change and death, over and over again.

Despite all this, I think the process of death – both internal and external – is an intensely beautiful one, and so I knew that I couldn’t miss out on the last Pedestrian Sunday in Kensington Market. It’s nearly Halloween, and this ghoulish Sunday took on a celebratory theme of death and honouring of ancestors, of loved ones passed and gone – at least on this plane of existence.

At around 1pm, I jogged out of my house to face Bellevue Park glimmering in the sunshine and colourfully ablaze in fall foliage. Finding few people on the street, I picked up my obligatory Moonbean flavoured coffee ( and oh, how I love that they remember I like skim milk!), and headed down to the only place I know that offers Day of the Dead items for sale – Courage My Love. Yes, that mecca of neo-gypsy boho swag has a wonderful display of clay-and-wood calacas, imported from somewhere in Mexico. They’re all overpriced, as Courage tends to be, but I just can’t help myself when my eyes lay upon a small statue of a kneeling skeleton female confessing her sins to a smiling, cadaverous priest. I pluck it from the display and examine the detailed faces and clothes. It reminds me of the times I went to confession as a child; this pitiful, frail, faltered little girl blurting out that she had stolen change off her father’s dresser to an infallible man of the cloth. The fact that both the woman and the priest in the statue are skeletal seems symbolic to me of the basic human nature shared between all people – especially priests, who often hide the biggest skeletons of all. At $12, this three-inch statue is no bargain, but fuck it – it’s Day of the Dead! I make my purchase and head back out.

Going back up north on Augusta, the crowds are slowly swelling. I stop at 43 Kensington St., where a handmade sign tells me that if I seek a bargain, look no further - a few people are having a super-cheap garage sale, is divesting themselves of a table full of crap. Nothing strikes my fancy until my eyes meet the empty sockets of a clay-made skull, with an inverted pentacle carved into it. Wicked! The woman manning the spread tells me this a creation of The Great Orbax, the ringleader of a traveling circus freakshow and owner of Fiendish Curiosities. I pick up the skull, appreciating it’s heavy weight in my hands.

“How much?”

“Ten bucks..”

“Deal.”

My deathly purchasing done, I start to walk back up towards St-Andrew, where I spot Jesse sitting infront of Moonbean, listening to his friend Tanya host a set of spoken word. Plopping down on the bench beside him, I arrive just in time for the star performer of this particular installation – Andrea Thompson, a captivating, soulful slam poet in fierce shades and kickass boots. She throttles the mike with her words, rhythmically recounting stories that are compellingly real to me, humourous and lovely. I relate to her words about religion (she digs them all), and the appeal of the feminine divine (“there’s something about Mary…”). She gives a shout-out to the great goddesses, in heaven and on earth, and extolls wisdom on an unassuming, pig-tailed little girl who is wielding a fairy wand and messing with the sound equipement. Then Tanya comes up, and in the barest words, screams “COURAGE!!!” in her verses, and speaks of loving, living, and healing. At first, there’s really only Jesse and I, and a few patrons of Moonbean who are watching, but then a small crowd gathers. Tanya offers the mike up to others who have the guts to get up and spew slam, and a few do – a gentleman named Geronimo, who carries the torch of unapologetic self-love; Sam, who announces that we need a revolution, “but not industrial”; Evalisa, who comes complete with an interpretive dancer, and recounts her experiences in living in India. I would have listened to her more closely, but I became entranced with the impossibly intricate tattoo that I can sort of make out on her back.

The slam poetry starts to wrap up around 3pm. I gaze absent-mindedly at the crowds, watching a few people pass through with pumpkins tucked beneath their arms: then I get a  text message from Julia asking me where I am. I run home to drop off my skulls, then meet up with her outside of the southern branch of Exile. We stand on the porch of the store, which is brimming with vintage costumes, as Julia introduces me to her new roommates who are just becoming acquainted with Kensington and Halloween – Mez, from Australia, and Sarah from Belgium. Sarah shows me her blonde bob wig and tells me that for her first Halloween, she’s going to be Bonnie Parker. “I want to do it right,” she says to me. I smile and make small talk, until Julia and Mez announce that they’re hungry, and Mez wants something along the lines of a baked potato. I suggest the royal treat of Kensington – a yam burrito from Big Fat – and lead the way. I wasn’t quite feeling the burrito for lunch, so I excused myself to go for an empanadas instead, and wait for Jules to join me later after Mez and Sarah have gone.

A few minutes later, Jules, Jesse and I are sitting on the curb in front of St-Stephen’s, watching a performance of the Great Lakes ensemble of The Otesha Project. The traveling troupe tells the story of Billie, a teenager who is charged with the task of writing an essay on what she is going to do in her life. She falls asleep at her desk and auspiciously dreams of a polluted and consumer-driven world, where sale slogans reach out like zombies through the TV screen, cows suggest eating beans over meat  and water costs $30 a glass. Her Fairy-Choice Mother (Evalisa, from the slam poetry) informs her that there are ethical and environmental alternatives to the mass-produced industrial market, and in a Scrooge-like reformation, Billie learns the true meaning of her life and voices change to all those around her. At the end, each member of the ensemble makes an earnest suggestion on how to reduce your environmental footprint – I like them all, except for maybe the suggestion to use a Diva Cup (I’m sorry, but when I’m on my rag, the last thing I want is to fish around up there for a wee plastic bucket of blood. No thanks.). It was the Great Lakes’ Otesha Project’s last performance – they’d been cycling southern Ontario, performing the show (called “A Reason To Dream”)  in schools since the start of September – and you could tell it was an emotional and bittersweet ending to their run. I just hoped they got their message out to th ‘burbs, where “enviromental sustainability” remains something of a foreign concept….

Julia peaced out, and I wanted to pick up some groceries before the parade at 6pm, and so I started to make my way back home, but stopped first for some “free advice” from two people at the corner of Oxford and Augusta. I’m not sure what made Charlie, in the Garth Algar wig, and Denise, in a graduation cap, particularly qualified to be giving advice, but it was free and they looked like nice people, so I went for it. In the spirit of the day, I ask them “what do you think is the best way to deal with death?”. That’s a toughie, says Charlie, but he also agrees that El Dia De Los Muertos is a great example of how people can celebrate the end of someone’s life, instead of bemoan it.”It’s a whole different attitude towards death”, he explains, “very matter of fact.”. Denise concurs and I thank them for their time.

Not two minutes after I get in the door with my groceries, my friend Peatrishe gives me a call. She’s in the market with her friend Tratham and wants me to come meet them at El Trompo. Over nachos and soft tacos, she tells me how she tried to end it with a suitor who is rather scary-obsessed with her and much too attached for someone she’s only dated for a few weeks. It triggers my protective side and brings back bad memories from my own experiences – I tell her she made the smart choice. It’s now 6pm, and I know the parade is starting at Kensington  and Dundas. I excuse myself, promise to meet up with Peatrishe later, and scurry down to the where the parade is starting. Nighttime is coming, and grey-black clouds overshadow the streets. I get down just in time to see the start of Samba Elegua slam their instruments to harken the start of the Halloween March.

The parade, led by dancing locals, zombies, hula hoop performers, a quintete of skeleton-costumed trumpeters and with Samba Elegua bringing up the back, travels north on Kensington St., then west on Baldwin. At the corner of Baldwin and Augusta, the parade stops and bows, revealing a top-hatted master of ceremonies – Shamez, the owner of La Palette, rises from the crush of people to greet celebrants and passerbys. He points to the crescent moon sky in the south, and the black curtain that blocks the north end of Augusta and asks if we are ready to pass over to the other side. This is what I’ve been waiting for all day, and I grip my notebook close to me in anticipation. The crowd roars, Samba clamours their drums and bells, and the curtains dissipate – we are greeted by firespinners on the other end of the curtain. One of them lights a huge fireball into the sky and the scene explodes into marching and dancing, swelling into one giant street party.

The parade continues to slowly inch its way north on Augusta, but it’s hard to move with so many people dancing up a storm. At one point, I lose my journalistic ambitions and starting hopping around with the crowd to the beat of samba and woeful trumpet horns, throwing my hands up in the air and letting my hair sway back and forth like a flag. I feel embraced in the crowd, my neighbours shaking and twirling around me, feet stomping, hands clapping. We dance and holler and make enough noise to raise the dead.

I’m shoved and pushed back and forth through the crowd, and eventually the jostle feels less like a tribal boogie and more like a mosh pit. I carve my way out of the onslaught of bodies, and head for the higher ground of the wheelchair ramp infront of St-Stephen’s Community House. From this perch, I get the perfect view of the scene – people jumping, jiving and writhing in an orbit around Samba Elegua and the trumpet group, who are jamming together in perfect harmony. Peatrishe and Thratham rejoin me on the ramp and we watch the rest of the show. Peatrishe teases me for being such a Samba groupie. I don’t really mind. At the end of it all, someone lights a few small tealights on the street to close the evening – maybe as a final small prayer to the spirits who watched us dance. That’s it – Pedestrian Sundays of 2009 have passed, done for another year.

Having dinner with some girlfriends at K-OS, I’m informed that they both have experienced ends to their prospective romantic interests. We console ourselves with nachos and beer and say that in the end, there’s always plenty of fish in the sea and girlfriends to talk with. It ‘s that time of year again, this beautiful, heart-breaking season of death – a time for things to die, to go away, to end, to hibernate. No more Here Comes The Sun or Summer Breeze. No more shorts and flip-flops. No more P.S.K. .Winter is upon us, cold and dark like a grave – but everything follows in a cycle; change is as constant as death. Rebirth will come in 2010, when there is a new spring, new friendships, new loves, new lives, new poems to be slammed, new songs to be played, new performances to be dramatized, and best of all, new experiences to be had.

Death and change, over and over again. Always so beautiful, honest and bittersweet in their existence,the only two factors I know are solid guarantees in life.

I believe we gave Pedestrian Sundays 2009 a good wake this last Sunday. Can’t wait to see it again next year…

Pumpkins!

Kensington St.

The many Day of the Dead trinkets and statues from Courage..

Kensington St.

Garage sale skull…it’s really not as evil as it looks.

Slam Poet Andrea Thompson and ‘Tinkebell’

Geronimo!

Tanya, spewing her truth…

Evalisa and her interpretive dancer..

Kaminari

Kensington St.

Wait, St-Patrick’s Day is in March…

The Otesha Project: Check out my new fridge!

The Otesha Project: “Billie” gets overtaken by commericals…ooo…scary!

Denise and Charlie, extolling pearls of wisdom…for FREE!

Mr. John Greco, boogying down :)

The dead marching north on Kensington

Small Dia De Los Muertos from Courage My Love…now sitting on my book shelf :)

Food Review: Sidecar…the joyride of Little Italy

 

 

This past weekend marks the kickoff of what I affectionately refer to as “Hallothankmas”  season; and while in plummiting temps, I disdainfully wrap myself in pashmina and wool, covering the heat patches of my neck, scalp and ears with padded fabric, I am an absolutely ecstasy: I LOVE THE HOLIDAYS!! Really. I don’t care what anyone says, this is by far the most loving, deliciously comforting time of the year for me (and I do mean delicious…from the pumpkin pie to candy corn, all  the way to the tarte au sucre and candy cane hot chocolate, the kitchen is in full glory at this time..). I could digress with prose and poetry about my love affair with that which keeps Hallmark in business, but I’ll stop myself here. This isn’t what the post is about.

Well, no..actually..that’s not entirely true. This post is Thanksgiving-themed: it’s about food and gratitude. On a fine Sunday in late September, my lovely friend Julia turned a quarter of a century. We speant most of the day together, in mutual agreement that we were consciously ignoring the actual date of her birthday. It’s her personal preferance, and I’m happy to oblige in her “Happy Boycott”…it’s just nice to hang out on such a (covertly) special day. We ended up spending time at the last Pedestrian Sunday in the Market, savouring local moccacinos and discussing boys and motivations. We discovered they are not always so mutually exclusive..

Having left her actual birthday in the dust, we agreed that her Birthday/Boycott gift this year would be dinner at a restaurant of her choice with her wonderful sister, Katie. I just happened to slip in that a restaurant in her neighbourhood of Little Italy would be helpful to my blog and graciously, she obliged. This is how this review of Sidecar came about.

But before I go into the review, I want to remain in spirit: I am thankful for my friends, and have deep, deep gratitude for my Jules. If anyone ‘gets’ me and my neurotic twitches, or has the patience for my constant maudlin about my weight, or will listen to my spiraling spew about ‘what it all means’, it’s her. She is void of ego or pretention, and has the unique gift of befriending anybody. We’ve partied out our twenties together, tried and tripped out together, switching on, switching off. We’ve layed sprawled out on rooftops, watching the sky. Both she and Katie helped me to leave the shackles of a bad relationship, giving me strength and courage to bust through my guilt and fears, into  a blessed state of emancipation. For all of this, I am forever greatful.

Julia lives in Little Italy, and I live in Kensington. Sidecar is somewhere in the middle, where it seems we can always find a place to meet.

The Lowdown: “Shwank” is the first word that comes to mind when you enter the warm doors of Sidecar. Coming from the raw, roughly packaged, take-it-or-leave it esthetics of Kensington and the Annex, Sidecar is poised and classic – a Sinatra from the usual Dylan. One of the first restaurants to greet you coming westbound into the College St. Little Italy , it is deffinately a wonderful introduction into it’s packed restaurant strip between Euclid and Montrose. Red brick walls, lined with mason jars of tomato sauce, glow by gentle lamp and candlelight, giving it an cozy, old-world feel. The music is jazzy, the ambiance is refined, but comfortable – you can feel ok in jeans at this place. As a table of girls (and all ex-waitresses), we were tickled at the fact that that particular evening featured an all-male wait staff, impeccably dressed in black slacks, shirts and ties. They took our coats and attentively milled about the narrow space of the restaurant, dashing in and out of the open-kitchen and the laqured, half-moon bar which greets you at the front door. Us twenty-somethings are  clearly not their common demographic: Sidecar is looking to cater to an older crowd, and the booths were packed with posh couples in their 30s and boomers giddy on wine. That being said, we did not find ourselves  to be out of place, but we did find the food to be otherworldly. Both Katie and Julia opt for the prix fixe ($24), that comes with a choice of three apps, four starters, and chef’s choice for dessert – well worth it, considering the mains start at $16. For a nice meal, in a restaurant that could easily shine in Lawrence Park or Rosedale, the prices are reasonable for good service, great ambiance and fantastic food. This is what real, cool Italian should be like.

The Great:  It starts first with a warm bowl of crusty, sourdough bread, which we are told is flown into the restaurant all the way from Montreal – and it’s only uphill from there. The menu is succint; Sidecar understands the value of doing a few good dishes really well. Appetizers sampled include the Arugla Salad ($10), which includes a well-balanced citrus splash of clementines, fennel and olies, as well as the signature Sidecar Salad ($10), a wonderfully fresh and cream- cool melange of chopped veggies and apple. Both are meal-sized for a hungry veg-lover, but light enough to enter into your next course without feeling the bloat. Mains shine in all areas – the Crispy Roasted Chicken ($16), which features the fowl ontop of a pile of fingerling potatos and rapini, is juicy and pefectly cooked. The Fettucine ($16) offers thick tender swirls of shrimp mixed with perfectly al dante noodles, smothered in a garlicy tomato sauce and topped woth a dolop of fresh pesto; the Atlantic Salmon ($18) is a mellow slab of medium-cooked fish floating with cripsy green beans  in a pool of warm, drippy butter sauce. Despite their polished and delicate presentation, these dishes are decievingly filling and wonderfully cooked. But the crown jewel of Sidecar lays in it’s dessert: Specifically, it’s to-die-for Flourless Chocolate Cake ($9). Being a chocolate fiend, I have sampled many of these flourless treats, and have never tried one that is so deeply rich and creamy. Unlike many flourless chocolate cakes, which are more soggy pudding than cake-like concoction, Sidecar’s is like the inside of a truffle – firm, dense and smooth, with a knee-quaking richness  and strong coffee understones. This is more fudge than cake, and worth the trip to Sidecar unto itself.

The Good:  Keeping with the trendy trattoria theme, the menu comes with suggested pairings of cocktails with the apps and mains. Try the Painless Brazilian, laced with strawberry cachaca, lime and foamy egg whites for a fresh and fruity splash, or if you like something stronger,the Old Fashioned features a stiff mix of Maker’s Mark, fresh orange zest  and caster sugar that nicely balances the wry hit of angostura bitters and booze. In terms of service at the Sidecar, it’s slow to start: efficient, but amateur for a place that so keenly wants to be fine dining. Our waiter takes a while bring our drinks and could not make a recommendation when asked. However, the kitchen and bar both whip out our orders in a timely fashion once the service has coordinated itself. Munch on the yummy bread while you wait.

The Grim: I’m not being nice; but honestly I cannot come up with a grim commentary about this place. Even the service, which wasn’t as streamlined as it could be, was still good. The three of us were thoroughly pleased with our dining experience,  from the first cocktail to the last crumb of cake. Sidecar is a well-oiled machine of flavourful, perfectly-prepped Ital with a solid cast in it’s menu, and a cozy, handsome atmosphere.

The Bottom Line: Venturing out of one’s comfort zone can be a daunting task. Living in the market, I’ve come accustomed to the simple, caf-like qualities of it’s eateries, where dozens of people with their laptops and weekly rags turnover in the seating on a daily basis. Sidecar is something different – it’s a slow-down process in fine and elegant fare, the kind of place where you sip your drink, and place your fork down between each bite. What is so endearing about this place is that despite the quality, Sidecar doesn’t get too big for it’s britches -  the prices are reasonable, the atmosphere is comfortable, the drinks are friendly and unpretentious. If you are going to bridge yourself from the cheap-to-chic eats, this is the kind of spot you’d want to do it. It’s a the kind of restaurant you’d bring your parents or a date to – just to impress. Likewise, it’s a place to bring your bestest buddy to, when you want to celebrate a quarter-century and a friendship worth savouring.

Sidecar, 577 College St., Toronto, ON. 416-536-7000. Reservations welcomed. Dinner only.

Price: $$$ (out of $$$$$)

Hours: Monday to Sunday, 5pm-10pm. Cocktails served until 2am.

Cash, Credit, Debit Accepted.

Treats In The Park: Acceptance In A Fake Empire

Turn the light out, say goodnight
No thinking for a little while…
Let’s not try to figure out everything at once
It’s hard to keep track of you, falling through the sky
We’re half awake in a fake empire
We’re half awake in a fake empire

The National is one of my favourite bands. Their last release, 2007′s “The Boxer”, is absolutely brilliant and one of my favourite albums to listen to when I travel. “Fake Empire” is probably one of their best known single releases and was even used at several different conventions during the Obama campaign. I can see why; the last minute of the song has this amazing piano, drum and trumpet rift that charges forward in a sort of inspirational, gung-ho call to arms. Or at least a call to lib-minded rallies.

“Fake Empire”  inspired this post – specifically, I was inspired by the above lyrics. On September 16, my friend Alysa and I held our second Treats In Kensington’s Bellevue Park. ‘Treats’ as we call it, is the brainchild of Alysa’s university days’ experience; a kind of glorified midnight snack. The idea is to meet after dinner time with baking and drinks, inviting others to partake and connect over sweets before the bedtime hour. Since both of us have rather rigid bedtimes (we both need to be in our office by 9am), we host Treats in Bellevue’s grassy park space so that we can bow out at a reasonable hour. Our first was held on July 14; we had a pretty good turn out and a lot of fun. Noticing that my 6am wake-up time was getting increasingly dark, I suggested we host one last hoorah in the park before the cold weather made its way into the autumn night.

Killing time before we had to go home and get organized, Alysa and I decided we would go shopping at the Winners in College Park right after work. I had been off the two days prior, and came back into the office to a mountain of emails, phone calls and expectations. My caseload was brimming; I cannot possibly take on another family. This person needed this letter; that one wanted a call back…and did I know that he had failed to meet the commitments of his custody agreement? The women’s group I’m co-facilitating in two weeks needs a list of attendees, and a confirmation on an outreach presentation. That’s for me to do. So what am I going to do about this? How am I going to stablize these people’s lives?

Sitting in the change room with Alysa, I slumped back on the bench against the wall, sighing. I spilled out my anxities to her…not just about work, but in life in general. The expectations that had to be met. The friends that I felt I had let down. The body I couldn’t fit into the beauty mould. Feelings and experiences I felt afraid to face.

“I don’t think I can do this..” I mumbled.

Alysa’s long arms sprouted through the waffle-knit shirt, her mop of black curls popping out the collar. “But you’re doing it”, she said. She gave herself a once over in the mirror, and realising I had no response to this statement, looked at me directly. “But you’re doing it” she repeated. “Now…what do we think of this shirt?”. We both agreed it made her boobs look good.

Walking down Spadina, I told her that I sometimes pray for strength. If I’m just solid, if I can only be strong enough, I can do this. I can do all of this. No one will be let down. I will feel better about myself just knowing that there’s nothing out there I can’t do, can’t be, can’t help with, can’t repair, can’t protect, can’t be open to, can’t walk away from. It’s not that I think of myself as any kind of super woman; I just didn’t see much of a point of living your life without being useful to the world. Alysa offered me another handy little nugget of wisdom. “Don’t pray for strength”, she said, “Because then you just end up getting more and more challenges to remind you of how strong you already are. Pray instead for acceptance; to have yourself and what you have to offer to be acceptable just as it is.”

We parted soon after to eat dinner, agreeing to meet in Bellevue in an hour to start our little get together.

I broke into my room, weary and a little tired, dropping my bag like a stone to the floor.  I breathed and stretched. Slowly I shucked off my office attire, taking my hair out of the bun, washing the day off my face. And then I divested myself of the weight I carried as an adult, and slipped into a poufy, floral dress – one specifically that I wear for Treats. The size of the skirt – three layers of pure, lovely crinoline – makes the outfit entirely out of the question for most everyday events, but for Treats In The Park, it’s the perfect evening picnic attire.

We set out blankets, candles and cups at 8pm in Bellevue Park. There’s almond milk, double chocolate cookies, vegan zucchini bread and strawberries. For the first hour there’s just a few people, but like last time, a great number turn out towards 9:30-10pm. Alysa and I offer our baking and milk, and people bring other things to share: extra cups, a hot thermos of milky tea, some leftover yam fries. Some people I know, others I meet for the first time. In typical fashion of those who orbit Kensington, we’re a decent cross-section of different people: a student. A comic book artist. A teacher. A small business owner. A traveler. A translator. Alysa tells us the story of how Treats came to be conceptualized: an Italian friend in university had carried the tradition into her dormitory, offering sweets, nuts and fruit before bed. The cold is pervasive, but everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, breaking into random conversations….at one point we’re playing charades.  It strikes me that Treats In The Park is a little like the tea parties that you held as a child with your stuffed animals, only the guests this time are a little more animated and don’t reek of must and apple juice…

Despite the sleevelessness of my dress and my spinning head, I feel myself begin to relax and enjoy this time, feeling closer to a central state of being: this is who I am…this girl in a ridiculous dress, eating cookies in the park Kensington Market, feeding my friends (and a few random people who pass us by), trying not to snort milk through my nose when I laugh. This is my reality, my constructed identity, my wellness. My fake empire, accepted.

In the midst of the conversation, it doesn’t escape me that everyone carries around some weight with them: it’s the human condition. I know what some of them worry about; others I can only guess. But what does it matter now? We’re having fun. Let’s not figure everything out at once…

Midnight comes, and the cold wind blows almost everyone home. People say their goodbyes, going home in pairs and mounting their bikes. I fold up my blanket and pad home in my princess dress, feeling satisfied with the night.

The next evening, I get a phone call from a friend who had just finished a first blind date. “He’s so strange, but….kind of intriguing!”, she gushes, “And he’s so young! What if he doesn’t have his shit figured out?? I need a guy who has his shit figured out!.” I listen, pause for a minute. Then I say “Yeah, but…do you have your shit figured out? Do any of us? I mean, maybe he just has different shit to figure out; he might have a handle on the stuff that matters to you.” She considers this.

Later that night, I stole through Kensington Market in nothing but my pyjamas, going from my apartment to another. My hair was a mess, my make-up half gone….none of it seemed to matter. I felt so comfortable walking down Augusta, so at home….as if I had become familiar and organic to this neighbourhood as much as it’s become familiar and organic to me.

I went to bed, turned the light out and said goodnight. I tell myself not to think so much for a  little while…

To be accepted just as you are..

Food Review: More To Love at The Big Fat Burrito

I remember when I first moved into Kensington Market, back in August 2008, being tickled at the notion of being so close to so many wonderful little restaurants and snack counters. Thrilled by the displays of baked empanadas, homemade vegan muffins and sizzling satays, I made a mental note to myself that I would try it all, sample it all, and come to know this ’hood from the inside out of its eateries.

Then I  did something stupid: I succumbed to insecure body image expectations and slapped myself on a zealous and strict diet. I  wouldn’t…couldn’t….bring myself to even consider going near anything that threatened a calorie count greater than 100. My waist whittled away, but walking through Kensington on November evenings with an after-work hunger was pure torture.  I hated walking past the wafting scents of cumin, cinnamon and paprika, of butter and fresh bread and red wine, knowing that salad, sugar-free jello and several glasses of diet coke waited for me at home.

Eventually, like all dieters, I became a cliche: I couldn’t keep it up. I couldn’t make friends with the hungry hole that became my gut. No size 6 jeans could make starvation feel beautiful.

While it’s been no picnic to see myself go back closer to my original size 10 self, I welcome a life where I can finally eat like a normal person. When I did finally abandon my quasi-fasting in April 2009, I, like every other person who exhausts themselves from a diet, felt the twinge of failure, the creeping fear of post-diet weight gain. It was one particular mid-spring morning, walking south on Augusta, I was feeling pretty bummed about it that I came upon the most serendipitous and size-loving signs at the corner of Oxford.

It was for a burrito. It was BIG. It was FAT.

FAT..that nasty, three letter word I tried so hard not to be branded with. But like an unbridled Beth Ditto on stage,  The Big Fat Burrito in Kensington Market proudly proclaims the state of their tantalizing, hefty bundles without shame of size or width. Mustering up whatever self-care I had left in myself that day, I decided that any place that sees size…big or small…as something to be proud of was worthy of my lunchtime. I made peace with my thighs and ate a damn good burrito.

The Lowdown

The Big Fat Burrito presents one of Kensington Market’s best casual people-watching perches. The best spot (if you can get one), are the high-perch tables and chairs by the west-facing windows. It’s a good place to take in the giant Geisha painted on the side of the red-brick home across the street, (one of the Market’s prettiest murals) or keep an eye out for your friends. The atmosphere is open, airy and cafeteria-casual. For this review, I came in three times, twice during a week-day lunch, and once on Pedestrian Sunday. The place is always jumping: lunch time crowds include locals, shoppers, scrubs from Toronto Western Hospital and cops. Weekends will cater to hipsters with laptops and couples.

There is ALWAYS  a line-up, and you are given a number ticket with your order to keep your wrap distinguished from the others. Don’t let the crowds deter you – Big Fat Burrito is completely aware of its popularity, and they are well-staffed to keep the food coming.  Take the time you wait in line to choose your order carefully (including the degree of kick that you want – mild, medium or spicy) and be prepared to give it promptly at the cash: they want to keep people moving.  On average, 4-5 cooks can be seen sizzling up meats and skillfully tucking in the flatbreads before placing them on cat trays. Be sure to pay attention for your number, as the place gets packed with people, and orders can come out fast. BFB offers a variety of bottled juices, water, Malt-Shop pops and other beverages to wash it all down, and ample Now magazines to read if you’re staying and flying solo.

Toppings are the usual suspects – veggies, guac, cheese, tex-mex rice, sour cream, a mayo-based burrito-sauce. The spice factor is average but respectable – a spicy burrito isn’t going to punch you out, but it’s got an edge and it won’t burn your tongue. Those who walk the line for firey foods are welcomed to dribble on some of the 5 hot sauces at the front counter (a word of caution, as my buddy Jesse forewarned me:  these spices are not for the inexperienced). 

The burritos come in two sizes (small and large), and the term ‘small’ is misleading – average appetites will feel more than satisfied with these 16-oz  wraps (average $5-6). Unless you’re starving, leave the large sized bundles (average $7-8) to construction workers and hung-over Varsity Blue players.

The Great: The Yam and Veggie Burrito provide ample savoury fillings that will zap whatever appetite you may have. The Yam Burrito is a downy pillow of soft, slightly-sweet potato that is strict comfort food. The Veggie Burrito provides is a solid medley of julienned peppers and onions that are crispy instead of limp. I’m told the veggie burrito keeps the spice evenly distributed within the burrito the best. Sooo good.

The Good: Their chicken burrito has good, tender, hearty chunks of slightly-pulled meat that packs the wrap from top to bottom. The breakfast burrito, a comforting blend of scrambled eggs and veggies enrobbed in guacamole, is like your dad’s morning spread in a compact form. Could use some ketchup, even with the spice, but that’s just me..

The Grim: BFB offers one appetizer (or post-burrito snack, if you can eat it) of tortilla chips with salsa and guacamole. The chips are overly salty and store bought, reminiscent of round taco shells.  Neither the guacamole or the salsa is anything to write home about. The guacamole, which lends it’s creaminess nicely to the burritos, is virtually tasteless on its own; the salsa’s pretty much the same. Either way, it’s not worth the $4 asking price.  Also worth avoiding is the drippy, mayo-based burrito sauce, which tends to ruin the beauty of their mess-free bundle. Stick to the sour cream.

The Bottom Line

When it comes to size-loving take-out, Big Fat Burrito shines above any fast food value meal: it’s a simple, tasty, well-stuffed package of Cal-Mex goodness, freshly prepared and conveniently packaged for rushed nurses or students trying to make their next class. It’s comfortable and fluid atmosphere is also a great location to hang out on your own and or do a little catching up with a friend (who can say no burritos?).

In a world where size is always an issue, instead of a state of being, it’s nice to know that these healthy, hefty wraps are shamelessly comfortable in their floured skin, and valued for their chunk. The Big Fat Burrito is doing wonders in dolling out delicious burritos, helping visitors and locals (and ex-dieters) feel full and satisfied, one tummy at a time.

The Big Fat Burrito, 285 Augusta Ave, Toronto, ON. 416-913-7487.

Price: $ (out of $$$$$)

Hours: Monday to Thursday, 11am-9pm; Friday to Saturday, 11am – 10pm; Sundays noon -8pm.

Cash, Debit and Credit Accepted

(Photos to come)