A Rip in the Space-Time Continuum

Last night I went to see the school play at my old high school.
And now, dear reader, I am imagining you frowning, wincing in discomfort even, and definitely wondering, “Good Lord, WHY?” I think that my husband is the only person on the planet who had a different response than that, and when I told him my plans said without hesitation, “Cool!” However, we cannot totally rule out that he may not have been listening at all and figured I had just told him I was meeting my lover Roberto in order to indulge in carnal pleasures and high-calorie desserts.
The “why” is complicated. To begin, I recently reconnected with an old friend from high school. Now, out of the people that I was close with back in the day, I am still in regular contact with five out of six of them. (By close, I mean “spent every waking hour with.” And by regular, I mean as much as possible considering three live in other countries, and we all have these ridiculous, grown-up lives and schedules now, and we can’t just meet up at the yacht club in fourth period for some free pool and too much coffee.) This friend is the one who drifted away, and I am thrilled to have her back.
In a surreal turn of events, this year the high school is doing the musical that many of us worked on together in our Grade Twelve year, and the drama teacher (who is, of course, still there) called my friend out of the blue to ask her to choreograph the dance scenes. (Originally, she danced in the production, and I was one of the stage managers. I did costumes, too. Surprise.)
I have a strong sense of loyalty to the high school play. Had it not been for the play, I would have absolutely self-destructed in my last two years of high school. There would have been no reason to ever even show up. Morning rehearsals at the very least got me to the building. It wasn’t that I was all that passionate about drama, although I was, but I did all my acting at an extra-curricular class that was far superior to the in-school program (and that was also led by an amazing woman who was a fantastic role model for us impressionable teenagers. But that’s another story). The play was so important because it gave us a sense of belonging. We had a purpose, and we worked together for a common goal. For everyone that wasn’t a jock ('cause, like, I imagine that team sports probably do those things, too, but I simply wouldn’t know) the play was the thing. And the cast party at the end was infamously fun.
So I went.
I’m not going to talk about the play itself. What I will say is that the joy to be found in amateur theatre is that everyone is working their hearts out, and that I do respect high school drama teachers everywhere for maintaining the necessary level of enthusiasm and optimism to soldier on year after year. I couldn’t help but compare to the year we did it, and it was strange to see the kids who were in the cast; I had assumed that it would be the 2007 version of the same people, so was surprised when the same “types” weren’t in the same roles. I figure that in reality we were no more talented or professional than last night’s circus, even though my memory colours it differently.
It wasn’t my first time back at the school, since I went for my sister’s graduation five years after my own, so I had pretty much got out all the “Wow, this is so weird!” It was still weird, but in a different way. I didn’t have any emotional response to the environment the way I had before. I remember that last time I had felt as though I had to prove myself, I felt anxious and subject to judgment. I had felt like leaving as soon as possible, and maybe smoking a joint. In short, I had felt like a teenager. This time, I just felt like me, visiting my old high school. Even the brief encounter with the drama teacher–whom I found unrecognizable if not for his raggedy sweatshirt and baseball cap—where he proved himself to be as much of a dink as I remembered, didn’t manage to shake my self-possession. It was, actually, very cool.

Now, all I need is an appropriate Simpson's quote to round it all out...

Chief Wiggum: I hope this has taught you kids a lesson: kids never learn.

Homer: Facts are meaningless. You could use facts to
prove anything that's even remotely true!

Principal Skinner: That's why I love elementary school, Edna.
The children believe anything you tell them.

Homer: Oh, everything looks bad if you remember it.

Bart: I am through with working. Working is for chumps.
Homer: Son, I'm proud of you! I was twice your age when I figured that out.

Bart: What a day, eh, Milhouse? The sun is out, birds are singing, bees are trying
to have sex with them -- as is my understanding ...

Ralph: Sleep! That' s where I'm a viking!

Restaurant Review: Lolo

Lolo Bistro, 619 Mount Pleasant

What a great find this little place is! The interior is cozy and welcoming with black-and-white toile de Jouy on the chairs and deep red walls. They take your coat for you, which I always think is nice.
Basic bistro menu, and everything on it looks nice, making ordering a delightful chore. Grilled calamari to start is tender and yummy, on mixed greens with a fresh-tasting salsa. Goat cheese tart with caramelized onions lives up to the promised potential of two of my favourite ingredients. The escargot was well-received, if the accompanying mushrooms were "underwhelming." Ribeye steak is good. A little thin for my likes, but they cooked it correctly, so kudos for that. Delicious peppercorn sauce, though I was surprised at its presentation (a big puddle under everything, as opposed to on top of the steak) but it worked out, because you wanted to sop it up with the excellent, crispy frites. [Aside: last time I was in the United States of America, I saw on a menu that the steak came with "steak fries." I asked the waitress if that meant the skinny crispy ones, thinking that perhaps down there in the U.S.A, "frites" was too foreign. I was told that "steak fries" are big, thick and soft. Figures. When I want those, well, I never want those, but if I did, I'd order a baked potato.] The veal was enjoyed. Garlic mashed potatoes got lukewarm praise. The fresh vegetables were all really nice -- give me a restaurant that doesn't overcook a carrot and I'm happy. We didn't have desert, because I'd made creme brulee at home--and mine is very good--though apparently they are all made on the premises and probably quite yummy.
I didn't get a look at the wine list, deferring the ordering instead to someone whose standard order isn't "a glass of your cheapest red as long as it isn't Cressman's." We had a fun and zesty red, and lots of it, so I don't remember what it was. I assume there was a nice selection, if that was part of it.
Okay value for money. The food was good, but I think there's a bit of a neighbourhood premium at work.

rating: * * * (I'd pop in again if I was in the area, but might not make the trip just for them.)

Dedicated...or crazy.

Twice a week, we drag ourselves out of bed a tad earlier than other days (one "snooze" on the alarm clock as opposed to, oh, five) in order to make it to the 6:30 a.m. spinning class at the gym. Today we were running a little late, which may or may not have had anything to do with the fact that I had to run back upstairs to get something I'd forgotten, but when we arrived at the gym, the door to the spinning room was still locked. This makes spinners very anxious, since most of us have, if not a specific bike, at least an area in the room we like to get our bike. And on busy days, the class can fill up quickly so you get stuck with a dud (squeaky pedals, only one gear--hard, no seat). Doors are supposed to open fifteen minutes before the class. I like to be there ten minutes before, to warm up. We made a fast change and then joined the group of stretchy-shorts-clad folk mingling unhappily outside the still-locked door. The Tuesday morning instructor is not my favorite -- it's just the class that fits best into the rest of my schedule -- and I was beginning to think I'd have to do some rescheduling if she made a habit of being late. (Aside: Look, I'm the first to admit that I personally have a problem with punctuality. But I rarely miss the start of spinning, and I'm not getting paid to be there.) Just as I was going to suggest that one of us maybe ask the front desk if they knew what was up, someone came to tell us that the regular instructor was off, but no-one knew who the sub was. They'd unlock the door for us, and we could use the bikes, but there would be no instructor.
Now, spinning isn't the same as just using a stationary exercise bike. There should be pumping tunes, and preferably an inspiringly fit instructor shouting encouraging things at you for forty-five minutes. Nevertheless, we all filed into the room like a herd of confused and sleepy sheep, hoping against hope that somehow our class would be salvaged. A bit of muttering, a bit of mumbling, a few shared shrugs followed. There was lots of talk about heading back to the changeroom to grab iPods. I was sort of impressed by the way everyone had decided to still do their Tuesday spin, even though we'd been abandoned. It also occured to me that we were all a little nuts, unable to break from our respective gym routines, determined to do spinning even though there clearly wasn't a class happening. Then, one of the twins stepped up and declared that she would try to be the instructor.
I only know them as the twins, and it was a revelation to discover that they were. Before, I thought there was this one girl who was at the gym all the time. I have literally never been at my gym when there isn't one of them there. Once, one of them made gym-friend overtures towards me (I do see them nearly every day!) but since I don't know which one, now I smile at both.
Instructor -- check!
But, she said, she didn't have any music. Suddenly, J remembered that he had a certain CD in his backpack.
"We've got a CD that our spinning-instructor friend made for a class!" I spoke up. In it went. Crisis averted! Everyone happily peddaled away. Twin-girl did a pretty good job up in front of the class. I listened to the tunes and remembered the fabulous class in which my friend had kicked our butts with hard work. I felt good, and virtuous, and dedicated. And only a little crazy. After all, if you're loosing four "snoozes" worth of sleep, you better make it worth it!

Restaurant Review: The Drake Hotel

The Drake Hotel -- 1150 Queen Street West

Up until the other day, I’d only ever eaten snack foods at the Drake. Their sushi is pretty good, and the various sandwiches and other late-night offerings are nice. But it is worth heading to the actual dining room to check out the select menu there. It's a cozy, boho-glamorous space, with cushioned benches and velvet flocking on the walls.
The mixed green salad, though boring in name, was everything I wanted in a salad: various fancy lettuces, slices of pear, sweet and spicy pecans, and Quebec blue cheese (a little skimpy on the cheese, though, considering that’s what sold me on the salad). The winter squash ravioli was a delicate blend of textures (al dente pasta, smooth squash filling) and flavours (hazelnut chunks, caramelized red onion) and was absolutely delicious. Braised lamb shoulder was meltingly tender, on a savory mushroom risotto. We didn’t plunge into the extensive wine list, opting instead for fancy martinis. The pear-rosemary martini was a winner.
Entrees are pricey, but every once in a while it’s nice to have a gourmet treat.

rating: * * * (super yum!)

Recipe: Spa Soup

I created this soup for the first time last weekend because I had some cabbage to use up. It's very simple, all the ingredients are good for you, and it tastes "clean" --hence the name.


In a large pot, sautee 2 small onions, sliced, in 2 tsp olive oil until soft (do not brown).
Add 2 cloves garlic, minced, and cook for a few seconds.
Pour in 500ml low-sodium chicken broth (homemade from organic chicken parts would be best, but hey, not everyone is as obssessive as I am) and 250 ml water.
Throw in 3 cups shredded cabbage and one carrot, grated (or use a bagged, pre-made coleslaw mix -- easy!) and 1 tbsp fresh grated ginger.
Stir in 2 tbsp white miso paste and 2 tsp reduced-sodium soy sauce.
Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for about 10 minutes. Cabbage should be soft but not mushy.

Makes 4 large bowls.

Restaurant Reviews: Irie Food Joint

Irie Food Joint -- 745 Queen St. W.
www.iriefoodjoint.com


The vibe is relaxed at this low-key bistro on Queen West. Definitely a good spot for a get-together, because the place fills up and gets lively. You can have the mandatory Red Stripe stubby, or one of many amusingly named martinis -- anyone want to start with a Stoned Jamaican?
For appetizers, you must get the Peppered Shrimps. They were declared to be "the best shrimp ever." Served with mango salsa, the sweetness of which perfectly complements the juicy, spicy, flavourful shrimp. Festivals (fried cornbread thingys) are snackable, but you need to order something with them, since they are bland on their own.
Curry chicken roti was full of tasty goodness, with an apple chutney that I'd like to eat on lots of other foods, or maybe on its own. The coleslaw side was, well, just coleslaw. But it was creamy, not oily, and that always wins points in my book. Seafood Gumbo was good, but lacked spice. In fact, after the shrimp, we found the mains to be not quite zesty enough for our palates. The jerk pork loin chops, though, were fabulous; tender and yummy in a red-wine reduction. For desert, the cheesecake was "pretty good."
Good value for money. Generous portions.
On exiting the restaurant, we were hit with a generous waft of the expected Jamaican-style smoke. Of course, that could just be Queen West.

rating: * * * (nothing to complain about; all around good)

Not really a movie review

On the topic of the fabulous film 300:

(Quoting my clever friend Darra, who when she saw the army of elves coming to save the people of Helm's Deep in The Two Towers, whispered an excited:)

It's an army of hotties!

Two Haikus to a Timbit

From the yellow box,
small round ball made of sugar,
goes with my coffee.


Fills my mouth with joy,
If joy means fat and sugar.
One is not enough.

It's the little things.

I bought a pretty mug for my desk at work. It brings me joy.

Had a good weekend-- Slept in. Read magazines. Hung around in my pjs. Cuddled. Refused to do housework. Went to yoga. Ate french toast. Drank homemade lattes. Went out every night, including Sunday. Saw my parents. Managed to see lots of friends, and answered the question: "What's it like to hang out with Jessica when she's not drinking?"

More look-alikes.

In further pursuit of bolstering my vanity, I thought it might be fun to post a list of people that I have been told I look like. Fun for me, at least.
Also, know that I get told by new people and strangers that I look "just like" someone they know on a regular basis. Somebody's friend. Somebody's cousin. Somebody's girlfriend back in Calgary (He showed me the picture. What was I supposed to do with that?).

So here it is:


Keri Russel.
I get this one lots. I got it from her make-up artist, which I think must hold some credibility. However, my hubby saw her at a party, and said she's "tiny". I therefore put myself forward to play her fat, ugly, older sister if the role ever occurs. I'm camera ready, Keri's agent!
If anything more remarkable than being hit by a car ever happens to me, I'd really like Keri to play "Me: the movie version", okay?






Elizabeth Deschanel from the TV show "Bones".
Yeah, if I never ate. Ever. However, I am tempted to paste my head onto her body in any production still that also features David Boreanaz.









Rachel Leigh Cook.
I don't get this one, either, but I've had it said to me more than once, so it makes the list.









Nicole Kidman.
The first time I heard this one, I actually laughed out loud, in the guy's face, before walking away, shaking my head and saying, "nice try, buddy." Since then, it has been a consistent source of amusement for me, spurred on by would-be complimenters who are clearly vision-impared. Ah, Nicole, my paragon of beauty. If I thought that attaining her heights was even remotely possible, I would immediately cease and desist all food consumption of any kind, and save my pennies for Botox. Sounds easy, no?