Hate-Watching the Walking Dead

Although they're not "spoilers" as such, plot points of recent episodes will be discussed. Be advised.

As established by thinky types on the Internet (and accepted by yours truly) we're living in a golden age of television. I am, of course, spending these burnished years watching a bunch of irritable characters I don't like, engaged in actions that make little sense, during an hour that leaves me bored nearly every week. Yes, The Walking Dead has become the only TV show I regularly watch, and I have no idea why. I didn't even want to start watching it. I had read the first two dozen issues of the comic, which started strong before devolving into a travel diary with the occasional disemboweling. Also: the kind of retrograde sexual politics that really make you appreciate how progressive Dawn of the Dead was - in 1978.

So I should have known better, but then I also bought a ticket to Sex and the City 2. Sometimes I don't make healthy lifestyle choices. The pilot was pretty tight, but The Walking Dead soon became The Talky Living, as debates over whether to go on living in a dead world, and whether to value survival over morals, were endlessly rehashed. Characters were tweaked from scene to scene, seemingly just so these arguments could have legs. And outside of lead Sheriff Rick, his wife Lori, and best frenemy Shane, the characters are tragically, yet hilariously underdeveloped. Whenever the action drags, just try and figure out what T-Dog, the sole surviving black member of the group, does whenever he's not on screen. That's about 98% of each episode. Is he basketweaving his way through the zombie apocalypse? God, I hope so. But in spite of all these problems, I keep on watching. Shamefully, it's probably for the gore. In a world of Downton Abbeys and The Good Wifes, there must be room for a decent zombie chomp. And The Walking Dead can still engage by making it an unexpected corpse, from turning Sophia into a child zombie, to gutting Dale last week. Until it runs out of people to kill off, or the budget gets cut to the point where all deaths happen offscreen, I'll still be watching, waiting like a thirteen-year-old boy for the good bits to go splat.

Mr. Nice Goon

Another year, another English Canadian film is anointed by some mysterious marketing power. The francophones can be counted on to support their movies, but we anglos need prodding. We need the kind of prolonged campaign that covers every surface in Toronto with marketing, the kind of offensive usually only mustered by the CBC for its comedies (ie, the reason why when I sleep, I dream of Mr. D, which may be why I also wake up screaming.) This year's candidate seems to be Goon, judging from bus stop ad saturation. Sadly, it's not an adaptation of the cult horror comic. Instead, it's about Doug, played by Sean William Scott, a loveable hulk with fists of steel and a brain of cotton candy. Doug finds his calling on the ice as an enforcer, getting on the rink only to mash somebody's face into pudding. I might have found the movie funnier in another year. But after a season dominated by player safety and concussions, a season which also started with a string of dead enforcers, it's hard to chuckle. I may have even found it funnier on another day, but the theatre was almost empty that weeknight. But even playing a decade ago to a full house, Goon would have some issues. Scott's endearing, and Liev Schreiber as Doug's more philosophical rival goon is great, but they're both in a movie that's mostly predictable. An example: Doug's disapproving father is trying to save face at shul, using his other, doctor son. But that's before this other son bounds away to meet up with his partner. I immediately calculated the likelihood that the partner was either another man (90%), or a ridiculously trashy shiksa (10%). And lo, the partner arrived, and verily, he was fabulous. Sadly, Slap Shot still does it better, and it's almost 40 years old.

Domestic Friday: Marmelade Cake and Wellington's Special Pale Ale

Ah, marmelade cake. It's so good it survives even my accidental screw-ups. Like the slight charring of the edges. Or my dislike of fiddling with parchment paper, so the top and bottom both become a little too brown. Whatever, it all looks fine if you take the time to pose it just so in the afternoon light. Don't worry, I'm usually drinking my tea out of the same mug I've used for the past two days, and the only plate is the shirt that catches my crumbs. But I figured I would make the effort for you guys.

The recipe is Lucy Waverman's, printed years ago in the Globe and Mail. I've reproduced it below, just in case the Globe ever takes it down. Take her advice though, and put the effort into cutting out the parchment paper. You won't have to fluff your cake as much I did.


Ingredients:
Cake:

• 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 cup room temperature butter
• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 1/4 cup Seville orange marmalade
• 1 teaspoon grated orange rind
• 2 eggs

Glaze:

• 1/2 cup granulated sugar
• 1/4 cup orange juice

1. Preheat oven to 350 F. Place parchment paper on base of an 8-inch round cake pan. Butter sides of pan (I would grease the underside of the parchment paper first too.)
2. Sift flour, baking powder and salt into a large bowl.
3. Add butter, sugar, marmalade, rind and eggs. Beat with an electric mixer until well mixed. Spoon batter into prepared cake pan (it's pretty thick).
4. Bake for 45 to 50 minutes in middle of oven or until a toothpick comes out clean. *Place a layer of parchment paper over top of the cake during the final 15 minutes of baking to keep if from becoming too brown.*
5. Bring sugar and orange juice to boil. Remove from heat. Prick holes in cake (or stab it with a fork!!) and brush with glaze. Cool for 30 minutes, then remove cake from pan and let it cool some more.
It tastes wonderful with tea, but give this cake its due and skip the bags for loose tea leaves.

You could also drink some beer. This blog will not judge you. This week's beer is a shout-out to my hometown of Guelph. Wellington Brewery is Ontario's, and apparently, Canada's oldest indie. Founded in 1985, it is still going strong in the G-spot, as well as wherever its distinctive rubber boot taps can be found. The Special Pale Ale is, surprisingly, mild on the hops. It's good for drinking in quantity, but if you're expecting a West Coast-style IPA, you'll probably want more bitterness. But then nothing will ever make you happy, will it?