Canadian Content: The 49th Parallel

Even if you've never visited Canada, you've probably seen it at the movies. However, it might have been called New York, Chicago, or Los Angeles. And the only reason you might have recognized it is if you had brought a Canadian along and they had muttered about how those were Canada Post boxes on the street corner.

However, Canada playing Canada at the movies is a rarer find. So, when I found out that the Archers (AKA Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, my favourite director/producer team in film) made a movie set in Canada and called (of course) The 40th Parallel, I had to rent it.
Now, when I say The Archers are my favorite, that's an opinion based entirely on four gorgeous, fever dream-like movies: Black Narcissus, The Red Shoes, The Life And Death of Colonel Blimp and Peeping Tom. I'm also rather partial to I Know Where I'm Going. And yet, I've been burned by them before, by a stodgy little picture called The Small Back Room, which featured a 8 foot tall bottle of booze as a prop.

The 49th Parallel isn't half as ridiculous, but it isn't half as good as Colonel Blimp either. Powell was pretty direct, even back then, that it was made as propaganda to encourage the Americans to enter the war. And when there's propaganda afoot, awkward speechifying is sure to follow.

The movie follows a group of German sailors who, after their sub is blown up by Canadian airmen, attempt to travel the True North Strong and Free to enter into the United States Then Neutral. Along the way they meet many people, from a French Canadian trapper in the North to a Hutterite farmer on the prairies, who've prepared impassioned speeches to tell them why Canada is so great and will win the war, as if they had expected a troop of Germans to come goose-stepping over the horizon.

Way more exciting than the actual movie, where the closest Olivier gets to an actual woman is about 15 meters.

From there to the end, it's a fairly predictable hike. However, there's one reason to see the movie and that's Laurence Olivier's attempt at a French-Canadian accent. He doesn't quite make it to the Quebec. Hell, he doesn't even seem to make it to France, as it sounds like he got stuck halfway between Scotland and Sweden. It's hilarious. And, to give the man credit, he really makes the plaid flannel work.

It Came From 1962: Ginger's Pineapple And Roquefort Cheese Salad

It's only the second week of cooking and partying like it's 1962 and already I've hit a wall. A wall labeled PEOPLE IN 1962 ATE CRAP.

Okay, not literally, but almost. Which brings us to the second recipe from A Time For Cooking, Ginger's Pineapple And Roquefort Cheese Salad. A few weeks ago, I decided just to pick a number at random and make whatever happened to fall on that page. I realized the folly of that plan when the page happened to contain this... "salad."

I like pineapple. I LOVE Roquefort cheese. I even enjoy stuffed olives, celery and lime jello, the other major constituents in this recipe. However, I've decided that I like them when they're kept far, far apart from each other. Just imagining the flavour sensation of pineapple and blue cheese together was bad enough, without even factoring in the strong tastes of the other ingredients. I shuddered just reading the recipe. But I soldiered on.


Then, I slipped the salad out from its mold. And I felt nauseous. Quivering on a plate sat a big... pile... of bloody mucus. The sour smell of the lime coupled with the earthier scent of the cheese even smelled like vomit. The recipe wanted me to put this thing on lettuce leaves and serve with mayonnaise, but I just couldn't bring myself to do that. I had created my own little torture porn movie with nothing more than a grocery list.

But reader, I ate it. Or at least no more than one slice, the flavor of which I can barely describe. I told someone it tasted like mothballs, not because I've ever tried one, but because that was the worst thing I could think of someone eating at the time. It starts off citrusy and sweet, before suddenly turning salty and sour and, I swear to Christ, MOLDY because of the frigging blue cheese. I couldn't even finish my bit before throwing out the whole thing.

So, from now on I am going to pick randomly, unless it looks like cold molded ass in which case I will move on the next thing that could be passingly edible.

And if I ever meet this Ginger character, I am punching her right in the goddamned face.

It Came From 1962: Molded Feminine Fare

This requires cream cheese, a cup of sour cream, sugar, salt, canned apricots, canned pineapple, cherries and miniature marshmallows. As you might expect from those ingredients, it is filed under "salads."

There's hardly any prep to this thing at all. You just beat the cream cheese, add the sour cream, the sugar and the salt, then mix in the fruit and marshmallows. Put it in a loaf pan and freeze over night and you should be more than ready for your Cribbage Society's meeting in the morning.
Sure, it's a little alarming-looking. And it's worse when you slice it, when it looks like it probably got it's name 'cause it looks exactly like a woodland fairy's menstrual pad. Although that might be my fault for going with the coloured marshmallows.

In any case, it doesn't taste entirely awful. However, it produces enough Feminine Fare to turn even Clint Eastwood femme, so I've been eating it for dinner every single one of that past three days. And now I kind of want to take three Valiums, have an affair with the lawn boy and drunkenly ask my husband for a divorce in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner.

It Came From 1962: The Beginning

Last weekend, there was a $1.00 Used Book Sale at one of my favorite bookstores in the city – S.W. Welch. Actually, I didn’t care all that much that it was at one of my favorite places. The fact that somewhere books could be had for $1.00 was enough. I would have probably shown up if it was run by the Church of Latter Day Saints.

Among the 10 prizes scored that day was this little cookbook. It looks unassuming enough on the outside, but inside this book shares pages with the Necronomicon. Alright, I’ve never read the latter, but I’m sure it would have just as many recipes for gelatin and canned crap salad as this.

The brain trust behind this book is comprised of Zada Taylor, “well known among California librarians” and Betty Herman, “the daughter of the late, beloved Lloyd C. Douglas.” I’m not sure about Mr. Douglas, but I think Ms. Taylor was more well feared than well known, since she starts off the book with a salvo like “A time for cooking is cooking when it is convenient” (But what are your thoughts on fucking, Zada?) and later follows it up with “A good cook never takes the chance of upsetting the balance by subtracting from or adding to the required amounts.”

The shaggy-haired Beats and their bongos may have already started to turn her California topsy turvy by 1962, but by God, their rebellious ilk would be kept out of the kitchen.

Anyway, I’m in love with and terrified by this thing, from the “Idiot’s Delight” on page 14 involving dry onion soup mix, goose liver sausage and sour cream to the “Steamed Salmon Loaf” on page 132. Basically, it’s as if Mary Worth had written a cookbook. And, since I’m about to be bored and unemployed, what better way to pass the time than attempting to cook from it? So, for the next 52 weeks – or until my death from gelatin overdose, whichever comes first – prepare yourself for It Came From 1962.

Tomorrow: I tell you what it’s like to spend three days eating Molded Feminine Fare (page 58.) Here’s a hint: I’m off to my Ladies Bridge Club meeting.

Sex And The City 2: This Time, With Even More Shiny Stuff!

From left to right: Bossy Miranda, Yelpy Carrie, Sexaholic Samantha and Optimistic Charlotte.
Off screen: The shattered remains of my soul.

I wasn’t going to see the new Sex and The City movie, but after the ferocious critical response – and then the furious aggregating of that response on women-focused blogs – intrigued me. I thought I would see it, write about it myself and see if I couldn’t illuminate a corner of Carrie’s shriveled soul that someone hadn’t before.

Well, I can’t. The critics have covered everything. The movie is long, dull and hideous to look at, with gaudy clothes and even more hideous interiors. There’s no more plot here than in a catalog, which makes sense since this is a movie about stuff, from cars to rings to watches, instead of characters. It offends gay men, Muslims and women, even though they’re the ones who are expected to strap on their highest heels and go in costume, like so many Star Wars nerds, to watch it.

So, since all the best points have already been made so frequently and humorously, I’ll take my mom’s advice and say something nice. Or else I won’t be able to say anything at all.

Five Good Things I Could Say About The Sex And The City Sequel:

1. Boy, they cast Miranda and Steve’s son well. He freakishly has David Eigenberg’s face, but Cynthia Nixon’s hair and eyes. Was he grown in a lab?
2. There are two fine male asses to be seen in this movie.
3. At one point, Charlotte wears a rather cute red and white striped dress.
4. Craning my neck to see the whole screen from only the third row was still less nauseating than watching Avatar in Imax 3D.
5. I regret seeing it less than I regret paying 99 cents to download Casper’s Cha Cha Slide (Part Two.)

Dispatches From the Job Hunt

Looking for jobs, applying for jobs and going for interviews are three of the things I dislike most in life. Sure, I probably hate Glenn Beck and ebola more, but I don't have to actually encounter those things in my daily life. Yet. Job hunting, on the other hand, has become my new hobby, now that the weather's cooled down enough that I can't say "sweating."

Sadly, however, I'm an English-speaking Cultural Studies major in a bilingual city where all the job postings seem to be ridiculously qualified. Today, I've found postings for a plant assistant, an assistant hockey coach, and a "science and innovation officer." Come and gaze with me, if you will, into my cover letter for the first position:

"Although I may not have the expected qualifications of a degree in horticulture, I do have a degree in Cultural Studies. As you can see, both degrees involve culture of some kind. I know it's not much, but it's a start. And as Dorothy Parker once said, you can lead a whore to culture, but you can't make her think. I am no whore. Please hire me."

I am expecting a call back at any moment.

Two Bits Of News

Sorry Bangles, but your Manic Mondays have nothing on my ... Torrid... Tuesdays. Somebody get on finding a better alliteration than that. Anyhow, yesterday two big things happened in the life of Marty.

1. My brother got engaged!
2. And I quit my job!

Now, this isn't necessarily quite the yin/yang of life events it seems. Although my brother's engagement is certainly on the crest of things, my quitting isn't all bad. Sure, it seems likely that I'll never find another job in this city. But on the other hand, I had been unhappy for a while and needed to stop bitching and do something about it.

So, whether I end up back in Toronto, or turning tricks on the street in a few months, at least I can always think back on this week and remember that I was happy. And flush with tax refunds.

On Watching Your Team Lose

Today, I did something I had spent the past couple of weeks bitching people out for doing. I walked out of a hockey game early, just because my team was losing, and I knew they were going to lose the game entirely, and I just couldn't watch it happen.

So, I'm a hypocrite. However, I'm a sympathetic hypocrite. Getting into hockey over the past few weeks has been a lesson in transference. Once you start caring about the sport, the guys on the screen aren't just a random collection of guys with skills and high salaries. They're a representative of you! They play well, and you have hope for your future. They play poorly, and suddenly your streak of bad luck stretches all the way to the TV screen and you have to turn it off.

However, you've already started to behave in completely irrational ways. You start bargaining. "Let them win this game and it will make up for the crappy interview and terrible day I just had. Let them lose and I'll realize that I'm cursed."However, this makes no sense. First of all, there are dozens of fans on the other side doing the exact same thing. Are you praying in Montreal? Then somebody in Philly probably did the same thing. And, judging from tonight's score, it seems like they did a better job than you.

Clearly, it's mostly up to the people on the ice, as well as people behind the bench whether your team wins or loses, no matter how much you hope, pray and wear the hell out of your jersey. So why bother? Why should I have bothered to stay for the rest of the game?

First of all, there are the standard reasons. Sports end up connecting you, just like the shoe commercials predict. Trite, but true. I watched Montreal beat Washington, eating pickled eggs in a tavern, yelling just as loudly as the rest of the people there even though I was English* and under 45 years old. It's also good conversation fodder when you're on breaks at work. And there's something heartwarming about seeing entire metro cars turned red because everyone has their Habs gear on after a win.

Then there's the other reason. It's about perseverance. No matter how much they're sucking, teams can't just go home before the final buzzer sounds. And even once it does, they'll just be back next year. It's Sisyphean - and, since we're going that far - a lesson in existentialism.

Unless, of course, someone sells your team and then they end up moving. In which case, maybe you really are cursed.

Texts From Last Period

Don't worry, there will be a Post of Substance tomorrow, but for tonight I wanted to share perhaps the most Canadian communication I have ever taken part in. My friend Jo couldn't watch Game 7 tonight (and thus missed out on its blessed result), so I was put on text duty to keep her informed of the score. Between things like "4-0. I don't even know. 4-0." and "They did it! 5-2 final score." There was this little nugget of maple-flavoured goodness:

"Don cherry's suit is purple velour [sic] with satin trim tonight."

Mumble, Grumble, Go Habs Go

Events have conspired to turn me, a person who hated all sports except for college football, into someone who's avidly watching the Montreal Canadiens' run in the NHL playoffs. I thought for sure that the charmingly gap-toothed Ovechkin would get them, but they beat the Caps. And then I thought the Penguins and Sidney Crosby's questionable facial hair would do it, but goddamn it, they sent it to game 7. Now I'll proudly suffer those maudlin Tim Horton's ads, Don Cherry's suits and the terrible new Hockey Night in Canada theme just to watch a game.

I would like to say that I have a certain sympathy for Jaroslav Halak, because I often feel like the 200th-odd pick in life, but the truth is I lack his hand/eye coordination, so I'll just say I enjoy seeing this diverse and annoyingly abrasive city come together, as one... so that it can likely destroy a small part of itself in celebration of a win.