Domestic Wednesday: More Knitting, Some Hometown Brewing

With the baby blanket winging its way to Colorado, I decided to try some new baby knitting. I already had some yarn on hand, six balls of the now-discontinued Patons Baby Bamboo, so I just had to pick a pattern. Generally, I like to knit baby stuff in bright, gender-neutral colours. This is a matter of personal aesthetics and, to a lesser degree, personal politics. I'm ambivalent enough about the gender binary to find the choice between colour-blasting your baby pink or blue to be a little... stark.

BUT. I also didn't want my friend to have to field any sass from strangers who assumed her baby had to be a boy because of the colour of their wee cardigan. So I'm trying to find middle ground with the Baby Valentine sweater, though so far I've only managed to screw up the increase rounds. This makes me wary of the lace that's coming. We'll see.

I also went back to my hometown, Guelph, this past weekend. They have a new-ish craft brewery, Royal City Brewing, which warranted a field trip. I had tried some of their beers at previous Society of Beer Drinking Ladies events though, and had mixed results. But the brewery surprised me. I enjoyed everything they poured from the taps, even the one fermented with kombucha. Which, as an aside, I can't imagine a more Guelph-like beer than one with freaking kombucha in it, unless they also threw in some grass from Hillside and a loaf of With the Grain bread during the mash.

A particular standout was the Smoked Honey, which found the right balance between smokey and sweet, and was tasty both from the cask and from the keg. I bought a bottle of it, along with a bottle of the 100 Step Stout, which I poured for myself on St. Patrick's Day. I didn't like it as much as the honey beer--this one was a little too thin--but it was fine too. And now I have another reason to go back to Guelph, besides my dad's coffee and my mom's advice.

Domestic Monday: Big Bad Baby Blanket and Endless Cider

After endless rows of stockinette and seed stitch, the Big Bad Baby Blanket is done and ready for a trip to Colorado.

And the baby isn't even born yet! This almost never happens when I knit for a baby. Usually they're saying their first words just as I'm casting off.

In spite of the time crunch, I loved knitting this. I knew the Koigu would be soft and squishy knit with a single strand, but doubled? Its texture makes me want to knit an adult-sized version, then quit my job so I can spend all day rolling around on it. Fortunately, the cost of Koigu keeps that dream out of reach. My only frustration was realizing, after too many rows had gone by to easily fix it, that one strand of yarn had been dropped on at least two stitches. The mistakes are barely noticeable; they're tearing me up inside.

As for this week's local beverage selection, bottle after green plastic bottle of u-brew cider kept me hydrated while knitting. My Christmas gift to my brother was booking cider-making at Fermentations! (exclamation point theirs.) It was less hands-on than I expected, but I'm not going to complain when we were left with 44 half-litre bottles of the stuff, which we split equally. We chose a Normandy-style cider, and it is very dry and wine-like. It reminds me a bit of the Brickworks cider you can find around Toronto. Sadly, it looks like Dan and I have almost finished off our stash. We have one last bottle to drink. Then I should probably borrow that juicer, get my one gallon fermenter back, and try some experimental small batches of cider. If the experiments don't kill me, I'll report back to you.

BC Dreamin'

If you haven't gathered from the sheer level of bitching on social media, parts of North America have been really, really cold over the past few weeks. Seasonal lows. Frozen pipes. A pale rider: and his name that sat on him was Death, and so on.

I've been surviving as best I can, with wool socks, subway tokens, and warm thoughts of a return to British Columbia. It didn't help that Quill and Quire seemed to present the perfect out a few weeks ago. Galliano Island Books wanted a part-time bookseller.

Why, I thought, I could be that part-time slinger of literature!

While going from a full-time to part-time job may seem like a demotion to some, this one isn't. At least not in my mind. It would be going to a part-time job on Galliano-freaking Island. That's like working cash in paradise. Not quite perfection, but as close as you can get without also having health benefits or an RRSP contribution plan. There would also be books and, one would hope, a discount on those books.

I even started to develop a plan to supplement my part-time income. Rent would be fairly inexpensive, as I was planning to purchase and then live out of a Delica van. Even if the Delica was more expensive than a cozy little apartment. Would that apartment be able to drive me to the beach, or come with a rocking bullbar? Doubtful.

The Delica could also become the manufacturing centre of my second source of income, Marty's Foraged Jams and Preserves. BC loves that stuff. All I would have to do was to come up with a full line of flavours that forced local delicacies into increasingly bizarre couplings and retailed for $15 (open to a barter system though). Suggested varieties: blackberry and seaweed, cattail and spruce tips, currant and pot from the neighbour's grow operation.

I described this plan to people. They laughed, I laughed. I was emphasizing a certain BC skillshare mania for effect, though it probably applies to about 3% of the BC population. I never applied for the job. But. But, underneath the absurdity of the foraged jam operation (which would probably lead to a Delica-shaped inferno in the middle of Galliano Island) is a genuine longing for British Columbia. I've always wondered if I made a mistake moving back east. I wonder a little more when it's the coldest February in Toronto in over a century, of course. But, even in spring, I would probably move back if I was given reason enough to do it, or full-time hours.

Domestic Monday: Double Beers, One Blanket

Sorry for the delay. It's so cold I forgot how to type.

Though I didn't forget how to knit. I finished the socks and, as expected, they fit fine. No repeats of Clifford the Big Red Hat. Unfortunately, my Mom spirited away her new pair of socks before I could take a picture. So you can use your imagination and imagine a finished pair here (suggestion: add lots of stray cat hair):

The next project is a baby blanket for my best friend. She's also due in April, so I should probably speed this up a little. It's the Big Bad Baby Blanket from Stitch 'n Bitch, knit in two strands of Koigu KPPM. This amuses me, because I spent a good half hour reviewing baby blanket patterns on Ravelry, searching for one that was NEW and DIFFERENT, yet SOPHISTICATED and PERFECT... and yet somehow I am knitting a pattern that's 12 years old, in yarn that looks like lovebirds in a blender. I hope you can believe me when I say that it somehow suits my best friend better than a delicate lacy blanket ever would, even one knit in a tasteful shade of jade or puce.

I've also been drinking some beer.

Febrewary continued at Victory Cafe with the Farm Table Mild Ale(L) and the Strong Patrick(R). The Mild was very mild. Beau's version wasn't as gentle as a mild from another brewery I just tried that tasted just like wort to me, but it was definitely a sudden shift from the Gruit. I preferred the Strong Patrick, which reminded me a bit of sweet oatcakes, a complexity probably owing to its barrel-aged background. Unfortunately, I struck out the third week with the Coeur Noir Black IPA. Victory had either sold out or hadn't yet tapped their delivery of Coeur Noir, and so I'll never know what it tasted like. Instead, I had to drown my sadness at missing out in four other beers. And a single victory at Star Trek Catan.

Will I Ever Spreek Nederlands?

Maturity has sometimes seemed like a multi-year project of coming to terms with all of the things I can't do, whether that means things I can't do well, or things I can't do at all. I can't sing. I can't write music. I'm terrible at chess. And when it came to woodworking I try to make up in spirit what I lack in talent, an approach that never seems to lead to right angles. Except for the singing, all of these conclusions are predated by another: I just have no talent for languages.

I realized this halfway through high school, after ten years of French Immersion had just made me nervous using any verb tense past the present. I tried to give that language another try by moving to Montreal, but it didn't work. Even my backup plan -- hoping a nice Québécois man would teach me both the language of love and the official language of his nation -- failed. 

Now I speak French in the same way that I can swim: I won't immediately die, but I can't do it for long. 

I also tried learning Russian in Montreal. I had hoped my Ukrainian DNA would kick in and help me speak the somewhat similar language of our oppressor, but I bailed after my second-year instructor made me cry. I did enjoy writing in Cyrillic though, and I've never forgotten the Russian words for the following things: refrigerator, drugstore, and the phrase "I am listening to the Billy Joel cassette tape." So it wasn't an entirely wasted effort, as long as I plan to visit Russia in the year 1987. 

And yet, I beat on. Now I'm trying to learn Dutch, which my employer reminded me was pointless, "since they all speak English anyway." He's not entirely wrong. Dan's grandparents emigrated from the Netherlands in the 1950s, but the extended family sometimes comes over to visit, bringing their fluent English and high foreheads [NOTE: "Everyone is't fluent, there are those too old to learn it, some that are learning it now and some haven't bothered at all!" -  Dan]. Even ignoring the lack of practical applications for Dutch (unless Canada feels like posting me as the ambassador to Suriname*), it's a difficult language to learn. 

But I'm enjoying it, in a way that I never did with the other languages. Perhaps it's because my interest is purely personal, and I don't feel like I'm trying to become a dynamic, valuable Young Worker in Canada's MarketTM, like I did with French. There is no pressure to learning Dutch. Instead, I can just enjoy the process of learning and forgetting and re-learning words, including those that sound amusing to my Anglo ears. Like pork: varkensvlees! I hope to be fluent enough to visit the Netherlands in a few years and Dutch my way through the country, even though I'm sure all the people I meet will answer my "Hoi!" with a perfectly inflected "Why, hello there."

*Government of Canada: I'm available and eager!

Pillow Blog: 80s Relationship Troika

In the tradition of the Sei Shonagon's Pillow Book, here's a Pillow Blog: an observational list on some subject or other.

Three perfect songs from the 1980s, arranged to form the story of an imaginary relationship:


Kate Bush, Hounds of Love (You fell in lust; "Oh, here I go! Don't let me go!")


New Order, Bizarre Love Triangle: (You're unsure; "Why can't we be ourselves like we were yesterday")


Womack and Womack, Teardrops: (You fucked it up; "And the music don't feel like it did when I felt it with you")

Domestic Monday: Comfort Socks and Gruited Beer

Let's burn a U-ie from my last post, and get back to lighter, happier topics. Like socks that will definitely fit. Or beer that's really quite good.

After Clifford the Big Red Hat, I needed something simple to get my knitting mojo back. Simple and quick--I have a pile of baby knitting to do, and those things (babies) come with a deadline. Socks were the obvious pick. I didn't start new ones though. There were so many lonely socks in my knitting basket, left single when I was too bored to knit them a mate, that I had to finish off at least one pair.

So here's Charade sock #2 for my mom. I've had the yarn for so long that I've forgotten the brand, much less the colourway. It knits up in a delightfully squishy way though, and that's all that matters.

I'm also feeling pretty positive about this week's beer. It's February, which means that Beau's has started to roll out their FeBREWary lineup. First up: the O.G. Original Gruit. As discussed last year, I love gruits, probably because I love herbal teas, Brio, and anything else that tastes like witch's brew. This one is particularly refreshing (so much carbonation!), with an aroma that reminded me of herbed grapefruit. I would definitely recommend getting a pint, particularly if it's going to be your first gruit. Just remember to do it before the next FeBREWary beer is tapped.

Ok, So You Want to Talk?

For two weeks of 2012, I fell out of this world and into another one. This was no fantasy novel, though. My new world wasn’t conducive to adventure; instead it was a perpetual waiting room, quarantined from time, like being in an existential play but hey, it was real life.

This was my life in the psych ward of a major city hospital.

We weren’t barred from interacting with the outside world. There were 24 hour cable news channels on the TV, and a desktop computer. They gave me my phone back eventually. But why bother to try and contact anyone? The outside world didn’t offer much for me. Our breakfast, lunch, and dinners would have come at the same time, on the same plastic dishes. My world would have still been circumscribed to a building floor. I told my job I was sick and the hospital wouldn’t let me leave, I told my family the rest of the truth, but otherwise I was checked out of the real world for two weeks.

I have kept very little from that time. Even the memories are beginning to go. I can’t remember the name of the form that the hospital kept me on, or the colours of the wristbands and how they related to privileges on the ward. Until I started writing this, I had forgotten the minor-key crush I had developed on someone there, out of what I can only assume was a combination of desperation and boredom. The memories I do have seem mostly funny now: trying to spear a slice of pork tenderloin with my fork because they wouldn’t let me have a knife; completing puzzle after puzzle in the break room; covering for someone I knew was smoking in the “reflection room” out of loyalty.

The physical evidence is even slighter. I threw out the paperwork, so now it’s just my hospital card and a mask. That mask isn’t metaphorical. It was just one of the many activities offered by the hospital so we could, I suppose, busy ourselves into sanity. I made something vaguely inspired by Cthulhu. It seemed appropriate, inside of a modern-day madhouse, to make a mask of a being who causes madness.

With a collection of memories and objects like this to remind me, it’s easy to forget it all. And yet, here comes #BellLetsTalk Day, to remind me every year that I’m more than just a headcase; I’m also a marketing tool!

So, let’s talk about #BellLetsTalk. I’ll start: I hate it. I hate that it dominates our national conversation for one day, causing my newsfeed to become bloated with endless retweets of trite sayings and quotes photoshopped onto Instagrammed photos. I hate that Bell wasted four letters of the official hashtag pushing its brand forward. And I hate that I have to justify my hatred. This year, I noticed more tweets than ever criticizing those who would criticize this day, often along these lines:

I'm sure that for each cynical tweet criticizing #BellLetsTalk, the tweeters are donating generously out of their own pockets. Right?
— Peter Moorhouse (@PeterMoorhouse) January 28, 2015

I dislike this kind of argument. In seeking to derail criticism, it turns what is just one type of support (in this case, financial) into the standard of engagement. Instead of responding to what someone is saying, it questions their commitment to even say it. So, in the interests of confounding these critics (and to regain the moral high ground of this piece) I donated $15.00 today. That’s not a lot, but I would have had to tweet #BellLetsTalk 300 times before Bell would pay out a similar sum.

Still, there are those I can’t ignore, or undercut with a donation; they are the people like me. The ones whose experiences were just like mine, or even worse, and who still like #BellLetsTalk. Many of them have powerful stories of how this day has helped them, that seeing all of those tweets and shares made them realize that they were not alone. I can’t criticize that, but I-the personal, highly subjective I- I still hate #BellLetsTalk.

I hate it for more than the corporate cynicism of Bell, a stronger cynicism than even the harshest anti-hashtag sentiment could contain. #BellLetsTalk reminds me of how angry I was, and remain, over this time. First: I did talk. Hours before I walked into an ER, I tried to talk with a friend about what I was going through. Instead of hearing that I was suffering from too little happiness, she seemed to hear that I had too much desire, that I wanted too much.

She wasn’t the only one I talked to either. Reactions differed. Sometimes people would change the subject and deflect it to something more manageable. My family, my lovely and supportive family, would just become exhausted by the obsessive mantras of my depression. I’m an ugly, stupid failure, I would say, disgusting, repulsive, unlovable. Uglystupiddisgusting. Unlovablerepulsivefailure. And on and on, until I could hear how tired they were on their end of the phone. Remembering all of this sometimes makes me angry; but sometimes it makes me feel grateful, for whatever these people tried to give me before I exhausted their energy and sympathy. A more honest version of #BellLetsTalk would also talk about how difficult these conversations can be for all parties.

And, finally: I am angriest at #BellLetsTalk for reminding me, with every hashtagged tweet in my timeline, of who I am now. That I don’t feel solidarity with the person muttering on the bus, but guilt and shame that I'll back away from them like everyone else.  #BellLetsTalk reminds me that I’m not a person who can find strength or creativity in this experience. Mad Pride marches will pass me by, because my madness almost killed me. And it probes into that place where I keep all the rage for what I lost. Going to the hospital probably saved me, but it changed me. I was tempered into something stronger, but at the cost of the ambitions and the spark belonging to the girl who checked herself in. I don't miss her misery. But I sometimes miss her.

So. Who wants to talk about that?

Domestic Tuesday: Bad Hat, Okay Beer

Remember the last time I checked in on my handiwork, and worried that my big red hat was turning into a big red bag? Well, I was right to worry:

This blurry photo is the only evidence I could bring myself to keep of Clifford the Big Red Hat. He's the perfect thing for those "Bad Face Days" we all have.

It doesn't matter how many times I knit a myself a muumuu instead of a pullover, or an oven mitt instead of a mitten. I'll never learn my lesson: KNIT A FRICKING GAUGE SWATCH!

Clifford-sized failures require high-ABV beers to forget, which is why I was probably doomed to be disappointed in this week's beer pick, Duggan's Sorachi Lager (no picture, unfortunately.) It's only 4%, and the package tells me it's a light beer, so I shouldn't shock anyone with the revelation that it's hardly a taste explosion. I had bought a six pack after going to Duggan's new brewpub with some friends. Both their Parkdale Bomber and Hefeweizen were quite good, but this one was just fine. Not bad, just alright, a light beer with a little bit of lemon thanks to the namesake hops. I think that I would enjoy it far more on a patio than in the depths of winter, and wearing a sundress instead of an alpaca face cozy.

Then again, almost everything would be better that way.

Books by the Numbers: How I Read My Way through 2014

You know how some football players put a sticker on their helmet for every sack they get? Well, if there was a reader equivalent-- I imagine it being quirky buttons on a Walrus tote bag --I would have 51 of them for 2014.

A selection of the books I read in 2014.

But my book kill count is just one number in my reading life. I thought I would look at other ways the books I read could be classified and counted; partly out of boredom, partly out of curiosity, but mostly because of an open spreadsheet on my computer with GoodReads on another tab.

Before quantifying these books, I would have described my reading life as "that of a lonely British man in the 1960s, quietly drinking a weak cup of tea." In particular terms, that would be mostly English (both in origin and language) and mostly male, with the works largely published before 1960. This year though I made a particular effort to read more works by women. Would this be the year an out and proud feminist (i.e. me) finally reached gender parity in her books?

Unfortunately, no. Only 22 of the books I read were by women, for a 43% XX rating. Though I'm doing well by my country--for every UK book, I read over 2.85 books from Canada. However, I remain firmly rooted in the Anglosphere. 80% of my books were from Canada, the UK, Ireland or the USA, but only two of these were translated from another language, French. Looking at the whole list, only 11 were originally published in another language.

I looked at genre (mostly literary fiction, probably because that genre is the miscellaneous drawer of the publishing world), and I looked at publisher. I found out that I read more books released in the same calendar year that I started reading them this year than ever before. And then I tried to quantify the racial diversity of the authors I read, before getting a real-word lesson in the fact that oh, hey, race is a social construct when I was debating how to classify an author based on a tweet of his I read once. Still, whatever White is, my list is That.

And so I've concluded that my reading list is a little more like me (white, female, Canadian) than I expected, but not as unlike me as I would have hoped, leaving me to wonder how that could change in 2015.

I could give myself targets. But I once made a list of 50 books I could read in the coming year, where I tried to collect as many books that were Canadian, written by women, and by racialized/people/of colour. The goal was to count it and find 25 books in each category; most of them needed to be all three for it to work and still leave room for the odd NYRB selection. Shamefully, only about ten things from that list were ever read. My reading habits can be pushed, but I found that I can't be quite that programmatic. My brain balks at the rules, and decides it wants to read something about shark attacks instead. Still, it's worth trying some sort of intention.

And then I should honestly answer the question of why it needed to be set at all.