The Fluffsters go to Toronto, eat too much

I’m back. Time to start writing again (December posts were lined up in advance so I could take a few weeks off). Brace yourself: I have lots of accumulated photos/ideas.

When we bought plane tickets four months in advance, life (i.e., the state of the pandemic) looked manageable. Booster shots were due any day, case and hospitalization numbers were down across Canada, and I’d visited friends I hadn’t seen in person since March 2020.

So Mr. Fluffster and I made Big Plans. We’d visit his mum and other relatives, as well as my sister and her family. Proposed a get-together with a Vancouver friend who’d be in Toronto at the same time. Bought tickets for Come From Away, and for a New Year’s Day “Live from the Met” opera (Cinderella) at a cinema. Even talked about eating out at restaurants.

Then Omicron hit. Gradually our Plan devolved. We would see only Mr. Fluffster’s mum, nobody else. Audience capacity for Come From Away was reduced to 50%, then the show was cancelled altogether. While we did make it to the opera, we were 3 of only 21 people in a theatre that can hold 300+. No intermission, no food or drinks, no removing masks (though, unsurprisingly, two bozos wore them at half-mast). But nobody sat near us, and we took an Uber back to my mother-in-law’s place to avoid transit crowds and get to dinner faster.

Despite all the constraints, we enjoyed ourselves. Our hotel (overlooking Gibson House Museum, see photo above) was comfortable and quiet, the weather better than expected (temperatures mostly at or above zero, with a bit of snow, just as I requested at the end of The Fluffsters break with tradition). The meals Mr. Fluffster’s mum served were delicious and plentiful.

Still reeling from the crowded plane and airports (more people than I’ve seen in two years!), I was apprehensive about transit. On our first day, we walked from our hotel to my mother-in-law’s place (an hour away) and took a packed bus back. For the next 8 or 9 days, we walked both ways. We only got lost once (that new smartphone proved useful). On the one day we didn’t visit, we walked down Yonge Street for two and a half hours (about 10 kilometres).

We took transit the last couple of days because temperatures plummeted, but buses were much less crowded after New Year’s Eve.

How did we spend our time? We ate. And ate. My mother-in-law’s dining principle is if you enjoy something, you must eat it in enormous quantities. She’d started cooking and freezing food months earlier (in her three freezers). Over the course of 10 days, she fed us homemade ravioli, gnocchi, ricotta/rice balls, eggplant parmigiana, vegetable soup (with chicken in Mr. Fluffster’s), roasted cauliflower/broccoli, cucumber salad, breadsticks, meatballs and lamb skewers, and Abruzzese fritti di patate (traditional fried potato rings with raisins and topped with sugar, which we had for lunch. Twice.) And for dessert: panettone, torrone, roasted almonds, sasamelli cookies, cheesecake, and Turtles (my mother-in-law’s favourite chocolates).* Also, lots of wine, Averna, and brandy as a “zip-zip” (her term for a tipple) to go with meals.

Mr. Fluffster joked that I was being treated like a second-class citizen because I got leftover ravioli whenever they ate meat. I wholeheartedly embraced second-class citizenship.

We persuaded my mother-in-law to let us order takeout once. We must have caught her at a weak moment, as she adamantly refused to consider it again, even though she enjoyed the food. She would have prepared/thawed even more meals if we hadn’t pointed out that her fridge wasn’t big enough for all the leftovers. Half the food she prepared for us remains in her freezers.

All but the ravioli and some sasamelli were gluten-free — quite an accomplishment for an 85-year-old who has used wheat flour her entire life. Mr. Fluffster had given her a heads-up about his new dietary limitation so she mastered preparing traditional favourites with gluten-free flour. The taste and quality far outranked store-bought options.

Most days, we’d have lunch soon after arriving, then lounge around digesting for a few hours before having dinner and waddling back to our hotel. I felt like a glutton (though that didn’t impair my appetite, of course).

When we got home, I stepped onto the scale, fearing the worst. I’d lost five pounds. Must have been all that walking. We may have to do this again.

* Panettone is an Italian sweetbread filled with dried fruit and raisins, torrone is nougat, and sasamelli are like biscotti but softer.

Seen in the wild

The pandemic has led me to better appreciate my immediate surroundings. I used to take photos of loved ones against whatever backdrop we happened to find ourselves in. Now I take just as many without people. Occasionally, they fuel blog post ideas.

While I review and quickly delete some photos, others merit commentary. Above, the view from Lonsdale Quay, late afternoon, while out for a walk with a friend (our first in-person get-together since March 2020). As we chatted, the sun suddenly broke from behind the clouds. We whipped out our devices simultaneously to capture the moment.

Above, a monkey puzzle tree in Vancouver, taken on a mid-November walk with Mr. Fluffster. When we first moved here from Ontario, a large one stood just outside our apartment. Never having seen one before, I found it peculiar.

Like cockroaches, these odd-looking trees have been around longer than humans have, and might even outlive us (if climate change doesn’t get them).

Botanically named “Araucaria Araucana,” they’re native to Chile, but were imported to the UK and western North America for ornamental purposes. The common name was born in the mid-1800s when Charles Austin, a barrister, on seeing one for the first time, quipped that “climbing the spiny, spiralling branches would be a puzzle even for a monkey.” Given that monkeys aren’t native to any of the countries these grow in, this isn’t an issue, but the name stuck.

Odd myth: “Speaking while passing one will bring bad luck or cause you to grow a monkey’s tail.” I’m waiting for my tail, because we talked a lot around this one while taking the photo and my luck hasn’t deteriorated since then.

Other locals have said pretty much all there is to say about the one above. Our Barge on the Beach:

• has its own livestream on YouTube,
• shows up — with directions — if you Google “Barge Vancouver” or “Barge Chilling Park,”
• has a new sign (Barge Chilling Beach) installed by the Vancouver Parks Board
• has inspired its own version of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, and
• boasts at least one Twitter account (English Bay Barge).

Authorities can’t figure out how to budge it from where it ran aground, and it’s fast becoming a much-loved Vancouver attraction. Seems a keeper to me.

This car, which wouldn’t look out of place in a 1970s movie, is parked near my home. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a black and white in BC, and we don’t have county sheriffs in Canada. Our sheriffs work in courthouses, not out on the road. No Andy Griffiths in our town.

I had some faint misgivings about the term “Redneck Mafia.” A quick Google search revealed a book (Barking Goats and the Redneck Mafia), a peculiar song from 2008 by Canadian Studmuffin, assorted dodgy looking Facebook pages, a fanfiction site, a YouTube channel with half a dozen videos about raising hell in muscle cars, and at least one Twitter feed.

One of these days, that car will mosey on out of here again, and that’s ok. I’d rather keep the barge.

Finally, I leave you with the above gem, spotted when opening an email from my service provider while out of range of WiFi or cellular. No, that word didn’t appear once the email fully loaded, but still. Whoever typed the metadata could use an editor… Or maybe Telus should have picked a less risqué name.

If, on the other hand, we take it at face value, that would mean Telus is concerned about the wellbeing of our private parts when we’re out and about.

Things keep falling on my head

Portrait of Ms. Fluffster's head by Danette Byatt

While reminiscing about home renovations past and present, it struck me how often things have fallen on my head throughout my life due to construction flaws.

The first time I remember was because of a shelf just out of my reach (a life-long issue). I was young, maybe 6 or 7, and helpfully making my own breakfast. I’d made toast slathered with honey and was returning the large honey jar to its shelf, well above my head. The loose-lidded jar slipped from my sticky fingers, sending a cascade of honey onto my noggin.

Chaos ensued. First into the kitchen was our dog, who began licking up the honey spreading across the floor. Then my mother, who marched me straight into the shower.

The dog lapped up too much honey and threw up. My brother tracked through it and spread honey all over the house. When my sister saw the dog vomiting, she threw up beside her. While my mother cleaned up, I was singing in the shower.

The next such incident came years later. As a young adult, I briefly worked in the insurance division of a bank in the Netherlands. I sat on one side of a table with several others seated across from me. Behind me was a row of metal cabinets, considerably taller than me, stuffed with shelf upon shelf of binders. All our work was stored in these.

When something struck and knocked my head and shoulders down onto the table, I assumed there’d been an earthquake, and peacefully waited for rescue amid the outcry going on around me. 

As it turned out, the cabinets hadn’t been secured to the wall, and one simply tipped over onto me, with all of the binders it contained flying over my head.

Though I was only a little stunned, and not seriously hurt, my employer went into overdrive. I was rushed to a doctor, examined, and then driven home and told to take the rest of the week off (with pay). Get well cards and flowers followed.

I felt no ill after effects, except for listing slightly to the right or left when walking for the next few days. I’d find myself smack up against the wall whenever I tried to walk down the middle of any hall. Rather disconcerting.

When I got back to work, the cabinets had all been bolted to the walls, and people I’d never met before introduced themselves to ask after my health. I was briefly famous. It was all rather fun.

The next instance was again at home. When we first moved into our current apartment, the kitchen contained a large home-made cabinet, with shelves above it. Because our kitchen table fit best in this space, we removed the cabinet. Assuming that the shelves were properly affixed to the wall, we left them there to store our jars of beans and flour.

As I stood on a ladder wiping shelves down, the entire structure suddenly collapsed.

Fortunately, it knocked me to the far side of the ladder and most shelves came down on the other. Mr. Fluffster came running at my shriek. It took him several days to recover from the sight of me on the floor surrounded by shelving (and the few jars I’d already positioned).

The shelves hadn’t been properly secured to the wall studs, and were supported only by the cabinet underneath. We never did replace them; that wall contains only framed pictures to this day.

My latest home misadventure was recent and involved our new LED kitchen light (above). As I stood at the counter preparing dinner, one of the screws securing the fixture to the ceiling suddenly pulled out of its anchor. The fixture swung off the ceiling to deliver a glancing blow to my head. Once again, shriek, Mr. Fluffster racing to the rescue, etc.

Fortunately, electrical wiring prevented the light fixture from crashing to the floor (and directly onto my head). It just swung down to one side, dangling next to me until Mr. Fluffster detached it from its mounting bracket (below, from both angles).

The Fluffster offspring arrived shortly after. He insisted I wear my bicycle helmet to finish making dinner, just in case the mounting bracket also fell off. I agreed, just to keep the peace.

The electrician returned, and with profuse apologies, re-secured the fixture to the ceiling with twice as many anchored screws as he’d used in the first place. It’s now there for life.

Moral of this story? My head can survive a lot, but maybe I should just stay out of kitchens and offices.

A visual interlude

Here’s a mostly visual post; first, some floral art to brighten your day from the third annual Fleurs de Villes Noël event in downtown Vancouver.

Next, a few photos from last year's event:

For more, check out the Galleries on the Fleurs de Ville site.

And last, on a more sombre note; a current art installation at the Vancouver Art Gallery — Offsite on Georgia Street: “Dusk Meridian” by Keith Langergraber, with a warning about the climate crisis.

Why keep doing it?

Every so often, something in our home needs replacing, and we get this wild impulse to renovate some or all of the room it lives in. This happens only after the last renovation has faded from memory, which takes years. But we always embark with enthusiasm and hope. You’d think we’d know better by now.

Renovations are harrowing one way or another. Each experience is unique — and wreaks havoc — in a whole new way. We’re going through one right now. I won’t write about that just yet, however; it’s not finished and I’d prefer to avoid profanity.

Our very first foray was new ceramic tile on a bathroom floor, installed by a handyman we found in the Yellow Pages.* He loudly cursed and banged his way through the job, then tried to leave us with a cracked ceramic tile — directly in front of the sink.

Pointing it out led to more cursing and banging, and left a replacement tile that sat half a centimetre above its neighbours. By then we were too sick of the loud cursing and banging to insist that he try again.

Every time I walked barefoot into that bathroom, I thought of that handyman.

Then there was the full kitchen renovation, undertaken because our cupboard doors were falling off, the counter duct-taped together, and the oven no longer working.

For several weeks our fridge stood in our living room alongside the microwave, the only appliance available to us for cooking. (Renovation costs precluded eating out.) I learned how to microwave pasta, and stretched the limits of our tolerance for canned food. “Beans or soup today?”

Plastic sheeting hung across doorways, which swished whenever you breathed anywhere nearby.

The tile backsplash behind the counter had to be redone because the first effort yielded crooked tiles and bulges. The vinyl floor had to be re-laid because the vinyl they used was badly discoloured. The contractor told us later that the worker who laid it wasn’t feeling well that day. We felt unwell too when we saw it. Someone else replaced it.

These misfires meant Mr. Fluffster had to convince the contractor of the obvious; replacement was essential (and shouldn’t cost more).

The Fluffster offspring and I didn’t get the worst of the experience, as he was in school and I was going out to work every day. We missed most of the chaos. Mr. Fluffster dealt with the planning and paperwork, workers traipsing in and out, and negotiations with the contractor. Happily for me, renovations have always been his responsibility.

One renovation experience that still rankles was the bathroom (tub, tiles, and toilet; see photo at the top of this post) that seemed to go reasonably well until the contractor finished and left. He’d forgotten to install the shower curtain bar. It was late Friday afternoon, so the earliest he could return was the following Monday. We were not happy.

I have more of these anecdotes, but this is enough for today. I need to pick my way through the current renovation detritus in the hallway to get to bed.

* The hard copy Yellow Pages that were delivered to everyone’s home once upon a time. You won’t remember those if you’re younger than a certain age.