Captain's bLog, Quarantine Edition: Week 2.
Remember that riddle about all the kits and cats in sacks that were (not) travelling to St. Ives? First time I heard it I was like, Why are all the cats in sacks?! Which was Not the Point, as things often are when you're a kid with lots of questions, so I never did learn how someone could be so cruel to 2,744 felines - not to mention this whole curious notion of multiple wives.
(And here I find myself again at Not the Point, but I usually make it to St. Ives eventually so just sit tight a while longer.)
I keep seeing family groups out my kitchen window, out doing their daily social distancing walks. It seems like people are huddling together more these days, as if the opposite of staying six feet away from others is never straying more than six feet from your isolation cohort. These tight jumbles of families out for walks - often with multiple kids, dogs, bicycles, wagons, strollers, and the occasional grandparent or two - keep reminding me of that old riddle. Rarely cats, never sacks, and modern society generally seems to frown upon keeping multiple wives, but still something about the little roving huddles of people and wheeled kid-transporters just has a 'kits, cats, sacks and wives' sort of energy to me.
I've been feeling a bit envious of these family huddle-walks I keep seeing. In all likelihood it's just that I haven't left my house for two weeks, but in my mind I've attributed it to wanting a slightly frenetic ball of family of my own to wander the neighbourhood with. It looks like fun, like they're a mild-mannered suburban posse of some sort. I can't wait until we're done quarantining so I can wrangle my family into daily walks. We have no pets, at least not in the typical sense, so to flesh out my own little walking gang I was thinking of bringing my sourdough starter along, and of course my hair, which is even wilder than usual since haircuts are no longer in the realm of the possible, plus washing and styling are, like, so two months ago. Bright side, should be easy enough to keep these pets on a socially-distant leash!
We're a bit of a socially-distant culture in the first place, but I've been thinking about just how weird it is to actively keep so far away from others - even adding physical barriers (masks, gloves, plexiglass dividers at tills, the occasional person sporting a full hazmat suit on the plane) to really drive the point home. I've decided to make a point of eye contact and friendly greetings as I navigate the new world order, just in case anyone is feeling lonely or shunned: It's not you, it's the Covid! (It's also really quite delightful to be able to interact confidently in the local language. How did I not appreciate this before?) Which in turn-in turn got me thinking: how long do you wager it'll be before there's a huge uptick in orgies?
(Don't worry - St. Ives is just up ahead!) What I mean by this is: humans fetishize the forbidden, and right now about the naughtiest thing you can do is be physically proximal to a bunch of other people. I had a prof who said that the first thing people did with photography was invent porn, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you the filthy things people have done with the internet, so I think it's well established that whatever humans think up, there is some immediate lizard brain instinct to try it naked. "Hey, y'know what would be really cool...?" Which I guess makes sense, since lizards are pretty naked.
Yup, I'd bet a shiny nickel that the next big thing is orgies, the pinnacle of naked multi-human close proximity. And because the next-most immediate lizard brain instinct humans have after trying something naked is to try and make money off of it, the only thing left for me to do with my genius insight is sort out how to invest in orgies - my RRSPs have taken a bit of a hit lately, and I want to get on this orgy train while the getting's good.
(Er, without necessarily getting on the orgy train, that is...)
Monday, April 27, 2020
Saturday, April 18, 2020
Lean On
Captain's bLog, Quarantine Edition:Week 1.
Soooo... have days always had this many hours in them?
Not complaining or anything, it just seems they've gone a bit leggy since we started quarantine. The closets are organized, the house is spotless, and I've been cooking up an absolute storm, but if the days keep on being this goddamn long I'm going to have to start facing down the scary household projects that I've been shirking for... well, forever. So far I've been able to fend off the looming guilt-projects by never stopping moving, but as the days stretch out ahead of me it seems I may not be able to keep up my marathon hand-waving busy-dance indefinitely. At some point I'm going to have to put down my spatula and delve into the dark side of things: Updating my will. Facing the fact that I have not had time for art or crafts for years, yet have still somehow been accumulating supplies that are now beckoning me from their Rubbermaid purgatory. Gawd forbid, organizing the basement.
And so much more.
How many times in my life have I wished for more hours in the day? Well, now here they are, all in a big-ass row and staring me down expectantly. You called? Uh, yeah, sortof, but where were you needy bastards when I was attending university with a toddler? When I was working 60+ hours a week with two kids at home? Heck, even during the good times when I would have loved to linger over a conversation or a sunset or a much-needed vacation, but couldn't? It's not fair for you all to show up now that I have my shit (more or less) together and expect to be attended to in a meaningful way!
So, fuck it: I am officially leaning in - to leaning out. Eat that, Sheryl Sandberg. (Or at least eat some of this mountain of goodies I've baked? Please?) I'm going with the flow of board games and backlogged magazine subscriptions that have been defining my days lately. Maybe I'll get dressed, maybe I'll wear pyjamas, but I am damn well not going to work out either way.
If I get around to the basement, that's cool; if not, meh. After all, if the epidemiologists have it right, I'll get another stab at forced free time again sometime in my life.
And the basement will always be there, but this new cake recipe is not gonna bake itself.
Soooo... have days always had this many hours in them?
Not complaining or anything, it just seems they've gone a bit leggy since we started quarantine. The closets are organized, the house is spotless, and I've been cooking up an absolute storm, but if the days keep on being this goddamn long I'm going to have to start facing down the scary household projects that I've been shirking for... well, forever. So far I've been able to fend off the looming guilt-projects by never stopping moving, but as the days stretch out ahead of me it seems I may not be able to keep up my marathon hand-waving busy-dance indefinitely. At some point I'm going to have to put down my spatula and delve into the dark side of things: Updating my will. Facing the fact that I have not had time for art or crafts for years, yet have still somehow been accumulating supplies that are now beckoning me from their Rubbermaid purgatory. Gawd forbid, organizing the basement.
And so much more.
How many times in my life have I wished for more hours in the day? Well, now here they are, all in a big-ass row and staring me down expectantly. You called? Uh, yeah, sortof, but where were you needy bastards when I was attending university with a toddler? When I was working 60+ hours a week with two kids at home? Heck, even during the good times when I would have loved to linger over a conversation or a sunset or a much-needed vacation, but couldn't? It's not fair for you all to show up now that I have my shit (more or less) together and expect to be attended to in a meaningful way!
So, fuck it: I am officially leaning in - to leaning out. Eat that, Sheryl Sandberg. (Or at least eat some of this mountain of goodies I've baked? Please?) I'm going with the flow of board games and backlogged magazine subscriptions that have been defining my days lately. Maybe I'll get dressed, maybe I'll wear pyjamas, but I am damn well not going to work out either way.
If I get around to the basement, that's cool; if not, meh. After all, if the epidemiologists have it right, I'll get another stab at forced free time again sometime in my life.
And the basement will always be there, but this new cake recipe is not gonna bake itself.
Wednesday, April 15, 2020
Olive Wah!
Captain's bLog: 27 & 28 weeks.
(Surely even Picard missed the occasional stardate, right? Don't judge me.)
We decided to come home early to allow time to quarantine, and had a whirlwind last couple of weeks on our grand tour. Unlike many folks as of late, we had no trouble getting home, which I was honestly a bit sad about as I would have been happy to extend our final leg in the Netherlands indefinitely: Whaaaat, flights cancelled again? Welp, guess I'll just have to suffer this beautiful, cheery, cheese-eating and bike-riding country a little longer! Drat!
Small Fry, on the other hand, was thrilled to come home. He immediately ran to hug Medium Fry and reacquaint himself with his stuffed animals, with a brief stop along the way to huff the upstairs bathroom cupboard because he missed its "slightly musty smell." Ah, the comforts (and smells) of home! He has been plotting for months how we would all play board games together, and we have indeed had family games night every night since returning home... and most mornings and afternoons, too. He knows I have a particular weakness for Scrabble and has taken to shaking the tile bag like cat treats to entice me to the kitchen table. He's not all that great at Scrabble yet - it takes real commitment to train your kids into worthwhile opponents - so with all my "help" it's really more like I'm playing against myself, but I don't mind. It's all part of the training. Small Fry is as sore a winner as he is a loser (envision whatever the opposite is of crying onto one's Monopoly money), so I have to be careful not to beat myself at Scrabble or else I'd never hear the end of his gloating. It came dangerously close the other day - 314 to 311 - and even then he was boasting to Medium Fry about how he almost beat me. (Yep, it definitely defies logic, but whatever keeps him shaking the treats bag on the reg, y'know?)
Small Fry has quantified his Happiness to be Home at 90%, and to be honest I suspect he's faking the 10% Sad to be Done Our Trip for DH's and my benefit because we are obviously still in mourning over it. Grieving aside, I do have to admit that it's pretty great to not be wearing my travel wardrobe any longer, and to have access to my full suite of kitchen tools and pantry items again. I haven't huffed the cupboards, but it's been nice to burn my favourite incense and wear my favourite scents. My hair is - well, it's at least behaving in a low-humidity way that I'm familiar with. And when I can go to the store again, I will relish being able to understand what the hell I'm buying; in fact, I'm finding being able to communicate with better fluency than a crazed toddler in day to day life to be a massive relief. In short, everything is easy and familiar here, in so many ways. So I'm not sure that it's quite what I'd call good to be back, but it sure is comfortable, which has an undeniable charm of its own.
DH and I have already started plotting when we can do something like this again, and we're full of grand ideas about how we'll do it even smarter and better next time (Step 1: no pandemics allowed). Until then, we bid a fond farewell - or as Small Fry says, Olive wah! - to the wonderful places we visited. Perhaps we'll meet again one day!
(Surely even Picard missed the occasional stardate, right? Don't judge me.)
We decided to come home early to allow time to quarantine, and had a whirlwind last couple of weeks on our grand tour. Unlike many folks as of late, we had no trouble getting home, which I was honestly a bit sad about as I would have been happy to extend our final leg in the Netherlands indefinitely: Whaaaat, flights cancelled again? Welp, guess I'll just have to suffer this beautiful, cheery, cheese-eating and bike-riding country a little longer! Drat!
Small Fry, on the other hand, was thrilled to come home. He immediately ran to hug Medium Fry and reacquaint himself with his stuffed animals, with a brief stop along the way to huff the upstairs bathroom cupboard because he missed its "slightly musty smell." Ah, the comforts (and smells) of home! He has been plotting for months how we would all play board games together, and we have indeed had family games night every night since returning home... and most mornings and afternoons, too. He knows I have a particular weakness for Scrabble and has taken to shaking the tile bag like cat treats to entice me to the kitchen table. He's not all that great at Scrabble yet - it takes real commitment to train your kids into worthwhile opponents - so with all my "help" it's really more like I'm playing against myself, but I don't mind. It's all part of the training. Small Fry is as sore a winner as he is a loser (envision whatever the opposite is of crying onto one's Monopoly money), so I have to be careful not to beat myself at Scrabble or else I'd never hear the end of his gloating. It came dangerously close the other day - 314 to 311 - and even then he was boasting to Medium Fry about how he almost beat me. (Yep, it definitely defies logic, but whatever keeps him shaking the treats bag on the reg, y'know?)
Small Fry has quantified his Happiness to be Home at 90%, and to be honest I suspect he's faking the 10% Sad to be Done Our Trip for DH's and my benefit because we are obviously still in mourning over it. Grieving aside, I do have to admit that it's pretty great to not be wearing my travel wardrobe any longer, and to have access to my full suite of kitchen tools and pantry items again. I haven't huffed the cupboards, but it's been nice to burn my favourite incense and wear my favourite scents. My hair is - well, it's at least behaving in a low-humidity way that I'm familiar with. And when I can go to the store again, I will relish being able to understand what the hell I'm buying; in fact, I'm finding being able to communicate with better fluency than a crazed toddler in day to day life to be a massive relief. In short, everything is easy and familiar here, in so many ways. So I'm not sure that it's quite what I'd call good to be back, but it sure is comfortable, which has an undeniable charm of its own.
DH and I have already started plotting when we can do something like this again, and we're full of grand ideas about how we'll do it even smarter and better next time (Step 1: no pandemics allowed). Until then, we bid a fond farewell - or as Small Fry says, Olive wah! - to the wonderful places we visited. Perhaps we'll meet again one day!
Wednesday, March 25, 2020
Student Teacher
Captain's bLog: 26 weeks.
Lesson planning is a lot like meal planning.
I should clarify that this is in relation to the "home cook" only; I recognize that my experience with a single, fairly unfussy "diner" is a far cry from more industrial-sized applications. But at the scale of the home cook/teacher, I find there are a lot of parallels:
Specialization. I used to have this friend who managed to singe her eyebrows off every time she lit the barbeque, in memory of which I have assigned all grilling of things to DH. He also likes to roast things, puree things, and do my sous cheffery for me. My specialties include baking, soup wizardry, freezer management, and a savant-level ability to sense the right size of container to use for leftovers. From a homeschooling perspective, ELA, art, French, and basically anything requiring patience or enthusiasm (real or manufactured) fall to me.
Balance. I would happily have pastries/art class for breakfast, burgers/creative writing for lunch and perogies/biology for dinner every single day, buuuuut it's my job to be a responsible grown-up and make sure we get all our nutrients/subjects in, and that everyone's favourites are cycled through.
Leftovers. I'm definitely counting on having leftovers, even as I nag Small Fry to focus on finishing his schoolwork/dinner. Sweet, that'll get us through lunchtime tomorrow!
Enthusiasm. Bursts of utter planning genius. May be accompanied by delusions of viable alternate career paths.
Planning fatigue. Like, I have to do this every day?
Repetition 1. I wonder how many times I can rework this idea without anyone noticing...
Repetition 2. They've definitely noticed. I wonder how many times I can rework this idea without absolute mutiny?
Repetition 3. MUTINEERS WILL BE CRUSHED.
Marital conflict. Yes.
Lack of appreciation. Oh, all my care and planning and hard work wasn't to your liking today, Highness? It's not up to your refined tastes or something? Well, feel free to make your own goddamn...
Attitude adjustment. ...Yeah, sometimes the problem is me.
So, yeah. That's about it. When I started writing this I thought I might have something useful to offer the newly (abruptly) homeschooling families I know, but I've been meal planning for fifteen years or so and homeschooling for seven months, and looking at this post it seems all I can tell you for sure is that I cycle through a lot of very comparable mixed feelings about both things. I'd call it a love/hate thing, but it's more like love/fatigue - turns out I really enjoy homeschooling, I'm just a lazy slug who can't be arsed half the time. Or maybe I can only be whole-arsed, half the time...?
Anyway, it's nearly dinnertime here so I'm off to rustle up some nutritional balance after a hard day of fostering Small Fry's educational balance. It feels like a mostly-whole-arse kind of day so I'll throw in some extra veggies as insurance against my lesser self, whenever she turns up.
Lesson planning is a lot like meal planning.
I should clarify that this is in relation to the "home cook" only; I recognize that my experience with a single, fairly unfussy "diner" is a far cry from more industrial-sized applications. But at the scale of the home cook/teacher, I find there are a lot of parallels:
Specialization. I used to have this friend who managed to singe her eyebrows off every time she lit the barbeque, in memory of which I have assigned all grilling of things to DH. He also likes to roast things, puree things, and do my sous cheffery for me. My specialties include baking, soup wizardry, freezer management, and a savant-level ability to sense the right size of container to use for leftovers. From a homeschooling perspective, ELA, art, French, and basically anything requiring patience or enthusiasm (real or manufactured) fall to me.
Balance. I would happily have pastries/art class for breakfast, burgers/creative writing for lunch and perogies/biology for dinner every single day, buuuuut it's my job to be a responsible grown-up and make sure we get all our nutrients/subjects in, and that everyone's favourites are cycled through.
Leftovers. I'm definitely counting on having leftovers, even as I nag Small Fry to focus on finishing his schoolwork/dinner. Sweet, that'll get us through lunchtime tomorrow!
Enthusiasm. Bursts of utter planning genius. May be accompanied by delusions of viable alternate career paths.
Planning fatigue. Like, I have to do this every day?
Repetition 1. I wonder how many times I can rework this idea without anyone noticing...
Repetition 2. They've definitely noticed. I wonder how many times I can rework this idea without absolute mutiny?
Repetition 3. MUTINEERS WILL BE CRUSHED.
Marital conflict. Yes.
Lack of appreciation. Oh, all my care and planning and hard work wasn't to your liking today, Highness? It's not up to your refined tastes or something? Well, feel free to make your own goddamn...
Attitude adjustment. ...Yeah, sometimes the problem is me.
So, yeah. That's about it. When I started writing this I thought I might have something useful to offer the newly (abruptly) homeschooling families I know, but I've been meal planning for fifteen years or so and homeschooling for seven months, and looking at this post it seems all I can tell you for sure is that I cycle through a lot of very comparable mixed feelings about both things. I'd call it a love/hate thing, but it's more like love/fatigue - turns out I really enjoy homeschooling, I'm just a lazy slug who can't be arsed half the time. Or maybe I can only be whole-arsed, half the time...?
Anyway, it's nearly dinnertime here so I'm off to rustle up some nutritional balance after a hard day of fostering Small Fry's educational balance. It feels like a mostly-whole-arse kind of day so I'll throw in some extra veggies as insurance against my lesser self, whenever she turns up.
Thursday, March 19, 2020
Drums, Drums in the Deep
Captain's bLog: 25 weeks.
About a week ago the government of Canada issued a statement asking - politely - for Canadians abroad to come home due to the Covid pandemic. On the same day, the travelling contingent of our family came down with a bad case of either food poisoning or 'stomach flu' - we have no formal diagnosis so I'm just going to call it IDP, shorthand for intestinal demonic possession, which I hope tells you everything you need to know about our symptoms. We are now seven days into our collective bout of IDP and while the demon ranks seem to have thinned, they have not been driven out entirely.
Oh yes, and Small Fry developed a persistent (probably unrelated to intestinal demons) dry cough around Day 3 of the siege.
So what I'm saying is, we aren't going anywhere anytime soon. We have made what we feel to be the most socially responsible decision possible under the circumstances, and elected to self-quarantine in place in Portugal rather than trying to travel back to Canada. We've rented an absolutely stunning home near the ocean, with a private rooftop terrace and solar-heated pool, a Nintendo classic to help while away the long hours of quarantine, and three beautiful bathrooms so we can all violently expunge our demons simultaneously - no lineups! All for the exclusive pandemic price of €60 per night.
In case you're now worried about our health due to IDP rather than Covid, please note that I really do think we're on the mend. We're off of the rice cakes and chicken broth and back to eating "real" food - which the demons are still battling, mind you, although not quite so vigorously as a few days ago - and while we are still weak and tired, we're feeling cheerier and moving around a bit more. DH even made a joke this morning, which I actually had the energy to laugh at, which nearly caused me to shit my pants, but which I didn't do because I was right beside one of our three, blissfully unoccupied bathrooms at the time - win! (See what I mean? Three people who should definitely not be on an airplane right now.)
Basically, all the pieces are in place for us to have the best quarantine ever. We have the time, we have the means, and we have this sweet, sweetvacation staycation quaran-cation rental to do it all in style. We even have quarantine friends now: our French neighbours the next terrace over! We just met them this morning. Actually only one of them - the husband stuck his head over the terrace wall to say bonjour. (Yes, I realise my standards for declaring friendship have lowered substantially after six months of hardly interacting with other people, but trust me - this time it's for real.) They are also travellers who are self-quarantining in place, and they want to get together sometime, which seems like an endearingly French thing to want to do while in quarantine.
I wonder if it's considered good etiquette to bring your own wine glass to a quarantine date...? This seems like just the type of question the French would know the answer to, so I will be sure to let you all know as soon as we find out.
Be well.
About a week ago the government of Canada issued a statement asking - politely - for Canadians abroad to come home due to the Covid pandemic. On the same day, the travelling contingent of our family came down with a bad case of either food poisoning or 'stomach flu' - we have no formal diagnosis so I'm just going to call it IDP, shorthand for intestinal demonic possession, which I hope tells you everything you need to know about our symptoms. We are now seven days into our collective bout of IDP and while the demon ranks seem to have thinned, they have not been driven out entirely.
Oh yes, and Small Fry developed a persistent (probably unrelated to intestinal demons) dry cough around Day 3 of the siege.
So what I'm saying is, we aren't going anywhere anytime soon. We have made what we feel to be the most socially responsible decision possible under the circumstances, and elected to self-quarantine in place in Portugal rather than trying to travel back to Canada. We've rented an absolutely stunning home near the ocean, with a private rooftop terrace and solar-heated pool, a Nintendo classic to help while away the long hours of quarantine, and three beautiful bathrooms so we can all violently expunge our demons simultaneously - no lineups! All for the exclusive pandemic price of €60 per night.
In case you're now worried about our health due to IDP rather than Covid, please note that I really do think we're on the mend. We're off of the rice cakes and chicken broth and back to eating "real" food - which the demons are still battling, mind you, although not quite so vigorously as a few days ago - and while we are still weak and tired, we're feeling cheerier and moving around a bit more. DH even made a joke this morning, which I actually had the energy to laugh at, which nearly caused me to shit my pants, but which I didn't do because I was right beside one of our three, blissfully unoccupied bathrooms at the time - win! (See what I mean? Three people who should definitely not be on an airplane right now.)
Basically, all the pieces are in place for us to have the best quarantine ever. We have the time, we have the means, and we have this sweet, sweet
I wonder if it's considered good etiquette to bring your own wine glass to a quarantine date...? This seems like just the type of question the French would know the answer to, so I will be sure to let you all know as soon as we find out.
Be well.
Wednesday, March 11, 2020
The Traveller's Prayer
Captain's bLog: 24 weeks.
When I was 19 or so, two of my friends went travelling around Europe together. They came back with many stories, but what I remember most vividly is that they joked about experiencing terrible constipation in France "from all the cheese." Despite being a bit of a cheese fiend myself (okay, mostly just cheddar - at least at that point) I had never heard of cheese-induced constipation before, and it seemed pretty bananas to me. Like, just how much cheese does one need to eat to suffer weeks of constipation? What are you even doing with all that cheese?
I've long since lost touch with those gals, but I was thinking of them a lot as we planned our trip. Mostly to the tune of, 'I can't believe I am getting to do this thing that was practically unimaginable to me back then,' but when we got to France the ease with which one might overindulge on cheese truly hit me. I remembered my friends' story, and suddenly everything clicked: cheese is everywhere, and practising moderation while travelling is, like, really hard and sucky. Traveller's cheestipation is basically a foregone conclusion.
Constantly exercising restraint has been one of the hardest things about this trip. We want to immerse ourselves in our temporary homes, and a huge part of that is food! New foods, iconic foods, culturally significant foods, foods you think you already know but then you take one bite of a homemade lasagna in a little Tuscan hilltop town and realise your entire life has been a lie (I swear I heard someone welcome me to the matrix when I bit into that lasagna). All the foods! But several months of travelling is not the same beast as a ten-day jaunt, so we've really had to pace our culinary immersion... and then check our waistbands and pace anew. To be honest we started out doing a pretty shit job of restraining and were swiftly punished by having to buy Small Fry an entirely new wardrobe. (If I could offer one piece of travel advice, it would be to avoid at all costs the need to acquire "husky" kids' clothing in France. I shudder at the memory.)
Our current pacing seems to be working well, though. DH has even had to tighten his belt a notch, which is frankly one of his more irritating habits but I'm trying to let it slide. The only thing is, with all the pandemic madness going on, I'd just like to know all my admirable restraint isn't going to waste, y'know? I feel this particularly keenly in the mornings as I gaze out over the Tagus estuary with my daily pastel de nata and coffee, aka the world's second-most perfect breakfast; the MOST-most perfect breakfast being eating those fuckers 'til I pop. Estuary optional.
So I offer this small prayer each day to the gods of coffee-and-pastry-for-breakfast (if anything deserves its own department it's that, right?):
Dear divine spirits, if I am going to die of the Covid please let me know well in advance so I can eat truly unreasonable quantities of these tarts without having to worry about buying husky ladies' clothing in France.
Amen.
When I was 19 or so, two of my friends went travelling around Europe together. They came back with many stories, but what I remember most vividly is that they joked about experiencing terrible constipation in France "from all the cheese." Despite being a bit of a cheese fiend myself (okay, mostly just cheddar - at least at that point) I had never heard of cheese-induced constipation before, and it seemed pretty bananas to me. Like, just how much cheese does one need to eat to suffer weeks of constipation? What are you even doing with all that cheese?
I've long since lost touch with those gals, but I was thinking of them a lot as we planned our trip. Mostly to the tune of, 'I can't believe I am getting to do this thing that was practically unimaginable to me back then,' but when we got to France the ease with which one might overindulge on cheese truly hit me. I remembered my friends' story, and suddenly everything clicked: cheese is everywhere, and practising moderation while travelling is, like, really hard and sucky. Traveller's cheestipation is basically a foregone conclusion.
Constantly exercising restraint has been one of the hardest things about this trip. We want to immerse ourselves in our temporary homes, and a huge part of that is food! New foods, iconic foods, culturally significant foods, foods you think you already know but then you take one bite of a homemade lasagna in a little Tuscan hilltop town and realise your entire life has been a lie (I swear I heard someone welcome me to the matrix when I bit into that lasagna). All the foods! But several months of travelling is not the same beast as a ten-day jaunt, so we've really had to pace our culinary immersion... and then check our waistbands and pace anew. To be honest we started out doing a pretty shit job of restraining and were swiftly punished by having to buy Small Fry an entirely new wardrobe. (If I could offer one piece of travel advice, it would be to avoid at all costs the need to acquire "husky" kids' clothing in France. I shudder at the memory.)
Our current pacing seems to be working well, though. DH has even had to tighten his belt a notch, which is frankly one of his more irritating habits but I'm trying to let it slide. The only thing is, with all the pandemic madness going on, I'd just like to know all my admirable restraint isn't going to waste, y'know? I feel this particularly keenly in the mornings as I gaze out over the Tagus estuary with my daily pastel de nata and coffee, aka the world's second-most perfect breakfast; the MOST-most perfect breakfast being eating those fuckers 'til I pop. Estuary optional.
So I offer this small prayer each day to the gods of coffee-and-pastry-for-breakfast (if anything deserves its own department it's that, right?):
Dear divine spirits, if I am going to die of the Covid please let me know well in advance so I can eat truly unreasonable quantities of these tarts without having to worry about buying husky ladies' clothing in France.
Amen.
Monday, March 9, 2020
The Best Medicine
Captain's bLog: 23 weeks.
Beneath Small Fry's typically tweenaged exterior lies the heart of a raging hypochondriac. Probably slightly arrhythmic, or at least that's what he would have you believe.
I say this as he weeps on the couch with fear of going to bed and never waking up again, due to secondary drowning. Never mind his distinct lack of primary drowning lately; it's the secondary drowning that he's concerned about. I am tough - oh, so tough - but I burst out laughing when he told me why he was upset, which only added insult to injury and now he probably hopes to secondary-drown on his own tears just to get back at me.
But oh my gawd, this kid. How could I not laugh? It reminds me of when he learned about Terry Fox in Grade One and came down with all manner of toe, foot and leg cancers for months afterward. I don't even know where the secondary drowning came from - maybe he overheard me say something in passing to DH? Normally we're quite careful about mentioning any illness or disease around Small Fry; y'know, after his big cancer scare and all.
Oh yes, he also makes me check his hair for lice all the time. (Honestly, probably not the worst idea, but still.)
As you can surely imagine, he is quite distraught over Covid-19 these days. I was showing him a neat chart about the kinds of pathogens alcohol-based hand sanitizer is effective against (in an attempt to assuage his fears about not always having access to soap and water) when he noticed poliovirus on the chart and I had to interrupt myself with an emergency broadcast: BE ADVISED THAT YOU DO NOT HAVE POLIO. I REPEAT, PLEASE DO NOT WORRY ABOUT POLIO, I WILL DEFINITELY LAUGH AT YOU IF YOU DO. Since the Covid has become A Whole Damn Thing we've talked at length about immune systems, hygiene measures, relative vs. absolute risk, vaccine development, media reporting of science, and so on and so forth. Mostly while I'm checking his hair for lice.
Pro: potential epidemiologist in the family! Con: OCD is more common than epidemiologists.
Pro: the child has never had a cavity. Con: he's very young to be so... weirdly old.
Pro: he lacks the means to stockpile toilet paper (WHY oh why are we stockpiling toilet paper, people?). Con: he probably would if he could.
I guess I'll end this by wishing everyone safety, and sanity, and all the toilet paper your heart (?) desires, in these trying times. May your apples keep the doctors away, and may the odds be ever in your favour.
Beneath Small Fry's typically tweenaged exterior lies the heart of a raging hypochondriac. Probably slightly arrhythmic, or at least that's what he would have you believe.
I say this as he weeps on the couch with fear of going to bed and never waking up again, due to secondary drowning. Never mind his distinct lack of primary drowning lately; it's the secondary drowning that he's concerned about. I am tough - oh, so tough - but I burst out laughing when he told me why he was upset, which only added insult to injury and now he probably hopes to secondary-drown on his own tears just to get back at me.
But oh my gawd, this kid. How could I not laugh? It reminds me of when he learned about Terry Fox in Grade One and came down with all manner of toe, foot and leg cancers for months afterward. I don't even know where the secondary drowning came from - maybe he overheard me say something in passing to DH? Normally we're quite careful about mentioning any illness or disease around Small Fry; y'know, after his big cancer scare and all.
Oh yes, he also makes me check his hair for lice all the time. (Honestly, probably not the worst idea, but still.)
As you can surely imagine, he is quite distraught over Covid-19 these days. I was showing him a neat chart about the kinds of pathogens alcohol-based hand sanitizer is effective against (in an attempt to assuage his fears about not always having access to soap and water) when he noticed poliovirus on the chart and I had to interrupt myself with an emergency broadcast: BE ADVISED THAT YOU DO NOT HAVE POLIO. I REPEAT, PLEASE DO NOT WORRY ABOUT POLIO, I WILL DEFINITELY LAUGH AT YOU IF YOU DO. Since the Covid has become A Whole Damn Thing we've talked at length about immune systems, hygiene measures, relative vs. absolute risk, vaccine development, media reporting of science, and so on and so forth. Mostly while I'm checking his hair for lice.
Pro: potential epidemiologist in the family! Con: OCD is more common than epidemiologists.
Pro: the child has never had a cavity. Con: he's very young to be so... weirdly old.
Pro: he lacks the means to stockpile toilet paper (WHY oh why are we stockpiling toilet paper, people?). Con: he probably would if he could.
I guess I'll end this by wishing everyone safety, and sanity, and all the toilet paper your heart (?) desires, in these trying times. May your apples keep the doctors away, and may the odds be ever in your favour.
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