February 4, 2009 by Barbara.

Reid was eating a raisin recently and she turned to me and said, “This is like a Craisin only made from a grape.” “In fact,” said I, “raisins came first and Craisins are just dried cranberries.” Reid didn’t look convinced. It goes to show how different the foods she has access to are from what I ate as a kid, I guess.

It also makes me think a bit of David, a guy in my MA class, who asked me once what pickles started out as. I’ve been conscious since Reid’s birth to take her berry and apple picking and to point out the crops growing in fields so that no one is still smirking about a question she asked 14 years after she asked it. Of course, David asked his question during the weekend I first met Ken and that special occasion might keep it in my mind.

Sometimes I regret telling Reid exactly where her food comes from, though. For instance, on the way to school yesterday, Reid was asking in the baby chick comes from ‘”this part” - the yolk if the hard-boiled that she was in the process of eating. Since I was planning to eat one myself later, I was blocking the thought as much as I could and gave a brief “Sort of” as an answer and talked about how chicks couldn’t hatch from the eggs in our fridge because they’d gotten cold and eggs needed to be kept warm by the hens sitting on them. And then, I asked Reid about school or something in a clever bid to distract her. Reid is not easily distracted, though, and while I hoped fervently for my car pool folks to be ready so that I could leave, Reid wondered if maybe we could hatch chicks by warming the eggs that were in the fridge. Ken explained that it was too late for that and, in an undertone, agreed that it was pretty nasty what we do to chicken babies. I have to agree that it would be if you thought about it. But if I thought about it or most other food choices, we’d have to be vegetarians. I don’t think Ken would like that much (okay, at all) and Reid would much rather be a carnivore than an herbivore, if she had to choose. Omnivore suits her best, really.

Or maybe I’ll check into Ottawa’s bylaws on backyard poultry. Raising chickens would be a fun summer project don’t you think? Amy at Crunchy Domestic Goddess has been down this road. I’d have to check to see if our current pet sitters would tend them, I suppose.

[Disclaimer: the views in this message have not been approved of or even reviewed by Ken. I come up with them all be myself.]

Update: The City of Ottawa prohibits the keeping of livestock within the city limits unless in specifically zoned areas. We have some obvious farm land still but not in my neighbourhood.

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February 4, 2009 by Barbara.

The Passport Office in downtown Ottawa opens at 7:30. I joined the line at 7:15 and was about 30th in line. The Government of Canada loves me so much that they provided benches that would accommodate at least 50 people all along where were waiting. The doors opened promptly at 7:30 and the Commissionaire offered a mild sort of stand up routine after explaining what would happen next. He told us about some troublesome clients and also a bit about taking his wife for a romantic dinner last night - at Subway. He was kind of funny, like your older brother being funny (hi, Chris and Roger) more than Eddie Murphy or Jerry Seinfeld. There were signs just outside the door to the passport office that advertise passport photo-taking at the dry cleaners in the basement (in case of trouble with the ones you brought, I guess) and another advertisement for a store that sells cruise wear. I admire the just-in-time advertising.

I finished at 7:58 and I’m on my way to work. If I accomplish nothing else today, I’ll have done this. ;+)

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February 4, 2009 by Barbara.

One night a while ago, I purchased a salad from Loblaws to go with the roast chicken that often finds its way into my cart on grocery night. (No, no, I didn’t cook the roast chicken but I’m flattered that you even wondered.) The salad in question had roasted sweet potatoes, sunflower seeds, cranberries and some kind of green leaves. I didn’t even offer any to Reid and Ken. Ken told me in the past that he considers sweet potatoes a once-a-year food and Reid pretty much projectile vomitted the first time I gave her sweet potatoes and has never developed a taste for them.

In any case, just as I was starting to eat the salad to which I’d treated myself, Reid told me not to eat it in a rather worried voice. She said, “It looks like food for the worms!” I could see why she say that. I tear open tea bags and sprinkle the leaves on the little bits of veggies that we give them. I don’t purée their food as the manual that came with the vermicomposter suggests I should but I do cut the bigger bits up. Such intensive food preparation seems a bit too much like pampering for worms, who are supposed to be part of our household’s waste management system rather than pets.

But I digress. I told Reid that she was under no obligation to share my salad. When she said that it looked “yucky,” I reminded her that it was rude to comment on other people’s food choices. Ken, in his secret, so-the-kid-doesn’t-hear voice, told me that he agreed with Reid. I’m said to say that the salad wasn’t as delicious as I’d imagined - too oily - and I’ve not had the opportunity to desensitize them to it’s appearance. I’ve got a Mediterranean vegetable stew in the crockpot for supper tonight. I hope it gets a better reception because the worms can’t possibly eat Reid and Ken’s shares.

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