Kate of Late

He’ll take the high road if they’ll take the low road

NEWS ITEM: According to the Guardian News Service, Charles, Prince of Wales, is tightening his belt. The Royal once reputed to have his valet squirt his toothpaste onto his toothbrush for him has even stooped to wearing the same outfits several times. Charles has also cut down on his use of electricity and is apparently doing his part for his country by vacationing at his estate in Scotland rather than in more exotic locales.

SCENE: A dark, damp groundskeeper’s cottage in the Scottish highlands, fuelled by a peat fire and lit by kerosene lamps. Several freshly killed rabbits dangle from hooks on the wall over an old table, on which are splayed an assortment of grimy just-plucked vegetables -- several leeks and three potatoes. A tall 60-year-old man, Charles, dressed in a dusty top hat and rather snug tails, sits on a wooden chair, awkwardly attempting to pare a fourth potato with an old knife. A second Man stands across from him, hands twitching, trying to contain his criticisms of Charles’s technique.

 

MAN: Your Highness, if I may…

CHARLES: (Fumbling absently with the paring knife) In these less flamboyant times, Jeeves, you may simply call me “Highness.” Or “Duke of Rothesay.” Or “Duke of Cornwall.”

MAN: Yes, er, Highness.

CHARLES: And may I continue to call you Jeeves?

MAN: Certainly, Highness, although in truth, my name is Anthony.

CHARLES: (Greatly surprised) Is it? But haven’t I always called you ‘Jeeves’?

ANTHONY: Yes, Highness, you call all your manservants ‘Jeeves.’ Perhaps you find it simpler to refer to every one of us by the same name.

CHARLES: Not at all, Anthony! I thought it was an amazing coincidence that wherever I went, all of you were named Jeeves! Well, the things one discovers when one gets off one’s polo horse and mucks about, eh?

ANTHONY: Indeed, Highness.

CHARLES: (Indicating the potato) I say, Anthony, how do you get the, er, hair and whatnot off this monstrous carbuncle?

ANTHONY: (Eagerly) Shall I give you a hand, Highness?

CHARLES: Yes -- but don’t do it for me, old man. Just show me how. Soon Camilla and I may be forced to, as it were, ‘fend for ourselves’! ‘Live as the common folk do’! ‘Break daily bread,’ and, er, you know …

ANTHONY: (While deftly paring the potato) Cook, Highness?

CHARLES: Yes, that’s it. Like cavemen and other primitives have for, well, ages, I suppose. I did rather think Camilla might already know how, but she claims she can’t even harden up one of those elliptical things, you know, those damnably brittle white ones --

ANTHONY: An egg, Highness? She can’t boil an egg?

CHARLES: Yes! Shocking, isn’t it? She can wrench a burr from the haunch of a bucking horse with her teeth, but when it comes to, er, whatzit…

ANTHONY: Cook-ing, Highness?
CHARLES: (Brushing dirt ineffectively off a leek and growing irritated) Oh, do stop calling me ‘Highness’! ‘Sir’ is fine.

ANTHONY: Certainly, sir.

CHARLES: At any rate, Anthony, the Duchess of Rothesay and I are, er, ‘downsizing.’ We’re seriously thinking of moving permanently into simpler digs. Like this -- this cottage would work, wouldn’t it?

ANTHONY: Well, sir, yes, of course. Only --

CHARLES: (Curtly) Out with it, Jeeves -- I mean, Anthony!

ANTHONY: Er, only somebody already lives here.

CHARLES: Ah! Really? Who?

ANTHONY: The groundskeeper, sir.

CHARLES: Anthony, this is why I’m the Prince of Wales and you’re a serf, or whatever we call you now. You see, if we downsize, and sell off our mansionhouse here at Birkhall Estate, we’ll have no need for the groundskeeper.

ANTHONY: I suppose not, sir. But what shall Brownleigh do for a living then, sir? His family has served yours for hundreds of years.

CHARLES: You mean his name isn’t Jeeves either? Zounds! Oh, honestly, Anthony, I can’t be thinking about such drivel as Brownleigh’s daily comings and goings. I have my landscape painting to preoccupy me -- should I fill the sky with seven clouds, or just use one? -- that sort of thing. And there’s my abiding interest in illusionism -- I’m a member of the Magic Circle, you know. That requires constant practice, Jeeves.

ANTHONY: Will you be getting rid of all your staff here in Scotland, sir?

CHARLES: Well, we might keep a gardener. I must maintain the organic vegetable garden and that Jeeves is awfully good.

ANTHONY: You mean McAdams, sir. And what will you do for security?

CHARLES: I’m not certain we’ll need any. If we aren’t unspeakably rich any more, terrorists and hooligans and Irishmen and the like will lose interest, won’t they?
ANTHONY: I doubt it, sir. I think you’ll still be seen as an important if powerless figurehead.

CHARLES: (Offended) Powerless figurehead? I hardly think --

(A crash is heard outside the window. Charles freezes in fear. Anthony rushes over to the window and looks out.)

CHARLES: What ho, Jeeves!

ANTHONY: I’m afraid I can’t see anything, sir, what with the smoke from the peat.

CHARLES: (Hopefully) Could it be a herd of marauding rabbits?
ANTHONY: Sounded rather larger, sir.

CHARLES: Well, I say, I don’t like that. D’you think terrorists know about this place?
ANTHONY: Most likely, sir. They probably have Google Maps.

CHARLES: (Petulantly) I did ask Mummy to make sure we weren’t on it.

ANTHONY: She may not have had any say in the matter, sir.

CHARLES: Now, see here, Jeeves, Mummy --

(Another crash comes from outside the other window.)

CHARLES: (Frightened) Heavens! What shall we do?

ANTHONY: I’ll call security, sir.

CHARLES: I’m afraid you can’t. I gave them the week off -- without pay, of course. I thought we’d experiment with, you know, ‘roughing it.’ As you can see, I’m wearing an ensemble from 2007! You haven’t heard a whisper of complaint about it from me, either. Please leak that to the press.

ANTHONY: Sir, I think we’ve had a security breach. I’m not sure how to protect you. And, I must say, since I’m in imminent danger of losing my job after a lifetime of faithful service, I’m not inclined to defend you to the death with that paring knife. Did you dismiss the hounds, as well?

CHARLES: (Elated) Jeeves, thank-you for reminding me! I actually do have an attack beast. It’s dozing in the back room, and due to my heroic efforts to cut back, it hasn’t had a gin and tonic in a fortnight.

ANTHONY: (Alarmed) Sir?

CHARLES: (Confidently) Yes, Jeeves -- release Camilla!

Enough, already, with the weeping and wailing

PLEASE, make it stop.

The amount of attention being paid to Michael Jackson’s demise is grotesque. First we had the endless reports and analyses of the cause of death and attempts to make the singer’s passing more scandalous than it likely was. Then came the tearful tributes from people clamouring to be associated with Jackson’s fame. And shortly after that came the media (CBC radio’s Q host Jian Ghomeshi and drive-home host Stephen Quinn, for two) discussing our collective “grief” and what it means.

Give me a frickin’ break. Yes, Michael Jackson was a talented performer. Yes, he had a major effect on the integration of black and white popular music. Yes, his tunes had mass appeal. And yes, his dancing was often electrifying. But “grief”? All these people who never actually knew this allegedly lonely and obviously loopy individual feel “grief”? Come off it.

What do we really feel? Shock, perhaps -- nobody should die at 50, whether they’re famous or obscure. Sadness, over the fact that Jackson’s kids will grow up without their father. Sympathy, because his parents and siblings show such evidence of dysfunction. Guilt, maybe, for not having bought any of his albums for eons, or for having believed the child molestation charges, of which -- after agreeing to pay his accuser $22 million -- he was found innocent.

But grief?

I’ve been writing a eulogy for my mother, who died after a long illness, and a year of missing her husband. If you don’t know what genuine grief is -- which I suspect is the case for many of those admirers sobbing over Jackson’s death -- you’re lucky. Try losing someone you actually know, and love deeply, over many dark months. That’s grief. Grief is not a tap you turn on as soon as TV’s Nancy Grace takes an interest. And incidentally, the size of the teddy bear you leave on the public pile is not a true reflection of the depth of your feelings.

Elizabeth Taylor went up a few thousand points in my estimation when she decided at the last minute that she didn’t want to give the eulogy for her friend at the tribute to Jackson on Tuesday. “I cannot be part of the public hoopla,” she wrote on Twitter, admitting that she wasn’t sure she was capable of being coherent, either -- always a concern when your emotions are genuine. “I just don’t believe that Michael would want me to share my grief with millions of others. How I feel is between us. Not a public event.”

What a concept -- sincerity and privacy, linked to mourning.

Taylor, of all people, knows that there’s another word for “fans” -- “strangers.” Devotees may believe they know their idols, but they understand the star only in terms of the image he projects into the world.

The iconic actress, who knew the singer for several decades, serves as a contrast to Jackson’s admirers, especially those quoted by the Globe and Mail this past week. In one pre-tribute story, an LAX cleaner talked about how she felt after winning two passes to attend. “I started crying and thanking God when I heard I’d won,” she said.

Meanwhile, another fan claimed to have “grabbed a bottle of Moscato wine, a glass, a candle and Thriller” when she heard about Jackson’s death. She seems to have stopped short of setting her own hair on fire, but she did say, “He’s bigger than Elvis, bigger than anybody. To me, these tickets are the greatest gift I could give to my kids. To me, this is going to be bigger than 9/11.”

Yeah, I remember when 9/11 went 26-times platinum, too.

I have no doubt that Michael Jackson’s children are truly heartbroken, as well as his mother and a handful of friends. The rest of the Jackson family has always seemed both bizarre and tasteless. Brother Jermaine, for instance, named one of his eight children from numerous marriages “Jermajesty.” Sister La Toya came out publicly in 1993 saying she believed Michael was guilty of molesting children and offered “proof” for a fee of $500,000. (She later rescinded, claiming her abusive husband had forced her to make the accusation.) So it’s hard to know what this group really feels about the loss of the son and brother who brought them all such fame but also such infamy.

For a guy who seemed to have few intimates when he faced criminal charges, and felt so rejected he wound up in Dubai, Jackson sure is popular now.

Of course, I loved him when he was a sweet, gifted little dynamo. Years later, I was among the millions who were astonished by his famous moonwalk. Like everybody in the universe, I owned the album Thriller. And, like most people in the universe, my interest in him waned as he became more and more a caricature of a pop star, and even of a person.

You have to admit that you were put off, too. Before he died last week, how recently had you put on a Michael Jackson album in expectation of enlightenment, or even a catchy tune? I’ll bet it was at least 10 years ago.

Nevertheless, Berry Gordy got up at the tribute this past week and declared that Michael Jackson was not just the King of Pop (a stupidly grandiose boast in the first place) but “the greatest entertainer who ever lived.” Take that, Shakespeare, Mozart, Chaplin, Sinatra, Dylan, and Elvis! Why do people (particularly American people) feel the need to describe artists in such ludicrously hyperbolic terms? Art is not an event at the Olympic Games, where performance is timed and quantifiable. You’d think the founder of Motown Records would be aware of that.

The fact is that it’s summer, and there just isn’t much sizzle on the North American “news” front. It’s prime time for loafing. So we passively watched basketball legend Magic Johnson claim that seeing Jackson eat KFC was “the greatest moment of my life.” We observed CNN’s Anderson Cooper treating Jackson’s showbiz memorial with the same intensity he awarded a devastated New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. And we saw the increasingly toad-like Larry King sentimentally don one of Jackson’s old fedoras at the request of Miko Brando, another scion of a disturbed celebrity family.

“I was the clown,” Jackson once wrote in his song, Circus Girl. Ultimately, despite his huge talent, in death he’s become just that -- a compelling curiosity.

Welcome to Vij-couver

From Bollywood-Bhangra dance nights to the ideal spot for garlic pea shoots, Vancouver chefs Vikram Vij and Meeru Dhalwala serve up an insider’s view of their hometown

By Kate Zimmerman

(June 13, 2009 National Post)

VANCOUVER -- Kino Café seethes with romance, yet no tourist would suspect it. Off the beaten path, on eclectic Cambie Street, its humble exterior is enigmatic. But at night, the room is infused with the electrifying sensuality of Spanish flamenco. And as dancers stomp out their passion through swirling flounces, and fast-fingered guitar players lead them on, you’re apt to find Vikram Vij, his wife Meeru Dhalwala, and their daughters Shanik and Nanaki sitting in the audience, entranced.

“If you really want to get a flavour of this neighbourhood, the energy of the Spanish guitar and the dancing and the audience on a Thursday, Friday or Saturday, (Kino is) one of our favourite things to do,” Dhalwala advises visitors to the city. “It’s jam-packed. You’ve gotta get there early.”
 




The Vij-Dhalwalas themselves all like to dance; Shanik, 10, and Nanaki, 12, take tap and jazz classes. Their parents hit the floor at Gastown’s Modern Dance Club (604-647-0121, www.modern.ca) and Red Room (398 Richards, 604-687-5007, www.redroomonrichards.com), with Vij especially keen on Bollywood-Bhangra-electronic music nights. The performances at Kino (3456 Cambie, www.kinocafe.ca) are for watching, though; the family enjoys it so much they spend New Year’s Eves there.

This is one of their few excursions together that doesn’t revolve around food -- which makes sense, considering that Vij and Dhalwala are the chef-owners of the chic side-by-side Indian restaurants Vij and Rangoli. They also live in the tasty Main and Cambie Corridor, which features two eatery-stuffed parallel streets -- Cambie and Main -- seven blocks apart, and stretches from Broadway to King Edward. On any given weekend they, and you, may dine on garlic pea shoots, hot and sour soup, and noodles made in-house at Legendary Noodle House (4191 Main, www.legendarynoodle.ca) or lunch on panini or black bean soup with cilantro and lemon at Liberty Bakery (3699 Main). Dhalwala believes lazy afternoons call for beer and Greek mezes at The Main (4210 Main). When brunch is the meal of the day, Vij and Dhalwala recommend you travel west to Cambie’s Dutch Wooden Shoe Café (3292 Cambie). There, giant pancakes get wrapped around all manner of toppings, from Mexican beans to Indonesian nasi goreng.


Both Cambie and Main are fabulous sources of indie boutiques. Dhalwala advocates combing the racks at Hum (3623 Main, www.humclothing.com) and Eugene Choo (3683 Main, www.eugene choo.com); trying on shoes at Umeboshi (3638 Main, www.umeboshishoes.com), which features lines like Tashkent; and sussing out “amazing” consignment items at Front and Company (3772 Main, www.frontandcompany.ca). Meanwhile, on Cambie, she thinks any self-respecting shopper would be captivated by Cocoon (3345 Cambie, www.shopcocoon.com), a collective of local designers of everything from accessories to paper goods.

Fashion may occasionally rear its lovely head, but it’s food that dominates the lives of Vij and Dhalwala. “It doesn’t matter where Vikram and I travel. We can go to Capetown, and we will figure out the food issue — food and wine,” says Dhalwala. “That’s just what gets us going.”


This is clearly not a KD and Delissio family -- and they’re eager to advise visitors who are similarly inclined. Despite the tourist hordes, Granville Island Market (www.granvilleisland.com) remains one of their top stops. There, Shanik and Nanaki nosh on Oyama Sausage Company’s mild pepperoni while Vij orders up enough protein for a week, a carnivorous hurricane of sausages, kielbassa, salami, prosciutto, and patés (www.oyamasausage.ca). While on the island, Dhalwala and the girls sometimes nip into Railspur Alley, where, among the studios full of art, jewelry and hand-painted silk, they gravitate to the house-made leather bags and purses that are the specialty of Hartman Leather (1345 Railspur Alley). 

The market’s mix of art, crafts, handmade items and local ingredients gets everybody in a good mood, especially when they’re building up to a picnic.

“We’re picnic people,” Dhalwala says.

Once the vittles are assembled, they’ll make their way to one of several scenic spots -- tranquil Third Beach, in downtown’s Stanley Park at Ferguson Point; landscaped, 53-acre Queen Elizabeth Park (Cambie at 29^th to 33^rd), with its thousands of trees, peaceful ponds and gardens and the highest peak in the city at 150 m. above sea level; or West Vancouver’s Lighthouse Park (Beacon Lane, about 30 km from downtown Vancouver), where a short hike takes them to a rocky promontory overlooking crashing waves, with arbutus trees stretching in the sun for company.

“We always try to combine exercise and fun,” says Dhalwala. The most dramatic example of this is when the family tackles Grouse Mountain’s Grouse Grind (www.grousemountain.com), North Vancouver’s notoriously grueling 2.9 km hike, developed by mountaineers. “Mother Nature’s Stairmaster,” as it’s been called, offers a 56 percent (30 degree) slope.

More than 100,000 people attempt the Grind every year, averaging 90 minutes to two hours to complete it. The Vij-Dhalwalas recommend rewarding the workout as they do, with treats from fourth generation German pastry chef Thomas Haas’s tiny, perfect North Vancouver shop (998 Harbourside, www.thomashaas.com).

But back to the picnic food, the gathering of which can provide an entire weekend’s entertainment. Vij and Dhalwala often spend a few hours at one of the local farmers’ markets, which run through mid- to late October. Dhalwala especially likes to poke through the jarred pickles and other homemade condiments, but in the summertime shoppers can find all manner of provenance there, from the exotic -- pale yellow lemon cucumbers -- to the splendiferous -- roasted Agassiz hazelnuts and intensely fragrant Fraser Valley berries. If it’s a Saturday, 9 a.m.-2 p.m., they’ll hit the Trout Lake Market (15^th Ave. at Victoria Drive, www.eatlocal.org) in East Vancouver; Sunday, 10 a.m.-2 p.m., the Kitsilano Market (10^th Ave. and Larch, www.eatlocal.org) is a beacon. Elsewhere in the city, their picnic food suppliers include Terra Breads (2380 W. 4^th Ave.; 53 West 5^{th Ave.}; Granville Island Market; www.terrabreads.com), whose rustic loaves, including one flatbread dotted with pine nuts and baked grapes, are the gateway to naughty macaroons and bodacious brownies.

“I love the smell of that bakery,” Vij says wistfully, recalling the days when he worked at Bishop’s restaurant on W. 4^th and ate lunch at Terra regularly.


To accompany those loaves, Vij and Dhalwala might make a stop at the international cheese emporium Les Amis du Fromage (1752 W. 2^nd Ave.; 843 E. Hastings; #518 Park Royal South Mall, West Vancouver; www.buycheese.com), or Cambie’s Mount Pleasant Cheese (3432 Cambie, www.mountpleasantcheese.com), which offers hundreds of Canadian artisanal options. Dhalwala champions B.C. products like Salt Spring Island Cheese Company’s surface-ripened Camembert-style goat cheese, called Juliette. It’s available not just at Vancouver cheese shops but in the cheese sections of big supermarkets.

The Vij-Dhalwalas are devoted to regional ingredients, on and off the job -- especially those grown, raised and gathered sustainably. That’s why several times a year they visit 40-hectare, student-driven UBC Farm (6182 South Campus Rd., open Tuesdays-Saturdays in the summer, www.landfood.ubc.ca/ubcfarm). Not only is the site a peach, ripe for picnicking, the farm’s mandate is to explore the latest developments in sustainable agriculture, a subject dear to Dhalwala’s heart. Free-range chickens are one draw there, as is the farm’s market garden (Saturdays 9 a.m-1 p.m., June to October), where artichokes may lurk amongst the other vegetables and herbs. Its terraced medicinal garden is also worth a visit, as is its Cob Arch and Shed, a sand, clay and straw structure based on those commonly built in 15^th-century England.

While the family is on the UBC campus, they sometimes drop by UBC’s spectacular Museum of Anthropology (6393 N.W. Marine Dr., www.moa.ubc.ca), one of B.C. architect Arthur Erickson’s gems. Dhalwala says she grew up near Washington, D.C. knowing nothing about North American Aboriginal people; she had her eyes opened at MOA. The museum specializes in the culture of indigenous peoples, especially those of the Pacific Northwest Coast. Among the better-known Canadians exhibited in the permanent collection is Haida artist Bill Reid, whose laminated yellow cedar sculpture, The Raven and the First Men, dominates the Rotunda. Dhalwala always checks in at MOA’s great shop, full of original art, baskets, masks and jewelry, as well as the museum’s own line of giftware, designed by Northwest Coast artists.

Once a year, the family heads north on the Sea to Sky Highway to Pemberton, 155 km (a 2-1/2 hour drive) from Vancouver, spending a night or two at Pemberton Valley Lodge (1490 Portage Valley Rd., www.pembertonvalleylodge.com). Weather permitting, they’ll take a detour to one of the many local swimming holes, but they’ll definitely spend a couple of hours per day at the 55-acre North Arm Farm (1888 Sea to Sky Highway 99, www.northarmfarm.com), admiring the scenery, prowling through its cooler for produce, or picking fruit like the strawberries and currants growing now, raspberries and gooseberries in July. Honey, preserves, pies and baked goods like butter tarts and cinnamon buns are always worth a look in the farm’s bakery.

Back home in Vancouver, Vij and Dhalwala’s evenings out without the kids also centre on food. For one thing, says Vij, “This city definitely offers one of the best dining values that you can ever get.” 


Dhalwala thinks it’s a waste to spend hours glued to one seat, however, with the proliferation of great restaurants in Vancouver. Adding to the mass of talented local chefs in informal venues, international superstar Jean-Georges Vongerichten opened a much-ballyhooed restaurant in the Shangri-La Hotel here recently, and Daniel Boulud has made his mark on tony Lumiere.

So she suggests that out-of-towners in particular “restaurant-hop.” Dive into a glass of wine and maybe a few raw oysters on the patio at, for example, English Bay’s Raincity Grill (1193 Denman, www.raincitygrill.com), chase those with cheese and charcuterie at Gastown’s buzzed-about Salt Tasting Room (Blood Alley, www.salttastingroom.com) or unpretentious Chill Winston (3 Alexander, chillwinston.com), and then hoist a pair of chopsticks at Cambie’s ultra-casual sushi joint, Shiro (3096 Cambie) or a glass of grappa and a vanilla, citrus, and hazelnut Panna Cotta at the Italian Campagnolo (1020 Main, www.campagnolorestaurant.com), in Chinatown. 

“Vancouver is still so small, and the cab fares aren’t that much,” Dhalwala says. “If you’re only here for two nights, hop.”


Getting to the meat of the matter

IF, for the hell of it, you really want to make a red-blooded guy squirm, take him to a vegetarian restaurant. For him, even reading the menu is torture.

My dad was one of those resolute carnivores. I once took my parents to the café at the Vancouver Art Gallery -- my mum and I thought it was lovely. Dad took a solitary look at the colourful array of fresh salads, quiches and smoked salmon delights and muttered bitterly, “I hate these places, with their pussy willow sandwiches.”

I expected the same sort of reaction recently, when Stanley and his fellow hardcore flesh-ingester Roscoe tagged along on a lunch date I’d made with our herbivorous friend Jeannette at a vegetarian restaurant.

You could practically watch the men’s nervous ticks develop as, with ashen faces, they read the menu and found options like “Beatnuts,” described as “raw beet, garlic, lemon, nut, seed & goat cheese paté topped with dill and served with cucumbers.” “Wow,” you could see them thinking.  “‘Served with cucumbers’ -- party on.”

Finally, they made their sensible, roughage-rich choices. “I’ll have the Intifada,” Roscoe quipped -- then settled for lentil soup. Stanley got some sprout-laden potion thick with lotus root. They ate it all and hardly even cried. What brave soldiers!

But braver still, you must admit, and even more surprising for it, are our two female Governors General, lately trading growls over hunks of bloody meat. Who knew Adrienne and Michaelle had it in them? They both seemed like devout lettuce-munchers to me.

Every Canadian should be familiar with this story. Reportedly, our current G.-G., in front of a crowd in Rankin Inlet, helped skin a seal and then snacked on its raw heart. Michaelle Jean’s move was hailed as a gesture of support for the north’s beleaguered seal hunters, whose livelihood has been threatened by the European Parliament’s ban on the trade of seal products within the E.U.

Past G.-G. Adrienne Clarkson didn’t appreciate the fuss made over G.-G. Michaelle. “I’ve eaten raw food here since 1971,” she snapped to reporters covering an Arctic gathering her husband, John Raulston Saul, was hosting. “It’s nothing new to me, okay?”

“I have a lovely seal skin coat ….” she added, defiantly one-upping her successor.

If the two G-Gs were hip-hop stars, we might have expected their boasts to escalate entertainingly, becoming ever more raunchy and ludicrous. But no such luck. These ladies are much more subtle.

That, perhaps, is why G.-G. Adrienne chose an underhanded slight last month to launch an attack on the popular G.-G. Michaelle. The latter had revealed some  public confusion about whether B.C.’s Coastal Mountains were actually the Rockies. This apparently prompted G.-G. Adrienne to assert that candidates for their mutual post should be required to pass a Canadian knowledge quiz. After all, heaven forbid that any question to a Governor General be answered with a courteous, “I’m afraid I don’t know. Can I direct you to the Canadian Encyclopedia?”

A former TV show host, G.-G. Adrienne suggested that televised hearings be held to uncover whether a contestant -- I mean, prospective Governor General -- knew where to find the Mackenzie River. (Of course, many Canadians didn’t know the Mackenzie River was lost.) I suppose the title of this particular show would be So You Think You Can be Governor General of Canada?

According to G.-G. Adrienne, other relevant topics on  which a vice-regal should be well-versed are the conscription crisis of 1917 and the 120-year-old Manitoba Schools Question.

Potential Governors General should also be grilled on their knowledge of Canadian artists, according to G.-G. Adrienne. I guess the Queen’s representative should always, at the drop of a hat, be able to trot out a nuanced appreciation of Avril Lavigne’s oeuvre and how it compares to that of Trooper. Or maybe Her Excellency meant that it is perpetually de rigueur to casually rhyme off the names of the Group of Seven over afternoon tea. In that situation, she appeared to imply, poor G.-G. Michaelle might very well start with “the Seven Dwarves” and end with “7-11.”

Here’s the thing: G.-G. Adrienne knows it all, due to her career as a journalist -- the ideal breeding ground for know-it-alls. That job took her across Canada. Later, her G.-G. post flew her not only all over the country, but to cultural hotspots around the world, sometimes in the company of hunky poets and sinewy choreographers.

Meanwhile, accused ignoramus G.-G. Michaelle, also a journalist, was born in Haiti and later adopted a child there, but mainly worked in Quebec. There she presumably drank a lot of beer, ate plenty of feves au lard and never gave a second’s thought to the conscription crisis.

She has even admitted as much, stating when she started the job that she had plenty to learn about Canada, and adding recently in a Globe and Mail interview, “I think it would be very pretentious on my part to believe I could have arrived in this role declaring that I knew Canada in its entirety and by heart. Canada is a country worth discovering.”

Naturally a person that humble would dive into a hunk of raw blubber, especially if she were getting it for free. We must never forget, though, that whatever G.-G. Michaelle may have done, or may still do, G.-G. Adrienne did it first.

This view could be improved

IT is not beautiful.

Its architecture, for instance, stinks. Its winters drag on and on. Its summers could be tactfully described as “sporadic,” but more truthfully summed up as “glancing.” They touch down briefly for refueling, en route to somewhere else.

Its mosquitoes are voracious, its birds -- overcompensating -- are too loud. Its lakes are man-made; its beaches, faux.

To get around from one absurdly named suburb (Tuscany) to the next (Saddle & Sirloin -- I kid you not), you must take hideous freeways, with nothing to commend them but the speed with which you can proceed from entrance to exit.

Yet I love Calgary, and nine years after we relocated to Vancouver, it still feels like home.

It wasn’t always thus. When I first moved to Cowtown (for love) in 1980, I was appalled by its appearance, in particular its nondescript bungalows. Used to the handsome old brick houses of Ontario, and that province’s glorious maples, towering elms and stately public buildings, Calgary’s virtually tree-less, austere ’50s aesthetic seemed ill conceived to a snobbish and insular 22-year-old. Why did the city planners and builders elect to go with all that flatness, I wondered. Why the devotion to stunted saplings?

I had no appreciation for the fact that when a snow-packed wind barrels down on the prairies from the mountains, one hardly wants a house that stands on tip-toes in the middle of the storm. Likewise, those suburban “saplings” might have been 50 years old. Decades of unwelcome June blizzards and beloved January chinooks had confused the poor things so they hardly knew whether to grow up or down. Just last week – nearing the end of May, for goodness’ sake – most trees in the city were just starting to sprout new leaves.

So it took a long time for me to understand the merits of a place where people prize other people’s company over natural beauty, household decor or the arts.

Not that they’re lacking in any of those departments. Of course there are the spectacularly beautiful Rocky Mountains hovering on the horizon, and locals use and appreciate them. When it comes to home decorating, in boom times especially, Calgarians pay as much attention to sprucing up their houses as anybody else in Canada. And the city boasts thriving theatre, dance and visual arts components.

But what Calgarians do best is love and treasure and welcome in their friends.

It’s a prairie thing.

A few years ago, I wrote a big report for VANOC on lasting legacies of North American Olympic Winter Games. One of the reasons for the success of the Salt Lake and Calgary Games was the astonishing spirit of volunteerism both events enjoyed, something that continues to this day. In my interviews with people who headed volunteer agencies in each city, it emerged that they had long been national leaders in that arena.

I was told that this strong volunteer culture was rooted in farming communities, where people really have to rely on each other. Historically, if your barn burned down, your neighbours would get together and help build you a new one; and when their barn burned down, you’d be right there to return the favour.

In Salt Lake, big-hearted farm folk were complemented by a large, equally generous Mormon population, with grand results. Meanwhile, in Calgary, the city’s central celebration -- the Stampede -- was always organized by volunteers. Former Stampede Board honcho Frank King eventually became CEO of the Organizing Committee for the 1988 Olympic Winter Games. So a tight, supportive community is simply the norm there.

Not so much, here on the Lower Mainland. For one thing, we have fewer barns. Additionally, we have almost no fear of getting hopelessly lost in a snowdrift, or requiring a tow from a buddy in -40 C.

We simply don’t need each other -- or at least, we think we don’t.

My theory is that people here have too many alluring alternatives. Everything is laid out -- beaches, mountains, ocean, great restaurants, good shopping, stimulating art. Friends tend to take last priority, after exercise, gardening, hobbies and home redecoration projects. The outward appearance of things -- including one’s self -- seems to be of primary importance for many. Maybe that’s because when you live in such a beautiful place, you are already fixated on that aspect of life.

Of course it’s lovely to be surrounded by massive trees and bowers of rhododendrons of every hue. And to the naked eye, there are few pastimes more inviting than, for example, a balmy beach picnic on a local shore. But for me, there’s something missing from that picture. The night at the beach is not great because of the beach, it’s great because of the friends at the beach with you. The slow, mellow sunset, the lapping waves, the prospect of seal sightings -- these are mere varnish.

Sure, you can enjoy such an evening with passing acquaintances, and the experience might even turn them into friends. Ideally, time plus affinity equals intimacy, but most of us know there’s a lot more to making a real friend than that. Your true friends are the people who know both your foibles and your worth, as you know theirs. You’ll stand by each other no matter what the physical or emotional temperature. Metaphorically speaking, you help rebuild each other’s barns every time you meet.

Great friends are as good as family. So I’d suggest that if you have lots, you ought to nurture and treasure them -- but if you do have lots of friends, you already know that. Whether or not your income levels coincide, your favourite things become their favourite things, and if by chance the dinner gets burned so all the group has to eat is humble KD instead of a feast, it doesn’t matter. You are delighted to get together.

I admit that a glorious summer night on a North Shore beach is almost impossible to beat. I just came back, however, from a visit to Cowtown. Its buildings and roadways are still eyesores, and I noticed a familiar chill in the air. But my, what warmth there was in the Calgarians themselves.

Charity and celebrity make kinky bedfellows

AH, celebrities. You’ve gotta love them. I mean, you’ve really gotta love them. Otherwise, they’d shrivel up and die.

That’s surely the threat implicit in the recent hunger strikes of entertainment has-beens on behalf of noble causes. While nobody can dispute that the situation is intolerable in such horrific spots as Darfur, it’s hard to imagine how Mia Farrow refusing to eat will affect anything one way or the other.

After all, don’t many female actors starve themselves for a living? Lindsay Lohan’s bikinis are hanging off her. I hope she won’t claim to be taking a hit for Sri Lanka.

Activists like Farrow, Richard Branson and Peter Gabriel do make a difference when they siphon off money from their personal fortunes for aid organizations, make documentaries that draw attention to humanitarian tragedies, or go to the world’s most ravaged spots and help out themselves. Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, for example, seem to do all of the above, and in 2006 alone reportedly gave $8 million to charity.

But for celebrities to publicly swear off food for a week seems a pretty impotent gesture, unless they’re going to hand-deliver that food, plus a whole lot more, to somebody who’s truly going hungry. Leave the voluntary fasting to those with little other clout, like North American schoolchildren, who likely learn something about empathy from an organized day without meals, and may even raise needed funds.

Of course, we nobodies are no less shallow or ill advised than the famous. We form the audience for such saintly theatrics -- so much so that there’s actually a website called http://www.looktothestars.org/ that’ll update you on which big-hearted multi-millionaire has done what.

We also lap up the photos of well-dressed rich people at fundraising galas, to me a baffling concept. Wouldn’t it be a lot more direct for charities to make an eloquent pitch for money and then give every penny to the people in need, rather than lavishing those coveted Simolians on elegant spaces, flowers, wine and food? Or is the concept here that everybody wants an excuse to dress up, so they might as well assuage their guilt by raising a few bucks for a cause?

I don’t think largesse or good works need to be recognized. Canadian Blood Services sometimes has a party for its regular blood donors; I’m one of those hundreds of thousands nationwide. While it’s nice to be invited, and I’m sure it’s a modest affair, I’d never go. Blood donors are regular folk who just want to be useful; giving blood costs them nothing but time. Unlike the glitterati, they don’t need a four-course meal, gift bags and the wit and whimsy of Bob Saget to get them to do what everybody who can do, should.

A news release was sent to me this week by somebody who says he’s drumming up dough for the Robert F. Kennedy Center for Justice and Human Rights. This organization apparently promotes “the rights of hurricane survivors along the Gulf Coast, victims of torture and violence in Darfur and farmworkers in the U.S.” Doesn’t that strike you as a strangely diverse assembly of causes?

Nevertheless, this Center appears to be extremely well connected, and it’s conducting a fundraising auction with an odd array of famous-people-type prizes. I was a little confused by the news release’s reference to “The Robert F. Kennedy Center for Human Rights and Charity Buzz” -- I couldn’t believe there was a Robert F. Kennedy Center for Human Rights and Charity Buzz. But then I thought about it and I could believe it, even though it turned out they are two bodies working in concert for this event.

The auction’s brimming with treats for the sort of people who care as deeply about bragging rights as they do about human rights. I was mainly interested in the release’s goofy ideas about what makes an enticing auction item, and its hilariously bad spelling. Starting at $5,000 (USD), for instance, you can vie for a “one-hour signing lesson” with Aretha Franklin. I hope the offer is really for a singing lesson, as learning to “sign” autographs is pretty useless for those of us in notably low demand.

How much would you pay for tickets to see “Dalia Lama” and Richard Gere? Richard Gere’s still got it goin’ on, but who’s this Dalia person? I’d prefer to see Richard privately, if you know what I mean. Dalia, rather a plain, badly dressed woman judging by her photograph, would only get in the way of my questions to Richard about his unforgettable performance in -- whatever.

I couldn’t help but be intrigued by the prospect of an autographed pair of TV interviewer Larry King’s suspenders and the chance to meet him, with the minimum bid a mere $1,500. Just a thought, but wouldn’t the price soar to at least $3,000 if they axed the audience with the increasingly turtle-like King?

Here’s another iffy offer -- a blogging internship at the Huffington Post for $13,000 plus. I happen to know that the Huffington Post doesn’t pay most of its contributors, so the internship might lead to what -- the chance to provide copy for free full-time? I hope Canadian publishers don’t get wind of the concept of people paying them for the ego trip of getting a byline in a newspaper. Could prove to be a windfall.

My all-time favourite auction selection, though, is the one that got this inadvertently comical description: “Fork, Knife and Swoon Over Lunch with Warren Beatty at the Polo Lounge in Beverly Hills.” I guess whoever wrote that titillating teaser hasn’t noticed that Warren Beatty is now over 70 years old and has made it safely past the stage of people fainting when he shuffles by.

I remember reading somewhere that the actor-director only recently sampled goat cheese for the first time, so one can imagine the meal would be pretty pedestrian, too. Shrimp cocktail and stewed prunes with Warren Beatty, then -- and they’re asking $1,750 to start. I sure hope his wife has deep pockets and charitable impulses.

I’ll save mine for the Red Cross and the United Way. The latter, as it happens, is a longtime favourite of super-hunk George Clooney.

 

It’s a ‘light and tumble journey’ to post-layoff outplacement

NEWS flash: In these tough times, layoffs aren’t limited to people -- dire economic straits have translated to pink slips for animals, too. The Bronx Zoo is letting go hundreds of its creatures, according to The Guardian; other nonperforming varmints are sure to follow suit worldwide. Like humans, many will wind up in outplacement counseling.

 SCENE: A large office meeting room. A dozen animals are milling about, sipping coffee and looking ill at ease. Two silverback gorillas, Timmy and Dan, are staring out the window balefully.

 TIMMY: I hear the zoo isn’t even going to try to re-train that old porcupine.

DAN: Yeah, it’s curtains for Millicent. Admit it, though -- no great loss.

TIMMY: You’re only saying that cuz she was shop steward.

DAN: No, I’m saying it cuz she once shot me full of quills just for shouting “You look a little prickly today!” Which was -- hello! -- a joke.

TIMMY: She wuz the terror of the Fourth of July barbecue. Remember when Arnold the pig asked her to dance? Fatal mistake.

DAN: Yeah. They say when Millicent’s quills pierced Arnold’s hide, barbecue sauce came out.

TIMMY: Who says?

DAN: Hyenas.

TIMMY: (Scoffing) Hyenas! Those freakin’ jokers figger they should get jobs warming up for Jimmy Fallon.

A magnificent Horse sidles up to the two gorillas. They look her over appreciatively.

HORSE: Good morning, gentlemen. How did you enjoy that last presentation?

TIMMY: Morning, lady. It was awright, but sexual harassment isn’t an issue in our line of work. Us silverbacks have to beat the dames off us. I’m Timmy, by the way.

HORSE: (Tossing her mane slightly) Moonlit Path.

TIMMY: Nice accent.

MOONLIT PATH: Thank-you. I’m English. And I can tell from your accent, you’re from the Bronx. The zoo, I presume?

DAN: Yep! What about you – escapee from the glue factory?

MOONLIT PATH: Hardly, though it’s a bit of an embarrassing story. I was running my first race last week, representing the Queen of England. Afterward it was discovered that I’d been shot up with a drug called tranexamic acid. So Her Majesty quickly shipped me out of the country, and here I am.

DAN: (Admiringly) Well, la di da! (Pointing to a Dog in the corner) Have you met that labrador over there? He’s from England, too.

MOONLIT PATH: (Shaking her head) Is he one of the ones who played Marley in that film?

TIMMY: Naw, he’s a full-blown idiot. Got fired by his family for eating a whole alphabet of fridge magnets. Mind you, it turned out that ass could really spell.

(Dan shrieks with laughter. Moonlit Path grimaces.)

MOONLIT PATH: By the way, I already have some irons in the fire. I’m planning to become a broker -- an agent of sorts -- for animals just like you. Would you mind if I got a bit of practice on you two, rehearsing my pitch?

TIMMY: Fire away, babe!

MOONLIT PATH: Cheers. Gentlemen, how would you describe what you did at the zoo?

DAN AND TIMMY: (Simultaneously) We wuz in show business!

MOONLIT PATH: And is that the field in which you wish to continue?

DAN: Sure. What else is there for a gorilla? Don’t even think about returning us to the wilds of Africa -- at this point, food-gathering and fighting off poachers isn’t fer us.

MOONLIT PATH: I’ve got one idea that would have you starting work soon. How do you feel about grass?
TIMMY: (Laughing) You ever seen a gorilla habitat, lady? Everybody’s high, like, all the time!

MOONLIT PATH: Not that kind of grass! How do you feel about grazing on grass?

It’s quite delicious, when pesticide free.

TIMMY: Can’t stand the stuff -- unless it’s generously heaped with bananas.

DAN: Although you could afford to lay off the bananas and lose a few pounds. (Laughing derisively)

TIMMY: (Hotly) Look who’s talking! (Shoves Dan, who starts shrieking and whacking Timmy)

MOONLIT PATH: (Flicking her tail) Do calm down. I’m simply telling you, that’s where the jobs are. Wallaby unemployment rates have plunged since they got hired to munch their way through English lawns. And have you heard of Google?

DAN: (Insolently) Duh. What about it?

MOONLIT PATH: Well, the Googleplex in California is now having its grounds tended the ‘low-carbon’ way. The company has hired 200 goats for the task, but you know what nutters they are. They’ll start out eating grass but soon enough they’ll be chewing the hood ornaments in the parking lot. I see future opportunities for entire herds of hardworking fellows such as yourselves…

TIMMY: You don’t know much about gorillas, do ya, lady?

DAN: Yeah. Oral lawnmowing isn’t our thing. Neither is working, really.

MOONLIT PATH: (Impatiently) Well, pray tell, what is your ‘thing?’

TIMMY: I see myself as a sort of Justin Timberlake/Ashton Kutcher figger. You know, hanging with the babes, jetting here and there, getting my pic in the tabloids….

MOONLIT PATH: But I’m sure you’re aware, that’s not all there is to a career in music or films.

DAN: (Scoffing) Films! Like Ashton Kutcher makes a lot of ‘films.’

MOONLIT PATH: Well, perhaps not. But I understand he does produce that TV show, Punk’d, where he pulls elaborate practical jokes on other celebrities.

TIMMY: (Gasping in realization) Hey, now that you mention it, that’s the job for me! I’m a prankster! Ask anybody!

DAN: (Seizing on the idea) Yeah -- we could come up with a show like that -- Animal Punk’d -- pulling pranks on other animals! Like, invite some hoity-toity zoo lion to guest-star in a Siegfried & Roy show in Vegas, but secretly lace his pre-show food with ex-lax. (Guffawing) Man, would that be a blast! Pun intended!

(Timmy shrieks with delight, beats his chest)

MOONLIT PATH: (Blanching) Er, that’s rather vulgar, isn’t it? Who would watch a show like that?

DAN: Other unemployed animals, lady! What the heck else do they have to do all day? It’ll be a mega-freakin’-hit!

Dan and Timmy are inflamed with enthusiasm for their concept and start screeching at each other. Moonlit Path sighs and ambles over to Jack the yellow lab, who is happily munching on a stack of empty Styrofoam cups. As Moonlit Path approaches, he burps contentedly.

MOONLIT PATH: Excuse me, sir, I’m Moonlit Path. I understand you’ve suffered a fridge magnet-related accident. I wanted to ask, have you ever considered switching to grass?

Vancouver on the Cheap, Redux

Gone are the days -- in Vancouver, at least -- when you had to wade through a noxious fog of other people's smoke just to get some liquor-absorbing grease into your system. Gastown's Deacon's Corner looks like a diner, and tastes like a diner, but it doesn't smell like a diner, and that's a good thing. 

Hung over or not, you're going to love the classic meals here at this clean, minimally designed spot on the corner of Main Street and Alexander. 

Everything's homemade -- the kitchen even makes its own hot dogs, and grinds and mixes the meat for its burgers. And hefty platters those $9 burgers are, too, a blend of pork and beef hinting of cumin and coriander, cooked on a flat-iron grill, and presented on a glorious soft egg-bread bun. Get it with the toppings of your choice -- tried and true items like fried onions, sauteed mushrooms, and crisp bacon. 

Amazingly, the garden burger ($8.50) is equally good. I often order garden burgers, despite my meat-obsessed husband's scoffing, but when they arrive they're usually the same old reheated frozen patty that has to be heaped with toppings to be edible. Virtue is its only reward. No worries here, where the garden burger's big, home-made, contains chickpeas  and other healthy things and is subtly spiced so you can taste the legumes. Served on the selfsame fabulous egg-bread bun, this one's the best I've ever had. Deacon Corner's fries, too, are crafted in-house, and they're exceptional.

While waiting for my burger, I was excited to see a couple of cobb salads swan by. Portions are grand here, and these cobbs ($9.50) come fully loaded: Bacon, turkey, hard-boiled egg, avocado, tomato, baby corn and ... Gorgonzola. The women eating them cleaned their plates and were probably fueled until bedtime, if not next year. 

I couldn't resist checking out a side order of one of those Southern dishes we rarely get up here -- biscuit with country gravy ($3.50). This is something that sounds like it must be good but in my experience never is, except here, where the biscuits are soft and buttery and the pale gravy is liberally strewn with sausage. The gravy is a tad salty, so you wouldn't want this order alongside another salty choice, like the Corned Beef Hash, but with a counterpoint of something a little sweet, like the fruit compote ($1.25), or bland, like eggs ($1.25 for one), it would set you up perfectly. 

Deacon's Corner is a perfectly realized concept. It doesn't mess around trying to be what it's not. Located in a part of town that's raunchy by night, the diner is wisely only open until 3 p.m. daily. There appear to be no desserts on the menu -- probably the owner doesn't like 'em. It does offer local R & B beer. If you're coming in all by yourself, you can choose to eat at the counter or take a window seat. And the food is available to take out, although I'd dive into it instantly, if I were you.

Deacon's Corner Gastown Diner is open Monday to Friday 7 a.m. to 3 p.m., weekends 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. (the owner probably doesn't like to get up early on weekends). 101 Main Street; (604) 684-1555; www.deaconscorner.ca. 

We aren’t the champions, my friend

IT hardly seems wise to give the French yet another reason to feel superior. Still, the Globe and Mail couldn’t resist last week, suggesting that France is now the official epicentre of joie de vivre. 

That was according to one of those reports that always hit the paper on Tuesdays. This particular “overview of social trends” arrived courtesy of the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD). FYI, the OECD’s a “Paris-based group that evaluates government policies and their impact on society."

Ignoring the highly relevant “Paris-based” factor, the Globe swallowed the bait, hook, line and sinker. Apparently the OECD had measured how much time citizens of 18 countries spent on leisure, and, in particular, how long they lingered over their meals. The French won the lifestyle sweepstakes by eating and drinking for more hours per day (2.5) than any other country worth mentioning, while simultaneously remaining thinner. (The Norwegians proved to be the most dedicated to non-work activities like hobbies and sports, but honestly, how boring.) 

Obviously this was serious scientific research. 

I pictured the project’s directeur (M. Pepé Le Pew) explaining the outlandish expense claims submitted by himself and his staff. “Well, ’ow else can we gain eensight eento zee eating ’abits of people around zee world zan by traveling zere togezzer and eating all zee time?” he must have asked his superior rhetorically. “By zee way, next year, we will be tackling zee topic of who makes zee most love. We ’ave already completed half zee research on zese same travels! Vive la France!” 

The OECD’s findings clearly represent a crushing defeat for Italy. The Italians have tried hard for the crown, by being chic and voluble and serving food that everybody genuinely likes. Yet mealtimes in Italy apparently average a pathetic 118 minutes daily. Those grandmothers who do all the cooking there have some explaining to do. 

Third place went to Korea. Now, this was unexpected. Korean food is tasty, I’ll grant you that, and lately quite trendy around the world. But Korean culture remains enigmatic to many of us. What are they up to, over their three squares, that demands a full 90 minutes? Enquiring minds may want to know, but the OECD -- naturellement -- does not explain. 

After Korea came Australia. You’d think Australians would rank high, with their perpetual party hearty attitude. In fact, I’m surprised those Good Time Brucies didn’t crush the French like TV’s Bush Tucker Man used to pulverize tasty termites. 

How to explain the mystery that Britain came fifth, though? Maybe the English, Irish and Scots got the edge through their drinking, for which they’re legendary. It’s impossible to believe they lollygag for a full 82 minutes a day over jellied eels and deep-fried Mars bars, even if the talk is of soccer and spankings. I can only assume that the snooty French researchers couldn’t bring themselves to personally observe the rumpled, crisp-gobbling occupants of the average pub, even for five minutes, so instead simply hung out at Jamie Oliver’s house. 

After all, the Brits are the people who just figured out how to power the ecoF3 racing car with chocolate. Given the quality of most English sweets, a gas tank is the ideal place for them. But this move hardly suggests a reverence for the table. Do you think the French would waste foie gras on fuelling a Citroen? 

You may notice that I’m in an especially insulting mood today, readers. I lash out because I’m humiliated. For, according to the OECD, behind France, Italy, Korea, Australia, Britain, Norway and the U.S.A. (you heard me) comes Canada. 

It could be worse. In terms of how long we spend enjoying our repasts, we did beat out Mexico, land of tacos and other hand-held foodstuffs. What’s unforgivable is that we ostensibly award only 70 minutes daily to dining and trading bon mots, even less than our super-sized neighbour, the inventor of the fast food drive-through. That’s correct -- it turns out, we are worse dine-and-dashers than the country that gave the world McDonald’s, corn dogs, Carnation Instant Breakfast and microwave bacon. 

This is truly embarrassing. We can win all the Best Country to Live In awards extant, but if we don’t know how to enjoy a good meal as well as a gloomy Norwegian -- have you seen Edvard Munch’s The Scream? -- what good is all that glory? 

I know I’m going to have to justify Canada’s poor showing to our Olympic visitors next year. Some ruddy-faced dude in lederhosen will ask me politely for directions, then verbally pin me to the mat. “Yes, you Canadians have ‘lots of trees,’ as you keep insisting,” he’ll say. “But we understand your country is tragically lacking in joie de vivre, as evidenced by your brutally short dinnertimes. Explain -- schnell!” 

“We just have so many great shows on television, we rush our dins,” I’ll say, giggling nervously. “Like Corner Gas -- a fascinating look at a small-town Saskatchewan gas station and diner patronized by hapless rubes. And our reality shows are, heh-heh, must-see TV. In The Week the Women Went, for instance, all the wives leave an Alberta town and their husbands are forced to boil up the Kraft Dinner and squirt out the ketchup servings themselves. You don’t dilly-dally over your Campbell’s soup and miss that!” 

Oh, dear -- I’ve got to come up with something more credible. Some visitors will actually have seen Corner Gas. 

Instead I’ll go with the 100 Mile Diet Defence. I’ll put on a self-righteous air (never a problem) before saying sternly, “You know, Canada is the home of the book The 100 Mile Diet. Those of us who care about our planet” -- here I’ll glower accusingly -- “feel we should only eat things that are grown or raised within 100 miles of our homes. As a result, it takes us all day to gather food for supper, which we do on foot or by bicycle because of Mother Earth and so forth. By the time we get our seaweed and cattail ragout on the table we’re too exhausted to talk about it.” 

The critical European will doubtless blanch at the previously unrealized hardscrabble existence of Canadians. That’s when I’ll soothe him with a slightly bitter chuckle. “You know, it’s a lifestyle. You get used to it,” I’ll say, prying a bit of cattail from between my teeth and re-chewing it thoughtfully. “Let’s just say there’s little joie, but plenty de vivre.” 

Right. That’s my story.

New and Upcoming

Watch for Kate's writing in:

• The North Shore News every Sunday
• City Palate magazine in July/August
• Occasions magazine's current and upcoming issue
• Eco Options magazine's summer issue, on growing herbs
• Olympic Review magazine's current issue, interviewing Olympian hockey players Hayley Wickenheiser (Canada) and Saku Koivu (Finland)
• The 2010 Olympic Souvenir Program, coming out this fall
• The 2010 Olympic Commemorative Book, coming out next winter
• The Aboriginal Virtual Sports Hall of Fame, launch TBA

• The North Shore News every Sunday
• City Palate magazine in July/August
• Occasions magazine's current and upcoming issue
• Eco Options magazine's summer issue, on growing herbs
• Olympic Review magazine's current issue, interviewing Olympian hockey players Hayley Wickenheiser (Canada) and Saku Koivu (Finland)
• The 2010 Olympic Souvenir Program, coming out this fall
• The 2010 Olympic Commemorative Book, coming out next winter
• The Aboriginal Virtual Sports Hall of Fame, launch TBA