Snacks Between Meals: Did You Pack a Towel?

It’s Saturday morning, and Duncan and I are alone this weekend.  Alison has taken Will to a badminton tournament in Edmonton, and I am taking Duncan to a swim meet here in Calgary.  Divide and conquer! 

When Alison is away for the weekend, as she sometimes is for events like skating competitions with her students, she usually leaves me a short checklist of reminders about the boys’ weekend activities (and the occasional errand that needs to be done). 

It’s helpful.

Earlier this week, when I went to pick up the boys from their sports practices after work, I got the usual Monday schedule a bit mixed up and kinda sorta forgot to take the older son home.  I was literally two minutes from the house when I received a call on my cell from Will, asking, “Did you leave without me?”

I turned the car around, and one hour later, I was again two minutes from our house.

If Will had called only me, this little error could have slipped under the radar and been soon forgotten.  Unfortunately, he also called his mother at work to find out how he was supposed to get home.

As I said, Alison usually leaves me a short checklist when she leaves town.  It typically looks something like this:

            10:00am          feed kids breakfast

                                   pack snacks for swim meet

                                   pack Duncan’s swim bag

            1:15pm            be at the pool for warm-ups

            6:30pm            put lasagna in the oven

            7:00pm            I’ll be home for dinner.  Love you!

But now I have proven my incompetence by abandoning a child.  (Child?  He’s fourteen!  If we were Navajo, I would have abandoned him in the middle of the desert for three days with nothing but a bag of peyote and a road-runner bladder filled with stale water…on purpose!)  The list now looks more like this:

            9:00am            wake up

            9:01am            wake up Duncan

            9:10am            get Duncan showered and dressed

            9:30am            get yourself showered and dressed

            10:00am          feed Duncan healthy breakfast

            10:30am          feed yourself healthy breakfast

            10:45am          take a pill (literally, it’s not just an expression)

            10:50am          use the bathroom

            10:57am          wipe your ass

            10:59am          wipe it again to be sure

            11:00am          pack Duncan’s swimsuit

            11:02am          pack a towel for Duncan

            11:04am          pack Duncan’s swim cap

            11:06am          did you remember the towel?

            11:08am          pack Duncan’s goggles

            11:10am          you did pack a towel, right?

            11:15am          pack a healthy snack for Duncan with fruit

            11:16am          but no bananas; he doesn’t like bananas

            12:45pm          leave for pool

            1:00pm            get out of car and lock it

            1:02pm            I didn’t hear the beep.  Are you sure you locked it?

            1:15pm            warmups start

            5:30pm            DON’T FORGET TO BRING DUNCAN HOME WITH YOU

6:30pm            locate lasagna in the garage freezer, set oven to…you know what, never mind, I’ll prepare something when I get home.

This would be humiliating enough by itself, but Alison also told her mother that I forgot to pick up Will.  So, when I saw Duncan’s grandparent’s last night, my mother-in-law reminded me no fewer than four times to pack a towel for her grandson.  Then she called me again this morning to remind me one last time.  Just to be safe.

Uh oh, it’s 10:52!  Hold on, I’ll be back in 7-10 minutes.  Talk amongst yourselves.

….

OK, I’m back.  In hindsight, I probably should have moved that item before my shower, but it may take a few weeks before I earn back the privilege to improvise.

Really, you would think instead of leaving Will at the Sports Club, I had tossed him into a dumpster filled with used meth needles, barely slowing down the car as I passed the dark alley where it was located.  It wasn’t even some roadside truck-stop, which is exactly where we misplaced my sister when she was about 7 years old.

It was one of those long, hot Gregson road-trips that were always accompanied by the smell of vomit and apple juice.  (Gregsons are notoriously prone to motion-sickness.)  We had made one of our many pit-stops for gas and Hostess fruit pies (possibly a catalyst for the motion-sickness), and when we were ready to pull our van away and hit the highway, my parents performed the ritual roll call.  They asked for six names and got six replies, but they didn’t know that someone had answered on Daina’s behalf.  Daina, who was still in the truck-stop washroom.

As you know, I don’t have a friendly relationship with pickup truck drivers.  My dad had similar issues with semi-truck drivers.  It was a rare road-trip when the Gregsons weren’t almost run off the road by a careless – or homicidal – driver at the wheel of a Mac truck.  So, when we heard the roaring acceleration of a quickly approaching 18-wheeler, we got a bit nervous.  When it pulled up beside us to match our pace and started blasting its horn, well, we all assumed well-practiced crash positions.  I think it was Shaunie who first found the courage to lift her gaze and exclaim, “Look, Dad, there’s a little girl in that truck who looks just like Daina!”

I suppose what bothers me most is that I only forgot our son the one time (and not on the side of the road in the middle of Idaho), and my credibility is completely shot.  Sure, there was the other time when I forgot to pick up both kids, but that was a completely different situation.  If they had truly been orphaned and abandoned, there is always a better chance they’ll be adopted together if they are found together.

Le's Cafe

Meh.

Boogies Burgers

We just had Canadian Thanksgiving, and what am I thankful for?  Pumpkin pie.  And especially the person who invented pumpkin pie.  Have you ever carved a jack-o-lantern and seen what's inside those things?  Never in a million years would I have thought, "Mmm mm, all this needs is some crust and a bit of nutmeg!"  Like that guy who first bit into a lobster, we are indebted to another pioneer who took what must have seemed like a really bad idea and instead enriched our palates.  Sadly, the same can't be said for the poor bastard who tried to create chocolate-covered wasps.  Some ideas that seem dumb at the time actually are.

Since it was Thanksgiving, the kids had a four-day weekend, and they came by the office on Friday for lunch.  It had been quite a while since we had gone to a great burger joint on Edmonton Trail, and even then, only Alison and I had eaten there before.  This would be the first time our boys had tried Boogies Burgers.

I can see where your mind is headed already.  Don't worry.  After ruining everyone's appetite last time with tales of grilled gonads, I'm not going to give in to the too-easy jokes that Boogies Burgers' name suggests.  There will be no discussions of nose goblins, snotcicles, nostril bungies, sinus dwellers, Kleenex caulking, nasal discharge, mucus, phlegm, or loogies.

This is a respectable blog, and I'm above all that.

So, back to the tragically named restaurant.  From their name displayed in hippy-chic stained glass to the vintage '80s tabletop video games (including, appropriately, Burger Time!), Boogies Burgers has a retro, counterculture atmosphere.  The counterculture cred mostly makes itself known through a variety of posters and prints scattered across the restaurant's walls, decrying the oppression of "The Man".  In Boogies Burger's case, they are very specific about who "The Man" is.  They have a real beef with a very famous ginger who has a predilection for wearing yellow jumpsuits and way too much makeup, the clown-prince of secret sauce (still not a mucus reference) himself, Ronald McDonald.

Boogies Burgers' belief that there is nothing happy about a meal at McDonalds must be based on a general disdain for corporate franchises, because it can't have anything to do with concerns around healthy eating.  Boogies (can I call you Boogies?) has a four-patty monstrosity called, ironically, the "Don't Fear the Reaper" burger that is "garnished" with a butterflied hotdog wiener, four slices of bacon, a fried egg (pure genius!), and is topped off with a mini corndog protruding from the bun like a deep-fried periscope.

And, no, that's not what I ordered.  Should I decide to commit meat-induced suicide, I'm going to really make it count at one of the local all-you-can-eat Brazilian barbecue places with all of those varieties of skewered meats.  Bet on it: if I'm leaving this world in a restaurant, I'm taking at least four animals with me.

Instead, I ordered the Sam's Burger (and added a couple of strips of bacon).  It also has a fried egg, but just one patty.  Besides the fried egg, this burger features another unique ingredient: Boogie's signature red sauce.  This is not to be confused with the Two Sisters' red sauce; the Two Sisters' version is a creole-style condiment and is definitely red.  Boogie's variety is a sweet sauce, a variation of the classic burger sauce, and is a lot closer to yellow and orange than red. 

Alison had a Fay's Burger (mushrooms and grilled onions), Will had Jebb's Burger (bacon and butterflied hotdog wiener), and Duncan chose the aptly named Pizza Burger.  Even at one patty each, these were still difficult to finish in one sitting, and we probably didn't need to order quite so many Spicy Fries.  But we hunkered down and devoured our burgers completely, except for Duncan who had half of his put into a doggie bag.  The boys were heading straight to their sports activities from Boogies, so I took Duncan's leftovers to my office to keep in the fridge until the end of my work day.  Unfortunately, I "accidently" forgot to bring it home. 

Don't tell Duncan, but it still tasted pretty good three days later.

My only complaint about Boogies is the price; I expect it to cost more than Mickey D's, but three times as much!  Burgers, fries, and soft drinks for a family of four should not cost over $40.   That hurt my feelings (and my wallet) a bit, but Boogies redeemed itself as we headed out the door.  Posted at the exit was the following sign: 

Help Wanted: P/T Experienced Cook.  Must love bacon & hugs.  Flakes and cat people need not apply.

Anyone who knows me knows I'm not a big fan of cats.  Actually, let me rephrase that: I hate cats.  (I typically describe a good time as being "more fun than a room full of cats and a glue gun.")  No, there isn't some deeply buried, traumatic experience from my childhood involving a feline pet, just a mild allergy.  So, I suppose what really bothers me is the effect they have on many people.  Remember when I mentioned in a previous blog entry that some people seem to crave an unhealthy relationship in their life, and many find it with cats?  I wasn't kidding.  As evidence, let's compare cat owners to dog owners:

• Whenever you see a dog food commercial, the actor playing the dog owner always talks about shiny coats and healthy teeth.  But in cat commercials, the owner talks about how fussy their cat is, how it destroys furniture and clothing, how fickle and aloof their pet is; and they act grateful for this behaviour, because it's the only attention they're gonna get from the little beast!

• No-one ever talks about the crazy dog lady; when the neighbours detect a funny smell wafting from next door, the paramedics never walk in to find thirty semi-feral dogs feasting on their dear owner's corpse (which is still clutching an electric can-opener and a half-opened can of Fancy Feast).  I've also noticed that it's never a crazy cat man, either, but I'm not going to say anything more about that. 

• Historically, cats have been reviled.  The proof?  When someone is trying to solve a difficult problem, what is the old saying?  "There's more than one way to skin a cat."  And do people cross themselves and faint to hear him say this?  No, of course not.  Instead, they nod and mutter, "Yes, that sounds reasonable."

• A hot dog is a good thing (especially with sauerkraut), and is respected for its quiet humility. But a cat in heat is a screeching, howling banshee that can strain the patience of even the most ardent cat lover.

As it turns out, cat people can't be held completely responsible for their co-dependent behaviour.  There is growing evidence that cats carry a parasite (no, not another cat, but a much smaller parasite) that usually only affects rodents, making them inexplicably attracted to the cat, overcoming any sense of self-preservation they might normally have around pussy-footed predators.  The same research implies that some humans (who carry the recessive "little old lady" gene) are similarly affected by this toxoplasm.  It would seem that common side effects also include shawl fetishes and an irrational affection for the British royal family.

Well, there we go, parasites and toxoplasm.  And here you were worried I'd mention boogers.

Spicy Hut

Sometimes you are better off not knowing where your food comes from.  As an example, if you didn't know what prairie oysters were, you could be forgiven for actually enjoying them.  "Oooh, dumplings!  I love dumplings!"  Yeah right, dumplings.  As in "Billy ain't feeling so good, Coach.  I think he got kicked in the dumplings."

I dated a farmer's daughter in high school (don't freak out, I was in high school, too) who had a younger brother who loved to fry up and eat prairie oysters; they gave off an unwholesome smell as they popped and danced on the frying pan.  To me, it just seemed like he was betraying his entire gender, and (I could be remembering this wrong) I recall him smacking his lips like Hannibal Lector right before "digging in".  The testicular origins of prairie oysters are bad enough, but I also found it disturbing that this culinary abomination is taken from a live bull.  No, I'm not squeamish about the fact that meat comes from animals.  I know that some people feel that killing ol' Bessie by driving a steel rod through its barely active brain is somehow inhumane, but I'm fairly certain that no cow has ever left this earth regretting all the things it never got to do because its rich life was cut so tragically short. Besides, you can't use lethal injection; it leaves a metallic aftertaste. 

But I do feel there something intrinsically disturbing about eating a still living animal one part at a time.  You can't just go out and and take a cheese grater to an alive-and-kicking Wilbur every time you crave a fresh BLT.  And you can't treat a bull's wiggly bits like low-hanging fruit on a live tree.  It's just plain wrong.

You know what, I may have ruined your appetite for anything I had hoped to recommend.  That's okay.  If you need to step away for a moment, I'll understand and save your place.  When you return, I promise to stop talking about bovine grape-smugglers.

So, as I said before, sometimes you are better off not knowing where your food comes from, and that can include restaurants.  When we used to live in Calgary's Little Italy - Bridgeland, - we had many places to go out and enjoy excellent food.  But there were at least a couple of places that usually came to us.  One was a pizza joint called Peppino Pizza that would only deliver.  Once, we tried to locate them to see where the pizzas came from, but we could only narrow it down to either a bus shelter or a chiropractic office.  My theory is that they were actually located underground, the pizza was baked by hideous Morlocks, and it was delivered by an adult human pet they raised from a baby they stole from a self-absorbed mother who parked her stroller outside a LuLuLemon while trying on age-inappropriate yoga pants.

The other restaurant, one of my favourite places on Earth, does have tables, but we started out only ordering takeout or delivery.  The place is classically dingy, its walls decorated with chair scuffs and Asian souvenirs made out of discolored plastic.  I can't say I ever found the idea of dining in to be very inviting.  In fact, it was nearly three years before we decided to reserve a table and try their food served apart from a styrofoam container.  After taking in the atmosphere and the state of the restrooms, and after sitting funny all evening to avoid the soy sauce stains on the chairs, it was another four years before I went back to dine-in at Spicy Hut.  (Alison has yet to return, even after the family who owns the place finally renovated it and made it almost presentable.)  And yet, we continue to order take-out from Spicy Hut every New Years Eve and a few times in between.  I think this is a textbook example of cognitive dissonance, which is Latin for "out of sight, out of mind".  The food is just that good.

Spicy Hut is, as the name implies, not for the faint of heart nor for the low on Tums.  Our kids call it Spicy Butt, not just because it sounds funny, but also because of the damage it does the following day.  

It seems that human beings need to have at least one unhealthy relationship in their lives.  That's why some women date chain-smoking roadies for AC/DC cover bands.  That's why some movie directors continue to hire Lindsey Lohan.  And that's why some people own cats. However, the Gregson clan (Calgary chapter) loves spicy food, even when it doesn't love them back.  Yes, even when he promises he will never hurt them again but comes home the following weekend drunk and angry, pounding on the warped and yellowed door of their double-wide trailer with his grease-stained fists because he can't find his keys and someone has blocked the door from the inside with the beer fridge, praying he'll black-out before he forces his way in.  (Sorry, I think this metaphor just got away from me.)  

Let's just say that the low point of my spice addiction (my "less than zero" moment, if you will) involved a fried shrimp Po' Boy sandwich, a literal wall of hot sauces, and me leaving permanent finger-shaped marks on the tiles of the bathroom wall at 3:00am.

My grandmother would often scold us for adding so much heat to our meals, claiming, "You are ruining your tastebuds!"  That might be true; I've reached the point that I can't even feel anything less than 50,000 on the Scoville scale, but it is a craving that is hard-wired into the Gregson genes.  I remember when Will was only three and I had brought home a sushi bento for my lunch.  He had already finished his Kraft Dinner, but he was fascinated by this Japanese concoction of raw fish, rice, and, of particular interest...wasabi!  Will asked to try some of the green mustardy horseradish, and I told him it was much too hot for him.  He continued to watch, and giggled every time the wasabi's effect went up my nose and made me convulse and writhe in my chair like I had just received a wet-willy from Newt Gingrich.  He asked again to try some.  His mother, being uncomfortable watching her baby boys suffer, knew what was coming next and left the room.  I warned Will again of the powerful effects of even a small amount, but he still insisted.  So I scooped out a pea-sized portion, handed him the spoon, and he popped it in his mouth.  For a brief moment, there was no reaction.  Then his eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.  As the panic began to build, he turned red, then purple, and tears began to flood from his eyes.  I was on the verge of panicking myself when he appeared to stop breathing altogether.  But after a heartbeat or two, he caught his breath and, in a tiny pleading voice, said only one word:

"More!"

It was one of the proudest days of my life.

Spicy Hut, with its fusion of Thai and Peking cooking styles, satisfies our spice addiction on many levels.  They have several curry-sauced dishes in all three major colors (red, green, and classic yellow) as well as many pepper-based (black and chili) items.  They also have one of the few soups I honestly look forward to eating (drinking?).  Generally, I find soup to be a  Dickensian meal-replacement, not an actual meal, just a couple steps ahead of those chalk-flavoured Slim-Fast shakes.  I need food that requires chewing.  If I can't put it in my mouth and shake it around like a Care Bear in the teeth of a 2-month-old Rottweiller, I'm usually not interested.  But Spicy Hut makes a perfect Tom Yum Goong soup, which is basically a bowl of lime-kissed liquid fire.  A word of advice: if you order a large take-out tub for sharing back home, don't be the last one to get your cup-full unless you don't have anywhere important to go the following day.  The last serving always gets all of the chilli pepper seeds that sunk to the bottom, and you will be delayed leaving the house the next morning.

Spicy Hut also makes the best Ginger Beef I have found anywhere.  If you aren't already familiar with the stuff, Ginger Beef isn't (strictly speaking) Thai or Peking.  In fact, it's Calgarian cuisine.  (I kid you not.  Look it up!)  Typically, at most restaurants it's pretty soggy as it has probably been soaking in its cloudy brownish sauce since last Tuesday.  But Spicy Hut uses a clear version of the sweet and spicy sauce that features more peppers than the average variety, and they also wait until they serve it before adding the sauce to keep the fried beef crispy.  If you order delivery or take-out, they even package the sauce in a separate container to prevent mushifying in transit.  (Another word of advice: if you get take-out, always check to be sure they included the sauce.  Getting home for New Years Eve with an order of Spicy Hut that included sauceless Ginger Beef ruined the entire 2009 calendar year for our family.)

I've also eaten lunch at Spicy Hut many times, and I highly recommend going with a few friends (or reasonably tolerable co-workers) and each ordering a different version of the lunch special.  It comes with a spring roll, rice, one of of four different soups (don't be afraid, get the Tom Yum Goong), and a choice of 5 different entrees.  The entrees still arrive on separate plates as if you had ordered them a la carte, so you can share each other's selections.  However, if there are more than three of you together, make sure two of you order the Ginger Beef so you have enough to satisfy everyone.  When fights break out over the last strip of beef, it always ends with someone getting poked in the eye with a chopstick.

Snacks Between Meals: Hirsute Suits Me

One winter day, about three years ago, I looked in the mirror and thought, “You’re short, fat, and homely.  But, at least you still have your hair.  Heh, wouldn’t going bald just complete the picture.”

Oh damn.

The past three years have been very hard on my hair, which of course means they have been very hard on me.  I have always been “small for my age” (I still find myself considering the purchase of clothes that are too big for me, hoping that I might “grow into them”), and chiseled is a word that doesn’t describe any part of my body or face.  But I’ve always had two features I could carry with pride: my eyes (they don’t see perfectly but, naturally blue and framed by long lashes, they look great) and my hair.

My dad has a full head of hair; it’s blazingly white like the Glad garbage man, but it’s still all there.  So after more than thirty years of complete cranial coverage, I figured the follicle fairy wasn’t going to be visiting me anytime soon to fly off with fistfuls of fur in tow.  As a bonus, my mane was also maintaining most of its luscious chestnut color, a real achievement compared to how grey my brothers had been getting.  And soft!  My natural wave required no sticky or stiffening styling products, so it felt like a wig made out of kittens.  If I had grown it long and stood in a wind tunnel, even Fabio himself would have wept with jealousy.

But the first sign that something was seriously wrong (the canary in the coal mine as it were) was when I was walking down the hall at my company’s head office and a vice president walking a few steps behind me suddenly commented,

“Did you know you’re losing your hair back there?” 

I was dumbstruck, both because I didn’t want to believe him and because saying stuff like that is just not something one guy says to another.  It’s very uncool, like choosing to use a urinal right next to another man when there is a whole row of vacant ones.  Un. Cool.

Naturally, I responded by filling his office full of shampoo while he was away on a business trip, but that’s a story for another day.

I bring all of this up now because I occasionally get lulled into believing it isn’t so bad.  The frontal hairline hasn’t receded much, so unless I set the bathroom mirrors at the proper angles or step into one of those elevators with mirrored walls on three sides, I never see the damage.  Even when I get my hair cut, when the time comes for the hairdresser to hold up a mirror to show me how she trimmed the back of my head, I deliberately (this is so sad) unfocus my eyes so I can only see a dark brown blur.  (She could have shaved a swastika back there, and I wouldn't know...at least until a large member of a visible minority "informed" me later).  What also helps my denial are friends who are shorter than me.  I know, they are rarely found outside of cookie bakeries built into trees, but I do know some smaller people.  For example, we went to Karen and Heery’s place this weekend for dinner and somehow the topic of “the signs of aging” came up. I mentioned my emerging scalp.  Karen just rolled her eyes.

“What are you talking about?  Your hair is fine.”

“Really?  Watch this.”  I bowed my head.

“Gasp!  Sweet mother of....!”

Karen literally jumped out of her chair, and that’s quite an achievement in itself, since she wears an electric device to help her MS-affected leg move, and jumping usually means turning the dial all the way up.  Really, I think she was more shocked than that guy from the IRA was when Forrest Whitaker's girlfriend unveiled “her” cannelloni.  (Even worse, this isn't the first time I've elicited this response.  People are repelled and fascinated at the same time.)

The frustrating part is I know I can grow hair; the rest of my body excels at it.  I have eyebrows that (unchecked) start to climb my forehead like vines, ears that are increasingly effective at keeping out bees (who hasn’t been worried about bees flying into his ears...right?  Right?), and the once thin line of hair that starts at my chest and heads downwards (affectionately known as the “Pathway to Paradise”) has expanded from a simple pathway to a 16-lane freeway (sadly without all the traffic that metaphor implies).  Have you heard that old joke about why Italians wear gold chains? (Answer: so they know where to stop shaving.) It isn’t so funny to me anymore.

Sadly, there is really nothing I can do about any of this besides avoiding swimsuits and tall people.  Tall people, from my perspective at least, are everywhere, and I enjoy waterskiing too much to spend all year covered up.

I guess it’s just time to pull on a hat and start shopping for gold chains.

Echo Lake Cafe

The weather is cooling very quickly now, foreshadowing the coming of fall, which in these parts is virtually indistinguishable from winter.  It's a bit depressing, but it comes after several weeks of beautiful summer weather.  In particular, we were very fortunate to have temperatures in the high 20s and low 30s (80s and 90s for those speaking Fahrenheit) for the entire time we spent vacationing in Montana.  That made for perfect swimming and waterskiing conditions, and it also meant we could sit out on the "patio" at our favourite breakfast spot in the area: the Echo Lake Cafe.

I should first tell you a bit about Echo Lake, and why we go back there almost every summer.  My grandparents bought some lakefront property about 35 years ago, and their family continued to grow until sharing a camping trailer with nine grandchildren must have started to wear on their sanity.  Rainy days were especially bad, having fifteen or more people trapped in a 1970's Prowler-manufactured hell.  After my brother Brent had thrown up for the third time, my cousin Greg had bitten me once again, the baby hadn't stopped crying for a full hour, and the coffin-sized bathroom had been rendered uninhabitable by the effects of too much canned food, no jury in the land would have convicted my grandparents if they had quietly stepped out of the trailer, padlocked the door, and rolled the whole thing into the lake.

Instead, they built a cabin.

Notice I said cabin, not cottage.  This is the real deal, built out of alternating stacked logs like those popsicle stick shelters we've all assembled as kids.  Except, of course, if you lick the ends of the logs, there's no residual cherry or lime flavouring.  Nope, this isn't any frou-frou summer home like the ones you'll see on Home and Garden TV, and an appropriately tiny budget has been spent furnishing the place. The cabin's decor is best described as Swedish Folk meets 70's ski lodge.  I don't know where the Swedish motif came from; as far as I can tell, the Gregson clan is about as Scandinavian as Kim Jon Il.  And the 70's part just lets guests know when we last made an effort to spruce the place up.  (Actually, my cousin Laurie has attempted to add some class to the joint over the years, but it's a losing battle, like playing Red Rover against Siamese twins.)  As for appliances, supplying the place usually begins with a conversation like this:

       "We should get a new microwave oven.  Ours is making funny clicking sounds and won't 
         turn on unless you hold the door shut.  Who knows how much radiation it's giving off."

       "You're probably right.  We can look for one this weekend.  Hey, will the garbage man 
         take this one with the regular pickup?"

       "No, you'll have to bring it to the landfill yourself."

       "Really?  That'll cost $5 just to drop it off!"

       "Honey, I think you can afford $5 without cramping your style too much."

       "Yeah, I suppose.  But the landfill smells funny...hmm, why don't we just donate the 
         microwave to the cabin?  We'll pack it with the hairdryer that shoots sparks."

So, now the cabin has a microwave oven that frequently trips the circuit breakers, a variable-temperature (meaning it chooses what temperature it prefers) oven, a stove with 3 out of 4 working elements, a VCR that eats 2 out of 5 tapes watched, and a fridge that still smells like old cabbage even after applying enough Lysol to wipe out cooties in every kindergarten in the country.  But that's okay.  If all of the stupid things we've done playing on the lake over the years haven't killed us yet, an old Frigidaire sure as hell isn't going to do the job.

We've had so many near-drownings that we now know to keep an eye out for floating hats, a sure sign that a toddler has fallen unnoticed off the dock and is trapped under the dock or a boat. It's so commonplace that we just pause to carefully place a bookmark on the page we're reading, reach down in the water, pull the kid out by their ankle and shake him a few times to dry him off and get him breathing again. We've had a few trips to the Kalispell hospital, including one for 13 stitches after a bad waterskiing accident.  That last one was yours truly, and I can tell you there are few things as unsettling as having someone weave a needle and thread through your forehead while a motorcycle rider is screaming down the hall (there are no helmet laws in Montana...I'll let you fill in the details).  Oh, and once, my brother and I even tried to drive our motorboat on dry land.  "Say what?" I hear you exclaiming.

Okay, just one more story before we get back to the cafe.

My brother, Jeff, and I had a sometimes bitter sibling rivalry growing up.  I can recall a fight with screwdrivers (oh, those crazy Gregson boys!) and a trip back from a ski hill that involved a bloody nose.  (I think the number "7" is still imprinted on the back of my head where a TV remote once glanced off of it.)  The rivalry continued right into our college years, but after settling down and starting families, we finally called a truce and now get along just fine the once or twice a year we see each other.  I'd like to think we've matured and learned to appreciate each other's successes and challenges, but it might also have something to do with us living in different countries and 800 miles apart. Let's be optimistic and go with the former.

Anyway, this rivalry manifested itself horribly one day at the lake as I was driving, with Jeff in the passenger seat, our boat across the bay where our cabin is located.  What happened next depends on who you ask.

Jeff would have probably described it as him spraying a completely harmless disappearing ink on his brother as a practical joke.  His brother grossly overreacted, gunned the throttle in a fit of rage, and proceeded to pound on Jeff, leaving the boat driverless while it launched itself over several fallen trees to crash violently on the shore.  Ergo, Darin's fault.

My version went more like this: Darin was driving the boat responsibly (hands at the 10 and 2 for safety) when Jeff poured a noxious (possibly toxic!) fluid all over his brand new Quicksilver beach shirt.  In trying to prevent the spread of this staining  dark-blue sludge from making contact with the upholstery of his father's precious boat, Darin attempted to wrest the spray bottle from Jeff's hands, and, in doing so, bumped the throttle with his elbow.  The boat then launched itself over several fallen trees to crash violently on the shore.  Ergo, Jeff's fault.

We struggled out of the boat on the passenger side, and surveying the hull, we saw  - miracle of miracles - the boat appeared completely unharmed.  However, when we made our way over to the driver's side, our knees buckled at the sight of a hole in the bow big enough for a small child to climb through.  The inhabitants of Echo Lake are still haunted in fitful dreams by the inhuman wailing of two young teenage boys heard that day. 

My dad has since expressed regret for how angry he was with us.  Personally, I think the fact that Jeff and I can walk without medical assistance demonstrates great restraint on my dad's part.

For years afterwards, I blamed Jeff for wrecking the boat (and our summer), but in hindsight, I have to admit that it was at the very least a solid team effort.  In fact, maybe I should have spun it that way with my dad at the time: look, it's the first time Jeff and I cooperated on anything.  Yay us!

Then again, maybe not.

So this the scene of the Echo Lake Cafe, a bit of civilization in what is otherwise the chaos of Gregsons and watersports.  The cafe has been around in some form on and off for about 50 years, but the current incarnation first appeared in 1999.  They only serve breakfast and lunch, and we usually split the difference to join them for brunch, a truly inspired mealtime that combines two of my favourite things: sleeping in and food.

On the surface, their menu appears to contain the typical breakfast cafe fare: omelets, pancakes, crepes, eggs anyway you want them, hashbrowns, etc.  But much of it is given a Montanan twist, like their Cowboy Eggs Benedict (gravy instead of Hollandaise sauce), and Jack cheese is a staple in most of their omelettes. However, my favourite item (and Alison's) isn't particularly "western" at all and even breaks one of my usual rules: I don't like to order vegetarian versions of dishes.  Don't get me wrong, I have enjoyed some fantastic vegetarian meals over the years, but the crucial difference is that the good ones were dishes originally designed to be vegetarian, not a pathetic attempt to imitate or replace meat with a vegetable-derived substitute.  (Pine nuts will never be able to replicate the exquisite taste of suffering found in real beef.)  However, the Echo Lake Cafe's Vegetarian Eggs Benedict is, in my opinion, the best item on their menu, and the best Eggs Benedict I've had anywhere.  Instead of ham or smoked salmon, they place slices of avocado and tomato on the egg and smother it in Hollandaise sauce.  Simple but inspired. 

As for the boys, Duncan always enjoys himself a plate of syrup (there are pancakes in there somewhere, but he isn't happy until they completely break down and dissolve under the pressure of a lake of maple corrosion), and Will experienced his first taste of huevos rancheros at the Echo Lake Cafe.    With fresh-squeezed orange juice, a generous side of nicely-seasoned homestyle potatoes, and an optional huckleberry muffin, you can roll yourself back to the cabin, more than satisfied until dinnertime.  Just be sure your hat floats, though, because you'll be sinking to the bottom of the lake if you try swimming too soon, and we need to know where to look for you.

El Topo

El Topo: the Restaurant

It’s no Salt n’ Pepper, but the El Topo Cantina is the best Mexican restaurant in Bigfork, Montana.  (Okay, it’s probably the only Mexican restaurant in Bigfork, Montana.)  Still, if you’re looking for huge portions of better than average Mexican food, this is your place. 

Get the burrito.  It’s larger than a child’s forearm and much tastier.  Oh, and be sure to get it “smothered”.  That means wrapped in a bucket-load of melted cheese and topped with their in-house special sauces: a verde salsa and a spicy red.  They offer a variety of Mexican beers (well beyond the standard Corona), but you can enjoy the meal just fine without alcohol.

El Topo: the Movie

I thought I should watch the namesake of the restaurant, and the best way to describe this film is batshit crazy.  I can only assume (unlike the restaurant) that the film was never intended to be enjoyed sober. 

Try to imagine a spaghetti western created by Cheech & Chong.  Then, take each joke and replace it with an act of violence.  It almost sounds interesting, doesn’t it?  Not when it is such a low budget affair that they couldn’t even afford acting skills.  It also appears to be have edited by the director’s nephew who had to choose between this or mowing lawns for a summer job.

The violence is gruesome and gratuitous, but not terribly realistic.  The copious amount of blood looks like tempura paint and is almost orange.  But the real violence is that inflicted upon the child actor who appears in the first scene.

A small naked boy is riding bareback behind the titular gunslinger on his horse.   

Naked.  Bareback.  

 Have you ever felt horsehair?  The stuff is so coarse that they make violin bows out of it.  And this poor kid had to straddle the backend of a horse with nothing more between his privates and equine sandpaper than regret.  If I had replaced my caribou bike seat cover with an SOS pad, I might have come close to appreciating his discomfort.

Salt and Pepper

North America is like a cul-de-sac with only three houses on it.  With no more than two "neighbours", you would think everyone would know each other really well, have close friendships, share stuff and all of that.  Instead, we treat Mexico like the third child in a family of boys; the first two sons naturally have a sibling rivalry, but they still agree on one thing: picking on the third son.

True story: my parents started their family with three boys, and I was the oldest.  (Jeff was the second oldest but has since passed me.  See, the rivalry continues!)  Once, when I was about eight, I was at a neighbour's house with Brent, the unfortunate third son in our family.  We were outside playing with two neighbourhood girls who were about the same ages we were.  (Brent is three years younger than me.)  As is not uncommon for kids that age, we were curious about the differences between boys and girls.  This led me to utter the classic phrase, "If you show me yours....

...Brent will show you his."

I know, it makes me sound like "Pimpy", a rejected character from the Little Rascals.

Well, she did show hers, and Brent did show his, and the other girl with us ran off and told her mother.  And, even though I hadn't shown anybody anything, I got in the most trouble.  And Brent?  After being turned into the Kindergarten Flasher, and, on other occasions being conned out of candy, toys, and even money, did he stop wanting to hang out with his older brothers?  Of course not. He kept coming back for more.

Mexico is kind of like that; his siblings constantly take advantage of him, but he never seems to hold a grudge and continues to share with his brothers, particularly his food.  But you wouldn't know it to look at Calgary's restaurant scene.  Sure, you can find a Taco Bell franchisee just as easily as you would a Dairy Queen, and every food court seems to be required by some Calgary bylaw to have a Taco Time.  Julio's Barrio is okay, but really good Mexican (like the much-missed Baja Bistro) just can't seem to survive in this city.

The exception to this rule is Salt and Pepper.

We first ate at Salt and Pepper when they had a location in Cochrane (a community close to the north end of Calgary).  They recently closed that restaurant but still have two Calgary locations: their flagship in Bowness and a new restaurant in historic Inglewood.  (I think it is also a Calgary bylaw that Inglewood must always be referred to as historic Inglewood.)

When my parents came to visit us for a week in early August, we decided to take them to the Bowness Salt and Pepper.  My dad is a foodie, and we knew he would enjoy the unique (for Calgary) menu.  My mom?  Well, she usually values a restaurant, not by its selection of entrees, but by its selection of coupons.  However, in spite of a complete absence of BOGOs, I think she still enjoyed her meal.

I had forgotten to call the restaurant to make a reservation, so I dropped by in person while running errands to see if they could slide us in for the same evening.  The tall, young man who greeted me at the door said it wouldn't be a problem.

"What time will that be for?"

"7:00."

"And for how many?"

"Six people."

"Okay, we'll see you then."

"Uh, don't you need my name or something?"

"No, Darin, I've got it."

Whoa! I did not give him my name.  This guy must be psychic and is reading my mind.  I've always worried about meeting a bona-fide mind-reader, not because I carry any state secrets or anything else important (he can have my PIN number; the account only ever has about $7.43 in it), but because I might think something embarrassing.  That's all right, I'm prepared for this.  Clear my mind.  Clear my mind.  Don't think about "boobies".  Dammit, I thought about boobies!  Dammit, I did it again!  Quick, start humming!

I was about halfway through the first verse of God Save the Queen (just shows you how panicked I was; I can't stand the Queen) when Kyle reminded me that we used to work for the same company, and I had trained him.  Oh yeah, right.  In all fairness to me, I train hundreds of people a year, and context can be everything, but I did remember him as soon as he mentioned First Calgary.

When we arrived later that evening, we were taken to sit in a special waiting "alcove" in the back of the restaurant before being led out to our table on the patio.  We ordered some chips & salsa and drinks to consume while we looked over the menus.  (My mom was horrified that we had to pay for the chips. Sigh.)

Deciding what to eat was really a no brainer.  Most of us ordered the same thing: the Combination Poblana.  This includes the two best things Salt and Pepper offers, a chile relleno and an enchilada with mole sauce, among other items.

Chile rellenos can be really good or really bad.  Really good ones, like those served at Salt and Pepper, have a crispy breading, a soft tender Poblano pepper, and lots of hot melted cheese.  A bad chile relleno too often has the consistency of stewed old rhubarb, stringy and slimy at the same time.

As for the enchilada, it is really just a vehicle for the mole sauce.  Mole (if you haven't had it before) is a dark Mexican sauce made with roasted chili peppers and, get this,...chocolate!  (If you just said "yuck", let me direct you to the nearest Taco Bell so you can fill your pie-hole with chalupas.)  The owner of Salt and Pepper, Silvio, is from the Oaxaca region of Mexico, which is famous for its variety of mole sauce.  Even though I could have found this out by simply reading his bio inside the cover of the menu, I didn't need to, because my dad was already having a conversation with him at our table like they were old friends. 

My dad is always doing that, striking up conversations with complete strangers on buses, in checkout lines, at museums, pretty much anywhere and with anyone.  Sure, we've all encountered people who suddenly invade your private space to espouse their unique version of reality.  They usually smell funny and wear at least one sure sign of a two-finger grip on sanity, like a tin-foil hat or a "Vote Michele Bachmann" button.

But my dad doesn't come across that way at all.  Quite the opposite.  People love talking to my dad.  He and Silvio were comparing the merits of Mexican restaurants in Calgary and Utah, and when our desserts were taken off the bill, I'm sure it had something to do with that conversation.  It's a real talent.

We had a great meal, the service was very good (thank you, Kyle), and I'm looking forward to trying out their newer historic Inglewood location.

Boobies.

Dammit!

Snacks Between Meals: Truth in Advertising

Just a light snack this time since this really speaks for itself.  Here's a picture I recently took in Kalispell, Montana:

I swear, this isn't a joke.  They've been around for decades, so the name can't really be hurting business that much.  It does make you wonder how bad a law firm's name has to be to drive away clients.  Herpes & Hangnail Attorneys at Law?  Ebola, Ebola, and Associates?  The Lawyer Depot?

Two Sisters Cafe

It’s strange what you can find in the middle of nowhere: an oasis, a ghost town, a gingerbread house occupied by a scary-ass cannibal witch. Or even the Two Sisters Cafe.

Just south of the Alberta/Montana border, there is a very small town called Babb. (Actually, it isn't big enough to qualify as a town. It is officially a CDP, a Census Designated Place. Really. Look it up.) And just south of that, literally surrounded by nothing, is the Two Sisters Cafe. In all the many years we’ve made the trip between Southern Alberta and Echo Lake, Montana, we spent most of them driving right past this garishly painted restaurant, never thinking to stop. If we got hungry, we’d grab a bite at the A&W in Columbia Falls. (By the way, this was one of the last A&Ws in America where you could still order your food from, and have it brought out to, your car. They had those trays that would hook onto your vehicle’s open window and everything. The only thing the waitresses were missing were roller skates. As a kid, I thought I had wandered into the 50’s and expected to see Fonzie pull up at any minute on his motorcycle. What? Who’s Fonzie, you ask? Sigh, I'm so old.)

Anyway, after our trip to New Orleans many years ago, I became a little obsessed with all things Cajun. I sought out the food, I read up on the history (Did you know that the Cajuns were exiled Acadians from Canada? How crazy is that?), and I even started listening to zydeco. If you don’t know what zydeco is, it’s just about the only music in the world that makes an accordion sound cool. I know, even with a talent like that, we still kick them out of Canada. And who did we get out of the Great Accordion Exchange? Bobby Vinton. Remember him? White guy with an afro who dressed like a 70’s porn star and played polka music on his own freaking TV show! Sometimes I despair of my fellow Canucks.

So, one day I stumbled across a review in Bon Appetit. (“Oooh, Darin reads Bon Appetit! Isn’t he hoity-toity!” Now, don’t start picking up your pints of lager with your pinkies sticking out on my account. I was waiting to get my haircut, and it was either Bon Appetit or Field & Stream. And I just wasn’t that interested in reading “Long Legs and a Big Rack: The Joys of Hunting Moose”.) This review just happened to be about an isolated Creole and Cajun restaurant opened by a pair of sisters in Montana. Well, that caught my eye. Even more so when I saw mention of a familiar place called Babb, a town (sorry, CDP) whose only claim to fame up to that point was giving itself a four-letter name using only the first two letters of the alphabet.

The next summer we passed through we made sure to time it so we would be good and ready to have lunch just before we entered Glacier Park and started up the mountain road to Logan Pass. (If you live within driving distance of Glacier Park and have never been there before, you have to make the trip at least once. We live near Banff National Park, and even it pales next to the experience of winding your way up and down the side of a mountain on a narrow road with sheer 1000-ft cliffs where the road's shoulders are supposed to be. Can I tell you a secret? You know that feeling you sometimes get when you stand on the edge of a precipice and have the urge to jump? Intellectually, you know it means certain death, and you – probably – wouldn’t ever do it, but the compulsion still makes itself felt. Well, if my family only knew how strong that feeling is for me frequently when I drive us over that mountain pass, they would be horrified. Huh, I probably shouldn’t let them read this.)

That first stop at Two Sisters was nearly fifteen years ago, and we’ve eaten there every summer since. The outside of the building was painted much like Keith Haring’s graffiti art, but in bright pastels. The restaurant has been repainted a few times over the years, and always in colors and designs that make it look like the Easter Bunny channeling Woodstock. The inside is equally an assault on tasteful interior design, and is best described as frat-house chic. Inflatable cows and aliens (co-existing surprisingly well considering what aliens usually do to cattle), strings of Christmas lights, and skull-headed marionettes hang from the ceiling; and the walls are covered with license plates and bumper stickers. There is even a yellow brick road painted on the floor which leads the patrons to the washrooms located outside. (I know there is a joke in there somewhere. Something about The Wiz? Hm, can’t quite find it. Sorry.) 

And yet, somehow it all works. 

Besides, we saw stranger things on our first visit: particularly an animal that would go from table to table begging for food. I know, not the most sanitary arrangement. But if you try to imagine a traditional New Orleans eatery, I bet somewhere in that dreamt-up scene you picture a hound-dog cleaning up scraps dropped from the patrons’ tables. Kinda works, don’t it?

Except this wasn’t a hound-dog. Or any other kind of dog for that matter.

It was a bird.

The Two Sisters Cafe has no A/C, so they have to keep their windows open on hot days. Occasionally, a bird will fly in, cause a big fuss with owners and customers alike, and then fly right back out. Well, this one bird (a robin, I think) decided to stay. It had resolutely retired from flying and would simply hop away anytime someone tried to shoo it away. Since it stayed earthbound, people eventually stopped worrying about the bird, and it spent the rest of the day feasting on the crumbs of hand-made potato chips that fell to the floor. Now, knowing what high cholesterol can do to a human (e.g. give a guy a fatty liver), I could only imagine what was happening to that little bird. I’m sure if we had stayed a few more hours, we would have seen its cholesterol level reach critical mass and witnessed the robin exploding like a piñata right after the fat kid was given the stick.

So, Darin, you’ve painted such a lovely picture of this place. What keeps you going back?

The food. Hell yes, the food.

They specialize in two things: diner fare with a Cajun twist and pie. 

My perennial favourite (does that mean I order it every year? Yep!) is the Red Burger, a 1/3 pound of beef - or bison, if you prefer - with pepper jack cheese, all of the fixin’s (it’s Montana; the “g” is optional) and drippin’ in the sisters’ secret Creole red sauce. The side is now a plate of home-cut fries instead of the chips they used to serve. (Probably because of what happened to the bird.) Alison usually gets something that involves their chili, such as the chili cheeseburger, a bowl of chili, or her personal favourite: chili with a side of chili. The boys like the quesadillas and the pulled pork sandwich.

I rarely have room for dessert, so I haven’t ordered any in a few years. But even when I did, it was usually their lemon-huckleberry bread pudding or their hand-made ice cream sandwich. The ice cream sandwich was nearly as big as the Red Burger and was made from huckleberry ice cream pressed between two expansive chocolate chip cookoeojerhhf…..oops, got some drool on the keyboard there. Sadly, their ice cream sandwich is now just a memory; and they just don’t make it anymoreroeef…..sorry, those were tears this time.

As for the pie, what can I say? It’s happiness on a plate.

Oh, there has also been another change to the place in the past decade: they installed these magical devices on their windows called “screens”, greatly cutting down on incidents of “poppin’ jays”. (Heh.)

  

Snacks Between Meals: The Importance of Clean Underwear

Just when I thought the whole “kidney thing” was over, I got a call from the Health Research Centre at the Foothills Hospital to setup an appointment to meet with a specialist. That meant a third round of tests, but I didn’t really mind. I figure all of this peeing in cups will prepare me for a future career in sports. (I was thinking I would try luge. Really, how hard could it be? I can lie down like nobody’s business.)

Remember when your mother told you to always wear clean underwear whenever you went out just in case you were in a car accident? I can only assume mothers imagine some version of reality where the paramedics arrive, are about to administer life-saving first aid, but have to suddenly stop when they get an eyeful of your less-than-fresh briefs. (As you would expect, the collision was so bad that it blew your pants right off.)

          “Everyone back away! Back away, dammit! We’ve got day-old tighty-whities here.
          Nobody, and I mean nobody, approach the patient until we break out the haz-mat suits!”

          (Then, in a low whisper for your ears only.) “If only you had listened to your mother,
          we could have saved the leg….”

Well, this motherly advice is doubly valid when it comes to appointments with medical specialists: be sure you have clean underwear!

Let me take a moment to interrupt your thoughts briefly (pun intended). I might be giving you the wrong impression. My personal hygiene is impeccable, but the principle still has relevance…. You see, there is clean underwear, and there is (also clean) underwear that you only wear when there is no clean underwear left.

We’re talking about back-up underwear.

These are your boxers festooned with shiny hearts, your leopard-print banana hammocks, your studded leather thongs, and the heavily-logoed polyester panties commemorating 25 year of Hooters distracting its patrons from its crappy food. These are the options that are only marginally more desirable than going commando. 

In my case, it is Superman cotton briefs.

No, these aren’t innocent underpants featuring scenes from Actions Comics. Nope, these are bright blue with red trim and Superman’s famous symbol emblazoned on a general area that all men like to think is “super”. I didn’t buy these for myself, and don’t start attributing any kinkiness to Alison (we’re actually more into Batman). Instead, these were a gift from my sons. Whether it was a prank on their father or a genuine expression of how much they think of me as their hero is still unknown. (I strongly suspect the former.)

So, this rare morning arrived when, due to a laundry backload, I found myself peering into a nearly empty underwear drawer. I had three choices: long-johns (on a summer day? Forget it.), a pair of unmentionable horrors that will not be described here or anywhere, and those special undies that would make me stronger than a locomotive. 

Of course, I went with the super-shorts.

It wasn’t like I had been given much of a choice, but the consequences of my undergarment decision didn’t hit me until Dr. Sarni, the kidney specialist, left the room to let me undress for an examination. I swore loudly when I undid my belt and caught a flash of the bright red waistband. It hadn’t even crossed my mind when I was getting dressed that morning that my appointment would naturally lead to this moment; my only thought had been my mother’s concern about traffic safety. 

Dr. Sarni had given me a hospital gown to put on but had asked me to only tie it at the back at my neck. So, when she returned, I must have looked like someone’s mentally challenged adult son playing superhero on a really warm day, wearing the cape backwards. 

To Dr. Sarni’s credit, she didn’t let giggling get in the way of her professionalism.

And what was the result of this latest batch of tests and examinations? My kidney was once again declared normal and healthy. (I wonder if she thought a 40-year-old wearing Superman underoos was normal and healthy.) However, she did mention one odd thing: she said my liver has too much fat (???). I didn’t know such a thing was possible, but apparently this is usually due to high cholesterol. My cholesterol is perfectly normal, so I’m bracing myself for a call from my doctor to deliver him yet another cup of urine.

With this latest revelation, I’m beginning to suspect I’ve inadvertently become a member of some kind of Columbia House CD and Defective Organ of the Month Club. I think I forgot to send back July’s card, so I should soon be receiving (depending on my selection category) either Kool & the Gang’s Greatest Hits or an irritable bowel.

If it’s the irritable bowel, next time I’ll wear the long-johns.