I'm Now a Parent of a High School Graduate. How Did That Happen?

Fear.  It’s the first emotion I had after they placed my daughter in my arms 17 years ago.  Not elation or happiness, just naked terror.  I was now a mother and I didn’t know the first thing about it.

I’m thinking this as I watch Emma walk across the stage at her high school graduation.  It’s one of many thoughts and emotions that slide in and out of my head on a day I thought was still a long way off.

When I talk to other moms about how awful I felt during those first few months of Emma’s life, I get odd looks and tight lips.  The judgment is there, silent but so loud.  The enormity of being responsible for another human being was incredibly terrifying to me.  Which was ironic because I am the youngest of seven kids and grew up looking after eight nieces and nephews at one time or another.  Being a mom should have come naturally.  But it took time and a battle with post partum depression to figure everything out.  I remember holding her in my arms and looking out the window as the sun set and wondering how I was going to do this for the next eighteen years.

But time has a way of moving faster than I so desperately wanted it to back then. 

Suddenly, it seems, I open my eyes and she is grown up and moving out in a few weeks, off to university to forge her own path.  I am so proud of the person she has become.  She is intelligent and kind, quick to see the best in everyone and every situation.  Her quirky personality sets her apart from the crowd and it is something of which I really love.

She is ready and eager to get on with this next part of her life.  I, on the other hand, am not. 

I have been the boss for almost 18 years, and it’s a title I am struggling to relinquish.  Old habits die hard I guess.  This has been cause for more than a few arguments over the past year.  We have been butting heads a lot.  She, trying to pull away.  Me, walking that line between knowing that she still needs some guidance and allowing her to make her own decisions.

It’s exhausting.  In my more morose moments, I envision a life as a hermit, responsible for only myself, living in a world where my actions affect no one but me.

So I have to admit there is some relief in this stage of parenting.  She will be on her own, making her own choices.  And although I will always be available if she needs my help, I am finally, blessedly retiring from my title as boss and moving into that of advisor.  At least, that is my hope.

Despite all of these epiphanies, I have not quite come to terms with this huge shift in my life.  It doesn’t seem real yet.  I don’t think I will truly get it until the day we move her out and into her new home.  Maybe when I return home that day and look into her empty bedroom reality will strike.  Maybe it will gut punch me.  But I suspect it will be more of a slow realization, striking during moments when I set the table for three instead of four.  Or in that extra silence that her absence will produce.

It’s going to be different for sure.

Until then I’m going to stop dwelling on the past and the future and enjoy the remaining time I have with her.   It’s not the end of the world, just the beginning of an exciting new journey for both of us.

Building a Coach's Character

I think I’m going to throw up.  Actually vomit all over the bleachers in front of me.  Anyone looking at me wouldn’t guess in a million years how nervous I really am.  After all, I’ve been involved with basketball close to 30 years in some shape or form.  Mostly, I’ve been a player.  But today I am a coach.  And I’ve only been to two practices.

When I agreed to help out my daughter’s coach, filling in for him for a couple of tournament games, I was excited.  It is her final year and being part of her last basketball moments would be so cool.  

Now however, reality has struck.  Will I be able to help them at all?  Will I make the right decisions?  I’ve always shied away from big responsibility.  It’s why I never became an editor.  Or a head coach.  Frankly, it scares the crap out of me.  If I were to really think about where this anxiety comes from, I would guess that it stems from a huge lack of self-confidence along with that burning dread of disappointing and failing others.

It’s too late to delve into that now though.  Thankfully, I am in charge of a wonderful group of girls and they know what to do.  All I have to do is steer them in the right direction.

As I sit and watch the warm up I make a few notes.  Otherwise, I’m afraid nothing will come out of my mouth when they all stand around looking expectantly at me.

The warm up clock winds down and sweat trickles down my back.  Music blares and the thump of the drums fills my head.  I wish I was on the court instead of the sidelines.  It would be so much easier there. 

I shed the thought and concentrate on the game.  The girls come in and my notes prove to be an anchor for me as I relay our plan.  The buzzer goes and the game is on. 

I love how distraction can be a savior.  As the game progresses, I forget all about the rock in my stomach because I have no time to invest in myself.  It is all about the game.  I am completely wrapped up in helping these girls-who have invested so much of their time to be here-succeed.  Sadly, we lose in overtime by three points.  I watch as that all-to-familiar disappointment seems to cover them like a heavy blanket.

This feeling is not lost on me.  As a player, I endured countless gut-wrenching losses.  The same self-recriminations come back to me now like they did all those years ago.  I know there were decisions I should have made, things I should have said.  I look at the team and give them the same speech made by many coaches before me:  Good game, it could have gone either way, we played hard. 

Now though, I wish I could have been more insightful.  I wish I could have told them something deep and thought provoking like those speeches I’ve watched a hundred times in Hoosiers or Coach Carter. 

Later, I realize that I didn’t really need to say anything because all athletes gain something every time they step on the court whether it’s spoken by a coach or not.  That slow but amazing emergence of character, built with each loss and victory. 

The team turns it around for their last game and we win by ten points.  Looking at their smiling faces, it’s gratifying to know I played a small part in this success.  I don’t say much to them afterwards.  I don’t need to. 

I suppose every coach is different-some are better than others.  I’m just glad I took this risk.  After all, my character could still use some building.

The Attitude of Gratitude

My breath puffs out in large streams, turning the tips of my hair frosty white.  I push through the snow and lean into the blustery arctic wind.  My cheeks are frozen and my nose is running.  Everything about this moment is uncomfortable.  I love it.

My friends and family will be surprised at this admission.  Winter has never been my favorite season for so many reasons:  I have to wear to many layers of clothing, endure freezing cars, shovel heaps of snow and I loath the way the bitter cold makes my body hurt. I could go on, as could most Canadians.  But I will stop there. 

The reason for this change is all about attitude and gratitude.  My 366 Project, which I’ve been doing faithfully for 17 days now, has played a major role.  Instead of thinking about how awful winter can be my mind has been busy thinking about how grateful I am for everyone and everything in my life.  Even before heading out the door, I realize I’m thankful for my warm clothes, for a cozy house to come back to, for the beautiful, pristine snow that blankets the earth.  For my awesome dog.

I also keep in mind something the Norwegians like to say:  “There is no such thing as crappy weather, just crappy clothes.”  They are so right. 

I look up and push my toque back so I can see a little more around me.  I have found a quiet and peaceful place to walk, and I am thankful for this break from my busy life.  Even if it is -25. 

At first, I worried that this project would be difficult.  How am I going to find something to be thankful for everyday?  What’s going to happen when I have a bad day, when things go wrong?  Well so far, the bad moments haven’t affected me the way they usually would and I think I know the reason.  I have had stressful moments certainly.  But I am thinking more and more about the good things, the amazing things around me, and the joy that comes from that has infected my entire attitude.  I have had no problem finding something or somebody to be thankful for.  Everyday.

But hey, I don’t want to paint a picture of myself walking around with a big smile on my face, all wide eyes and skipping while singing What A Wonderful World.  It’s not like that.  It’s more like I’ve finally surfaced after years of letting myself get dragged down by circumstances.  The last two weeks, laughter and smiles have come more easily.  It helps of course, that I have my camera in my hands everyday.  It is my passion.  Doing something I love is definitely an asset.

So I will carry on with my project and my new attitude.  I wonder where this will take me and what else I am going to learn.  I’m excited to find out.

Gratitude 366

I’m walking my dog on a quiet Sunday morning when inspiration strikes.  Like a kettle that slowly comes to a boil and then blows, I realize it’s an idea that has been swirling around for sometime, waiting for my overly occupied brain to retrieve.

I’m going to use my camera to remind me how amazing and fortunate I am to live the life I’ve been given.  Everyday, I’m going to take a picture of something I am grateful for.

Gratitude is the quality of being thankful and appreciative, something that lately, I have neglected.  Everyday before I leave for work, I make sure to be thankful for the good things in my life.  Lately however, a busy schedule and financial stress along with some parenting challenges have thrown it to the side, like a forgotten favorite toy.

I’m so bored of being exhausted from living under all the stress that everyday life can dish out.  I have a wonderful family, great friends and a stable job.  Unfortunately, I tend to forget about the great things in my life and how good I have it, compared to so many.  This project is going to remind me of all that.

I am excited for the first time in weeks.  I love photography and the opportunity to create.  So this project, which I’m calling Gratitude 366 (2016 is a leap year), is going to be gratifying and I hope, a lot of fun. 

A couple of years ago, I did a similar project, loosely titled  “family”.  It was great, but my family became a little irritated by my constant and enthusiastic (and sometimes bizarre) requests for models and poses.

This will be different.  It will force me to think about only the good, positive, amazing things in the world and in my life.  It will have intention.  At least, that is my goal.  And hopefully, my family will be happy with this decision as well.

Starting January 1^st, I’m going to photograph something, anything really, that I’m grateful for.  Those images will not sit idly on my hard drive though.  They will be posted everyday on my Flickr (www.flickr.com/photos/shesep/) and Instagram pages.  It will keep me accountable and excuses will be harder to come up with. 

Until then, I’m going to start a list.  After all, one picture a day for a year is a bit of a commitment—but I’m grateful for the challenge.

High River from a Hot Air Balloon

My heart is thundering in my ears and my hands fumble over my camera as we lift effortlessly off the ground and ascend.  The whoosh of the fire billows into the hot air balloon.  It is wonderfully, blissfully silent.

The absence of sound and the feeling of weightlessness is so sudden, I feel like we walked into a sound proof, anti-gravity room.  I thought this would be terrifying.  I love to travel, but airplanes scare the crap out of me.  I am the crazy lady screaming, “We’re all going to die!” from the back of the plane during the tinniest bit of turbulence.

This is different somehow, and that in itself is absurd.  There are no seatbelts in a hot air balloon basket.  There are not really any safety rules per se.  Stan Wereschuk, the pilot, goes over a few items to avoid touching, and what to do if the landing is shaky.  That’s pretty much it.

I wrap my arm around one of the uprights to have a more stable brace for taking photos.  That seems to help my mind accept that I’m safe.  But a bizarre thought occurs to me:  It would be so easy to just swing my legs over the edge and jump.  It’s not that I want to, but in my adrenaline fueled mind the thought keeps popping up.

That crazy, illogical speculation disappears as I begin to survey all that is below me.  It is spectacular.  There is so much to look at it’s hard to concentrate on one object or area for more than a few seconds.  High River in the fall is stunning from the air.  Half a dozen balloons prepare for take off, growing slowly like colorful warm buns rising in an oven.  Trees line almost every street, their golden leaves ablaze like the fire above me.  The town still sleeps peacefully, basking in the cool autumn morning sun.  Other than the balloon enthusiasts, there is no sign of the busy town I see everyday.

As we go higher, the recreation complex, businesses, schools and residential streets begin to shrink, creating a miniature version of the town. 

Hot air balloons are slaves to the wind, and so we drift, with Stan’s 40-plus years of piloting expertise, southeast.  High River isn’t large, but there is still so much to see in so little time.  Emerson and Sunshine Lakes appear like sparkling pools.  The little red barn and the locally named Superman house stand apart in a field of their own to the north.

When I finally take a moment to look at the horizon to the west, the Highwood River, which has been so ferocious and yet given my family and I more happy memories than sad, snakes and sparkles it’s way west.  The Cottonwood trees mark its path over the patchwork quilt prairies and undulating foothills.  In the distance, the Rocky Mountains stretch like a bookend, as far as I can see.  It’s breathtaking. 

My little town sits perfectly nestled on the very edge of the prairies, close to the foothills and mountains, along a beautiful river.  I am lucky to have called this place home for almost 20 years.

The town begins to recede as we move out over the eastern prairies and I tear my eyes away from the western horizon and listen as Stan talks more to himself than to me, about being too close to a line of intimidating steel power polls.  I let him worry about it though, as I am immersed once again in the view.  An ancient coulee gashes its way southeast, looking like an earthquake fault lies just beneath.  I point my camera out and over the basket to the earth immediately below us.  There are designs of every kind, a photographer’s dream.  Farmers have been busy during the fall harvest, their tracks creating lines and diagonals and shapes and patterns of every kind.  I am lost in composition and creation, until Stan says it’s time to land.  We descend slowly.  The bumpy landing I envisioned never happens.  In fact, we come down so gently; we are within one meter of the ground almost hovering.  But Stan isn’t happy with the lay of the land, and we glide like an astronaut on the moon, feet above the earth.  We land once, but lift off when Stan finds a better place.  It is the closest I’ve ever come to feeling weightless, suspended in the air for a few brief moments. 

Finally and regretfully, we land so gently I hardly notice when we stop moving.  We wait in the basket until Stan’s crew arrives.  I’m sad it’s over.  I hold my cameras tightly, like precious treasure.  I will never forget the memory of this once-in-a-lifetime flight.

Finding Peace among the Crowds

I’m shouldering my way through the crowd, stopping often behind a long line of bodies, waiting for people to squeeze by.  This is the end of summer, but I am not back-to-school shopping at the mall.  I’m in the mountains.  Johnston Canyon in Banff National Park to be more precise.

It’s beautiful, but as an avid seeker of solitude and peace it feels so utterly unnatural.  I feel like I’ve broken some sort of subconscious personal rule.  Normally, I escape to the mountains to get away from humanity.  This is exactly the opposite.  Thousands of people are here, all to get a glimpse of the upper and lower waterfalls that tumble through the narrow canyon. I was expecting this so I make a conscious decision to let the mass of people wash over me like the creek waters flowing below. 

I am here as a pseudo-guide for my good friend Lucy, who is visiting from England.  Smoke from distant forest fires have swallowed up any views of the mountains, so a stroll along a cool creek is a refreshing alternative.

We stride along the side of the canyon on a catwalk with railings that cling to the canyon walls and protect googly-eyed tourists from falling into the creek.  I enjoy the sights, but I am distracted by the many different faces I see going by me.  People from all over the world flock to Banff to enjoy the famous beauty of the Rocky Mountains—something I take for granted and enjoy every day of my life.  I hear at least half a dozen different languages and wish I understood at least one of them.  And then I realize that they are all probably talking about how gorgeous the scene before them is.  I feel like a proud mom.  Canadian pride, unearthed, comes bubbling to the surface.  Suddenly, I know my decision to not let the hoards bother me is a good one.  I live in one of the most stunning areas of the world, and why not show off what we have here?

We arrive at the upper falls and I admire the force with which the water crashes into the pool below.  Here, the volume of people has diminished and as much as I want to believe that the numbers don’t bother me, I appreciate having a little more breathing room.  I take a deep breath and withdraw from my introspection to share the moment with Lucy and enjoy watching the water as it disappears over the precipice.

I happily agree when Lucy suggests we carry on another three kilometers to the inkpots, seven blue and green-colored cold mineral springs with quicksand bottoms.  We leave the bulk of people behind and enter a thick-forested trail.  I stop suddenly and ask Lucy if she hears anything.  We don’t—just a few yards away from the roar of the waterfall and chatter of voices I find what I always look for in the mountains—silence.  I’m so glad we decided to carry on.  Although I would have been okay with going back through the throngs (ironically, I was at peace with not being at peace), I am delighted to explore a part of the mountains I haven’t seen before.  We arrive at the pools and enjoy a few moments at the nearby creek’s edge and soak our feet in the icy water. 

I look at my friend and we share a smile.  After today, I won’t see her again for a long time.  It was a small price to pay.

Five Amazing Mountain Hikes to do near High River

I’m heading east through the foothills toward my home in High River after a wonderful day hiking in southern Kananaskis Country.  The drive gives me time to think about how lucky I am to live in such a beautiful town and so close to the mountains I love.  In fact, there are dozens of hikes that can be easily accomplished in a day with time to spare.    

Here are five hikes within about a one-hour drive from High River.   

Mt Burke

This beautiful peak stands on the eastern slopes in the Livingstone Range and can be seen from High River.  It’s a tough hike but the reward is well worth the effort with views of the prairies and mountaintops in every other direction.  At the summit sits abandoned Cameron fire lookout, built in 1929.

Directions: 

From Longview, drive west on Highway 541 to Highwood Junction.  Drive south on Highway 940 (a gravel road) for 14km and turn left toward Cataract Creek campground.  The trailhead is on the right before entering the campground.

Length:  16 km round trip. 

Elevation gain:  935 m

Hiking time:  5-7 hours.

For more detailed information:

 http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Mt-Burke-near-Longview-AB-5406

Note:  After the 2013 flood, sections of the trail along the creek bed were washed out.  Keep your eyes peeled for red ribbon marking the trail.

Raspberry Ridge

Another stunning hike to an active fire look out.  After a grueling final ascent, trekkers are awarded with 360-degree mountain views. 

Directions:

From Highwood Junction drive 11.4 km on Highway 940.  Look for an unmarked, gated dirt turn out on the west side of the highway. 

Length:  9 km return.

Elevation gain:  653 m.

Hiking time:  3-4 hours.

More info:

http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Raspberry-Ridge-Lookout-near-Kananaskis-AB-3243

Grass Pass

This easy day hike is a fairly straight and steady climb into the pass between Bull Creek Hills and Holy Cross Mountain.  Limber pines adorn this trail.

Directions:

Follow Highway 541 from Longview to the Sentinel day-use area. 

Length:  7km return.

Elevation gain:  427 m.

Hiking time:  2-4 hours.

More info:

http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Grass-Pass-near-Longview-AB-2430

Foran Grade Loop

A peaceful walk among lush vegetation, with views of the Sheep River, and then an ascent onto a ridge for views of the Sheep River to the west and the foothills to the east.  Downtown Calgary can be seen as well.

Directions:

From Turner Valley, drive west on Highway 546 (Sheep River Trail).  1.6 km west of the winter gate at Sandy McNabb campground, and just after crossing a cattle guard, there is a pullout on the right side of the road.

Length:  7.4 km loop

Elevation gain:  280 m

Hiking time:  2-3 hrs

More info: 

http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Foran-Grade-Ridge-near-High-River-AB-2999

Junction Creek

If waterfalls and river crossings appeal to you, this excursion should be on your to-do list. This is an easy hike (after crossing the Sheep River) through a valley filled with spruce and fir trees, remnants of an old sawmill and best of all, a three-tiered waterfall.  Pick a hot day and bring your swimsuit.  It’s a little piece of heaven in the middle of nowhere.

Directions:

From Turner Valley, drive west on Highway 546 to the very end of the road at the Junction Creek Day Use area-approximately a 30-minute drive.  The hike begins with crossing the Sheep River so bring a good pair of river shoes or sturdy sandals. 

Length:  14 km return

Elevation gain: 

Hiking time:  4-6 hrs

More info:

http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Junction-Creek-near-Kananaskis-AB-2605

As with any hike, be prepared.  Bring bear spray, layers, food and lots of water.  There are a lot of resources available on the web, but here is one: http://sectionhiker.com/day-hikers-ten-essentials-guide/

These hikes are all in Kananaskis Country.  For more information including trail reports, go to www.kananaskis-country.ca

Finding Treasure in the Kitchen

My dog Lily whines and looks up at me with her large amber eyes.  She thinks we are taking her to the river, and that makes sense because we are trudging through the bushes on the route to where we usually go to cool off on a hot summer day.

But not on this quiet evening because my husband Phil and I have a different more delicious objective:  To pick as many saskatoon berries as we possibly can.

I hadn’t noticed them until recently, when I took the time to look up while carefully making my way through the trees to the water.  The discovery was like finding buried treasure.  Instantly, I laid claim to our find and worried that someone else would find out before we were able to return.  My fears were unfounded though, as the berries were still intact when we arrived.

It doesn’t take much effort to pull the juicy purple berries from the branches.  They are ripe and fall effortlessly into the palm of my hand.  As we search for more of the succulent fruit, I think of my mom and how much she would enjoy this.  I remember the story she likes to tell of my aunt and her finding something similar beside a dusty road in North-Eastern Alberta.  With no buckets to hold a bountiful chokecherry crop, they improvised and used an old pair panty hose and a plastic lunch bag.  By her account, they hauled in 80 pounds that day.

I can see why they would go to those lengths.  I’m not the kind of person who spends hours canning, baking and preparing food for the cold room.  But something—maybe it’s my Mennonite heritage—compels me to pick and keep picking.  What if I miss a big juicy clump?  The thought of even one berry being missed fills me with a mild sense of panic and I find my self obsessively compulsively making sure every berry is in my bucket. 

The wind blowing gently through the trees and the sound of the river lulls me into a trance-like state.  Until Phil clears his throat and suggests that maybe we have enough.  I glance at my hands and they look like I’ve been finger painting with blue and purple.  Phil also has multiple bug bites up and down his arms and legs, and Lily continues to whine.  So regretfully, I close the operation down and make a mental note to come back later, in search of more tasty treasure.

Back at home proudly looking at my haul, I realize I actually have to do something with it.  So I turn to the only person I know who has decades of pie-baking experience:  My panty–hose filling mom.  She will be proud that I took the initiative.  But this time, instead of just dropping off my loot and waiting like a spoiled child for that scrumptious baking, I want to learn how to make a pie.  I think of how much I take her for granted, and I have to admit my dependence on her impressive baking and clothes-mending abilities has resulted in an embarrassing lack of homemaking skills.   It’s time to step up and practice what I preach and try something new.

I arrive at my mom’s with a bucket of berries, two pie plates and a pound of lard.  She starts the lesson by trying to do everything herself and I have to gently remind her that it’s time for me to learn.  So, I obediently put in five cups of flour, a sprinkle of salt and most of the lard.  Later, I mix in an egg and a tablespoon of vinegar.  I ask her what the vinegar is for and it’s like asking a politician a question.  She is evasive and can only say she has always done it that way and tries to change the subject.  I make a mental note to find out later, and then change my mind.  Sometimes, even in baking, there should be some mystery.

She tells me how to roll the dough out and place it in the pie plate.  Next, I clean the berries and put them in a bowl where my mom tells me to put in some sugar.  In her world, measuring is done with a nonchalance taken from decades of practice, meaning, there are no exacts.  Measuring cups are simply for taking ingredients from one place and putting them into another.  In fact, she often uses a coffee cup and a regular spoon to “measure”.  So from what I can tell, I’m putting in over a cup of white, granulated sugar into my pie.  In her 80 years on this earth, I don’t think there has been any real thought given to calories, fat or gluten.  And I have to admit it is refreshing and very liberating.  It’s pie after all.  If you can’t enjoy a fully leaded treat, who wants to eat it then?  It’s just not fun.  Then I realize what is happening:  I’m having fun.  This is not the chore I thought it might be, and I’m enjoying spending time with my mom.  We put the top on the pies and then I help her cut some apples to use in her pie. 

We put them in the oven and clean up our mess.  While we wait, I show her how to use her smart phone.  It takes a while but I think she gets it and I hope she remembers how to use voice mail.  Then I think of the pies, and all the other baking and mending she has done for me over the years. 

Maybe I should show her how to send a group-text.

Four "Real Simple" Recipes Reap Results

I’m paging through a subscription to Real Simple magazine when I get to the back and glance over the recipe section.  Usually, it’s a cursory thought of “maybe I should actually use some of these recipes”.  And then I don’t.  Ever.

But this time, I notice the heading in large bold face type:  EASY DINNER.  Now I’m interested.

Probably like many people, parents especially, I find the task of making unique and delicious meals daunting.  And when you add how busy we all are to the mix and how picky our kids can be, it’s a matter of waving the white flag and calling up for pizza.

These recipes however, actually look fairly simple.  As I run through the list of ingredients, they are items I recognize and can find easily in a grocery store.  Because I am so utterly tired of recycling the same food every day, I am suddenly inspired to do something new and for once, refreshing, as food goes.  So I decide to try one new recipe each week for four weeks and use my family as guinea pigs.

My first attempt is Pork and Rice Meatball Soup.    It can be found on the Real Simple website here: http://www.realsimple.com/food-recipes/browse-all-recipes/pork-rice-meatball-soup

I spread out the ingredients and tackle the recipe, relishing this new undertaking in such a mundane area of my life.  I love being able to create something that is new to me.  It doesn’t seem to matter if it’s a photograph, a story and now apparently, food.  The food comes together in a wonderful burst of flavor in my mouth.  I would have never thought to put these items together and am grateful to those who know how to do it and share their knowledge. 

The result is met with great enthusiasm by my husband and kids, and they enjoy it all, right down to the spinach.

Next on my list is Noodles with Flaked Salmon and Crispy Bok Choy Slaw.  It can be found here:

http://www.realsimple.com/food-recipes/browse-all-recipes/noodles-flaked-salmon-crispy-bok-choy-slaw

The title of this one intimidates me.  I’ve never cooked with bok choy and am unsure of how to make a slaw.  But I persevere and am delighted with the results.  Even more, I am happy to discover my always-picky son loves the salmon.  I make a mental note to remember to marinate it in teriyaki sauce next time.  I love the simple mixture of fresh limejuice, teriyaki sauce and a little salt and pepper.  The slaw is also simple to make and takes less than 10 minutes to chop and mix. 

The picture of my next recipe doesn’t exactly make me excited to tackle it.  It’s Steak with Cauliflower Puree and Crispy Quinoa.  Here it is: http://www.realsimple.com/food-recipes/browse-all-recipes/steak-cauliflower-puree-crispy-quinoa

I’m not a fan of beef.  (I know that’s surprising, coming from a born and raised southern Alberta girl).  So my attitude going in is not what is should be.  However, my family is avid beefeaters.  So I take it on.  I puree cauliflower and fry the quinoa, both of which are new to me.  In the end, my family enjoys only the beef.  I guess mashed up vegetables and fried quinoa are too new to them.  My daughter always the optimist tries hard not to hurt my feelings, telling me she enjoyed it, but “just not the taste”. 

My last attempt is Roasted Vegetable and Wild Rice Salad with Almond-Parsley Sauce:

http://www.realsimple.com/food-recipes/browse-all-recipes/roasted-vegetable-wild-rice-salad-almond-parsley-sauce

While I have made meatless meals before, (does tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches count?) I have never put something like this together.  It feels odd walking through the grocery store and leaving without meat.  On top of that, I have a difficult time finding acorn squash and have to go to another store to find it along with manchego cheese, which I discover comes from sheep of the manchega breed from Spain, according to Wikipedia.

As I prepare the food, I realize this is something my kids will most likely not be interested in.  So I make it for my husband and I.  It’s probably my dislike of squash and perhaps my inexperience in making it, but it falls flat in my mouth.  It makes me realize how much a cook’s attitude toward the food is revealed in their cooking.  

This new venture into a tiny piece of the culinary universe has been a breath of fresh air for me, for my family and my kitchen.   I feel like a whole new world has opened up. I intend to do some exploring.

Second-Hand Shopping is not Second-Rate

The hangers make that familiar metal-on-plastic clink as I sift through dozens of blouses and pants.  I’m blasting through someone else’s past in a tidy little second-hand clothing store in Okotoks and it’s the first of four my sisters and I will be visiting today. 

It’s a bit daunting, but worth the effort, I think.  I’ve become increasingly tired of spending $100 on one pair of jeans, (I know, even that is fairly cheap these days) or $65 for a simple t-shirt.  The buyer’s remorse coupled with the fact that I’m not even sure what I bought looks good on me or even goes together is frustrating.  In a mall, I wander around discouraged and overwhelmed.   To many choices is not always a good thing for me.  Usually, I give up within the first 30 minutes and head to the frozen yogurt stand to seek solace and comfort.

So after hearing a conversation from several co-workers about their amazing second-hand buys, I decide it’s time to take the plunge. 

But even after all my reasoning, I’m really not looking forward to spending my day indoors hunting for treasure like an apathetic pirate.  But I began to realize that I could treat this excursion like a mission, complete with a plan and a goal in mind.  So I come up with the idea of taking the $100 I would spend on one pair of pants at the yoga store and see how many gently used pieces of clothing I can buy with it.

So I adjust my attitude and stride into the first shop with a clear and determined mind.  I vow to go through every single shirt, blouse, vest and turtleneck one-by-one.  It doesn’t take long to find two blouses that actually fit and look half decent--and for $10 apiece, the thrifty side of me rejoices.

Feeling good about my finds, we drive to our next destination.  I picture a small shop like the one we were just in, but instead, we walk into one of the biggest second-hand shops I’ve ever seen.  Rows upon rows of every kind of shirt, pant, coat, dress, skirt and shoes line a space big enough to house a basketball court.  I feel myself deflate slightly.  I’ve had actual nightmares about this.  The air is thick with the scent of old refurbished clothing, and dozens of solemn-faced women peruse the racks with robotic-like focus.  I picture a pack of lions slowly circling their prey and then fighting over the carcass.  However, remembering my attitude adjustment, I begin the task.  After what feels like hours, I eventually find a pair of jeans that might work, trudge back to the dressing rooms and try them on.  No dice.  I give them to the harried sales lady and walk back into the fray.  The clothes are all color-coded, and so the isles look like an enormous color wheel—not a bad idea.  But still, it is too much for me, and I lose the small amount of determination I had when I walked in.  If only I had a personal shopper, I think, for the thousandth time.  Someone to just lead me around plying me with an armful of clothes and telling me what looks good. 

I am still at only $20, so we get back into the car and drive to our next location.  This one is a little more my style, tucked into an aging brick building in downtown Calgary.  It’s small, and we are the only people inside, so it begins to feel a little more intimate and casual.  The anxiety I had in the bigger store dissipates and I relax and go slowly through the racks.  I find a pair of tights, a yoga top and some sort of golden sparkly sleeveless number I wouldn’t normally buy.  But for $10, why not?   I soon realize that buying second hand clothing is actually making me a little bolder.  Or maybe it’s reckless.  Either way, it seems to be working.  I’m looking at dresses and other pieces I would never even consider at the mall.  I realize the reason is that my choices are limited, and the clothes are unique, a concept that appeals to me.

Our last destination is in the quaint Kensington area of Calgary.  The shop sits on the upper floor of a two-store building, overlooking a bustling street.  Inside, we find a similar vibe as our last shop and begin browsing.  I eventually find a great name brand short-sleeve pullover for a bargain.  I’m elated.  I end up with five pieces of clothing for just under $100.  Not bad for my first attempt.  I’m sure a more adept shopper would have squeezed a little more product out of their cash, but I’m satisfied.  I hear tell of a few more second-hand stores sprinkled around the city and I intend on going there soon.  Who knows what kind of treasure lies in wait for such unsuspecting (and sometimes unwilling) shoppers like me.

Laughter and Loud Music: A Mixed Bag

“I have tickets to go to a comedy club in a few weeks,” my husband announces one evening over dinner.  It should sound like a lot of fun, but instead, it fills my stomach with lead.

All week, I push the thought away, the same way I do on Sunday afternoons, when the idea of Monday morning work rears its ugly head.  I still haven’t figured out exactly why things like this are so hard for me.  Maybe a few hours with a psychologist would help, I think.  Ten-plus years of being a reporter, and the youngest of seven kids should have made a difference as well, but for some reason, large social outings only succeed in making me feel anxious.

Nevertheless, I persevere, telling myself it’s not like I am going to be the one on stage.  I just have to sit there in the dark and laugh.  Simple. 

The night arrives, and I put off getting dressed up until the last possible moment.   I stare at my closet and draw in a large tired breath.  My wardrobe looks like a gym teacher clashed with a librarian.  I have no idea what looks good on me.  So I grab some jeans and a top, throw on some mascara and try and forget about it.

Our friends arrive to pick us up and we crawl into their suburban.  I am comfortable with them and soon, I start to relax.  Their presence insolates me and makes me feel at ease.  This won’t be so bad.  Most of the new things I’ve tried have turned out great, so this should too. 

We arrive at the club and are ushered into a darkened room and squeeze around a table.  I am struck suddenly with the horrified thought that one of my friends will be that one person in the crowd everybody hates.  The heckler.  For someone who shies away from any kind of attention, this would be horrendously embarrassing.  I inwardly beg for silence from my table, and I am rewarded.  My friends are not inconsiderate big mouths with the maniacal desire to make others squirm. 

The comedians are hilarious.  The laughter calms me even further and I wonder what I was so worried about.  Exposure to these types of situations is exactly what I need—I do it to remind myself that the world is not a scary place to live and without a little risk, it seems dull somehow.

After the show, I am relieved to get out of the stuffy room and begin to think about pajamas and a movie.  Instead, my friends suggest we go out.  I cringe.  The little baby in me has a silent fit, and wants to scream.  Go out?  I think, we just did! I’ve done my duty for at least the next month.  Instead, I gather my remaining patience and go along with the group. 

They decide a pub would be a good idea.  That seems reasonable I think.  I like pubs—the casual atmosphere is unlike the bars I went to as a college student.  Just up my alley.  I’m okay with that.

We get to the doors and are stopped by two beefy men in black and a young man who looks like he couldn’t be much older than my teenage son.  I’m confused for a second, until I realize they are doormen, this young man’s enforcers.  Why would there be doormen at a pub?  My experiences with doormen was a long, long time ago, on a street we called Electric Ave.  Back then, there was a need for this kind of enforcement, because we were all young, with brains that had not quite developed the ability to think and act rationally.  What could they possibly need to do to a bunch of 40-somethings who would probably be in bed at this time of night, any other day of the week? 

The young man flashes a smile and asks to see our identification.  This instantly becomes the highlight of my night.  We whoop and holler like a pack of hooligans going to a soccer game.  We oblige and I pull my driver’s license out of my wallet basking in the glow of such a wonderful compliment.  But instead of looking at it, the youngster scans it into a hand held device that looks like a debit card machine.  A trickle of disappointment runs through me as I realize he would probably do this to my great grandma.

We file in and find a table.  The place is crowded and as I scan the room, I realize we are probably the oldest people in here by at least ten years.  I assume rather enviously, that the rest of our demographic is doing the rational thing and sticking to the solace and comfort of their homes.

I also notice that there is a dance floor.  Then it all comes into focus.  This is not a traditional pub in any sense of the word, where the tired, weather-beaten blue collar workers come to blow off steam in front of a large crackling open fire.  There are no dartboards or pool tables to speak of.  There are some antique-ish looking trinkets sprinkled throughout the place, but nothing is authentic, and it doesn’t match the vision I have in my mind. Instead of the grizzled old bartender, there are several young men and women slinging the drinks.  They probably don’t even have the double-barreled shotgun hidden within arm’s reach beneath the bar, I think with disappointment.

Looking around, I realize this is a place my 18-year-old self would have loved.  Now though, I feel like a teenager at a toddler’s birthday party.

We try to talk, but the music is so loud I have to lean over and yell into my husband’s ear and gesticulate wildly to communicate.  We sit around the table and occasionally try to say something.  But mostly, we just stare around the room.  My friend does try to say something, but I can’t hear and I’m too tired and lazy to figure it out, so I just nod my head and smile in what I hope are the right places.

We try to dance, but the music is just the same long, never ending pounding beat, like somewhere in the building, there is a drumming circle I’m not aware of.

I’m getting sensory overload and need some quiet.  After an hour, I convince my friends to leave.  Outside in the parking lot, we get odd stares from strangers, as we talk on our way to the vehicle.  I realize it’s because we are speaking at a volume way beyond what is normal and sound like a bunch of workers at a construction site.

I sigh in relief as we pile into the truck and make our way home.  We talk and have some good laughs at our own expense.  I’m not upset that I didn’t enjoy my first bar experience in a long time.  I just get more enjoyment out of other things, like a darkened comedy club, or sitting on the top of a mountain.  

I can happily say it’s just not for me. 

Wrestling, the Ultimate Spectator Sport

It’s Saturday night and I’m huddled on an unlit side of the Royal Canadian Legion in southeast Calgary.  Groups of people murmur in the darkness, our only illumination coming from a few dim streetlights hidden behind two tall, creaky pine trees.

I’m feeling a little uncomfortable in this situation, but this time, I’ve taken my son, sister, nephew and my mom with me.  We have come to watch my nephew wrestle in a Real Canadian Wrestling event.  His stage name is Evan Adams.  But I’ve known him for the past 24 years as Adam.   

 He has chosen a somewhat off beat passion and I want to see him perform…or compete.  I think it’s a combination of the two.  I am well aware of this type of wrestling, because as a kid, I grew up watching Hulk Hogan, Randy Macho Man Savage and Andre the Giant.  I’m pretty sure I know what to expect, and I’m curious to find out if things have changed since the WWF days.

I shift my feet on the icy sidewalk and hunker down into my jacket.  We wait for almost half an hour outside until the line starts moving. 

I’m surprised at how many people have come to see this.  We enter the building, and it’s packed with standing room only.  What I thought would be more like a gym, is actually a ballroom-style venue.  But instead of a dance floor, a wrestling ring has been set up in the middle.  There are chairs, but not enough for the couple hundred spectators.  We squeeze down an isle and find seats for my mom and sister.  My son and I find a fold-up table that seems to have been randomly stuffed in a back corner and we gingerly make it our perch.  Then we wait.  I really struggle with patience, and this situation is definitely testing it.  I look around and realize though, that the opportunity to do some prime people watching has presented itself.  This place is a gold mine. 

People in all shapes, sizes and demographics are here. A tired looking older woman wearing black skateboard shoes, tight black jeans and a T-shirt that is too small sits at the front.  I notice her because her shoulder-length hair is stripped in bright shades of pink, blue and green.  Behind her, a rather large pair of senior citizens sit sipping Big Gulps and beside me, a man with a Bill Cosby sweater, faded jeans and running shoes sips on a rum and coke.  Across the room, a group of young boys sit in wiggly anticipation; all of them are wearing wrestling masks of various designs.  A couple people have even brought their newborn babies. 

A half hour later, the show begins.  A woman, who I deduce is the MC, strolls into the ring to announce the first competitors.  In her black and white stripped pants, stiletto heals and black leather jacket, she reminds me of a female Beetlejuice.  

A middle-aged man in a red and blue Speedo emerges from a back room and strolls around the ring.  I think he is the “bad guy” in this match, because suddenly from all around the room, people are screaming and calling him names.  Soon after, his opponent enters and the crowd’s volume increases.  It feels like I’m in the middle of an authorized street fight.  The match begins as the two men take turns throwing, slapping and jumping on each other.  This lasts for 20 minutes until a winner is declared. 

I’ve been to a lot of competitive sporting events in my life, but this has got to be by far one of the most unique if not entertaining experiences I’ve had.  Watching this kind of wrestling on television is nothing like being here in person.  Unlike most sports, in wrestling, yelling insults and giving the finger to the competitors appears to be encouraged.  Likewise, the wrestlers have no problem throwing out aspersions of their own. 

During the next several matches, endearing phrases such as “pecker head” are uttered with great frequency.  At one point, someone from behind me yells out something to do with having bigger man parts than the wrestler.  The wrestler seems to have no problem with returning these witty insults with sharp comebacks like:  “Suck my sweaty balls you big, fat bastard!”

A group of people sitting beside me starts chanting, “shave your back!” to one fellow who has a rather thick layer of hair all over his body.  Another, more rotund wrestler comes out wearing a singlet, which basically looks like a one-piece bathing suit for men.  Unfortunately for him, it appears to be too small—a detail that doesn’t escape the crowd’s notice.  A chant of “fix your wedgie!” starts up and doesn’t diminish until the match is over. 

Despite the yelling and general chaos, the competitors put on a fairly impressive athletic display.  They jump from the top of the ropes, and land with precision on each other with practiced skill.  It is a red neck Cirque de Soleil.

My nephew’s fight is an all-out war, with three or four teams of two battling it out for the tag team title.  To my surprise, Adam is one of the bad guys.  I like it.  He breaks all kinds of “rules” during the match, sneaking into the ring when he shouldn’t to land a hard punch to an unsuspecting competitor’s back, while the referee’s back is turned.  I try to catch his eye during the fight, but he is completely immersed in character and I think, would probably shout something nasty at me if I yelled at him.  Eventually, they end up winning the fight and claiming the title.  I’m impressed by his passion and skill.  It’s hard enough being an athlete and competing at a high level.  In this kind of wrestling, to be “in character” is one more thing to think about while balanced precariously on top of the ropes preparing to thunder to the mat on top of someone else without really hurting them.

I’m an athlete, but the introvert in me would rather pull my nails out than be up in the middle of that ring. 

Although, I have to admit there is a certain allure to being allowed to punch someone in the neck and not get arrested for it.  Maybe I should start practicing.