adventures in cuba

My "relaxing" vacation began with me missing my flight.

That's right, I said "missing my flight." Not sure where the blame lies so I place it nowhere but basically SeaBass booked the trip for me and he said I'd be leaving Tuesday the 18th, which I took at face value - until 2 hours before my flight time on MONDAY the 18th when I suddenly realized the date mix-up

p.s. we live 2 hours from the airport.

So, long story short I had to find my own way to Cuba and to the resort. There were no flights going out the next day to the closest airport so I took one to Havana, which is only 3 or 4 hours away and readied myself for adventure.

I wrote SeaBass the morning after I arrived to fill him in. And now I'll share it with you all.

It's a good story

hey baby,

well, I'm here. I got here at 10:00 last night - that's 8 hours to make a 3 hour journey.
More accurately, that's 4 drivers and 8 hours for a 3 hour drive.

When I got off the plane the airport folks were very helpful and suggested I go to the bus station to get to Santa Clara (the town - the resort is about an hour outside) so, no problem, the helpful guy finds me a driver and we head to the station (25 pesos.) When I get there I'm greeted by a driver (not a bus driver, just some dude with a car) but he seemed really nice (although he didn't speak a word of english) and so we started out. About 5 minutes into the drive he pulls over where a bunch of people are standing looking for rides. He picks up some guy he knows (who happened to be a cuban police officer - in uniform!) and the cop and his gun join us for the ride.

Everything's going along smoothly, when suddenly the car breaks down in the left lane on the highway. No small mechanical problem this, the car was dead! An hour later 2 more guys with cars show up (I have no idea if the cop and the driver knew them or not) and the cop gets in one car and the other guy hooks up the dead car to a tow rope and drives me and my broken-down driver in to town.

I really missed my uniformed cop and the security of the gun at this point.

We drop off my broken down driver and car and the new guy and I carry on. Then we get in to a small fishing town about 1/2 hour from the resort ( I was in the town before, I recognized the giant stone crab in the town square.) We get sort of pulled over by local cops 'cause the driver is driving around aimlessly (while I tried not to look worried and confused.) I had to duck from the cops 'cause tourists are not allowed to be driven around my random dudes - only "taxi officiel" is supposed to drive them. So my driver gets all kinds of nervous and asks me (no english at all so there was a lot of hand  gestures and confusion) if I can stay in the town over night and he'll find me a ride in the morning.

Then I lost my patience - in a super nice and calm way and tried to seem very sweet and touristy and said, "no, I have to go tonight. My family will be worried, they're at the hotel" so, he gets even more nervous about the cops and drives us to a very poor looking building (poor even compared to the rest of town) he leaves me in the car and goes up to an apartment.

About 10 minutes later he finally comes back and tells me he found me a taxi officiel.

Hooray! another 10 minutes and the taxi driver shows up. 1/2 later and I'm at the resort.

The reception desk at the resort didn't have any notes on my situation so they made me pay for the night!....no worries it got all sorted out today and I got my money back.

Doesn't matter - the place is beautiful. I love my room and the staff is amazing.
 
p.s. yesterday was such a long day that until i started writing i had totally forgotten about driving along with a cuban policeman! holy crap what an adventure!

she loves it

Speaks for itself.

(Please don't call the SPCA on me - I promise not to do it again!)

moose bourguinon and why Julia Child scared the bejezus out of me

I'm going to admit something that from my childhood that I am totally ashamed of now.

Are you ready for it?

It's bad, really bad!

God, I'm so ashamed of myself!

Okay here goes...

When I was little Julia Child scared the bejezus outta me.

I know, I know, it sounds crazy and I'm sure the foodie police are about to revoke my membership in the club for this insult to one of the food gods. But first, let me explain.

See, my mom didn't watch cooking shows and she didn't own any of Julia's books so I think my first glimpse of Julia probably occurred as I was randomly flipping channels on a weekend morning and suddenly onto my screen popped this giant sized apron garbed apparition, speaking in a voice that I was sure was meant to bounce around in my head endlessly and make star appearances in my nightmares.

So I had no context for who this person was or what she was doing on my television.

And basically I let this ignorant childhood fear pervade the next 25 years or so of my life.

Further to my defense I also came out of a similar childhood episode with a fear of Robert Smith of The Cure (Robert I later realized to be one of the most romantic songwriters, like, ever and The Cure one of my favourite bands, although I still can't watch the one video that gave me the childhood willies.) Other episodes spawned fears of the "Joy of Painting" guy (again, fear totally abolished once I learned about marijuana.)

So, you see, the lesson here is: don't let your children watch too much unchaperoned television. They'll come out with a totally skewed view of the world.

And, they'll find themselves in the torturous position of apparent bandwagon jumping when a Hollywood film is eventually made of the object of one of their irrational youthful judgements and they realize just what the hell they've been missing all these years.

It's true, I held on to my Julia Child stupidity, totally avoiding anything Julia Child related - recipes, cookbooks, food talk - until I heard about the movie and really got an idea of who the woman was and what she had done for cooking.

So now I'm in the position of admitting that it took a major trend to open my mind to something that I should have figured out a long time ago. AND, worse yet, I'm realizing that by negating Julia Child all this time, I've got a lot more to learn about the basics of food than I ever thought possible.

I suck.....and so does my crappy, fearful, totally lacking in self confidence child me.

So, enough about my issues!

I came away from Julia and Julia with the same determination to make Beef Bourguinon as most other folks did and a few weeks later I made it for SeaBass. He was in heaven. For once he didn't even have any "helpful" criticisms...only that I should have made more.

Last week he started bugging me to make it for him again so I started gathering the ingredients and the day before I was set to make it my Dad said, "Hey SeaBass, how 'bout I make us some moose tomorrow?" (Dad brought home a whole wack load of moose from his recent trip to Newfoundland.) To which SeaBass replied, "No way, Jenn's making beef bour..."

At this point I jumped in, luckily saving SeaBass from calling the dish by it's rightful name and ensuring that my father would NEVER put even a forkful of it near his mouth.

"Kind of a beef stew Dad. I'm making SeaBass' favourite stew."

SeaBass, ever trying to keep the even keel in the house, suggested I use the moose for my "stew". And Dad happily agreed.

So away I went. I won't bore you with the recipe since you can find Julia's Beef Bourguinon a million places online.

This is one of the links I've used: http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/recipe?id=8222804

I spent yesterday cooking, with Dad peering over my shoulder to ask why I wasn't adding turnip? And did I need to add industrial gravy thickener to my sauce? But I did it.

And I actually think I like the moose more than the beef! The meat was so tender and soaked up all the flavours and juices. Moose really lends itself to this kind of preparation because it absolutely needs a long cooking time.

So there you have it, yet more evidence of my relative insanity and odd childhood and another culinary success.

where have all the forks gone?

(to the tune of "Where Have all the Flowers Gone?")
"Where have all the big forks gone?
Long tines missing,
Where have all the big forks gone?
Long tines, so long."

I fell asleep singing that last night.

You know how individual socks go missing from the dryer when you are absolutely positive you deposited even numbered pairs?

Yeah well, I think my dryer and dishwasher have been chatting and hatching plans together.

'Cause suddenly all but about 5 of the big forks in the house are missing!

The appliances are in cahoots dammit!

Or maybe it's some sort of evil cleaning related fairy messing with me.

I'm sure it's extra amusing now that I am the lone female in the house fighting a losing housekeeping battle against 2 men, 3 cats and 2 dogs.

Or, maybe it's Mom and she's up there laughing her ass off because now I'm the one who has to worry about these things. I know she was laughing last weekend when I was freaking out about the impending visit from my Aunt and Uncle.

For me the fastest way to Mom's good graces was always to clean a bathroom or sweep the floor. After a lifetime of being the only girl with 7 brothers and then a doting Mom to 2 lazy ass kids, she appreciated nothing more than someone else doing the cleaning for her. It always drove her nuts that the rest of us didn't appreciate how much work it took to keep the place tidy - especially with all the pets we kept bringing home!

So, I'm absolutely certain that she is taking great pleasure in watching me in the role of head housekeeper these days.

And really, I completely went mental last week getting ready for our first visit from family. I had this whole, "I don't want anyone thinking we can't take care of the house without Mom" thing going on and I was running around like a madwoman trying to make everything perfect.

Yes, I do know how neurotic that sounds. I know no one, especially not those who came to visit, are judging us. Still, I embrace neurosis. And besides, the house is clean for a change, so it worked!

My point is this:

Where the F*#k are all the goddam forks?

Oh, and while we're at it, we seem to be missing a few glasses.

And the socks! What about the socks?

Yes Mom, I hear you giggling.

why do people keep staring at me? oh right, i'm bald.

So when Seabass eventually saw the new do he said something along the lines of "I hope you haven't gone out in public like that 'cause we have a lot of evening out to do."

This is the problem with being your own hairdresser, you don't really have the best perspective on the subject.

The upshot is my hair is even shorter than it was before.

Like Sinead O'Connor short.

At first I wasn't sure. Now I totally dig it.

It's actually turning in to a kind of social study too.

People are really weirded out by bald chicks.

I keep forgetting what I look like and then I'm totally confused by the equally confused looks on people's faces as I pass them on the street (the Cranberry Festival was very interesting.)

Even people I know are talking to my hair instead of my face.

Meanwhile I can't stop rubbing my own head!

shallow thoughts

A little insight into how my mind works (or doesn't work):

This morning SeaBass called from work with a request: "Hey hunny, you weren't by any chance planning on driving down to Barrie (our nearest "city") today were you?"

Me: "Um, randomly drive the 45 minutes on yet another horribly rainy and cold day for no apparent reason? Nope, not really. Why?"

SeaBass: "Well, I kinda forgot to pack my shoes for the weekend. Do you think you could come down and meet me there with the shoes?" (Note: SeaBass is abandoning me until Sunday for a golfing weekend with the guys. He's a meanie, I know.)

Me: "I guess so. Sure, no problem."

SeaBass: "Okay, I'll meet you in about an hour then."

Immediately the wheels in my head start turning while I jump in the shower.

Barrie is only a real city in terms of population; mostly it's really just a sprawling suburb and there's not a whole lot to recommend it. But I was determined not to waste a trip down there just to drop off shoes and wave a lonely farewell to my abandoning hubby while he heads off on his little party weekend and I head home...alone...in the rain...

A glimpse inside my internal monologue:

"Hmm...what else can I do while I'm down there? I could go into the mall and just window shop, I haven't even had a chance to look at the new fall stuff yet....yeah, then I'll get something to eat, or maybe ice cream. Do I feel like ice cream? I should put his shoes by the door so I don't forget....what should I wear? It's cold out. Ooh, that's what I should look for, a nice fall coat. I shouldn't really buy anything much, should be good. SeaBass never buys anything. Hm, but he is doing this golf weekend thing without me, I deserve something new. A transitional coat is important. I don't just want it, I need it. Yes, I will enjoy leisurely window shopping and take my time heading back. I wonder if Baskin Robbins will have Pink Bubblegum ice cream? It's probably out of season. Hey the radio station's are actually coming in clearly for once. I haven't heard this song in a while. (cue off key warbling) Arghhhhh!!!!"

It's at about this point in the monologue and about 35 minutes into my 45 minute drive that I realize something.

I forgot the shoes.

My Dogs are Smarter Than Me

Fear, Panic, stress, more fear; all of these I experienced in the space of about two minutes when I returned home from the beach today, and all while the Sugar and Dolan danced and barked and pranced around my feet in total innocent exuberance that I had come back to them at last.

I freaked out when I got to the back door only to find it locked when I knew for a fact that I had left it unlocked; I was sure of this not because my memory is so well known for it's accuracy (hah right!) but because I had left the house by that door and therefore could not have locked it. I'm brilliant, I know.

I immediately jumped to the conclusion that some home invader had, well, invaded in my absence and had decided to lock me out in some sort of twisted, mind playing manouver. Yes, I moved very quickly from rational logic to total home alone paranoia of the highest degree.

Meanwhile the dogs were just inside the door hopping around, barking, howling, panting, doing their excited doggy thing and seemingly completely unperturbed the fact that some stranger had been on their property and committed god knows what heinous acts (heinous acts obviously having occurred if the locked door was any indication....and it certainly was in that moment).

I circled the house and found all the other doors still locked, as I had left them, and my bedroom window open the small amount that I had left it this morning. Brilliant, I would simply pop out the screen, open the window and rush in to save my dogs from their peril.

I managed to pop the screen off easily (which is great because I now I'm going to be totally paranoid about leaving my windows open when the house is empty) unfortunately the window crank fell off in my enthusiasm to remove the screen and now I was left with a window I couldn't open any further.

I took a look at the opening in the window and a look at my cadaverous carcass, I've lost weight with the loss of my mother...oh, forget it I'm not going to get into it now, the point is I'm way to thin for my own good right now - as witnessed by the fact that I managed to squeeze my non-existent ass through the 4 inch gap in the window.

I burst into the bedroom, much to the continued excitement of the dogs, and commenced to work my way through the house, inspecting every room and finding nothing out of place.

What kind of evil, home invader mastermind would play this kind of game? Visions of myself as the lead character in a horror movie, stalked by a psychopath danced through my head.

The dogs jumped all over me as I considered my next moves, staring at the mysteriously locked back door. I thought about the dogs themselves, traitors, I thought they could be trusted to guard the house, to guard me, a single female home alone, the perfect target for the imagined psycho waiting in the bushes outside.

It was then that logic return to me, the dogs locked the door. In all their joy at their beloved mommy returning from the beach, having left them for so long (a whole two hours) alone they had jumped all over the back door as I approached and one of them had inadvertently hit the latch.

Mystery solved. Crisis averted.

And my lesson for the day; my dogs are smarter than me....there's a good chance your's are smarter than you too. Try not to forget it.

A Tale of Two Salts - And One Very Paranoid Man

My personal peanut gallery is for the most part extremely receptive to my culinary escapades. I might even flatter myself by suggesting that they enjoy the results of my efforts more often than not.

With one exception.

My father is a man who does not appreciate culinary adventures. He does not enjoy the results of the majority of my efforts. He will eat: my pizza, my pasta with tomato sauce, my empanadas (as long as I refer to them as meat patties in his presence). But that is about the extent of it.

In fact on many an evening when I am cooking he will ask what SeaBass might eat if I am making "that stuff".

Beyond this general avoidance of anything I've cooked, he also fears many of the new and exotic ingredients I've brought into the house. He is afraid I might be sneaking them into his food - trying to convert bring him over to my side. Take different salts for example.

Allow me to demonstrate the kind of fear and paranoia I'm dealing with.

Here we have a picture of the typical selection of salts available in my pantry:


We have kosher salt in the box, my father's table salt in his shaker (the shaker is a totem of my father's hold on his traditional, trusted food items), sea salt in the salt pig, and in the silver shaker - more of my father's table salt, as filled by mother (who he typically trusts not to attempt any kind of sneak attack conversions on him).

It was the other night at the dinner table that the depth of his paranoia was revealed.

We were laughing at my dad's refusal to use this salt shaker:

which, since it was a gift bought for me, he assumes is filled with one of the exotic forms of salt, ergo "not real salt" and he refuses to go within 10 feet of it. No matter how many times we've assured him that no one is tampering with the salt or trying to mess with his seasonings, he will not be swayed. No fancy, new-fangled, unknown salt shaker for him.

He reached for his trusty shaker

when SeaBass said, "hey, how do you know somebody didn't fill that shaker with sea salt


or kosher salt

when it was empty a couple of days ago?"

To which my father replied with an exultant look on his face, "Ha, I knew someone would try that, so I emptied it into the garbage and refilled it myself."

He was very pleased with himself, and pleased that he was given the opportunity to share with us (his opponents in this battle of ingredients) that he was on his guard, wary at all times.

The rest of us? Well we were just plain shocked....amused, and impressed that he thought we would go that far to convert him, and pleased that he thinks so highly of our creative abilities in thinking up ways to convert him.

But mostly just shocked.

This is what I'm dealing with people.

Peace and Poop

Directly following my little whine here about how I've been feeling lately I thought I'd take the dogs and go searching for some photographic inspiration. We ended up clambering (Note: I clambered, fearing for my life, the dogs strolled gracefully) down the hillside to a popular local fishing spot

Once I made it down the slope in one piece (note to self: next time I go on a photographic adventure...real shoes not flip flops) I released the hounds so they could wander and I could focus on picture taking

pretty, huh?

We were all having a wonderful time exploring. The dogs were running around, sniffing and darting in and out of the water and I was trying to take decent pictures without losing my flip flops in suctioning mud.

Of course, being a responsible pet owner, I called for the dogs every few minutes and kept my ears open for sounds of trampling through the grass and trees.

I looked up from shooting at one point to see both dogs sniffing around in a meadow on the other side of the stream. I stopped to watch them and soak in the moment of peace and solitude. It was one of those unexpected instances when I am reminded of how lucky I am to live where I do and I am completely satisfied with the experience of my life. Unfortunately the moment ended abruptly as I watched Sugar suddenly drop to the ground and begin to roll ecstatically in the grass.

All you dog folks out there will have an idea where I'm headed with this, for those of you unaccustomed to dogs and their body language here's something to keep in mind when dealing with canines in general: Rolling around on the ground in great abandon means one of two things...

a) "Yay! This sunny, warm ground feels so damn good on my fur! It's great to be a dog!" or

b) "Yay! There is some seriously gross stinkiness right here on this ground. I must roll around and spread it all over my fur...like a puppy mudbath! It's great to be a dog!"

Can you guess which of these Sugar was experiencing? I'll give you a hint...

That would be Sugar - joyous in her coating of horse poop. How do I know for sure it was horse poop? Because I spent the 10 minutes after snapping this pic trying to hold Sugar still in the stream in order to clean her off as best I could, while at the same time getting intimately acquainted with the substance.

Thus ended our peaceful afternoon by the stream.

If it wasn't for those moments of peace and gratefulness I wonder if I would find it so easy to laugh when faced with a pet covered in poop? I hope I never have to find out.

Dolan-dog

It is a well known fact that Border Collies are the smartest breed around. I knew this before the arrival of Dolan-dog. What I didn’t know was that not only are they smarter than all other dogs, they are also smarter than all humans. Or at least this human. The thing about Dolan is, not only is she an incredibly intelligent Collie, she is also an incredibly stubborn Husky.

The decision to adopt Dolan was, to say the least, spur of the moment. More precisely it involved a visit from a friend with a litter of abandoned pups and the split second decision to grab the cutest one and hide her from Sea Bass until the friend had left and we had no choice but to become puppy parents. Yes, I am sneaky…and manipulative. What of it? I knew what her breed mix was and I thought I understood what I was getting in to. However all the research in the world could not prepare me for a dog that is smarter than most of the people I’ve met in my life and even more stubborn than I am. Believe me, that is an impressive level of stubborn.


In our first year together I was brought to tears more times than I care to remember. I could often be found walking down the street alternating calling out “Dolan! Here Dolan! Come to Mommy!” And incoherently blubbering something along the lines of “Fine, I don’t care anymore. I’m not you’re Mommy. You’re a homeless dog now.” Hmm, perhaps I’ve said too much? The thing about Dolan is that she is smart enough to pick her battles.

A year and a few months into our life together she no longer runs away at every opportunity, instead she chooses her moments. She only runs now when there is something really worth while running for. It’s an interesting thing to observe.

We’ll be on our beach enjoying a lovely, stress free walk. Dolan is off-leash this time of the year because the beach is empty, the neighbours know her, and, well, the dog needs a good run damnit! Dolan is running along, obeying my every command not to run onto people’s property or dart off out of sight. I’m feeling immensely pleased with our progress and deeply in love with my beautiful puppy girl.


And then suddenly I’ll notice her take interest in a particular sand dune and I immediately tense up. “Dolan…no puppy, down here.” Now, the majority of the time she will look at me and head back down the dune to continue her obedient jaunt on the sand. But every once in a while she turns her head, looks right at me and I can see the calculation in her eyes.

The damn dog is smart enough to know that upsetting me is simply worth the occasional risk. It takes only a split second, but in that time I can see her weigh the options. Listen to Mommy and go about her business without incident – but miss out an interesting smell, some small animal to chase, a neighbour to greet. Or, say to hell with it and deal with the consequences after her moment of doggy freedom. I see all of this run through her mind before she darts off to have her fun.

In the past I would perhaps chased her, which only gives her permission to run farther. Yelled incessantly for her, which only hurts my throat. Shouted threats, which only makes me sound stupid and ineffective, or I would have sat and cried, which admittedly feels kinda good. I enjoy catharsis under any circumstance.

At this point in our lives together though we’ve reached a compromise. Determine for yourself who got the better of the bargain. Dolan picks her battles and I in turn pick mine. I let her chase her shadows and in turn she returns to me quickly and without causing much trouble. I call her right to me upon her return and she pretends to be sorry and that she won’t do it again. We continue our walk in peace. No more tears and empty threats. Happy dog, Happy human.

But a note to all prospective dog owners out there. Think twice before getting a Dolan-dog, unless your ego can handle a dog that’s smarter than the average human.