tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51911607056896642082024-03-08T02:26:33.357-08:00The Telltale Heartkayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-83340853067256286252010-09-01T08:36:00.000-07:002010-09-19T15:21:52.591-07:00Turning PointsAt some point in our lives as parents, we hit a new turning point when our children cease to be our “children” and become our friends. I’m not sure if this is an age specific thing or if it is different for boys and girls, but I do know that when my first-born turned 25 last month, I was hit with a sudden realization that my relationship with her had changed—in a forever kind of way. There was no sadness in this moment at all for with it came the knowledge and understanding that my baby, this former child of mine, has been transformed into a friend—and she is one of the best possible friends to walk the face of this earth with me.<br /><br />Seven young mothers in the maternity unit at the McMaster Medical Centre filed into my room the day she arrived, a quarter of a century ago. They solemnly announced that they had just finished a walking tour of the nursery to look at all the newborns and had chosen mine as the loveliest of all 28 babies in the nursery that day. And while I secretly agreed that she was indeed the fairest of them all, with her single blonde curl, rosebud lips and infant starfish hands, it was her steely eye that spoke to me first. When she fixed that determined gaze on me, I knew in a heart-beat that I would learn a lot from this tiny being. <br /><br />And so it has come to be. She has taught me much over the course of the years-and I expect she will continue to teach me for many more years. What kinds of things? Let me elaborate:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Curiosity Doesn’t Kill The Cat. Ever.</span><br />She has taught me that curiosity is a great teacher. She is naturally curious about everything—music, people, places, poetry, language, food, art, politics, sport— and this is a gift that has taken her far. She has travelled widely, experienced much and has friends all over the world. She has searched for el paco in the mountains of Bolivia, eaten a roasted guinea pig, and dog sledded in the frigid forests of Quebec. She has celebrated Easter in Poland where she slept in a closet and experienced first-hand the generosity of people who have nothing, and New Year’s in Mexico where she ate a grape for every wish she made on the stroke of midnight. She has survived hair raising bus rides in South America, skied the Sierra Nevada, played the slots in Monte Carlo and hiked on a plain of salt. She has bungee jumped from the dizzy heights of a swaying tower, circled silently towards the earth in a glider and been awestruck by the beauty of Machu Picchu. She takes Spanish cooking lessons, gardens in a community garden and has launched herself—fearlessly—into the arms of a stranger on a trapeze. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">It Takes Guts.</span><br />I wept when, as a young woman, she left home-completely alone- for a year studies abroad. I should have saved my tears. By the time she had arrived in southern Spain 15 hours later, she had already gathered a large group of new companions along the way. Many became life-long friends. Later she spent several months in Bolivia, living in a poor area of Le Paz, travelling around the country side and working only in Spanish. She dealt with the miseries of stolen credit cards, horrendous bouts of food poisoning, ice-cold apartments and dangerous streets. She has experienced such irritations as bus drivers making pit stops at brothels and the frightening ordeal of being detained by the Mexican police, but has faced it all with her usual poise, grace and her uncanny ability tell a riveting story afterwards. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Never Say Never.</span><br />At nine months, this child of mine stood up and walked. Gripping her two small fists in front of her, she lurched in an awkward goose step down the laneway of her grandparents farm—a full 500 yards. She had never stood upright before. At 12 months she could walk down a stair case without holding the banister. In high school, a math teacher once told her she was weak in math. Never could a teacher, however misguided, have provided more inspiration. For the next three years, she slaved over her math texts, wept over exercises, listened intently to explanations, did copious amounts of homework late into the night, wept and slaved some more. By the time she graduated, she was something of a math whizz and was considering a full degree in mathematics at university—and had the marks to do it. She has since chosen other paths but her can-do attitude has never left her as she has made her way to fluency in two additional languages, an advanced degree in political science, and a successful entry into the work force.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Kindness Is A Way of Life.</span><br />Of all the things I have learned from her, kindness is perhaps her greatest lesson. For her, kindness is the leading principle of her life. Over and over, her empathy has not only astounded me-but also humbled me. On countless occasions, when taken aside to be questioned on why she continues to be good to someone who has wronged her, she responds simply with “What’s wrong with being the best person I can be at all times?” If only I could be so wise. She always makes time for her friends and her family. She wraps gifts, pores over heart-felt and hand-written cards and never misses a special occasion. She once took a 22 hour bus ride alone through a foreign country to visit an injured friend in the hospital. <br /><br />Her passion—and chosen line of work—is human rights. Her sisters are her best friends and Christmas is her favorite time of year. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Live. Love. Laugh.</span><br />She is known for her infectious laughter, her ability to tell a story in the most self-deprecating manner, and her uncontrollable, hysterical fits of giggling that can continue long into the night, especially when spurred on by the running commentary of her sisters. She laughs at animated squirrels in movies, in yoga classes—and even out loud in her sleep. I see it as one of her gifts to others.<br /><br />She is also known for the sprinkle of freckles that have graced her small nose for about twenty of her twenty five years. The mother of a young playmate once commented to me that she felt it was those freckles that made her so many friends—I nodded and smiled but I knew, and continue to know, better.kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-50296325605113301622009-10-16T08:35:00.000-07:002009-10-30T15:13:27.070-07:00Reflections on The Empty NestToday’s paper has a brief article about the Empty Nest Syndrome. Turns out that far from being a time when mom and dad mope around the house all sniffly-like while looking at the empty beds, the Empty Nest is actually a very positive thing, allowing couples to reclaim some space, have more time for travel and leisure, and enjoy their kids—from a distance. <br /><br />The Blessed Middle Child turned 22 yesterday and has indeed left the nest. I miss her. A lot. But seeing her strike off on her own makes my heart sing too - since our primary role as parents is, after all, to prepare our young ones to go out there and live in that big wide world. <br /><br />The Blessed Middle Child has not followed the easy road. At least the road that WE thought was the easier one. She has charted her own path from the moment she took her first breath and has consistently rejected most advice, counsel or "learnings of her people.” She lurched through adolescence but has quite miraculously emerged on the other side smart, unscathed and wise beyond her years. <br /><br />There is little doubt that the unconventional routes she took have contributed to her becoming the interesting person that she is today. Here are just a few examples:<br /><br />-In Grade 10, she struck a deal with the Lebanese owner of a pizza joint close to her high school. By sweeping his floors and wiping down his tables, she got an enormous slice of greasy pizza from him every day—which meant she could sleep in 20 minutes longer in the morning, skip breakfast, not make a lunch and get through her day without feeling hungry.<br /><br />-She has had eight paid jobs since the age of 15, all of which she got by showing up in person and knocking people’s socks off with her straight-forward attitude and her aptitude for hard work. She has battled rats the size of cats in downtown warehouse cellars, catered guests at corporate events, had 4 a.m. hotel shift starts, scrubbed kitchens, washed floors, prepared sandwiches, ejected drunken patrons, and killed multitudes of bedbugs and cockroaches. <br /><br />-She set off for a year of travel during which she lived in a tent, made friends from countries all over the world, slept on beaches, jumped out of a plane, saved a bird from a spider, surfed on sand, and snorkeled in shark-infested waters. She is the only person I know who has been on a boat trip with six Scottish strippers.<br /><br />-She is politically incorrect and delivers astounding drop-kick one liners that will leave you shaking with uncontrollable laughter hours later. <br /><br />Yes, she smokes too much, exercises too little and drinks Jager Bombs to keep herself awake. But she also cries at goodbyes and thinks nothing of giving a homeless guy 15 bucks. <br /><br />And she still holds my hand in movies.kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-68554226013321673122009-09-07T06:22:00.001-07:002009-09-08T04:59:28.479-07:00Ten Things You Can't Hate About Italy<span style="font-weight:bold;">Lasting Impressions</span><br /><br />We left Florence under a full moon at 4 am. The old grizzled night watchman at our hotel made us a cappucino in his white cotton undershirt as we sat on our suitcases in the dark lobby waiting for the cab to the airport. It was the best I have ever tasted. <br /><br />I'm ending this series with a collection of photos because pictures say a thousand words which is very convenient for us writer types when we run out.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUKEviM5pI/AAAAAAAAAM4/vd51hR2dI4A/s1600-h/lasting+impression1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUKEviM5pI/AAAAAAAAAM4/vd51hR2dI4A/s400/lasting+impression1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378716406559598226" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUK5nkn5gI/AAAAAAAAANA/BSyx-J0Ll0M/s1600-h/lastingimpression2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUK5nkn5gI/AAAAAAAAANA/BSyx-J0Ll0M/s400/lastingimpression2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378717314955339266" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqULmvI3SbI/AAAAAAAAANI/IjR9bxBWUj8/s1600-h/lastingimpression4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqULmvI3SbI/AAAAAAAAANI/IjR9bxBWUj8/s400/lastingimpression4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378718090080504242" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqZF4PPrUhI/AAAAAAAAAP4/zNrKPS2y_TA/s1600-h/final+days+012.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqZF4PPrUhI/AAAAAAAAAP4/zNrKPS2y_TA/s400/final+days+012.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379063637407912466" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUMRHVy9yI/AAAAAAAAANQ/tLkfdl6-CJQ/s1600-h/lastingimpression5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUMRHVy9yI/AAAAAAAAANQ/tLkfdl6-CJQ/s400/lastingimpression5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378718818131703586" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqZG_FlJybI/AAAAAAAAAQI/IPh4V06ZvfY/s1600-h/final+days+008.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqZG_FlJybI/AAAAAAAAAQI/IPh4V06ZvfY/s400/final+days+008.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379064854584347058" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqZGPKWggLI/AAAAAAAAAQA/lq8f8X_BNKw/s1600-h/final+days+007.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqZGPKWggLI/AAAAAAAAAQA/lq8f8X_BNKw/s400/final+days+007.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379064031231377586" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUul8siFYI/AAAAAAAAAPo/CiluiyaQ1EA/s1600-h/DSC_0293.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUul8siFYI/AAAAAAAAAPo/CiluiyaQ1EA/s400/DSC_0293.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378756559446873474" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUveMssdgI/AAAAAAAAAPw/qjm2CrP4lbI/s1600-h/DSC_0099.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUveMssdgI/AAAAAAAAAPw/qjm2CrP4lbI/s400/DSC_0099.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378757525815195138" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUMzEEDVTI/AAAAAAAAANY/3DvEG4nTq2s/s1600-h/lastingimpression6.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUMzEEDVTI/AAAAAAAAANY/3DvEG4nTq2s/s400/lastingimpression6.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378719401367524658" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUOZ1M-p1I/AAAAAAAAANw/MltFqTFhVzE/s1600-h/lastingimpression8.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUOZ1M-p1I/AAAAAAAAANw/MltFqTFhVzE/s400/lastingimpression8.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378721166904960850" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUOuLtohWI/AAAAAAAAAN4/V68_aotPbbE/s1600-h/lastingimpression10.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUOuLtohWI/AAAAAAAAAN4/V68_aotPbbE/s400/lastingimpression10.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378721516544886114" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUPMJnVHpI/AAAAAAAAAOA/wr1F99Aad3E/s1600-h/lastingimpression11.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUPMJnVHpI/AAAAAAAAAOA/wr1F99Aad3E/s400/lastingimpression11.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378722031377653394" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUQPtZJNgI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/YxT9DeFJago/s1600-h/lastingimpression13.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUQPtZJNgI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/YxT9DeFJago/s400/lastingimpression13.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378723192033064450" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqURGi9bcvI/AAAAAAAAAOY/BNF2tWTrCB4/s1600-h/lastingimpression14.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqURGi9bcvI/AAAAAAAAAOY/BNF2tWTrCB4/s400/lastingimpression14.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378724134125269746" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUSMBfLrZI/AAAAAAAAAOo/YkUk4ouxTb4/s1600-h/lastingimpression16.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUSMBfLrZI/AAAAAAAAAOo/YkUk4ouxTb4/s400/lastingimpression16.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378725327730879890" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUT3GrCmpI/AAAAAAAAAO4/ZQPheVAQWQA/s1600-h/lastingimpression20.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUT3GrCmpI/AAAAAAAAAO4/ZQPheVAQWQA/s400/lastingimpression20.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378727167368796818" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUZQSItAXI/AAAAAAAAAPA/GTNysbFOBXA/s1600-h/blogfinal1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUZQSItAXI/AAAAAAAAAPA/GTNysbFOBXA/s400/blogfinal1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378733097500868978" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUaSYEVAWI/AAAAAAAAAPI/ezlLQwz3ZIc/s1600-h/blogfinal3.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUaSYEVAWI/AAAAAAAAAPI/ezlLQwz3ZIc/s400/blogfinal3.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378734232964497762" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUajXHM5BI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/kIRZ5Y5GWHk/s1600-h/cropblogfinal2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 361px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqUajXHM5BI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/kIRZ5Y5GWHk/s400/cropblogfinal2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378734524765889554" /></a><br /><br />A few final thoughts:<br /><br />I need an espresso machine. Badly. I don't think I can look a Farm Boy grind in the face ever again.<br /><br />In the bread department, the French beat the Italians every time.<br /><br />To do true Tuscan cuisine, I need to find and kill me a cinghiale. These are the ugly brown piggish things with big shoulders and tusks that live in the hills. I saw one on the highway. They make a fine stew. If anyone knows where one is, gimme a shout.<br /><br />My husband of 26 years is still the best travelling companion in the world. He is not available for rental.<br /><br />I could seriously fall for a pilot. If I didn't have the husband of 26 years that is. Anyone who can put a magnificent and fully loaded jet onto the ground without a whisper, taxi gently into his berth and then say in his best Pope John Paul voice "All Rise" does it for me.kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-56211825017912724862009-09-04T09:34:00.000-07:002009-11-08T05:54:26.744-08:00Ten Things You Can't Hate About Italy<span style="font-weight:bold;">Olio Extravergine Di Olivia</span><br /><br />There is a palpable feeling of excitement in the air here in Tuscany. That’s because olive season is almost here. The trees are heavy with olives in the groves and the harvest could begin in three weeks time and continue on into January.<br /><br />Here’s a few things to know about olive trees:<br /><br />They need regular pruning to maximize health and yield. An unpruned tree looks like this...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqFEpYXVaqI/AAAAAAAAAMo/rVoV2KkUP0c/s1600-h/unpruned+olive.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqFEpYXVaqI/AAAAAAAAAMo/rVoV2KkUP0c/s400/unpruned+olive.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377654907762731682" /></a><br /><br />and is susceptible to fungus and other diseases because of the lack of airflow and unbalanced exposure to sunshine.<br /><br />A well-pruned tree has a distinctive vase shape and its fruit bearing branches fall gracefully to the outside like this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqFHT8DBk4I/AAAAAAAAAMw/_J0hkoI5V-c/s1600-h/pruned+olive.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SqFHT8DBk4I/AAAAAAAAAMw/_J0hkoI5V-c/s400/pruned+olive.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377657837918983042" /></a><br /><br />We have just made our first olive oil purchase ever. I mean a real purchase, not just picking a bottle off the shelf at the local grocery store. We bought our oil from a local producer called Mauritzio. He has a small shop in Sasso Fortino that is mysteriously never open. In true Italian style, you need to know that you have to call him and get him to come and open the shop just for you. Awkward, yes, but well worth it.<br /><br />Once we were ushered into the tidy little shop, with its arching stone ceilings and chestnut beams, Mauritzio started pouring different oil types into small serving cups. To our horror we realized we were going to have to taste the oils and somehow differentiate between them. Not easy for the untrained Canadian palate. In addition, Mauritzio started filling his mouth with oil, swilling and gurgling and making all sorts of other alarming noises out the side of his mouth by drawing in air in large sucking hisses. It was unclear how to participate. However... under his expert guidance (with some simultaneous translation going on in the background) we quickly found that we could indeed taste the differences. After several tastings we settled on a very fine olive oil with a lovely peppery aftertaste. It is made from olives that are hand-picked (ie. not allowed to fall into the nets and risk bruising) early in the season (ie October, before the olives are fully ripe and before a particular fly may infest the crop and require spraying) and the oil is pressed on the same day that the olives are picked. No pesticides or other chemicals are used so the oil is certified “biologica” and has won all sorts of awards and distinctions as well as an honourable mention in the “slow food” winners book published here in Europe. A huge honour for a small producer.kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-23647675681398132802009-09-02T09:45:00.000-07:002009-09-21T07:18:28.429-07:00Ten Things You Can't Hate About Italy<span style="font-weight:bold;">Shopping without Dropping</span><br /><br />If there is a crisis in the economy, it isn’t very apparent here. Everyone is out shopping…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp6jgV52ViI/AAAAAAAAALA/M5yTNtsPyoI/s1600-h/shopping+dog.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp6jgV52ViI/AAAAAAAAALA/M5yTNtsPyoI/s400/shopping+dog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376914781157873186" /></a><br /><br />and I mean EVERYONE.<br /><br />The storefronts dazzle with their creative displays and the merchandise is oh so tempting.<br /><br />Say goodbye to Birkenstock and Bushtakah and mommy’s practical walking shoes, gals, and say hello to Italy’s finest. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp6l4HJaghI/AAAAAAAAALI/quGVR8ZUdEM/s1600-h/shoes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp6l4HJaghI/AAAAAAAAALI/quGVR8ZUdEM/s400/shoes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376917388536742418" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SreKADNT2EI/AAAAAAAAAQg/_HHwgAFZYoo/s1600-h/practical+walking+shoes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SreKADNT2EI/AAAAAAAAAQg/_HHwgAFZYoo/s400/practical+walking+shoes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383923613010483266" /></a><br /><br />Perfect for a special occasion or a brisk walk with the dog across the cobblestoned piazza. <br /><br />From Florentine gold…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp6n8XGil-I/AAAAAAAAALQ/CKq0FD3S4UM/s1600-h/Florentine+gold.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp6n8XGil-I/AAAAAAAAALQ/CKq0FD3S4UM/s400/Florentine+gold.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376919660562388962" /></a><br /><br />and fine leather handbags,<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp6q8S0_y6I/AAAAAAAAALY/hjqnfgFnoDY/s1600-h/leatherbags.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp6q8S0_y6I/AAAAAAAAALY/hjqnfgFnoDY/s400/leatherbags.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376922957949946786" /></a><br /><br />to back to school fashion...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp61XMiK8JI/AAAAAAAAALg/S5YUDSwGm5A/s1600-h/backtoschool.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp61XMiK8JI/AAAAAAAAALg/S5YUDSwGm5A/s400/backtoschool.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376934415233118354" /></a><br /><br />and clothes for small princesses.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp64bWyWxaI/AAAAAAAAALo/lG-Mr8TAdoM/s1600-h/white+dress.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp64bWyWxaI/AAAAAAAAALo/lG-Mr8TAdoM/s400/white+dress.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376937785239717282" /></a><br /><br />Interested in some sexy pasta?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp67OReMvFI/AAAAAAAAALw/jDt2ZbvFyEQ/s1600-h/sexy+pasta.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp67OReMvFI/AAAAAAAAALw/jDt2ZbvFyEQ/s400/sexy+pasta.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376940859009580114" /></a><br /><br />and some large-ish bottlies of vino to go with...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SreK-K_OkeI/AAAAAAAAAQo/UBEfePzB0IQ/s1600-h/winestore.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SreK-K_OkeI/AAAAAAAAAQo/UBEfePzB0IQ/s400/winestore.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383924680250790370" /></a><br /><br /><br />ruffled gloves in fine Florentine leather...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp69zEET-GI/AAAAAAAAAL4/38LoLgo6n90/s1600-h/gloves.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp69zEET-GI/AAAAAAAAAL4/38LoLgo6n90/s400/gloves.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376943690089756770" /></a><br /><br />gowns...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp7FpPcC5yI/AAAAAAAAAMA/u3FIhay2-Dc/s1600-h/gowns.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp7FpPcC5yI/AAAAAAAAAMA/u3FIhay2-Dc/s400/gowns.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376952317436421922" /></a><br /><br />and lively pinocchios.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp7Jbbra4dI/AAAAAAAAAMI/XWw9421rBPY/s1600-h/pinochio.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp7Jbbra4dI/AAAAAAAAAMI/XWw9421rBPY/s400/pinochio.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376956478250475986" /></a><br /><br />Italy has it all and then some.<br /><br />And if your budget allows, you may even want to stop by here…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp7NkGHr1cI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/qQvDKDcwTs4/s1600-h/Ferrari+storefront.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Sp7NkGHr1cI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/qQvDKDcwTs4/s400/Ferrari+storefront.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376961025128781250" /></a><br /><br />and pick up one of these. (excuse the sideways view!)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SreJMN0oXmI/AAAAAAAAAQY/sQ8eiL0tnxg/s1600-h/ferrariflip2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SreJMN0oXmI/AAAAAAAAAQY/sQ8eiL0tnxg/s400/ferrariflip2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383922722506563170" /></a>kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-50740430861832308092009-08-31T09:22:00.001-07:002009-09-21T07:20:57.449-07:00Ten Things You Can't Hate About ItalyThe Italian Riviera<br /><br />OK—I have it all figured out. After some close scrutinization of the jet setty folk on the Italian Riviera, I now know ALL THE STUFF you need to have in order to fit in right.<br /><br />The Tan <br />The Tan that needs acquiring here does NOT come in shades like Sun-kissed Glow or Bronzage Go Lightly. Those just don’t make the cut. Here you need to be tanned to within an inch of your life—probably quite literally. You’re after the Charred Mahogany hue since this is the one that best sets off the white linen shifts and the bold gold jewelry. As far as I can tell, there are two ways to acquire the right colour: mind-numbing hours on the beach OR threading oneself on a skewer and lying atop the barbecue coals, turning every four hours.<br /><br />The Yacht<br />You need one of these to tie up at a picturesque harbour towns like Porto Santo Stefano.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spv7bcWUT6I/AAAAAAAAAKI/HzHOhIObmEs/s1600-h/Porto+Stefano.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spv7bcWUT6I/AAAAAAAAAKI/HzHOhIObmEs/s400/Porto+Stefano.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376167029081657250" /></a><br /><br />Then the Unwashed Throngs can pass by your craft and marvel at your wealth, admire the fine teak furnishings and see your staff, in matchy nautical golf shirts, smoking haughtily while you’re in town buying more expensive trinkets.<br /><br />It doesn’t matter if your craft is a sleek racy one or a regal sailing one ...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spv9-6c96jI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/AFXsRC6ARa4/s1600-h/sail+boat.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spv9-6c96jI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/AFXsRC6ARa4/s400/sail+boat.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376169837481290290" /></a><br /><br />but it has to be BIG. More people seem to take pictures of the sailing ones, just fyi. Here’s an ad for one that is for sale right now. Note the zeros. Note the euro exchange.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpwAxuOe-LI/AAAAAAAAAKY/0lHhVbseAiQ/s1600-h/yaughtad.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpwAxuOe-LI/AAAAAAAAAKY/0lHhVbseAiQ/s400/yaughtad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376172909395900594" /></a><br /><br />The Villa on the Hilla<br />You absolutely need one of these... <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpwDKcvQb2I/AAAAAAAAAKg/tnzW-K_QXBo/s1600-h/villa+on+a+hilla.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpwDKcvQb2I/AAAAAAAAAKg/tnzW-K_QXBo/s400/villa+on+a+hilla.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376175533221506914" /></a><br /><br />and it has to be well appointed with a killer view...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpwFV6Jk9hI/AAAAAAAAAKo/s0zcmrVGVFo/s1600-h/riviera+view2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpwFV6Jk9hI/AAAAAAAAAKo/s0zcmrVGVFo/s400/riviera+view2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376177929118348818" /></a><br /><br />and it should have at least a couple of accoutrementis so you can entertain Ange, Brad and the fam should they drop by...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpwH2edyTpI/AAAAAAAAAKw/yjryBBOptLo/s1600-h/usual+accountremets.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpwH2edyTpI/AAAAAAAAAKw/yjryBBOptLo/s400/usual+accountremets.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376180687645855378" /></a><br /><br /><br />OH-and it probably helps if you have someone to pay for it all so you don’t have to lie awake at night and worry about stuff like debt. <br /><br />And it may help if that someone isn’t an old rich auntie...<br />and looks something like this.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpwId9DFJdI/AAAAAAAAAK4/6qTE5s3adcI/s1600-h/Emilio+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 391px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpwId9DFJdI/AAAAAAAAAK4/6qTE5s3adcI/s400/Emilio+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376181365870241234" /></a>kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-6006821505002953102009-08-29T23:31:00.000-07:002009-08-30T01:42:44.347-07:00Ten Things You Can't Hate About Italy<span style="font-weight:bold;">Days of our Lives-Tuscan Style</span><br /><br />In case anyone is sitting around wondering how our days unfold, here’s how in a nutshell:<br /><br />Once we awaken, we look out our window...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpofdNHhbeI/AAAAAAAAAI4/GT313D_HGiw/s1600-h/our+pool.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpofdNHhbeI/AAAAAAAAAI4/GT313D_HGiw/s400/our+pool.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375643691817987554" /></a><br /><br /><br />and may go for a cool swim or just have an espresso at our table on the patio. There we contemplate morning light, listen to the roosters crowing and the sheep bells jangling and consider making The Plan.<br /><br />The Plan generally revolves around a half-day activity and can get off to a slow start by merely going up into the village and having a cappuccino at Smiling Davide’s little bar. Our sis Nicky sometimes meets us there underneath the hundred year old wisteria that covers the patio.<br /><br />From there we go on an excursion. We sometimes take our little rented Fiat<br />or Nicky’s black Porche. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spoh0D3UnrI/AAAAAAAAAJA/ru6YbVhKafc/s1600-h/porshe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spoh0D3UnrI/AAAAAAAAAJA/ru6YbVhKafc/s400/porshe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375646283494366898" /></a><br /><br />(OK OK I lied... we set that photo up)<br /><br />We then head out to see:<br /><br />the ruins left behind by the Etruscans and Romans all over the hillsides here. There are whole village outlines, stone walls and mosaic-ed baths, tombs and old stone roadways OR...<br /><br />the pretty fortressed villages of the area with names like Roccastrada and Montemassie that are charmingly picturesque, very tidy and devoid of people because the smart locals don’t do stupid things like walk around outside in 39 degrees.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpokgyM8U9I/AAAAAAAAAJI/D1e8rr3-Nrk/s1600-h/pretty+village1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpokgyM8U9I/AAAAAAAAAJI/D1e8rr3-Nrk/s400/pretty+village1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375649250870580178" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spom7azrOwI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/ifLoKvUnzMk/s1600-h/prettyvillage3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spom7azrOwI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/ifLoKvUnzMk/s400/prettyvillage3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375651907470310146" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spo2HKaFyWI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/fnA7h4f5Jpw/s1600-h/prettyvillage4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spo2HKaFyWI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/fnA7h4f5Jpw/s400/prettyvillage4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375668601900878178" /></a><br /><br />Some days we take in a market in a neighbouring town like Castaglioni where you can buy...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spop5hRJtRI/AAAAAAAAAJY/z4VPp9a1DbQ/s1600-h/marketsalami.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spop5hRJtRI/AAAAAAAAAJY/z4VPp9a1DbQ/s400/marketsalami.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375655173379699986" /></a><br /><br />beautiful salamis flavoured with fennel...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SposCxx4CwI/AAAAAAAAAJg/52GLIKSWmRc/s1600-h/marketcheese.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SposCxx4CwI/AAAAAAAAAJg/52GLIKSWmRc/s400/marketcheese.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375657531453999874" /></a><br /><br />cheeses of all kinds, many of which you eat with a bit of honey on the side...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spoxx0aOlbI/AAAAAAAAAJw/-7E_NOtiKCg/s1600-h/anchovies.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spoxx0aOlbI/AAAAAAAAAJw/-7E_NOtiKCg/s400/anchovies.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375663837172110770" /></a><br /><br />all sorts of salty dead fishies in tins...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpouPOqaXgI/AAAAAAAAAJo/XH2fCri34HM/s1600-h/espresso+makers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpouPOqaXgI/AAAAAAAAAJo/XH2fCri34HM/s400/espresso+makers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375659944389008898" /></a><br /><br />as well as just about anything else.<br /> <br />We have also accompanied Nicky on her rounds as she works to look after the properties of owners who may be away. This includes their homes, pools, livestock, gardens, dogs, horses—and entire olive groves. Nicky can prune 40 olive trees in a morning and wears hard-toed boots to keep the vipers away. She is small and mighty and never ceases to amaze. She needs an epi-pen badly.kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-8049725323240406722009-08-27T10:34:00.000-07:002009-09-21T07:26:14.015-07:00Ten Things You Can't Hate About Italy<span style="font-weight:bold;">Imports like Mika</span><br /><br />Once you meet Mika, the German owner of our villa, it’s hard not to feel totally inadequate. Here’s why:<br /><br />a)Mika is a Mensa—there are only 300 Germans with the same scary IQ<br />b)Mika is an astrophysicist, a former Quantas airline pilot and has had successful entrepreneurial forays into construction. He also had the first hang-gliding school in Bavaria, is a connoisseur of the arts, history, music and of all things culinary. He speaks multiple languages fluently and listens to Italian opera while he cooks. But wait. It gets worse.<br /><br />Six years ago, Mika traded in life in the fast lane in Germany for country living in Tuscany. <br /><br />He built this villa with his own hands, using traditional Tuscan methods and materials...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpbHFkUkXzI/AAAAAAAAAIg/UFnadOhVoaw/s1600-h/villa.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpbHFkUkXzI/AAAAAAAAAIg/UFnadOhVoaw/s400/villa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374702103776485170" /></a><br /><br />and surrounded the place with flagstone patios, pebbled walkways and picturesque gardens filled with aromatic herbs such as rosemary and sage...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpbKo8Ds4zI/AAAAAAAAAIo/IAHMLYJYaIo/s1600-h/sage.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpbKo8Ds4zI/AAAAAAAAAIo/IAHMLYJYaIo/s400/sage.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374706009978495794" /></a><br /><br /> <br />pink and white oleander, as well as potted lemon trees and yellow roses.<br /><br />Irritatingly, he also happens to be a gourmet cook. And, when he isn’t producing his own organic wine, olive oil and honey from his own vineyards, groves and hives, he sun dries his own tomatoes under the Tuscan sun<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpeveXk9SfI/AAAAAAAAAIw/iESqFh2PjTo/s1600-h/sundried+tomatoes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpeveXk9SfI/AAAAAAAAAIw/iESqFh2PjTo/s400/sundried+tomatoes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374957616549939698" /></a><br /><br />and harvests his garden, hanging things picturesquely around the porch rafters.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SreMs4nEjEI/AAAAAAAAAQw/2RBRBLg8nNY/s1600-h/peppers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SreMs4nEjEI/AAAAAAAAAQw/2RBRBLg8nNY/s400/peppers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383926582283111490" /></a><br /><br />He has a lovely and very large white dog called Jana (of an exquisite Italian working breed called the Maremma) and a small herd of sheep that bleat and follow him around with their bells clanging.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spo4i7n8vJI/AAAAAAAAAKA/YJtsIl3eUlg/s1600-h/bestdog.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/Spo4i7n8vJI/AAAAAAAAAKA/YJtsIl3eUlg/s400/bestdog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375671277992066194" /></a>kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-51720605836469580892009-08-24T12:57:00.000-07:002009-08-24T13:16:54.724-07:00Ten Things You Can't Hate About Italy<strong>The Rich History of the Medicis</strong><br /><br />When the powerful Medicis weren’t patronizing the arts, they sprinted about their Renaissance gardens...<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLxQbHzT9I/AAAAAAAAAHo/OANhWjO-Miw/s1600-h/lavish+gardens.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLxQbHzT9I/AAAAAAAAAHo/OANhWjO-Miw/s400/lavish+gardens.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373622569867104210" /></a><br /><br />admired the views from the patio... <br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLx8QMsGlI/AAAAAAAAAHw/pMddImn22lM/s1600-h/best+view+upabove.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLx8QMsGlI/AAAAAAAAAHw/pMddImn22lM/s400/best+view+upabove.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373623322849057362" /></a><br /><br />bathed in immense outdoor bath tubs...<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLyj_Ijg0I/AAAAAAAAAH4/QtceuLJFWxM/s1600-h/bathtub.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLyj_Ijg0I/AAAAAAAAAH4/QtceuLJFWxM/s400/bathtub.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373624005463081794" /></a><br /><br />grew lemons in large pots...<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLzC2aq1sI/AAAAAAAAAIA/r3xmE5NnD6c/s1600-h/lemons.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLzC2aq1sI/AAAAAAAAAIA/r3xmE5NnD6c/s400/lemons.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373624535699084994" /></a><br /><br />and built scary bird baths.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLzgByHX0I/AAAAAAAAAII/YARaH4poVwY/s1600-h/scary+birdbaths.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLzgByHX0I/AAAAAAAAAII/YARaH4poVwY/s400/scary+birdbaths.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373625036966420290" /></a><br /><br />This of course was back in the day when everyone had wings...<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpL0EWc2kVI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/L0ztdalFYwM/s1600-h/wings.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpL0EWc2kVI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/L0ztdalFYwM/s400/wings.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373625660989673810" /></a><br /><br />and unusual genitalia.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpL0lbpFOHI/AAAAAAAAAIY/9UVlewEFhbQ/s1600-h/unusual+gens.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpL0lbpFOHI/AAAAAAAAAIY/9UVlewEFhbQ/s400/unusual+gens.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373626229318826098" /></a>kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-50656372121242009662009-08-24T11:44:00.000-07:002009-08-24T12:33:44.278-07:00Ten Things You Can't Hate About Italy<strong>Schlepping off to Cooking School</strong><br /><br />Meet Fabrizio...<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLgbZBraJI/AAAAAAAAAGg/Rgvv2r_c_gM/s1600-h/Fabrizio.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLgbZBraJI/AAAAAAAAAGg/Rgvv2r_c_gM/s400/Fabrizio.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373604066585438354" /></a><br /><br />and Lorenzio.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLhCRAhWLI/AAAAAAAAAGo/d8I3sQHCKj4/s1600-h/Lorenzio.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLhCRAhWLI/AAAAAAAAAGo/d8I3sQHCKj4/s400/Lorenzio.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373604734447999154" /></a><br /><br /><br />Both are Florentine chefs and both teach at the Tavola cooking school in Florence...<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLjSzEcaGI/AAAAAAAAAHA/7dQSmVKwWQ4/s1600-h/kitchen.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLjSzEcaGI/AAAAAAAAAHA/7dQSmVKwWQ4/s400/kitchen.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373607217492420706" /></a><br /><br />in this kitchen.<br /><br />The school is on a tiny side street the south side of the Arno and operates as a professional cooking school in the day. At night it offers cooking classes for tourists interested in Italian cuisine. <br /><br />I signed up for a Friday night session offering the following: <br />One Tuscan appetizer, two main courses, and one dessert. <br /><br />Our group of 12 was aproned up and set to work within minutes. We had a lot to do in four hours. Fabrizio and Lorenzio are VERY serious about food.<br /><br />Here’s what we made:<br /><br />Panna Cotta: pretty straightforward and much like crème caramel—without the caramel. <br /><br />Crespelle: not so straightforward. Fabrizio goes a little crazy on the crepes and if you have browned edges, holes or the wrong colour, you’re gonna hear about it.<br /><br />Fortunately this crepe...<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLn9GWniPI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/MnGDHAMu5a0/s1600-h/bad+crepe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLn9GWniPI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/MnGDHAMu5a0/s400/bad+crepe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373612342269937906" /></a><br /><br />was NOT MINE because when Fabrizio saw it he emitted little shrieks of horror—and tossed it in the garbagio. Fabrizio wants your crepes very pale, perfectly round and pliable. And he wants you to stuff ‘em (roasted eggplant and ricotta filling) and fold ‘em right....<br /><br />Souffle Vegetaria: these were a bit complex and had numerous stages to their preparation. <br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLj91tSlGI/AAAAAAAAAHI/RG0Bag_TkfE/s1600-h/souffle.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLj91tSlGI/AAAAAAAAAHI/RG0Bag_TkfE/s400/souffle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373607956934988898" /></a><br /><br />Fabrizio is also pretty fussy about the preesentationne.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLqlSy-adI/AAAAAAAAAHg/rdI5LXSrEuc/s1600-h/fancy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLqlSy-adI/AAAAAAAAAHg/rdI5LXSrEuc/s400/fancy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373615231828126162" /></a><br /><br />Pollo alla Contadina: this delicious chicken dish was done on the stove top with large amounts of butter, olive oil, roasted peppers, onions, balsamic vinegar and rosemary. Fabrizio seasons with salt and pepper very liberally. “Theese eez Italiana cuisina” he shouts while tossing in the handfuls. He also uses entire BRANCHES of rosemary. <br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLh09ytWdI/AAAAAAAAAGw/qddS_IZ-q5w/s1600-h/chicken+dish.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLh09ytWdI/AAAAAAAAAGw/qddS_IZ-q5w/s400/chicken+dish.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373605605463120338" /></a><br /><br />After four hours of sweating in the kitchen in our aprons, we had the opportunity to taste the fruits of our labours in a delightful meal in the school’s wine cellar. Bellisima!<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLinOkGPeI/AAAAAAAAAG4/ejSGvGkS9FM/s1600-h/chianti.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpLinOkGPeI/AAAAAAAAAG4/ejSGvGkS9FM/s400/chianti.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373606468958698978" /></a>kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-88545650732593310412009-08-22T04:13:00.000-07:002009-08-23T10:16:12.344-07:00Ten Things You Can't Hate About Italy<strong>They're Good at Lookin' Good</strong><br /><br />There’s little doubt that the Italians have been doing a lot of things right for a very long time. They know, for example, how to make splendour look stunning even when faded by seven hundred years….<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So_XDCGUEAI/AAAAAAAAAE4/I7Cr9ztSlVc/s1600-h/cathdrale2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So_XDCGUEAI/AAAAAAAAAE4/I7Cr9ztSlVc/s400/cathdrale2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372749327579222018" /></a><br /><br />They also know how to create charming balconies…<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So_YvOrlOGI/AAAAAAAAAFA/KkgWrCXCupQ/s1600-h/charming+balcony.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So_YvOrlOGI/AAAAAAAAAFA/KkgWrCXCupQ/s400/charming+balcony.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372751186382633058" /></a><br /><br />and the most picture-perfect river scenes.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDrIwNBaFI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/O0QNtOKgmao/s1600-h/best+bridge.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDrIwNBaFI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/O0QNtOKgmao/s400/best+bridge.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373052891064002642" /></a><br /><br />They pull off all the right accessories, with a special flair for door panels...<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So_dBjHZOII/AAAAAAAAAFQ/PNDJXAKW4M8/s1600-h/door+panel.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So_dBjHZOII/AAAAAAAAAFQ/PNDJXAKW4M8/s400/door+panel.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372755899152152706" /></a><br /><br />street-corner wall fountains...<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDlW9QEmaI/AAAAAAAAAFY/inKK3qEu7NE/s1600-h/street+fonuntain.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDlW9QEmaI/AAAAAAAAAFY/inKK3qEu7NE/s400/street+fonuntain.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373046538014857634" /></a><br /><br />lanterns...<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDl9QvNNLI/AAAAAAAAAFg/nL5nKTz8y-U/s1600-h/lantern.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDl9QvNNLI/AAAAAAAAAFg/nL5nKTz8y-U/s400/lantern.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373047196080747698" /></a><br /><br /><br />and whimsical knockers.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDmgTV6cEI/AAAAAAAAAFo/PMvDv7GD1ik/s1600-h/dragon+knocker.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDmgTV6cEI/AAAAAAAAAFo/PMvDv7GD1ik/s400/dragon+knocker.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373047798075387970" /></a><br /><br />They give whole new meaning to making a grand entrance…<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDsWbvhvxI/AAAAAAAAAGY/6qk__oJIY98/s1600-h/grandentrance2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDsWbvhvxI/AAAAAAAAAGY/6qk__oJIY98/s400/grandentrance2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373054225601380114" /></a><br /><br />and to gated communities...<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDnqrE9quI/AAAAAAAAAF4/hjtaTZFrlso/s1600-h/gated+community.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDnqrE9quI/AAAAAAAAAF4/hjtaTZFrlso/s400/gated+community.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373049075757066978" /></a><br /><br />and pick their colours well.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDocGhZkKI/AAAAAAAAAGA/ry1rjzJYTlM/s1600-h/great+colour+combo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDocGhZkKI/AAAAAAAAAGA/ry1rjzJYTlM/s400/great+colour+combo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373049924937683106" /></a><br /><br /><br />Even motherhood looks particularly good on them.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDqcpmFBhI/AAAAAAAAAGI/qZxA1u6CKFE/s1600-h/motherhood.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/SpDqcpmFBhI/AAAAAAAAAGI/qZxA1u6CKFE/s400/motherhood.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373052133375804946" /></a>kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-29443410085515361252009-08-20T09:26:00.000-07:002009-08-21T03:57:49.448-07:00Ten Things You Can't Hate About Italy<strong>Men of Florence</strong><br /> <br />Ah yes, the menfolk are alive and well endowed here. In true Italian form, they can be found leering on the streets, loitering in the piazzas and even hanging around in the fountains. When they aren’t just gazing disdainfully down their Roman noses at everyone...<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So2COUs65TI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/Dm7ltGXot84/s1600-h/David.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So2COUs65TI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/Dm7ltGXot84/s400/David.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372093113109767474" /></a><br /><br />they engage in manly things like severing heads...<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So1_lJ-h-RI/AAAAAAAAAEI/w3UFtMBADKk/s1600-h/head+chop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So1_lJ-h-RI/AAAAAAAAAEI/w3UFtMBADKk/s400/head+chop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372090206832949522" /></a><br /><br /><br />smiting foes with clubs...<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So2C5aazXYI/AAAAAAAAAEY/TPesDuqW67c/s1600-h/smite.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So2C5aazXYI/AAAAAAAAAEY/TPesDuqW67c/s400/smite.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372093853378764162" /></a><br /><br /><br />and killing off the few remaining goat-people.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So2D_P8XWjI/AAAAAAAAAEg/u1OgwMKPYz4/s1600-h/goat+man.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So2D_P8XWjI/AAAAAAAAAEg/u1OgwMKPYz4/s400/goat+man.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372095053157587506" /></a><br /><br /><br />Of course they have truly impressive features. With seventeen feet (relax girls, that’s their height, not their thingamajigs) of statuesque marbleness, it’s not always clear where to look—or, er, how to look like you’re not looking when you really ARE looking. Luckily I’m a fast learner and use the following techniques for maximum discretion:<br /><br />a) wear large sunglasses<br />b) put the honker zoom lense on the camera<br />c) pretend I’m an art critic and scribble madly while apraising David<br /><br />Some of the most attractive Italian men are the small ones and can be found eating gelato on the street…<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So575K4kSSI/AAAAAAAAAEo/neV3kOgKMFI/s1600-h/icecream.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So575K4kSSI/AAAAAAAAAEo/neV3kOgKMFI/s400/icecream.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372367627603953954" /></a><br /><br />while others energetically fix things.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So58l4KrotI/AAAAAAAAAEw/qmSAFFBW7lA/s1600-h/big+butt.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_q2cW1C6czmw/So58l4KrotI/AAAAAAAAAEw/qmSAFFBW7lA/s400/big+butt.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372368395673772754" /></a>kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-81631871909232045652009-06-24T15:06:00.000-07:002009-06-29T17:35:26.602-07:00Mr.Precious and the Dock SpiderIf you are a naturalist or have entomological leanings and a sensitivity to the f-word, don’t read this. This is a story of the dreaded dock spider—and it is not a pretty one. <br /><br />Dock spiders are those horrifying creatures that live in the dark undersides of your dock and come out in the spring and summer months. Where they go in the winter, I haven’t a clue and I don’t care. I only know that when I flipped our canoe over last weekend, four of them, the size of dinner plates, scuttled out and disappeared down the dock slats.<br /> <br />Don’t get me wrong. I am not <span style="font-style:italic;">anti-entomology</span> and I’m not even that squeamish. My own father was a gentle geologist who often remarked that if he hadn’t studied rocks and soil, he would have liked to have studied insects. I grew up loving and living with all manner of creatures; my favorite poem was-and sometimes still is- Alexander the Beetle.<br /><br />Because of this, my biologist husband, Mr. Precious, cannot understand why the common Dock Spider poses difficulties for me. “Why do they bother you?” he asks in his best Perplexed Biologist voice. <br /><br />Why indeed. <br /><br />Here’s f-ing why.<br /><br />a) They are f-ing HUGE. They have a leg span of up to 13 cm that would cover your face if you let your guard down and allow them to jump you. Plus they have repulsive sac-like bodies the size of your fist. Apparently, some females “exhibit female giganticism.”FEMALE GIGANTICISM!!!???? WHAAAAAT THE F**%%$#&!!!?????<br /><br />b) They’re f-ing disgusting. Don’t forget this is the same species that made Arachnophobia a huge hit in the 90s when <span style="font-style:italic;">a strange spider from the depths of a jungle is accidentally transported back to the good old US of A. Through numerous coincidences and accidents, it finds a home in a doctor's new home (well, in the barn). After mating with a local spider, thousands of little spiders run riot in the small town. This wouldn't be too much of a problem, except that these "aren't ordinary spiders"; they're killers. </span><br /><br />c) The f-ers DON’T DIE. You can smack them straight on with the flat of a paddle, only to see them re-inflate their disgusting selves and stagger off to the nearest crack in the dock and slide down it sideways. Often they leave one long finger-y appendage out just to remind you that they’re still there, alive—and pissed. <br /><br />c) They move f-ing FAST. They appear out of nowhere, and lurch at you suddenly and unexpectedly, their bodies hunched up hideously over their grotesque legs.<br /><br />d) There is never just one of them. They live in f-ing COLONIES or something. <br /><br />e) The f-ers DON’T DIE. You can squash them flat under your heel and, when you raise your boot to survey the squashings, they scuttle horridly over the side of the dock to lurk there even more flatly and furtively. <br /><br />f) UGLY.<br /> <br />g) They know how to F-ING SWIM, fer gawds sakes. Drowning them is not an option. They actually have some sort of HAIR on their creepy legs that traps BUBBLES so they can BREATHE under the water for something like FIFTEEN f-ing minutes!<br /><br />h) The f-ers DON’T DIE! You can cut them down with your axe and they’ll still come at you. Cut off a leg, and they’ll flail towards you with 7. Cut off four, and they’ll drag themselves forward with the stumps trailing. Cut ‘em all off and they’ll fork themselves along with their fangs. They’re like Monty Python’s Black Knight, except Not Funny. King Arthur (cutting off both the Black Knight’s arms) : Look, you stupid Bastard. You've got no arms left. Black Knight: Yes I have. King Arthur: *Look*! Black Knight: T’is nothing but a flesh wound.<br /><br />Over breakfast on a recent summery morning, I said to Mr. Precious. “This morning you must go on a Killing Spree.” Mr. Precious looked at me blankly. “THE DOCK,” I explain. “To kill the f-ing dock spiders and closely inspect the kayak and canoe interiors for any intrusions.”<br /><br />Mr. Precious sighed and pushed himself up from the table. He put on his boots and started to make his way down the trail to the dock below. About a third of the way down, he stopped and turned:<br /><br />“They can’t actually help the way they look, you know,” he says in his best Reasonable-and-Reassuring Biologist’s Voice.<br /><br />“They’re ugly,” I retort intelligently, from the safety of the deck above. <br /><br />Mr. Precious continues downward, stops again and looks back. “They’re actually GOOD insects since they EAT the bad ones, like black flies and mosquitoes,” he says in his best Earnest-and-Instructional Biologist’s Voice.<br /><br />“They are Opportunistic Ambush Hunters with fangs,” I retort, citing Wikipedia. “They GRAPPLE prey with their foremost legs that are equipped with CLAWS,” I add for emphasis.<br /><br />Mr. Precious takes two more steps and turns and says: “They have just as much right…”<br /><br />“JUST KILLL THHHHEEEE F-ERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRSSSSSSSSSS,” I scream at the top of my lungs in the very best of all my Screaming Banshee Voices, causing whole flocks of birds to whirl up and out of the forest.<br /><br />Mr. Precious rolls his eyes and heads for the dock. I hover from above, watching for signs of betrayal from his Inner Biologist but am reassured by the noises emanating from below—volleys of hard knocks with the metal bucket to the sides of the dock and heavy stompings of manly, steel-toed feet. <br /><br />“I guess there’s a lot of them then?” I call plaintively from the above.<br /><br />No reply. <br /><br />Grunts and low cursings filter up from below, the dock sashays wildly in the water and the violent slashings of the bucket are now accompanied by loud smacks with the paddle that Mr. Precious is now brandishing. <br /><br />“A whole colony then?” I say as Mr. Precious gives the dock a final kick and heads back up the trail, red-faced and panting with exertion.<br /><br />“Just the one,” he says grimly, heaving the bucket under the steps. “But the f-ing thing wouldn’t die.”kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-43218905028585595372009-06-17T13:06:00.000-07:002009-06-18T07:49:03.618-07:00The Monk's SmorgasbordFor anyone thinking that mine is a house of peace and harmony, this will serve to enlighten you. It is not. I guess it was once upon a time, but as we all know—things change. <br /><br />There are frequent nocturnal disturbances in our home that not only disturb my sleep but also threaten my sanity. I am not talking about the policemen chasing bad guys through our back hedge with dogs—as they have before—nor the drunken and disorderly teens tumbling in at 4 a.m. Rather I am referring to the strange sounds emitted by my own bedfellow, Mr. Precious. Over the 25+ years I have spent living, (and trying to sleep) with him, I have come to recognize and affectionately label the various noises that he emits nocturnally.<br /><br />The first most recognizable and consistent of these special night sounds is one that I refer to simply as The Drowning Cat. The first time I awoke to this one, I sincerely thought, in my half-asleep state, that there was a cat of considerable size drowning in a rain barrel outside my window. I don’t actually have a rain barrel outside my window but the guttural gasps, watery gurglings and high-pitched mews convinced me that I did—and that a cat had fallen into it. I jumped out of bed (my nakedness glimmering palely in the moonlight), ran to the window and peered out, only to realize that the sound was NOT coming from outside but was being produced by Mr. Precious next to me.<br /><br />The second special but somewhat less reliable collection of auditory delights is what I lovingly refer to as The Monk’s Smorgasboard. The Monk’s Smorgasboard is a spectacular array of sounds straight out of an Umberto Eco novel. Imagine 24 monks, seated on each side of a long trestle table. Roasted wild boars and jugs of wine arrive and are placed in front of them. Suddenly there erupts a violent knashing of teeth, the tearing of flesh from bones, violent chewings, followed by gulping, swilling and swallowing of large mouthfuls of wine. And, if you listen carefully, just below the surface, you can detect the low rhythmic moaning of a Gregorian chant. That’s the Monk’s Smorgasbord and that’s what Mr. Precious sounds like at 3 a.m. <br /><br />There is a third and pretty common one--The Caucasian Bubble Torture (kinda like Chinese Water Torture) but I won't go into detail--you can probably take a good guess at what it sounds like and the difficulties it creates.<br /><br />But last night in the dead of night I woke with a start to a cacophony of yelps, yips, growls and short piggish snorts. I lay in the dark, fuming that Mr. Precious had indeed sunk to new and lower depths in his repertoire. HOWWWWWW, I howled to myself, clenching the sheets in my fists HOW.DOES. HE. DO. THAT. I finally rolled over to heave him onto his side and hopefully extinguish the sounds, at least momentarily, when Mr. Precious said very clearly in his own very awake voice."Do you hear that?"<br /><br />I sat bolt upright. I listened. The nasty snorting continued. This time it wasn’t Mr. Precious at all! I got up and stepped out onto the back deck just in time to see a massive mother coon and her numerous baby coons scuttling off into the bushes.kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-74441460984877874702009-06-04T11:27:00.000-07:002009-06-04T11:31:54.957-07:00The Guilded Cage (Part III)Afflicted Mother is enjoying her House of Harmony. The phone no longer rings ceaselessly from 3:30 pm onward. Gone is the jumble of shoes of Ill-fated Daughter’s Cherished Friends that normally fills the front foyer. The incessant clacking of the keyboard no longer disrupts the evening peace. <br /><br />Ill-fated Daughter is confined to the Gilded Cage. From there, Ill-fated Daughter can simply observe the World of Evil about her. With clipped wings, she can no longer sprint through the garden of temptation tearing large bites from the flesh of Forbidden Fruits. Instead, she spends long hours perched before her mirror where she preens, exfoliates, tweezes, plucks and engages in other activities that involve Close Examination of Self. <br /><br />Now and again, when Afflicted Mother happens to pass by, Ill-fated Daughter shouts down from her perch, “THIS IS POINTLESS AND RETARDED!”<br /><br />Afflicted Mother says nothing but notes to self that this is also a tidy summation of Life as a Parent.<br /><br />“EVERYONE ELSE HAS NORMAL PARENTS,” Ill-fated Daughter shouts. “EVERYONE ELSE CAN STAY OUT AS LATE AS THEY PLEASE AND SLEEP WHERE THEY WANT. <br /><br />THEY CAN EVEN GO ON CRUISES WITH THEIR BOYFRIENDS!! <br /><br />THIS IS POINTLESS AND RETARDED!” she hollers.<br />In the quiet and uneventful hours, Afflicted Mother likes to read about frontal lobe development in teens and other related topics. She favours articles with names like “Now I Know Why Tigers Eat Their Young.” She has learned that according to various experts, the teenage brain is a Work in Progress. It is NOT equipped for logical and organized thought and is full of Immature Circuitry! As such, teenagers DO NOT yet have all the brain power they need to make good judgments.<br />The good news is that sleep helps further the development. <br />The bad news is that full development is only completed by the age of 20.<br /><br />In the quiet darkness of the night, while Ill-fated Daughter sleeps, Afflicted Mother tiptoes very, very quietly to the liquor cabinet.kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-19350220230008513692009-06-04T11:26:00.000-07:002009-06-04T11:31:40.848-07:00More Misfortune (Part II)Ill-fated Daughter walked in from work with ashen cheeks and less springiness in her step. No longer looking like a million bucks, it appeared that eight hours on her feet slugging Boilt Hams had taken its toll.<br /><br />Afflicted Mother smiled inwardly in anticipation of upcoming conversation about Ill-fated Daughter’s pleasant sleepover with Friend Jess. She was looking forward to discussions of Movies Watched and Popcorn Popped and other Disastrous Details that Ill-fated Daughter might make up.<br /><br />Ill-fated Daughter struggled through dinner with downcast eyes and cautious commentary. It was then that Afflicted Mother was quietly told by Informed Sibling that that Ill-fated Daughter may have been tipped off by a Concerned Friend. <br /><br />Ill-fated Daughter pled various illnesses and left table, unable to eat her supper. Afflicted Mother finished her meal and cleaned up peacefully and then headed to Ill-fated Daughter’s darkened room. Ill-fated Daughter was underneath her blankets bed with head covered. Afflicted Mother opened her mouth to speak when Ill-fated Daughter suddenly threw back the covers, sat up abruptly and announced “I have made a Series of Unfortunate Decisions.” <br /><br />Afflicted Mother then knew immediately that Ill-fated Daughter had indeed been tipped off… and was thus planning to play the Contrite Card. <br /><br />“My first Unfortunate Decision,” began Ill-fated Daughter “was when I went to the party of the Goon Squad in the first place. “It all just sort of happened rather unexpectedly, and suddenly I was just there. I should have called.”<br /><br />Ill-fated Daughter listened for reassuring sounds of understanding from Afflicted Mother but heard nothing in the darkness. Ill-fated Daughter squirmed under her blankets.<br /><br />“My second Unfortunate Decision was to NOT leave the party and go back to Jess’s house when Jess did. I don’t know why I did that,” she explained in earnest, “but it just sort of happened.” <br /><br />The story continued. Apparently the party continued into the night. Friend Jess returned home to her house in time for her curfew. Ill-fated Daughter chose to party on. Later, Ill-fated Daughter tried in vain to rouse Friend Jess in order to return to her house for the night but alas, Jess had fallen asleep and was not responding. Ill-fated Daughter spoke with the father of Host Goon to explain Her Predicament. The kindly man offered to drive her home but she declined, fearing trouble upon her arrival. Father of Host Goon therefore offered her a place to stay for the night somewhere safe and away from Goons. She accepted and was driven home in morning. “This was for sure my third Unfortunate Decision,” said Ill-fated Daughter sadly, shaking her head remorsefully.<br /><br />And if you believe that, shrieked Afflicted Mother in her Outside Voice but inwardly, you’ll believe anything.<br /><br />Stay tuned for the next installment entitled Ill-fated Daughter and the Gilded Cage.kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-14381200566072400762009-06-03T09:18:00.000-07:002009-06-04T11:31:00.168-07:00A Series of Unfortunate Decisions (Part I)(Not unlike the Lemony Snicket series, this is the first in a series of stories outlining the unfortunate decisions made in alarming frequency by a certain Ill-fated Daughter).<br /><br />Our story begins when the Afflicted Mother is enjoying a Rare Evening Out. Mid-point in the evening, she gets a text msg from Ill-fated Daughter who is attending a hockey game with Friend Jess. The Goon Squad Boys are playing. <br /><br />Ill-fated Daughter begs to have a change of plans and return home with Friend Jess and sleep over at her house. Afflicted Mother agrees and lays down the regular ground rules—these include calling in with the house phone number of friend, assuring that the friend’s parents’ are in agreement with aforementioned plan, and lack of permission to change locations once there. Ill-fated Daughter agrees to all conditions most fervently. Afflicted Mother’s red light pulses slightly due to a) quick plan changes at last moment b) potential for Goon Squad Boy involvement and c) Ill-fated Daughter’s fervor. <br /><br />Ill-fated Daughter checks in with Afflicted Mother at 10:30 pm. The poor thing is feeling Very Fatigued. She and Friend Jess are renting a movie, feeling sleepy and both have to work early the next day. Afflicted Mother is assured that Friend Jess’s parents are home but also very tired and going to bed. Afflicted Mother’s red light glimmers faintly…Ill-fated Daughter is NEVER. EVER. TIRED.<br /><br />Afflicted Mother goes to bed and sleeps dreamlessly knowing her children are safe and where they should be. The next morning, Ill-fated Daughter bounces into the house at 8:30 a.m. looking like a million bucks. Chatty and animated, she high-tails to her room to ready herself for work. Afflicted Mother’s red light glows.<br /><br />Afflicted Mother drops Ill-fated Daughter at the grocery store where she works, parks and follows her in to pick up some groceries. Ill-fated Daughter sprints ahead to deli counter where Friend Jess is already working and has Quick Words. Jess glances quickly at Afflicted Mother and immediately averts eyes. Afflicted Mother’s red light surges on full power.<br /><br />Afflicted Mother immediately returns home and picks up the phone to call the Mother of Friend Jess. Jess’s mother is deeply surprised to hear that Ill-fated Daughter has spent the night in HER house. According to her, an after-hockey party had been held and both girls had attended. When her own daughter returned from this event, she informed her mother that Ill-fated Daughter’s plans had changed and she was no longer sleeping over at Jess’s house. <br /><br />AHA! Afflicted Mother has COMPLETELY BUSTED Ill-fated Daughter and Ill-fated Daughter doesn’t yet have a CLUE!! <br /><br />Stay tuned for next in the series entitled More Misfortune.kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5191160705689664208.post-30107199723450460142009-05-27T11:45:00.000-07:002009-06-04T11:32:47.701-07:00PassagesThe tide tugs gently at my bare feet and nudges a crescent marking of white onto the sand. Then, like an immense exhalation, it swirls away seaward, leaving a sparkling trail of sediment in its wake—particles of red and silver stone, ground into minutiae by the ceaseless motion of water over time. Almost immediately, another surge of foam spreads inward, creeping higher on the slight rise of the beach. In its path, the rolling limbs of small dismembered sea creatures, the delicate purple pouf of a lifeless jelly fish, fragmented empty shell bits. <br /><br />From my perch on this rock, I observe the endless cycle of the sea all around me--the bringing in and the taking away. I watch intently as transparent shrimp-shaped sand creatures scrabble for cover as the water streams in rivulets back to the ocean, as sharp-billed birds plunge into the whitecaps a short distance away, as grey-green crabs dig frantically into the mud, miniscule legs flailing. And yet, all around me too is the pungent scent of death. The sand is heaped with coils of corrugated sea plants, littered with spiny carcasses of fish, the grey twisted shapes of driftwood, the skeletal remains of a thousand life forms. How fragile life seems here. How painfully cyclical this restless churning of the sea.<br /><br />I wonder if my mother sat here. She has visited these shores before and loved this place as I do. I wonder if she wandered here with my father, picking up and turning over small finds in her hand, resting her back on these sun-warmed rocks, marveling at the vastness of the sky, the majesty of this coastline, these silken sands. As always, the thought of her takes my breath away. As always, I am seized by the familiar, aching knowledge that she is gone. <br /> <br />The ring I wear on my finger is Celtic, the designs symbolic of water and the Earth. I wear it in her memory. The memory of her love. Her heritage. The savage beauty of the island country she came from. Her soft accent, her skillful hands, her gentleness. I cast around me for some small sense that she is near, but there is nothing. Only the restless, churning sea. The sea and its cycle.<br /><br />Three small figures appear on rocks in the distance along the beach. I observe the meandering approach of my children, listening as their voices carry clearly across the water. As they draw nearer, each step brings their faces more sharply into focus. And then suddenly, with startling intensity, I see my mother's features etched here before me, illuminated in the soft glow of the late afternoon sun--the precise arch of a brow here, the gentle sweep of eyelash there, the sweetness in the curve of a lip, the fairness in a windblown strand of hair. A crystalline moment, frozen in all dimension, excruciatingly familiar, bittersweet in memory, and painfully, joyfully real. Unbidden, the words of a song I once knew spring into my consciousness. A song of sorrow, Gaelic in its roots, with a haunting refrain that repeats itself over and over "Do I see the last light of the sun going down or do I see the first light of a brand new day?" <br /><br />The moment passes as suddenly as it came and a cool breeze comes rippling in across the water. The tide is high and my children run ahead to the opening in the trees that leads from the sand to the forest trail above. I follow and as I reach the tall pines, I turn, alone, and look behind me to the glittering trail of light that stretches towards me across the surface of the water, the first foreshadowing of the evening to come. Then, with the sound of the retreating surf in my ears, I turn and head up the path, smiling to myself at her nearness and how she has, in her own quiet way, reached out and touched me in passing.kayogihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00385672715354769201noreply@blogger.com