its effin cold

it is possible that as canucks we have a seasonal cycle of tolerance to the vulgarity of the word fuck?
it has come to my attention that as the mercury drops it seems so do our sensitivities around its peppering into everyday discourse.

what other word would so accurately expresses the sentiment of living in these months?
its almost as if we are saying it to ourselves "idiot! why do you live here??!!"


as i rounded a downtown corner the other day i was met by more than just the usual faceful of freezing wind and airborne snow pellets but also a man who was surprised to meet my eyes whilst exclaiming "FUCK" followed by a muttering of "its so fucking cold" as he turned the corner. i simply nodded in agreement and continued.
it wasn't even noon and that was the third time i heard a stranger swear.

as i walked away the irony of our polite reputation occurred to me.
but the reality is that its not that we are rude.
and the term is not being used maliciously or with cruel intention but simply to recognize that everything is harder when it is minus 20.
life is significantly harder when it is minus twenty.
and we all know it.
perhaps that is why we let the occasional effbomb slide by without the scowl it would usually trigger in warmer months.
either way.
i say use it sparingly, but when you use it, do it like you mean it.
and you will likely be forgiven.
until the snow melts.

no more dosas

well its a sad story for women all around the world. the brown paper on the windows at madras pantry just another sign that the economy is hitting us where it hurts most.

if that kind of a foolproof business plan can flop, then what hope is there for BOBAMERICA?

they picked a great location for foot traffic: across the street from TBP, along that strip of queen where hipsterdom thrives and commoners come to look at the wayfarer clad playing in the park.

their product was a la mode and relevant. affordable ethnic food -for the open minded and travelled inhabitants of the neighbourhood- tightly wrapped in a gluten free (for all those masala loving skinny jeans wearers) crepe seems like a goldmine.

the delivery practice: chatty handsome men in aprons hand you melt in your mouth flavour explosion dosas at an affordable price.

BULLETPROOF

the only flaw i can see is that their bathroom was pretty sick. but i have never heard of a place closing down for that alone.
besides isn't this owned by Hanif from nyood and kultura....? he clearly knows good food and what people want...

so is the message that people don't want handsome men handing them really good food in exchange for a reasonable amount of coin?

perhaps the real problem here is that hipsterdrom is dying. so says NOW (NOW Magazine // Life & Style // Cover Story // The end of the hipster)
and if that's the case, are people going to stop opening businesses in my neighbourhood staffed by good looking gents? .. cause if that is indeed the case, i am gonna start a revolution.

best kept secret in the produce department

i have never been a big apple person. when i feel snacky the last thing that comes to mind is to reach for a crunchy pomme. probably because i find they don't subdue pangs of hunger but rather awaken and enhance them.

but all of this has recently been turned on it's head.

it was when sitting in the kitchen at a cottage this fall when my companion bit into a honeycrisp and stopped. she looked at the fruit in her hand and exclaimed "that has to be one of the best apples i have had". and then bit in again.

period.
no "this week" or "this season" qualifier for the compliment. simply "i have had".

of course i had one crazy!
and i agreed instantly. the sweet crunch and juicy flesh dissolved all previous conceptions or passive disinterest.
and the honeycrisp became the mascot of my fall 2009.



visits to the market in kensington doubled as my fruit intake increased exponentially.
it was on one such recent visit that i found out i am not alone.

a b-line to the back of the produce section where the source of my addiction is stocked, only to find that their regular bin was filled with a mound of measly cortlands left me spinning in shock.
confused i did a lap of the fruit aisle assuming that some new stockhand who had mistakenly switched the two kinds. but i ended up back where i started right in front of their usual compartment.

my disappointed gaze met with a man at the end of the aisle who asked what i was looking for.
"honeycrisp?" i replied.
his head tilted (much like the way a terriers does when you blow air on its nose) before he responded.
"so is she" he said, pointing across the aisle at a forlorn woman hopelessly scanning the bin labels for the words to fulfill her fix.

"what's with those apples?" he said to no one in particular. and before waiting for a response "well we are out. but we do have galas"

i felt like laughing. "no thanks" we said in unison before walking out - both empty handed.

my disappointment was sugar coated in the knowledge that i wasn't alone.
since then i have heard the praises of this almost twenty year old strain in grocery stores and markets across the city.

it was on the phone with a friend the other day, long after my addiction has been under control, that i heard the sound of teeth breaking that familiar skin.
i salivated recalling the taste on my tongue and interrupted with "what kind of apple is that? a honeycrisp?"
"a gala" she replied.
clearly it had been too long and i was losing touch with my senses.

i shrugged to myself before the silence was broken with her saying "but i wish it was a honeycrisp. i tell ya, those have to be the best apples i've had".

clearly it's unanimous.
way to go ontario.
you sure know apples.