We almost saw the tulips.

Yesterday was a gloriously sunny and warm spring day. The early sun shone on my backyard neighbours' trees. A very tall one was all red blossoms while a shorter one was shocking pink. The third one, the shortest, was all white blossoms. Today is grey, 46 kilometers an hour winds from the south and a storm seems to be brewing. All the red blossoms are gone and tender green leaves have sprung. The shocking pink is darker and the white ones are less numerous. Before lunch we had to run after our sundeck chairs blown away by the wind.
But let's get back to yesterday. We had our monthly brunch scheduled in St-Jérôme, 60 kilometers and 5 bridges away. The usual merry bunch was there and we chatted our heads off. Two, man and wife, were freshly back from Guatemala where they had spent the last 4 months as lay missionaries. Another was back, 3 weeks ago, from Mexico where he had spent the winter. That 3 weeks delay allowed us all to shake hands with him.
After lunch the wife and I made up our mind to go Ottawa, another 2 hours drive, to see the annual tulip festival, the 57th. During the last war (39-45) that is, a Dutch princess was born there to the Dutch queen then a war refugee in Canada. Our goverment decreed that the hospital room where the birth would take place would be ceded to Holland for the duration of the birth so that the baby would be Dutch. The Dutch have kept a soft spot in their hearts for Canada and Canadians because of that and our participation in the liberation of Holland from Nazi occupation. As a token of gratitude Holland, in 1946, sent thousands of tulip bulbs to flower Parliament Hill and the surroundings. Over time the Tulips spread all over Ottawa and now, each first two weeks of May, a Tulip Festival is held.
So off we went. We traveled over the back roads, much nicer than the highways, and more relaxing. Those roads move up and down along ridges and valleys, quaint little villages and summer resorts. We stopped, for some leg stretching, in Montebello. This is where my 78 years opted to manifest themselves. When I got out of the car I could barely walk straigth. Had a police officer been there he would have submitted me to a breathalyser test. After much wobbling I managed to walk reasonably well...but the wife ordered us back to base. We were about an hour away from Ottawa. Suddenly I was to tired to argue. So back we came. Well today is a grey day...but I walk straight, or mostly, and I should be chipper by tomorrow. No Tulip Festival for us this year.

Where is the North?

When I was a child and a teen, Québec was a simpler place. You were white, save if you were a porter at one of our train or bus stations or a chinese restaurant or laundry operator. You were Catholic or Protestant, French or English speaking. Well there were some in betweens, like me for instance. For us, the going could be tough...but if you had some resiliency you could soldier on and even make a place for yourself. You knew the Union nationale blue (Québec name for the conservative religious right--most Québecers), or Liberal red (the bad anticlerical left, a discredited minority that went out only in daytime). The Bishops and priests at election time warned us that the sky was blue but hell was red.
Then came 1960. The so-called Quiet Revolution saw the dreaded Liberals elected to form the next government. Things began changing. Electricity was nationalized. Schools, hospitals and social services were nationalized. Then immigrants started pouring in and the churches emptied although the two are not linked. Everything went very fast...and suddenly the Separatists came out of the woodwork and, in 1972 we had a Péquiste government.
T'was then that things got blurred. You had politicians switching sides and allegiance, people calling themselves Catholic or Protestant and not worshipping anymore. The head of the federal Conservative became the Liberal Prime Minister. The former president of the Liberal Youths became head of the A.D.Q. (Conservative party in disguise). A Liberal Minister created the Parti Québécois, and a Federal Conservative Minister created the Bloc Québécois...of Socialist leaning.
Then we had two referenda on sovereignty with questions so obscure that only a theologian could make heads or tails of them, and both with rather inconclusive results. We are still wondering who really won the last one.
These days no one really seems to know who is who and where all that will lead us. Got any idea where the North is?

Les temps changent, Oh Yeah!

Le calme est revenu. Mon fils et sa petite famille (comme disent mes filles) sont repartis. Le tourbillon Ariane s'active maintenant dans la voiture de ses parents et Alexis se désespère de devoir attendre d'arriver chez lui pour manger son Jell'O citron.
Le repas fut une oeuvre collective: mes filles ont préparé le gâteau aux carottes que leur mère aime tant, ma femme a dégourdi les homards et j'ai cuit, au BBQ les médaillons de boeuf.
While barbecuing I was thinking of man in the kitchen. My grandmother and my mother-in=law could not bear to have a man in their kitchen; my mother did not want a kitchen, period; my wife enjoys my help and would be much mortified if I did not participate. My daughters can't even begin to imagine that I would not cook the meats.
On this mothers' Day, I figure many fathers have donned an apron and done the dishes and most people will say: "No big deal".
Oui, les temps ont bien changé...et c'est très bien ainsi.

Poor mixer

Would you believe it? I am a Sunbeam mixer killer. Two weeks ago at the McGill Institute for Learning in Retirement Odette spoke of a recipe book based on la Comtesse de Ségur née Rostopchine's children books. Since the good Comtesse peopled my lonely sickly child's days, I was curious about those recipes so I went to la Grande Bibliothèque du Québec in Montreal and got the book.
I got hung on a bread recepi. Mind you I never baked bread in all of my 78 years but I very foolishly went on. The first try did not rise and could have been used to stone somebody. The second try got a little better and was, at least, edible. The third try is the best. My raisin bread is light and fluffy, a nice golden color and very tasty.
Alas! I added the raisins at the wrong moment...and some gears broke. We now have a very good raisin bread...but no more mixer.

J'arrive

Depuis un certain temps, des amis "bloggers" me disent de commencer. à mon tout, un blog. Bon bien, me voici! je me joins à la communauté bloggante.
À bientôt,
Paul Costopoulos