Tofu-a-phobia

If you check out tofu in the Webster's "New World" Dictionary (is that similar to the Old Testament vs the New Testament?) it states that tofu is a bland, cheeselike food, rich in protein, coagulated from an extract of soybeans.  But I think that it should be re-defined as the spooky white blob that makes people shudder when the prospect of digesting it crosses their minds. I have difficulty computing tofu-a-phobia, because really, tofu is to soy milk what cheese is to cow's milk. Except one starts as a bean, and the other starts as a calf. One is vegetable based and one is animal based.

I think that is where people start to get all wiggy. There is a lifestyle that is connected to the use of these rubbery white blobs. No, I should rephrase that; there is a stereotype that is connected to the use of these rubbery white blobs. If I eat tofu, suddenly I am going to want to grow my armpit hair long enough that I can braid it into a haltertop to cover my pendulous breasts that are going to flow freely and unrestrained at the next folk festival. While there, I will create many love children with pot smoking free spirited lovers of trees. We will drive away on our bicycles into the sunset, making macrame flower pot holders and singing about fighting the good fight as we go. And we will eat tofu; lots and lots of tofu. Right now you're either offended, petrified or laughing at the absurdity of it all. That really won't happen if you eat tofu, unless you want it to. (And really, it sounds like a hell of a lot of fun to me, except for the armpit thing, and I'm not too good with macrame...)

Ok, but let's get serious here, and really look at what tofu IS. It is just a base, just like other ingredients that we put in to other foods that we eat. I substitute tofu for cheese in my lasagna. I substitute soft tofu for yogurt or cream cheese in my baking. I chop tofu up and put it in my soups. The point is that tofu does not have any flavour what so ever. It is like the chameleon of the food world, and just takes on the flavour of whatever absorbs in to it. I wouldn't eat a block of raw tofu just like I wouldn't eat a box of plain gelatin or a bag of flour. That would be yucky. But if you're not interested in getting the high animal fat content that you get from cheese or meat, tofu is an awesome substitute. But be forwarned that buying tofu hotdogs, and tofu salami and tofu chicken burgers are actually not a great substitute for the "real thing" and can actually be higher in carcinogens than the real thing. It's the same with any overtly processed food. Just remember, if you don't understand what the ingredients say on the package, best bet is that you shouldn't buy it, let alone digest it. (Do you know that Canadian Kraft dinner has an orange dye in it that is actually banned in the states? Why do you want your poop to glow in the dark?)

So now you're probably asking yourself, "Is Rhonda a vegetarian? Is she vegan? Is she a tofugian?" (haha I just made that one up.) No, I'm none of the above and as I've stated before, I HATE labels, especially ones connected to the food I'm choosing to eat. That's ridiculous. I just want to be around for a while, and if my body is a machine (oh yeah, baby, it's a machine...haha) then I want to try to fuel it with good fuel, like high grade octane, not the cheap stuff like I put in my car. Tofu is on that list of high octane good fuel, for sure.

So, the next time you're in the grocery store, buy a block. Yeah, everyone is going to be looking at you with "that look" and making a mental note to themselves to not go over to your place for supper for a while, but who cares. Go home, take your bra off, crank some good folky music and make the tofu lasagna recipe I'm going to leave you with.

Yummy Veggie Tofu Lasagna


2 or 3 small zucchini
1 block firm tofu, drained
1 can black beans
1 block tofu mozza cheese “loaf” (***optional***) or you can just use some real cheese if you want that flavour added to it.
A variety of veggies such as:
1 bag fresh spinach, chopped
Broccoli chopped small
½ red pepper
½ orange pepper
1 small onion, finely chopped
A good handful of fresh mushrooms
A couple julienned carrots
Pickled hot pepper rings chopped finely (this adds some awesome zing to the lasagna)
A can of whole plum tomatoes, diced and save the juice for sautéing the veggies
A big can or jar of tomato sauce of your choice
Seasoning such as minced garlic, garlic powder, and Italian seasoning, extra thyme and a bit of cayenne pepper


1. Set oven to 375.
2. Slice all zucchini very thin, length wise and place in casserole dish, layered is fine, with a bit of water and steam in the microwave for approximately 5 minutes until semi-soft. (I used a cheese cutter to cut my zucchini). Then lay them on paper towel to dry.
3. Put the tofu block in a medium bowl and mash with a potato masher. Mix in the soy cheese if you’re going to use it with the mashed tofu. Thoroughly season this mixture liberally with thyme.
4. Drain and rinse the black beans. You’ll thank me later. Haha
5. Add the chopped up veggies and spinach to a frying pan (like a big cast iron pan)using the canned tomato juices as your “sauteing” medium and cook on medium heat until all of the veggies are soft and the liquid is gone from the pan.
6. I add a lot of seasoning to this mixture and lots of minced garlic (about two heaping teaspoons!). Once all of the liquid is “cooked off” this mixture can be left until assembly time, but make sure to shut off the stove.
7. Mix your tomato sauce and any left over diced tomatoes together in a bowl. Add some extra thyme or Italian seasoning if you’d like.
8. Use a 9x13 casserole dish, and spray liberally with cooking spray or olive oil.
9. Put a layer of tomato sauce mixture on the bottom and then a layer of zucchini “noodles”.
10. Sprinkle ½ the can of black beans on top of the zucchini.
11. Add more tomato sauce and then half of the veggie mixture.
12. Sprinkle half of the tofu mixture on top of this.
13. Add another layer of zucchini and start the process again.
14. The top layer of zucchini should be covered with the rest of the tomato sauce.
15. Cook for approximately 40-45 minutes. Then I shut the oven off and allow the lasagna to sit in the oven until the stove is cooled. At this time, you might want to put a layer of aluminum foil on the top so that the veggies don’t get too crispy on top.
16. When it’s warm it doesn’t slice as nicely as it does when it’s cooled, but it’s still really, really yummy. Especially the next day.
17. PS: If you divide your lasagna into 10 hardy pieces, each piece is still only 150 calories, if you’re a calorie counter. Enjoy!

tofu education

A Handy Man Would be Handy

Sometimes I am quite envious of the transient lifestyle of a musician. They are talented gypsies living off the kindness of others so that they can share their amazing music. But as I have mentioned before, I have already lived a transient lifestyle and in my lifetime, having moved fifteen times. That includes all of the different homes I have occupied in both Red Lake and Winnipeg. I have packed and unpacked a lot of boxes. So when I decided to knock down my little white house to build the home I live in today, it was with adament resolve that I wanted to be rooted here for a while. I love my home and endearingly refer to it as "the milk carton" because it is very tall, and very white. Freud would have a hayday with the phallic symbolism. (Smoke it, Freud.)

So, I have done a pretty good job, through trial and error, of learning all about what makes my house work as a complete, functioning unit. When my house filled up with oily smoke, I knew that the furnace wasn't working right. When my basement flooded, I knew my sump pump wasn't working right (Goodbye high school and university art portfolio). When I was staining my front porch, I learned that you can't lean the top of a ladder 1/2 on wood and 1/2 on screen. When moving wheelbarrows of rocks, I learned that physiotherapy really adds up financially.

It sure would be handy to have a handy man in my life on occasion.

Now, here's where it becomes interesting. As most of you know, I am a single woman. I am an independent woman and get a lot of you-GO-Sista's thrown in my direction. And I am very proud of the accomplishments that I have conquered, for sure, and thankful for the enthusiastic cheers from all. But sometimes I'd just like to have a MAN come and do some work around my house for me. I have a list of things that I know I can do, and should be doing, but they're not getting done. (Oh, there goes one of Sandy's fur dust balls...I'll just ignore that for now). Most of the time it is because I am just keeping up with the every day tasks; making lunches, sweeping, washing clothes, blogging, making sure Alexander cleans behind his ears, mopping....you get the point. So at the end of the day, I am not really saying to myself, "Ok, I have an hour of free time to do my own thing. I'm going to run downstairs and DRYWALL!" And honestly, I am pathetic with a drill. Maybe it's because I'm left handed. Yeah, that's it.

I have on occasion asked others for their assistance. I even had one guy come and say, "Sure!" to every single task that I asked him to complete. I even offered money, and inquired two weeks later when he didn't show up if he really wanted the job or whether I should ask someone else, and he still continued to say, "Sure!" I didn't realize that "Sure!" doesn't mean...."sure". I don't want the bullshit. This isn't one of those situations where you can just nod and I'll be happy. I need results. I have asked some of my friends whether their husbands were available to help out with tasks. I usually get the "If you think that my husband is going to come over here and help YOU with your tasks when I have this and this and this to get done at my house and he's sitting his sorry ass on the couch right now, you've got another thing coming. Go find your own husband" look. I can see the claws coming out, but they don't actually hold them up to my face. I get it! I get it! And there is some apprehension in asking "the single guy" because that can be misread as a "Red Lake date". If I happen to be in the yard, holding a ladder for a young, single guy, suddenly I'm a cougar, or rumour has it that we're sleeping together. Hey, no complaints about hanging out with a hot, single guy though. haha But I need some old, fat, married man to come to my house to do chores. No, that would start rumours around here too. It's a no win situation, I think.

And then there is the payment factor. If you have a partner at home that you've been able to convince to do some work for you, the payment is easy....a nice meal, topped off with a beer and some tv time and a roll in the hay, right? It works like a charm. Men certainly know how to enjoy the simple pleasures of life. But I can only offer two out of those three options, AND IF YOU'RE QUESTIONING WHICH TWO OPTIONS THEY ARE! Well, that's not very nice.

So I sit at home looking at kitchen cupboards that still need to be set, and a basement that needs to be sealed, drywalled and painted, baseboards and doors that need painting, a blown out screen in my "screened in porch" (which explains why I keep getting stung my wasps when napping there) that needs to be repaired, a rock path that needs to be cemented, doors that need to be set, shelves that need to be installed....you know; the list. So if you happen to be happily married and comfortable with sharing your partner for a few hours here or there, or know of anyone that is kind enough to work for crockpot stew and beer, you know where I live. Send 'em to the milk carton.

Fur Dust Balls and Drool Puddles

My sister can attest to the fact that I spent most of my childhood afraid, no terrified, of dogs. It didn't really help that I was attacked by an Irish wolf hound when I was six years old, living in Pickle Lake. After harassing my buddy Dale, the dog came after me. The dog was quite capable of knocking me over and ripped the sleeves of my little purple parka with the fur lined hood before someone miraculously yanked the dog away. I remember trying to kick it in the stomach while it was on top of me, but my little moon boots just swished through the air because the dog was soooo big. Nobody ever saw that dog again. The dog just mysteriously disappeared in a town where people took the law into their own hands.

Exposure therapy would have been beneficial after that experience, but our family kind of lived a transient lifestyle, in a way. My dad worked for the bank. We were living in mining towns across Northern Manitoba and Northern Ontario. When the mine closed down, usually the bank did too. Or, Dad would just take a promotion which usually meant a transfer too. By the time we moved to Pickle Lake I had already moved four times. We moved two more times after that before settling in to Red Lake for the long haul. So, it wasn't really easy to have a dog as a pet. We rented our homes, didn't own them, and not every home was allowed to have pets. So, that's when Rhonda became the house pet. Yes, my sister even gave me a name; "Peanuts". Peanuts had a leash some times, Peanuts had to beg for treats...well, you get the point. (If you go back a couple of blogs to where I was talking about Alexander pretending he was a dog, I have two things to say; 1) I did not inspire him to pretend he was a dog. He did that completely on his own accord and 2) I never pooped in the yard in front of my neighbours.)

So it wasn't until I moved back to Red Lake after university that I got my first dog. I was 27 years old. I used to take care of my dog's mother. She lived right across the road from me...Tara. So when the dog down the road, ironically named "Woody", decided to have a conjugal visit with Tara, we were very excited (probably not as excited as they were, though. Ahem.). On June 26th, 1999 I had the opportunity to watch my beautiful golden retriever, Sandy, come into the world, along with six other puppies. Unfortunately, one didn't make it.  The next day, I went to Europe for a month and didn't see my little fur ball until August.

She made the journey across the road to my house when she was about 7 weeks old, and immediately got a bladder infection and then almost died on a rotten piece of meat that a pesky raven dropped in the yard. She was so sick that we almost lost her. When she came through that ordeal, I started calling her "Sandy the Wonder Dog", and that she is.

My dog, with all of her idiosyncrasy, is like a furry child. I even jokingly tell Alexander that Sandy is his hairy sister, but I'm kinda serious when I say it. Sandy is definitely a part of the family. But she's more than that; she is my confidante. If I had a dollar for every tear I shed into my beautiful dog's head of golden hair.... And she just listens, without giving me her opinion back. Sometimes she even kisses those salty tears right off my face. Never does Sandy turn her nose up to the supper I make. Instead she sits droolingly, waiting for an opportunity to lick a spoon or have a morsel thrown her way. Never does she insinuate that those jeans make my butt look fat. Instead, she jumps up on my lap and nestles in to my body for a snuggle. Never does she tell me that she's had a shitty day and that I'd be best to just back off. She always greets me at the door with the most exciteable of howls. You get the point....she's there for me completely, without judgement.

But on top of it all, she's entertaining. When I pull out my harmonica, she's the first to join in on the singing, in a low, morose howl. When she does that, I envision her sitting by a camp fire with a bunch of scruffy old, bean eating, weathered cowboys, singing away to "Oh My Darlin' Clementine". Aw-woooo-woooo! And she's the only dog I know that can bark with a ball in her mouth. And she can actually throw the ball at you too. She does this to the neighbours walking by all the time. She barks at them, (heaven forbid she should actually take the ball out of her mouth to say hi) then throws the ball at them through the fence and then waits for them to throw it back. If you don't throw it right away, she'll remind you. Sandy also has selective hearing. I keep my front door open so that Sandy can wander in and out of the house any time she pleases, and some times I call her in, while I'm in the house. If she doesn't want to come in, she won't. Not even if I make promises of cookies or shake her food container. When I go out on the deck and hollar at her to come in, she looks at me, without budging and inch, and I know, I just know she's thinking, "What an idiot. As if I'm going to leave the comfort of this shade right now."

 I could brag and brag and brag about my dog. If you're an animal lover, you'll get this. You'll understand the reason why we do this. Why take care of an animal that poops all over the place, and you have to clean up their hair and they drool (once I slipped in my dog's drool and wacked my head so badly on the floor that I almost knocked myself out) and they lick themselves at the most embarrassing of times? Because they're family. And you have tolerance for family regardless of what they're licking in front of you.

Sandy the Wonder Dog is only given a limited amount of time to be a part of my family, and now that she's in her tenth year with her very, very white face, I am all too aware of that. So I just love her and appreciate that I've been given such a wonderful gift in my life.

Highway 105 Therapy

I have a tendency to dance while I'm washing my dishes. I must look pretty ridiculous to the neighbours, bopping all over the place in front of the window, but I don't care. I don't even care when they hear me belting out an Aretha Franklin tune. It's nice to be at a point in my life where I really just don't give a damn care what others think. So, I was listening to a song by Greg Brown and I stopped washing the dishes and smiled. I was reflecting on a trip I recently made with my mom down the 105.

If you've ever driven to Red Lake, then you know exactly what the 105 is, because you have to be truly alert and conscientious when driving down this swervy, windy, animal-riddled obstacle course, teaming with maniac semi-drivers and convoys of boat-lugging tourists. Highway 105 is the road that you must take once getting off the Trans-Canada. It leads you right to "the end of the road" and to what has been called, "the most northern stop lights in Ontario" but I don't know if that's really true. I don't even really know where I heard that, but I have a tendency to tell people that. Maybe I've just become really good at believing my own little boastful white lie because it sounds both ridiculous and intriguing at the same time. So, anyone that has driven down the 105 knows that you don't really stop down this stretch of road unless you go to the Pit Stop or Smitty's in Ear Falls to get coffee, or take a pee, or both. Then you usually don't stop again until Vermilion Bay. That trip is a good two hours, and a lot of conversation can be had during that time.

Over the years, I have heard several women say that when they need to "have it out" with their husbands, that they just wait for a trip down the 105 because there is absolutely nowhere they can go once the driving starts. Their husband is stuck, listening to their wife give her perspective on things for those two hours. He stops in Ear Falls for a coffee and a pee and wonders if it's easier to just turn around and go back home or whether it's really worth it to just make it to the end of the 105. I think I may have been in that situation one or two times over the years....talking another's ear off to no avail. *sigh*

But you put two people in a confined space, and add the element of music, and the conversation grows, and ultimately turns in to a therapy session. On my most recent road trip, my mom and I were listening to a song by Greg Brown called, "The Cheapest Kind" where Brown talks about how their family may have been poor in material goods, but "the love, the love, the love, it was not the cheapest kind. It was rich as, rich as, rich as, any you could ever find." It brought us both back, simultaneously, to our own childhoods and memories, our connections, our families and our resolved conflicts. It opened a floodgate of tears and laughter and conversation that has been put into that capsule of time and space and can easily be reflected on any time I hear that song.

And that has happened a million times, and I may only be stretching the truth a little bit when I say that I've been up and down the 105 a million times. As a child, it was to go on sports trips. As a teenager, it was wild escapes to the city with friends and my boyfriend. As a university student, it was to come home for some TLC and as an adult, to go on medical trips, holidays, city shopping sprees, festivals, work related seminars, and the like. But you know, regardless of who I go with, the trip always starts with some good music, and then it transforms some how, and suddenly the conversation gets intimately personal; close in a way that is undefineable, really. I could be sitting in my kitchen with that same person over a cup of coffee and would not have the same conversation. Does the intimacy of the conversation occur because of the risk that is taken in just driving down the 105? Do we somehow feel a need to "confess" our desires and secrets? Is it because we are looking straight ahead at the road, making it easier to discuss topics that may be considered taboo if looking each other in the eye? Is it because we are enclosed in a small space and having confessional flashbacks? Is it because we finally have an opportunity to sit back and talk about ourselves for two hours instead of worrying about everyone else all the time?

Whatever the case may be, I have unleashed some awfully strong secrets in the confines of a vehicle on the 105, along with my roadie partners. And you know, that is where the conversation stays. It really does. That highway will do that to you, and that's not such a bad thing. Releasing pent up gobbly goop that is collecting dust in the file folders of our brains is always a good thing. So the next time you're considering a day trip to Dryden for some shopping, you may want to consider your company, because if my theory stands correct, you're going to be telling them something you didn't expect to ever share with a soul. Bring a box of tissue.

Ah Crap, Eckhart Tolle I Am Not

You know, I really try. I try to be an openminded individual that is conscious of my surroundings; how I treat myself, and my impact on others. I try to be a minimal consumer and take care of my environment the best way I can, while still being practical. I try to keep balance in my life, yin yanging frivolity with common sense. It only made sense along my life path that a caring friend would pass Eckhart Tolle's "A Whole New Earth" on to me, adamant that I would LOVE it. I read it in the spring, and have been mulling it over ever since. I am really thinking about things like the Ego, the I, the Being, the Now. Yeesh. My brain hurts from all of this discussion about what happens when you think about the space around time that leads to nothingness. Huh?

It's kinda funny; it's like this sub-culture club of people that "get" Tolle's book and "don't get" Tolle's book....the Existentials vs. the Existential Wannabee's. There's a group of people out there somewhere in the world right now that are sitting in a quaint little coffee shoppe, (the walls are painted a deep mocha brown, there are jazz album covers framed on the walls, you can order a skim-frappe-mocha-latte-chino-with-agave-and acia, and Galaxy radio is permanently turned to the "world music" station....oh, you've been there too?) and they've all read the book, and all of them are afraid to say, "Did you get it?" One of them will purposely burn their tongue on the steamed drink to avoid speaking.

Ok, so here's what I DO get about what Tolle is saying in his quintessential new age hippie language:

a) Tolle says, "Life isn't as serious as my mind makes it out to be."  I get this, that it is very easy to transform innocent conversation into something bigger than it really is. Our perspective, and as Tolle would define it, our EGO gets in the way and takes everything personally. So, we're supposed to walk around with a "Meh-whatever" attitude and let everything slide off our back. I wish I could do that, because man, life really would be a lot easier, wouldn't it? And I get that it means that we need to ease up a little and stop being so self centred to think that everything is about us all the time. Yes, I get that. We're supposed to just enjoy the moment. Every moment should be a situation of enjoyment and living in the now. But you know, when I'm stepping in dog shit, or my son just puked on me, again, for the seventh time and it's the middle of the night and I now have to drag a whole Futon mattress out of the house when it's minus 40 outside and my heat keeps kicking on because the door is open, I'm not really thinking, "Meh - whatever." (I know all of you Tolle-ites right now are saying, "Well, you should, Rhonda." and to that I say, "Bite me.")

b) Tolle also discusses the zen like qualities of the phrase, "This too, will pass". I also understand what Tolle is getting at here. Life is all about the moment. Tolle says that there are three modalities of awakened "doing". They are acceptance, enjoyment and enthusiasm and we must be in at least one of these states when conscious of the "now" otherwise we are creating suffering for ourselves and others. He says that even when we are doing something mundane like washing the dishes, we should either accept it, enjoy it, or be enthusiastic about it. Whoa, I get these visions of shattered plates smashed to the floor in my enthusiasm of dish washing. (Remind me to tell you about my alter ego, Ramona, the housewife from hell, sometime....)But yes, I get it. If we don't accept the fact that tires will deflate, and people will have bad hair days (like sometimes they're bad hair months), and the last cookie will be taken from the cookie jar, then we set ourselves up for a little bit of disappointment or even trauma on a regular basis. There are some wonderful, fleeting moments that need to be enjoyed right at the very moment they occur, or they too, will pass without the possibility of joy. (Psssst....share that last cookie with someone in your house so that there is fleeting joy for the both of you.)

3) Finally, I'll discuss this thought; "If you can be absolutely comfortable with not knowing who you are, then what's left is who you are - the being behind the human, a field of pure potentiality rather than something that is already defined." I laugh at the absurdity of Tolle's language, really. He really just needs to simplify this by saying, "Be yourself". He is discussing the stereotypes that people find themselves fitting in to, either through self identity or labelling. I had a friend come over for a visit this summer who was a Vegan. I am cool with that, and we did some Vegan cooking together that day. There's basically an "ism" for whatever type of diet you have; I'm a vegetarian, I'm a meatatarian, I'm a poultry-atarian, I'm a fruitatarian, I'm a Eggo-waffle-atarian.....After all of these labels flew around, I quietly stated, "I'm a Rhonda." And I am more than aware of the labels that have been given to me in this community...don't even get me started, and NO COMMENTS FROM THE PEANUT GALLERY (heh heh) but really, I yam what I yam. I even got a tattoo that reflected this concept at the mere age of 23. It's of Winnie-the-Pooh holding the blue balloon. Do you remember the story? It's when he tries to disguise himself as a cloud by holding on to a blue balloon so that he can steal honey from a tree. Well, he fails miserable, and yes, you will fail miserably if you try to live life in the structure of a label.

I get it. I get it, Tolle!

So eventhough I try really hard to live under the mantra of "ananda" which is the bliss of being, I am not sure if it is completely possible unless you live in a cave by yourself with just your thoughts and perhaps some berries to graze upon when you're hungry. Sometimes we just have shitty days, and sometimes we just want to dwell, or pine, or scream and NOT stop and think, "Am I accepting this? Enjoying this? Enthusiastic about this?" I wish I had the time to be that reflective.... ;)

I love you more than beans

We are celebrating my son's ninth birthday today, and I'm finding myself especially reflective on what a cool little boy my child is, and the journeys we have been on together in our relatively short time as mother and child. Our first journey was of endurance, starting as soon as Alexander arrived; screaming. He continued to scream for three months, exactly. My poor baby had such a distended stomach with cholic that it looked like he had swallowed a football. I would scream for three months too if I had swallowed a football. So I soon got used to strapping the "Snuggly" on and toting my baby close to my highly sensitive, mastitis laden, leaky, swollen bosom. We'd crank some African music and pace the floor, back and forth, back and forth...jiggling all of the gas out of my little farty pants...literally.

Then we had the journeys involved in discovery; there are my toes, there is the dog's tail (again), there's the stairs, there's a magic marker, all with either frightening or entertaining results. And sometimes it was a combination of the two intertwined with sheer embarrassment. My son went through a stage where he genuinely thought he was a dog. He would drink from a bowl, walk on his hands and knees, bark, sleep on the floor, you get the picture. I knew that I had to have a talk with him though on the day that he decided to take a poop in our dog's grass patch in the back of the yard, right in front of my neighbour, who I happened to be talking to at the time. That day, my son discovered that he was no longer allowed to pretend he's a dog. Yes, we had a lot of accidental discoveries based on trial and error.

The next journey involved longing. When my baby was soon to turn three, he had to go through the chaos and trauma of a family separation. How was I supposed to walk away from my beautiful baby who I held in my arms every day, smelling his fresh skin after a bath, reading stories under the blankies, making forts out of cardboard boxes, drawing happy faces on our toes....but I knew that if I wanted my baby to truly have a healthy, happy mother, I had to go through this difficult journey. We made it through and my appreciation of time with him has been heightened because of it. Our love remains strong.

Then we had the journey of new beginnings; suddenly I'm travelling down the 105 as a single mom with my little monkey; nervous and protective, silently cursing every maniac driver on the highway that has the potential of harming my baby. Suddenly, I'm taking my son across the country on road trips, festivals, adventures, creating memories with our goofy little songs (We bastardized a song by No Doubt that goes, "Hey baby! Hey baby!" by singing, "Hay bale-bale! Hay bale-bale!" every time we saw a hay bale) and stories. We 1-2-3 DUCKed under the bridges, keep track of the road kill along the way to determine what truly is the most ridiculously stupid animal in Canada, and moo-ed at every single cow on the prairies...windows down, head sticking out mooing. We don't mess around on our adventures. We get into the journey.

Then we also had the adventure of building a new house together. How do you explain to a little gaffer that it's ok that a tractor is knocking your house over?! And how do you live in a camper trailer with a 5 year old for months at a time?(Refer back to the last paragraph about road trips...)

So along the way it became important to us that we continue to tell each other how important we are to each other as we go through these life journeys together and alone. We came up with a code, a way of categorizing the uncategorizeable; our love for each other. It started with "I love you more than the moon" and Alexander would reply that he loved me more than the stars, and so forth. We continued on this way and eventually started talking about our extensive love for each other by comparing it to our favourite foods...french toast, cinnamon buns, et al. But I knew that I had hit the mother lode the day my son proclaimed, "Mom, I love you more than beans." Let's remember, beans to a boy is fuel for hours of entertainment. Remember how my son had cholic? Well, it's because he has a crazy speedy metabolism. You know where I'm going with this. I don't even think my son likes the taste of beans. They are just a catalyst for turbulent flatulence, which is highly entertaining for a boy (and as I have discovered, men in general.) So, to be compared to something that brings fun, and endless entertainment, I guess, is flattering. I'll take that kind of love. Hey, isn't there a song out there called, "Love Stinks"? That puts a whole new spin on the title of that song, eh? I think our journeys together are very similar to a can of beans, otherwise known as a can o' whoop ass! We're having a hell of a good time.

Happy birthday, My Little Monkey. I love you too. (Toot! Toot!)

Albatross Around Your Neck

My son was given a wonderful birthday gift today, a dictionary of idioms that not only defines over 700 idioms, but also their origins. So, we started flipping through and came across the idiom, "albatross around your neck". Alexander wasn't sure what an albatross was so I started singing the JD Edwards song of the same name which says, "Albatross, albatross, out over the ocean, over all the waves, he's taking off for hours, days after days, he goes wandering around, never coming down, simply is neat, he rarely takes a seat, albatross, albatross, birds of the sea!!!!" As soon as I starting singing it, Alexander's eyes lit up and he went, "Oh, yeah, yeah. I know what you mean!" So I started telling him about the albatross from Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" and how it's really not a good thing to a) kill an albatross or b) have one hanging around your neck. I guess that's why I get a bit leary when I see a dead seagull, or just have them flocking around me when I walk passed the chip truck downtown. They're not just "shit hawks"...they're omens of doom! So, I was going to read him "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" for a bed time story, but I don't have a copy of it at home. (To the library we go...)

But while I was mulling around my library I came across a book that I hadn't read since it was mandatory to read in my Can-lit course in university; "Nineteenth Century Canadian Stories". If you ever get a chance to read, "Old Man Savarin by E.W. Thompson, do so. And read it out loud, because it is a hilariously moralistic story which is impossible to read fluidly and with sophistication. Here's a little sampling:

"All right, Narcisse. If you goin' get drunk for lick me, I'll be goin' get drunk for lick you'- Canadien hain't nev' fool 'nuff for fight, M'sieu, only if dey is got drunk."

By the way, "Old Man Savarin" has nothing to do with albatross, except for the fact that it is a fishing story and there would most likely have been albatross or seagulls looming around the fishing nets. Alexander and I had a good laugh anyway while we read it. But I digress.....

So, it made me also think about the time I earned a t-shirt from my colleagues which reads, "Seagull Savior". It was lunch hour at the school where I work, and a couple of students ran up to me in the hallway screaming that a seagull was injured in the soccer field. I went back to my classroom and looked out the window and sure enough, there was a seagull sitting as still as could be, with other seagulls slowly circling. Did you know that the first thing the other birds do is peck out the weak seagull's eyes before they totally destroy him? I couldn't see that happen, so I grabbed one of the maintenance guys and we went on a rescue mission. We had a box and not a clue of what to do. The bird's wing was broken and I instantly started to cry. Poor bird. Every single man that I have told this story to said that I should have just "wrung it's neck and be done with it. After all, it's just a shithawk." But I just kept thinking that it's a living thing, and I'd certainly want help if I had a broken wing. That doesn't render a life useless in my books. So the bird was put in a box in the back of my truck with little breathe holes in the box, and a old bun from the cafeteria at the school. I would look in the box and it's beautiful yellow ringed eye would look back at me and I thought, "What the hell am I going to do with a seagull?" I made a few calls to the Ministry of Natural Resources and had a good talk with the vice principal of my school. Fortunately, she was an animal advocate as well, and we were willing to go down the road to Kenora to take this seagull to a bird healer. Then I was advised to take the bird to the MNR after school because they found someone that would take the bird for me. In the meantime, I still had two classes to teach that afternoon. I would randomly, unexpectedly burst out in tears, thinking of this darn bird. The students thought I was wacko (again) but listened to my story and continued to do their art projects. They were amazingly quiet that day. hahaha  At the end of the day, as I was driving home with the bird in my vehicle in a box with a bun, I thought, "You know, I could take this bird to my dad and he could just kill it for me and this will be all over with." I had seen him hunt before. Heck, I used to be a hunter myself, and had killed many a partridge in my day. But it had been a long, long time, and my philosophies had softened over the years. This made me cry some more. I chose to go home instead, with the bird, and gather myself before I went to the MNR. As I pulled in my driveway, a friend pulled in to the driveway next door. She was visiting the neighbour and also happened to work in a floral shop. The lightbulb went on. Hey! She's a florist and has to do deliveries all of the time! MAYBE SHE'LL DELIVER THIS BIRD TO THE MNR FOR ME!!! As I stood blubbering in the driveway explaining that I had a bird in a box with a bun, kind, kind Robin agreed to take the bird to the MNR. Thank God I didn't have to be a blubbering fool yet again. Instead I ran upstairs and wrote a poem about the experience. I'll save you all from it, but yes, arty, dramatic, animal loving Rhonda ran home and wrote a poem about a broken bird. Supposedly the bird made it to Kenora and was healed, but I asked that I not be told either way. I want to believe that this seagull is in a happy, french fry laden seagull utopia, where he is accepted with his apparent differences.

"Albatross" by the JD Edwards Band

Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Lucky Us

This morning I woke up and headed down to the Red Lake market (yes, on my bike with my headphones on)that is set up in the parking lot between the old Northern building and CIBC. Rumour has it that there was going to be a farmer's market and organic meat for sale along with all of the garage sale items that people were selling. What a delight to come around the corner and hear accordian music playing, people were in costumes, children were sitting on big bales of hay, cabbage the size of basketballs was being sold, there was incredible photography, jewellery, social tickets (There is going to be a "Newfie" social in October...a cultural extravaganza you won't want to miss). You name it...it was there. I stood at the top of the hill looking down at the commotion of people, music, food and stuff (with my $10 box of Archie comic digests, four ears of peaches and cream corn and organic pepperettes) thinking, we are lucky, lucky people. This town rocks.

Check out what's going on in Red Lake!

Incriminating Headphones

So I went to get my morning coffee before work, on my “Spadina Bike” (Ever hear the song “Spadina Bus” by the Shuffle Demons?), and was stopped by a cop outside of the shop. She wasn’t in uniform, and just talking to me casually outside. She wanted me to know that there had been a complaint about me riding my bike around town with my headphones on. I asked if it was illegal to wear my headphones around town while I bike, and her reply was “No, I think a citizen was just concerned for your safety.” And I assured her that I always make sure that I can still hear traffic, and that I am conscious of my driving when on a bike, thanked her for her information and went into The Water Buffalo to get my joe. But I was not impressed, and I know exactly why this complaint was made and my skepticism leads me to believe that the complaint was certainly not out of concern.


You need to understand where I live; everyone has at least one vehicle, if not two (myself included; thank you mom and dad…:)) and they are used to “ruling the road” per se. People like to get from point A to point B conveniently, and quickly. Now this is where I think the lack of understanding or to put it bluntly, the lack of consideration comes in. As a person on a bicycle, I am a vehicle, not a pedestrian, and I have a right to the road. On my vehicle, with my head phones on, I am just the same as the dude in the big truck with his tinted windows, tunes blasting (you can usually feel the bass before you see the vehicle) and he/she is usually talking on a cell phone or texting his hot lover. Haha Now I’m being facetious….So, when I zoom down the hill towards the lights (Yes, we only have one set of traffic lights in our town) I actually stop if the light is red, BECAUSE I AM A VEHICLE. Then when it’s green, I go. Ok, so I don’t have as much acceleration as a vehicle so it takes me a bit to get my mojo working, and there in lies the problem. People may have to wait a few seconds for me to get going again, and become a vehicle. And people are impatient, and will complain, as they have done, and blame the headphones. SHE’S NOT EVEN PAYING ATTENTION; HER MUSIC BLASTING, THAT CRAZY ARTIST THAT ROAMS THE ROADS OF RED LAKE STOPPING EVERYONE’S PROGRESS ON HER BICYCLE. If I had a dollar for every time a vehicle cut in front of me, or opened the door when I was biking by, or skimmed passed me a little too close for my liking; I’d probably have enough money to buy those people a bicycle of their own. It’s amazing that taking off my headphones is going to some how, miraculously, stop people from being insensitive drivers.

If you haven’t done it, you can’t imagine the freedom and exhilaration and serenity of riding a bicycle and listening to your favourite songs. I have a playlist on my itouch that is labeled, “Holy shit, that’s good” that is mainly for my biking expeditions. My senses are being stimulated; the fresh 8am air cutting through my body, the hot coffee accidentally spilling on my legs because my thermal mug doesn’t exactly fit on my bike rack, the smiling faces that whiz by me, the bumpiness of the parking lots….biking to work becomes a glorious, sensual journey as I’m accompanied by much loved musicians. (Haha Right now I’m getting a visual of biking down the road with the Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band…)But above and beyond the personal entertainment that I derive from being on my Spadina bike, roaming the streets of Red Lake is my right, and I’m going to continue to do so, with my headphones on, thank you very much.

Spadina Bus by the Shuffle Demons
hearing, headphones and bicycle rules

It all started with a jar of pickles......

I am living in a recycler's Hell, I tell you.

It all started with a jar of pickles. My son decided that he'd like a pickle for his evening snack, and I just purchased a big jar of Polish pickles... Polski Ogorkis. Our favourite. I said for him to go ahead and try to open the jar on his own, and he couldn't so I gave it a go, and man oh man...impossible. So, I banged the jar on the counter. You know, when you tap the bottom edges (is that what you're supposed to do?) and then I tried. Nope. Then I ran the jar under hot water. Nope. So, I went and grapped a pair of rubber gloves that I keep under the counter for just-in-case occasions. Well, would you believe it, those darn "rubber" gloves are made out of plastic?

Ask my close friends what I think of plastic, and they'll probably laugh and tell you how much I despise plastic. How is it that we can live in the incredibly advanced world that we live in today, where cars can practically run on spit, but we can't make a product that is environmentally friendly and biodegradeable? It's absolutely ridiculous. When I go to the store, I try really hard to buy products that have the least amount of plastic wrapping. I'm the one that keeps every plastic package. You know, the ones that hold strawberries, or butter lettuce. Why the heck does butter lettuce need to be in a big plastic dome?! I take those packages to school and have the students use them to carry their art supplies home in. Then I ask that they return them so we can use them again. I also try to harvest a lot of fruit and vegetables on my own in the summers, which is difficult considering we have about a 4 month growing season. Ironically, to freeze my carrots and other veggies for the winter, I blanche them and put them into freezer Ziploc bags. It's a curse I tell you. I am perpetually washing baggies and hanging them to dry around my kitchen. How is it that I end up having to buy a new box of them here or there. How do they just disappear?

Then I go to the dump and see where they end up. One of these days you're going to see me hanging out with the bears, pounding my fists into the plastic garbage screaming, "Why?! Why?! Why?!" haha Well, I won't be that dramatic, but you get the idea. It seems so ironic to be hanging out at the dump, looking at the eagles sitting in the trees that have plastic bags hanging from the branches. What a juxtaposition of imagery!

One of my colleagues at school is an incredible seamstress and artist, and we have collaborated on "fibre art" projects before. I love the concepts of sewing, but can't sew worth beans. I think it's because my thumbs are the shape of toes....Well, we talk a lot about reducing and reusing and it's place in the art world, and didn't she make me the most amazing change wallet out of recycled plastic grocery bags. She carefully irons the bags together, paints a decoration on the bags, seals the paint with another ironed plastic bag, and then uses this plastic as material for creation. Brilliant.

Perhaps if we start putting our foot down, and simply refuse to buy so many throw-away plastic products, we will actually see some change. Already, it's exciting to see that stores across Canada are not using plastic bags anymore. You have to bring your own bag in or you're walking out of the store with a handful of purchases. Then perhaps they'll start making kitchen gloves out of rubber again, and then perhaps, I'll be able to easily open my son's jar of pickles.

Vicarious Living

So, today I started thinking about empathy; the whole idea of walking in someone else's shoes for a while just to know their perspective. And then I started thinking about envy, and wishing I could walk in someone else's shoes for just a little while for the glamour and excitement. If I could live vicariously through anyone, either dead or alive, for just one day, who would it be?

My first thought was Janis Joplin, because of her (in?)famous rendezvous with Leonard Cohen in the Chelsea Hotel, Manhattan. She is completely immortalized in his words. Then I started thinking of writers in general....how the marking of print on paper (or now text on screen) creates a coveted immortality. Who doesn't want to be known as the passionate lover, or the one that got away, the one that romantically tormented, or the one that changed a life? I posed that question to a friend of mine, who happens to be a writer and musician. I wanted to know whether he considered the person's perspective when her wrote a song about a former lover or whether the song was just a form of his own emotional healing. She afterall, is the one that will be hearing the aftermath of this release, as he goes through his cathartic process of healing through the writing and singing of his music. She is left with beautiful words and sounds and knowing what her responsibility was in the creation of that. I have yet to be given a reply, but it certainly makes me curious, and also makes me consider the same for myself as a visual artist. Am I considering the perspective of others if I'm including them in my art? Is it important that I ask permission when in my mind, I'm just trying to heal or move forward through my art?  And when that art is viewed by others, will they wish that they too had the opportunity to live vicariously through the subject being "exposed"? Hmmmmm...........

Then I started thinking about artists, such as Van Gogh...would I really want to walk in the shoes of Van Gogh, considering he was so manic, and depressive, and self depreciating? I certainly would on the day that he painted Starry Night, alone at Saint Remy asylum, painting from memory, painting his torment. How else to understand the dizzying spirals of a wild man except to try and crawl into his head?

Or to be Klimt's model when he painted "The Kiss".
To be Kandinsky the day he decided that it really does suck to just paint haystacks.
To be Ultraviolet or Lou Reed at one of Warhol's Factory parties? (Not that you would remember that party the next day.)

But then I started thinking of the people directly involved in my life, and the journeys they have had, and I decided, that if I were to live vicariously through my mother for one day, I would want to be my mother the day after her father died. I will remember this story vividly, for as long as I live. Because they lived on a farm, and it was the 50's, my grandfather's body was prepared and layed to rest in the family kitchen. My mother was 12 years old, and had a wonderful bond and closeness with her father, Andrew. She says that she kept on leaving her room in the middle of the night, and sneaking into the room where his body lay, hoping to catch him breathing, hoping for just one last breath. Why would I chose that moment  to live vicariously through another person? It does seem macabre in a way, but I think that if I could only be in my mother's position for that one moment, then I could understand her pain at that time. Pain molds a person. Grief creates change, and adaptation, and for all of the stories that my mother and I have shared together, nothing can re-create that sense of loss and longing. And because my mother has been telling me stories of my grandfather since I was a child, I too feel like I have lost him, even though I have never met him, and I miss him as well. I think that loss would allow me to understand a side of my mother that I don't really know and will never have to opportunity to.

We have a tendency to glamourize the thought of living vicariously through somebody out of own greed and desires. But as an artist, and one that teaches the Arts, it has really come to my attention lately that we are better off living in our own shoes, and when the desire arises to live vicariously through another, we should stop and consider what we are really wishing for. And that consideration should extend to the receiver of the Arts. By viewing/listening/reading/touching what has been artistically given to them, the receivers are forever seeded with the emotional state of the artist at that time, either consciously or unconsciously, and we need to consider whether they want to be put in that vicarious position.

A Different Perspective of Whales on McDougall Road

About three years ago, when I was building my house, I had the privilege of living in a camper trailer in between my parent's and my sister's home. It was extremely convenient, since I could use my family's bathroom, kitchen et al, but still escape to the privacy of my little camper. I spent a lot of time that summer reading. The library is just down the hill, and my son and I gorged on summer reading. It was nice to be sitting on the top of Red Lake, looking down onto Howey Bay.

Outside the window of my camper, was a mound of wood; two by fours and the like, covered by a tarp...a big, black tarp. This mound was in my sister's driveway, and resting underneath a streetlight, and when I looked out my window from my camper, it sometimes, to me, resembled a whale, especially at night. It made me consider what the circumstances would be for a whale to be on McDougall Road and I wrote this (July 16th, 2006):

The Whale On McDougall Road

Past mothball scented polyester plaid curtains
Horizontal slats separate
The freshly slaughtered mound
Street lights flood glossy on thin plastic
Radiating violent oranginess
A secret whale on McDougall Street
Patiently awaits its fate
Sighing
Blood stained shiny with grief
This mirage hopes to die or at least be returned
To the murky, dank currents of Howey Bay
To swim with rotting cans of cyanide
And memories of Sam Yee*
To bathe with lead tackle
And drown socks, ducklings and overused inflatables
Instead
It spreads low on jagged gravel
With only the occasional novice
Botching BMX moves inspired by extreme sports TV
Soaring obliviously
Awkwardly
As spokes and rubber crush and release
Crush and release
Crush and release
The whale uncomfortably ripples in the wind
Pinned down with useless 2x4s
Skittering bugs nestle deep within its carcass
Feasting on its idleness
As the curtain closes
The lumpy mass of confused negligence waits alone
In chronic light and frustration

So, I wrote the poem and shared it with friends and family. This is where the whole thought of perspective comes in. I shared this information with my sister and she said, "Jesus, Rhonda....it's just a friggin' pile of wood covered with a tarp." When I read the poem to my friend Harriet, she wept.
 

 
 
*Sam Yee was a Chinese launderer and eventual store owner that met his fate in the cold waters of Red Lake near Golden Arm in the 30's during the gold "boom". Poor Mr. Yee went down with a child and his dog team, when he mistakenly drove his sled right over thin ice. Tragically, Sam Yee did not die from the cold waters or from being unable to resurface. That he was capable of doing. It was the frantic, harnessed dogs that dragged him back down to the depths of the water. Two of the dogs were pulled from the water, only to be shot hours later. They were too manic to keep.
 
McDougall Road, Red Lake, Ontario

The Art That Made it Past Conception

This is some of the artwork that I have posted on Flickr for the world to see. I guess if you click on the title of this blog, it will take you to my flickr account. I'm just figuring out how to use this blogging system, so bear with me while I get it all figured out. Huge learning curve going on here.

Slurred Right Braining Musical Rantings: The List

You need to read my "Right brained slurs and four decades of music induced stuff" blog in order to understand what the hell this is all about. Otherwise it just sounds like I got the words wrong....haha

"He schlums in and makes love to his coffee and gin..." From the Piano Man: Billy Joel.

"These are the last worses I'll be singing..." From "Last Song" by JD Edwards

"No one but myself, gunky, getting old...." From "Pepper Tree" by David Ross MacDonald

"These candy lines and baffled dills..." from "red River Clay" by Nathan

***I should take the time right now to apologize to the musicians/writers who's music I'm unintentionally bastardizing. This is not intentional, as I have explained in the previous blog. My brain is funny.***

Right brained slurs and four decades of music induced stuff

I am an artist, (among other things) and spend a substantial amount of time in my studio creating whatever happens to pass my fancy at the moment. I should add that lots of things pass my fancy at any given moment which is one of the reasons why I have decided to start a blog. I spend a lot of time talking about ideas, but don't necessarily get the opportunity to act on those thoughts. I have at least a half dozen "idea journals" that do a pretty decent job of documenting my artistic rantings over the years with a lot of considerations of "getting to that one of these days". Maybe it's not so much about the getting to it, but the fact that I have already gotten to it by simply thinking about it. I always say to my students that art is about the process of creation, not necessarily the final product. Perhaps I need to seriously consider labelling myself as a Conceptual Artist....

So, to get back to my original story, when in my studio, I always listen to music. I am a music junkie. Hardcore. More specifically I am a folk junkie and really seem to connect with the stories that I am told through a folk musicians song. I was talking to my mother about this the other day. I was saying that when a rock star sings about a woman, they talk about their hot long legs, or sexy red lips, or the short skirt they're wearing. A folk musician talks more about the emotional connection they have made with their lovers.

".....you got away, I never once heard you say, I need you, I don't need you, I need you, I don't need you and all of that jiving around...."
-Leonard Cohen's "Chelsea Hotel Number 2"

Their words seem to transcend time and space and seep through my fingertips into my art. I travel off into a creative muse that completely encompasses my right brain. Now that's when things start to get interesting, because I also have a tendency to blabber out the words to some of the songs, randomly, out of the blue (which must sound most atrocious to my dog who has the misfortune of not sharing the headphones with me) and therefore has no context to these outburst. These outbursts sometimes do not come out the way they intend, because the verbal, left side of my brain is on pause, and seemingly incapable of computing the sounds that are travelling from the right side to my fingertips. So, when I blurt out a phrase, it more often than not comes out competely wrong. This ends my artistic muse as my logical left side kicks into gear upon hearing words, and trys to make sense of what I just verbalized. That's when I usually laugh and shake my head and try to take myself back to my art.

I will keep an ongoing area off to the side here in blogville so that I can continually add to my list. I have done this a thousand times over the years, but have only documented two so far. Please note, this is very different than simply misunderstanding the words to a song. I do know what the words are...the amusement lies in that fact; that in my mind, I know what I am supposed to say, but I am so controlled by creative thought that I simply cannot say it. Try it some time...start by simply listening to music, music that you know, and doodle for a while. Doodle for a good while until you're not really listening to the words anymore, eventhough you are. That means that you're more possessed by your right brain than your left. After a few songs, or perhaps a few albums and a page full of doodles, try to vocalize what you're listening to. Try to sing, and see if you too, end up with some right brained slurs. If you do, send them to me, and we can laugh together.