How to Drink from a Pineapple

It is a commonly accepted fact that virtually all drinks* are improved in both quality and presentation if they are served in a pineapple. Sipping your favourite beverage from the hollowed out recesses of the delectable fruit they call 'Nature's Candy' not only increases the average imbiber's state of relaxation by 2-8 milliDudes (mD), but can also provide enough citric acid and Vitamin C to stave off scurvy for brief periods of time.

Many are daunted at the prospect of transmogrifying a pineapple into a drinking receptacle, but it is, in truth, a relatively simple process. Due to the presence of sharp objects and the aforementioned acid, the likelihood of some degree of pain is fairly significant unless suitable protective equipment or cautionary practice are put into play. By following these basic instructions, you can partake of the potable of your choice in a manner both stylish and biodegradable!

Use a sharp implement to remove the top of the pineapple. Placement of the cut should be the highest point on the fruit before it tapers in toward the greenery. Ideally, a machete will be used for this,but if space or safety constraints make this implausible, a large serrated knife also works well. A chainsaw should not be used since it not only damages much of the edible fruit, it also wastes a considerable amount of juice.

Cut a notch in the top of the pineapple so that your straw will have ample access. A more precise opening can be obtained by using a drill or moto-tool, but this is not only impractical but also does not allow for lateral movement of the straw in order to stir or muddle the drink.

The only specialized tool required in this endeavour is a pineapple corer such as the one displayed above, obtainable from many grocery stores for less than $10. Even when not used for drinks, the corer makes it significantly easier to eat every subsequently purchased pineapple, which can only be a good thing.

Line up the corer with the eponymous portion of the pineapple, place some weight upon it, and twist the handle clockwise. The more pressure brought to bear upon the corer, the thicker the slices or rings of pineapple which result, which is why I, and not my wife, needed to preform this operation upon 8 pineapples for Glory's luau-themed birthday party this evening.

Care must be taken to insure that an inch or two of pineapple is left in the bottom, lest the structural integrity of the vessel be compromised, a tragedy typically proportional to the value of the liquid lost. For this reason, single malts are discouraged for drinking from pineapples, although blended whiskies are generally acceptable.

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Removing the fruit from the hull of the pineapple can be a tricky bit of business, since a suction effect is often created during the coring process. Thankfully, removing the handle of the corer makes for easy removal of the fruit from the corer, simply by inverting it.

The screw design of the corer means the fruit comes out as a single coiled piece, which has a certain amount of both engineering and esthetic appeal, it is ultimately impractical and ill-suited for sharing. A single vertical cut will leave you with a stack of fresh pineapple rings, suitable for drink garnishing, general snacking or even grilling.

Despite its name, the corer leaves that part of the pineapple behind, so you will need to extract it. A serrated knife will allow you to slice it off at an angle close to the base. Care must be taken not to accidentally pierce the bottom of the pineapple, since this would undo the work done thus far.

The umbrella not only adds a certain degree of flourish, but also makes the lid a bit more stable. A regular toothpick can be used of course, but really, if it's too much trouble, maybe you ought to drink out of a red Solo cup instead, hmm?

In terms of content, my preference is for a mixture of ginger ale, fruit juice and silver or other light rum, but the possibilities are nearly endless. Enjoy this pleasant means of fending off scurvy!

* Exceptions include, but are not limited to, coffee, tea, certain flavours of milkshake (i.e. not pineapple) and porter.

 

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Glory Days

 

I have no delusions that attending an arts school will make my children either more likely or better prepared for a career in the arts (whether or not that is a comforting idea in the first place), but one of the tangible benefits for me as a parent is how enjoyable it is to visit the school for performances and the like.

Being an arts school, the teachers at Victoria are usually very conscious about things like staging and timing, especially the limited amount of time you often have to engage the attention and imagination of a diverse audience that probably has siblings as well as grandparents, aunts, uncles, caregivers et cetera.

The K-6 students staged their "Magic and Mayhem" concert Wednesday and Thursday night, which included Glory and her fifth grade cohort singing and dancing their way through "We Are the Brats", which positioned itself delicately between adorable and ominous. Cute grade 5 children in 'thuggish' looking denim or leather jackets supply the former, while lyrics like "there are five of you, but lots of us" supplied the latter. This is not even taking into consideration the fact that loud children's choruses are always a little intimidating, (c.f. "We don't need no education", et al.).

Prior to the girls coming to Vic, I would struggle to be attentive before and after the appearance of my own offspring, but the acts presented at Wednesday's concert were very decent, even those performed by the younger grades. Sure, they were often unpolished, and there is always unintentional comedy to be had (sometimes of the "now where the heck do you think he's off to then?" variety) but that is part of the allure, at least to me.

We also had a chance to view some of Glory's art projects from the year, like this self portrait,

 

...this colourful piece,

 

...this dark bit of business from a collage drawn onto old, damaged book pages,

 

...and my favourite, this depiction of Oma and Opa coming to Canada and starting a family.

 

She spent a fair bit of time and no small amount of thought on it, and I thought it turned out really well. If nothing else, their time at Vic will have given both girls some valuable tools for self expression which can be invaluable no matter what they end up doing in life.

 

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TCB w/ RB (of BTO)

Some sounds, ubiquitous sounds, can have the effect of ingratiating their way into your life without your evening being cognizant of it. You replace a furnace, and perhaps the new fan doesn't make that distinctive click every few cycles that reminded you it was still working and keeping your house safe. At the start of the school year, your classmates sing the national anthem in a subtly different key. These pervasive sounds become the soundtrack of our life and times unconsciously, sometimes only distinguishing themselves by their absence. Sometimes it is even that way with music, wherein the active mind says "I've heard that song before, a hundred times in my youth; find something fresher," and we often listen, sometimes to our detriment.

Good friends of ours bought us tickets to Randy Bachman's show tonight in Edmonton, and at first, I was a little apprehensive. I mean, sure, I appreciate The Guess Who; I'm Canadian after all. And who doesn't like to hear "Takin' Care of Business" once in a while? But the idea of sitting through a Randy Bachman concert only intrigued me, it didn't excite me.

Now, I've never listened to his CBC radio show, Randy's Vinyl Tap, and that is clearly going to have to change, because on the show, he plays music from his own collection, and tells stories about how and when they were made, and about the people who made them, and this tour is all about him telling the stories behind his own music, a half century of unapologetic rock and roll originating in Winnipeg and winding its way across North America and the globe.

Bachman is a fantastic and humorous storyteller, a gifted raconteur who has lived the fascinating and challenging life of a professional musician since he dropped out of high school to pursue his dream. Ignoring his father's advice to have something to fall back on for fear that he would fall back on it instead of moving forward, he talks frankly about the kind of confidence and courage I could never see myself possessing.

Each anecdote would end with a (sometimes shortened) rendition of one of the songs from his tremendous repertoire: These Eyes, She's Come Undone, American Woman, Let It Roll, You Ain't Seen Nothin' Yet (recently voted Best Stuttering Song by the Stuttering Foundation of America,) et cetera. Learning that the "killing floor" mentioned in No Time Left For You is a reference to Vietnam that he overheard a serviceman tell his hippie friend in San Francisco, or how many songs he made no money from because they were just too close to something by another artist (like the Doobie Brothers) was eye opening and always related in an entertaining and self deprecating manner.

I had no idea, for instance, that while Bachman was playing with his Winnipeg High School band, Chad Allan & The Expressions, they sent a tape with their cover of Shakin' All Over to a record company. The company surreptitiously promoted it as a bootleg recording of semi-famous British musicians signed to various labels, under the cheekily mysterious name "Guess Who", which is how that band's name came to be.

The most interesting story to me was about a time in the '60s when filling up their bus just south of the border on their way to a gig in Texas, the station manager determined they would be playing in the Selective Service building. He kindly explained that their 'green cards', formally known as Resident Alien cards, not only entitled them to work and reside in the U.S., but also made them eligible for the draft and service in Vietnam, where his son had been killed. He advised them not to turn around, but suggested they turn left, drive down the road and cross the border back into Canada somewhere else, and not to come back until the war was over.

And they never did.

I had a much better time at The Vinyl Tap Tour than I expected to, and while the music was great, the stories and insights from a true CanadianRock veteran were even better. The talk to music ratio was about 2:1, which felt just about right. I hope they put it on DVD, because I would love for the girls to see it, both for the music I grew up with, and the times and people that produced it. The next time I hear BTO or The Guess Who on the radio, I hope they are in the car so I have a good reason to turn it up.

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Dinner At The Final Frontier

Stardate 130406.6: We arrived at the planet Harris VIII in time for the seasonal observance of Geekquinox. While many of the male crewmen opted for casual dress, the women maintained a strong Federation presence in their Starfleet regalia, which was both unanticipated and delightful.  The nostalgic hairdos sported by some of the ladies were also extremely well received! 

Our host, Peter, had prepared a sumptuous repast of a number of courses and beverages, all strongly themed to our starfaring proclivities.  As he was kept busy with his preparations, his main viewer outlined what we could expect as the evening progressed.

The question was raised, however, as to which was more telling: the fact that our host had meticulously researched the appropriate stardates for the menu display, or the fact that one noted officer was able to confirm them with but a glance.

As the LCARS display indicates, there was a significant Engineering component involved in the preparation of many of the dishes, such as the heart of targ, prepared using a 'modernist' technique dating back to the early 21st century known as sous vide.  Leaving nothing to chance, computerized PID systems were used to maintain a stable temperature of the fluids used to cook the vacuum-packed meat.  Unconventional as it was to most of us, there was no denying how delicious an entree it resulted in.

It should be noted that the tetrahedral potato accompaniments were hand-carved by the host, which caused one observer to suggest that Garth of Izar may no longer be the benchmark for insanity amongst fleet officers, but all in good sport.

The sous vide technique also enabled Peter to produce a delightfully inside-out version of Eggs Benedict he playfully referred to as the 'Transporter Accident'.

Peter's commitment to presentation extended beyond the menus and even into the way some of the appetizers were served:

Another unconventional aspect was a seafood appetizer served in a single-serving drinking vessel; the Gorn Gunpowder Shot (known in other regions as a hamachi shot) melded a fascinating combination of exotic ingredients, including hydroponically grown sprouts the host had cultivated himself. These were muddled together with a small amount of ponzu sauce before being 'shot' back, and produced an intense array of flavours and textures that saw everyone who sampled it return for another serving, even those with historically timid palates.

It is said that only the bravest venture into Vulcan cuisine, but his interpretation of Vulcan plomeek soup was virtually indistinguishable from the real thing.

The Smorgas-'Borg' cubes of risotto accompanied by tasty duck were another triumph of taste and presentation.

In terms of libations, being outside the territorial borders of the Federation proper allowed us to imbibe of the fabled Romulan ale (or perhaps a less potent derivation, according to one individual who claimed to have sampled it before), but a far more exotic treat was the Warp Core Breach, derived from a Ferengi recipe. 

The Warp Core Breach boasted a tremendous presentation, bubbling and steaming in its insulated container, but as advertised, it was capable of inducing three day's relaxation, due largely to the high concentration of Terrestrial rums.  The solid carbon dioxide which served to keep the beverage refreshingly chilled also necessitated its being drunk through a device similar in construction to the South American yerba maté straw, for safety. 

It wouldn't be a Starfleet operation without some sort of anomaly cropping up, however, and due to a fissure in the spacetime continuum or perhaps a temporal flux in the reflex-schedule capacitators, the Food Cubes failed to materialize in time for dinner.   They were still amazing looking though, and tasted delightful the following day.

Better still than the food was the spirit of conviviality and fellowship that pervaded the evening's observances, which went on until the wee hours.  Our various missions and deployments give us far too few opportunities to enjoy each other's company, so we were all grateful to Peter and the hospitality of Harris VIII for this chance to share a wonderful time together, as well as an opportunity to dine where no one has dined before!  

Lookin' Over and Over Looking

If you want a clear picture of how much we have changed since we first willingly held out your wrists to accept the comforting shackles of maturity, consider your interactions with the grass.

There was a time in our lives when a lush, green lawn wasn't the sigil of yardwork obligations, but a gateway to a multiverse of exploration and play, the carpet to childhood's greatest playroom. Laying on one's belly to peer between blades of grass, imagining the forest it represented to the ants and daddy long-legs we observed there; following the peregrinations of arthropods and gastropods amidst the slowly dawning recognition that your modest childhood backyard might represent a county, a nation, an entire universe to the tiny denizens you shared it with.

How many times, as a third-grade outfielder, would I squat, mesmerized by the comings and goings of diminutive animals, or subtle variations in the structure of the grass we played on? How much clover did I sift through in pursuit of the elusive four-leafed variety, only to be interrupted by the crack of the bat and having to scramble to my feet to determine if the ball was coming my way, or to discover that my team was actually hitting now (only once, thankfully!).

I never did find a four-leafed clover, and I am not at all sure when it was, exactly, that I stopped looking. Did the ground simply get too far away? This seems unlikely, even impossible; it has never been further away than the bottom of my feet. Perhaps it is better to say that I grew too far away from it, eyes drawn to tantalizing horizons and tempting corners, even fences where the grass could be argued to be more verdant. By the time I crossed those fences, however, my fickle interests were undoubtedly drawn upwards and elsewhere again.

On a warm June day some five years back, I went to pick up the girls from school, about a kilometre from our house, so we could walk home together. Fenya was in 4th grade at the time, Glory in 1st. I waited for them in a parking lot on the edge of school property, getting them used to notion of finding each other at day's end and making their own way from the school. Seeing them cross the field, hand in hand, was about as rewarding a vision as a man could ask for, and they would wave with their free hands once they saw me waiting.

Before I could even ask them how their day had been, Fenya blurted out, "Guess what I found at recess today?"

"Something dangerous? A coin? A frog?"

She shook her head. "No, I found a four-leaf clover, a real one!" She wriggled her fingers into the chest pocket of her jean jacket and extricated it as carefully as she could. "Ashley thought one of the leaves was torn, but I think it is a proper one so I kept it to show you. Do you think it's real?"

I took the tiny item from her hands, taking care to be gentle. True, one of the leaves was quite thin compared to the others, but on closer inspection, it appeared to have been folded upon itself. Using my thumbnail, I was able to slowly unfurl it, and said to Fenya, "I think you're right, kiddo; I think this is the real McCoy." Seeing her puzzlement and realizing she was probably trying to connect her discovery to the doctor on Star Trek, I quickly added, "I think it is a genuine four-leaf clover. Well done!"

She beamed on the walk home, while I told her how much time I had spent at her age, scouring lawns for the legendary clover, and how jealous and proud I was that she had found one. I told her that if she let me, I would put the clover on or in something to preserve and protect it, to which she gladly agreed.

The next day, I went to Michael's and bought a tiny, unfinished wooden box, a child's treasure chest, perhaps three inches wide. I mixed up a batch of thick epoxy varnish I had used previously to make miniature rivers for wargaming, and after placing the clover carefully on the lid, poured it over.

The chemical reaction between the two components created heat, and the heat created bubbles in the varnish. By blowing through a straw, you could use the carbon dioxide in your breath to draw out the bubbles and create a smooth, clear finish. I worried that the heat might damage the leaves, but had no better means of sealing this discovery, so I left the varnish to dry and trusted to fate.

Appropriately enough, luck held, and the clover remained visible and undamaged, if perhaps not quite as green as we might have liked. I used a fine tip marker to put a small inscription on the underside of the lid, to affix the find to a moment in time so it wouldn't become yet another tragic and ambiguous amalgamation of childhood memory.

I'm not entirely sure why Fenya's four-leaf clover came to mind this weekend; the delayed promise of spring perhaps, or the appearance of grass in our yard as the recent snow makes its reluctant retreat. Perhaps the reflection we heard on Easter Sunday, as James reminded us that the significance of Jesus's resurrection might have less to do with creating an otherworldly kingdom of heaven than illustrating our ability to create a heavenly life on earth by standing up to oppressive powers. Maybe his illustration of how brutal life was in first century Palestine and even medieval Europe reminded me of just how lucky I am, how lucky we all are, to be living in our deeply flawed yet occasionally fair and gentle world.

I asked her today where the clover box was, and she took it out of another box so I could take some pictures of it. I opened it to see the inscription, having already forgotten the date, and saw a small plastic bag inside. "What's that?" I asked.

She shrugged eloquently. "Some stones I found, and a bone." I nodded, understanding. The treasures of childhood: nothing fashioned by the hands of man, but carved and polished instead by time and erosion. Nothing purchased or traded, only discovered and cherished.

Last fall, we were finally able to get the landscaping done to our yards that they so desperately needed, which included new sod to replace our uneven, yellowing, crabgrass-riddled lawn. I hope that when spring finally does arrive to stay, that in addition to mowing and fertilizing it, I take some time away from the hammock and spend some time at eye level with the ants and beetles again, exploring the underfoot world so long unvisited.

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Fort Kick-@$$: Phase 1 Complete

Tired but satisfied workers took a well-deserved break on Friday evening after having completed the initial construction of Fort Kick-@$$.  The successful completion means that the neighbourhood now has a much more defensible position to deal with hostile forces that may include boogeymen, ninjas, mean kids, and really smart dinosaurs, like the ones in that movie.

Constructed exclusively from crystalline matrix of dihydrogen oxide, the initial excavation was facilitated by the larger worker lifting the smaller one up and flinging her bodily into a site chosen for both its strategic amenities and logistical benefits.  This technique, currently known as "Put your hood up and hold your arms over your head; I want to show you something,"  is expected to see use again in Phase 2, once that project has received the necessary budget and governmental oversight.

"I'm going to make a hole here and get Mom to give me a zip-loc full of crackers so we don't have to go back into the house if we need food," one of the fort's personnel was overheard saying just prior to construction being finished.  Given the potential difficulties of securing provision from a kitchen 14 meters away in a Condition Red scenario, this plan was met with appreciative and profound agreement.

Efforts to have a small cask of whiskey of brandy attached to the collar of the regimental mascot needed to be abandoned since neither a suitable receptacle nor means of attachment could be found before it got dark and really cold outside.

It was also stressed that Fort Kick-@$$ is only a temporary name, and is unsuitable for long term use since 50% of the structure's occupants are not able to actually say it.

Quiet Men

The year before I went to university at Camrose, and during the first year of classes, I worked as a pre-board screening officer at Edmonton International Airport.  It certainly wasn't for the money, but it was good work in the sense that you could feel you were doing something worthy, and generally with very decent folks.

It did mean weird hours though, I remember the conflicts with Mum and Dad due to the fact that with ten or twelve hour shifts ending at midnight or two in the morning, I wasn't particularly interested in getting out of bed before ten o'clock or noon on most days.

Sometimes I would come home from work, and Dad would still be up, in the basement that housed both my bedroom, his office, and the bar and tv area.  It was here, and probably at this time, that I made some of my best connections with my father over the movies we would watch.  The basement was where he taught me that those different looking westerns with the bad dubbing on the dialogue were in fact a product of Italy, and not Hollywood.  The basement was where we talked about the appeal and challenge of pulling off a 'caper' like the one in They Came to Rob Las Vegas, was well as the fact that such an endeavour was ethically unsound.

It was in the basement that I came across him watching something I couldn't place, and asked him what it was.

"It's a John Wayne movie; a romantic comedy set in Ireland."

My mind reeled.  John Wayne was far and above my father's favourite actor, and had been for years, but swaggering, drawling Duke Wayne in a movie dealing with the culture shock between old world and new, with all the entanglements of a romance picture?  I expressed disbelief, and took a step towards my bedroom.

"You'd probably enjoy this," he said from the recliner.  "It's funny, with good dialogue, and you can learn a bit about Ireland."

I shrugged, went into my room to change out of my work clothes and came out to watch the rest of the film with him.  In it, there is a scene where Barry Fitzgerald, as the beleaguered matchmaker Michaleen O'Flynn, is in pursuit of  a tandem bicycle ridden by John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara, when his horse suddenly draws up short, upsetting O'Flynn in his cart.  When he recomposes himself, he discovers that the horse has stopped in front of Cohan's pub.  Reconciling himself to his fate, he says to the horse, "Sometimes I think you have more sense than I do me own self," to which the horse nods emphatically.

So it was with my father; he was absolutely right.  I did enjoy The Quiet Man, and grew to adore it.  I've made most of my friends watch it, and almost all of them have enjoyed it as well, despite their familiar skepticism.  My family have watched it multiple times, and tonight I got to show it to James and Glen, neither of whom had seen it.

Sure, much of this John Ford film is a caricature of Ireland, but it's a caricature by an Irishman who has a clear affection for his homeland.  Just as his cavalry films weren't intended to be a documentary of the settling of the American West, The Quiet Man using Ireland as a backdrop to show a man coming to grips with not only a strange culture, but his own appreciation of what is actually important.

I doubt I would have paid any mind to it at the time, but my father's approval of the 'quiet, peace-lovin' man', and his desire for peace echoed a lot of his own struggles with local politics, and his sincere belief that great things can be accomplished when less attention is given to gets credit for them.  Despite some gender elements that have not preserved well since 1952 (i.e. "Here's a fine stick to beat the lovely lady,"), a movie that ends with enemies becoming friends, Catholics cheering for a Protestant vicar, and the possibility of a romance blooming between Squire Dannaher and the Widow Tallan has a lot to offer in terms of what a successful resolution of differences might look like, if we have a little luck and a lot of help from our friends.

For father's day a few years ago, we had Mum and Dad over for dinner, and afterwards, got him to make the significant effort to come downstairs so he could watch True Grit, and enjoy an ice cream sundae with his granddaughters in attendance.  Just thinking about the joy on his face from those simple pleasures is enough to bring tears to my eyes, knowing it can't be revisited.  True Grit remains Poppy's movie to the girls though, for which I am grateful.

My father was a long ways from perfect (but was probably closer than I will ever be!), and the same can be said about my relationship with him, but the movies and stories we enjoyed gave us a means of exploring the commonalities between us, and the values we shared.

When I watch films with Fenya and Glory, I think a lot about those late night movies with Dad.  Watching Aliens with Glory two nights ago, as she curled up under my arm, a Nerf gun in her hands ready to fend off the scary monsters (and treacherous human), I though about seeing Jaws with my father in the Gaiety theatre in Leduc, ready to pull the popcorn bucket over my head if things got too intense.

But they never did, probably because he was always there, to make me feel safe, and explain things in way I could understand, and to make me feel better.

He's gone now, and I miss him a frightful amount, especially on St. Paddy's Day, when he most enjoyed playing the part of a patriarch of the Auld Sod, but at least I can tend his memory, and bear him in mind as I interact with the friends and family I love.  With a little luck, and a lot of help, maybe I can grow into a peace-loving and Quiet Man me own self.