Great Quote

“Travel does what good novelists also do to the life of everyday, placing it like a picture in a frame or a gem in its setting, so that the intrinsic qualities are made more clear. Travel does this with the very stuff that everyday life is made of, giving to it the sharp contour and meaning of art.”

~ freya stark

The Quality of Light

The quality of light these days may kill me with its beauty. And that's exactly how I'd like to go.

I'm not sure what it is about March but this is my favourite time of year - other than May, which is obviously wonderful. The difference is, in March every good thing is a gift and not an expectation or a right. I started dating Dave in March, my daughter was born in March. March is a month of promise and surprise. March is filled with new fresh smells and cool winds. Everything good in the year is ahead and about to open up. I think it's kind of like how Thursday is my favourite day of the week: because there is a sense of anticipation about the weekend. You can stay up late on Thursday night because if you're tired on Friday, you can shrug and realize it's only a few hours until the weekend. That's March. When I tell people it's my favourite month, they shake their heads and say, "Oh, it's still winter. It can still snow." Of course it can, but it's the kind of winter you can shrug off usually. In March, people re-emerge from hibernation to walk and talk in the neighbourhood. People stop looking askance at me for riding my bicycle. We pull out and refill the basketball net. We set up the clothes line again. We barbecue. We leave windows open.

What's not to love about March?

Yesterday I walked on the golf course I've skied all winter. In a warm week, it has transformed from ski course to golf green and puddles. I must love March if I'm willing to say goodbye to skiing. Last night, I put away the rows of skis, shovels and hockey sticks on our front porch and brought out the box of basketballs and skipping ropes.

But it's the quality of light most of all - the thin, bright, strengthening sunlight that starts before I wake up and lasts until well after supper. That's what is killing me most. In such a good way.

Oh that's good. Oh that's bad.

Discovered a knuckle of rhubarb in the garden this morning.

Was told secrets by both sides. I asked one about the secret and they assumed the other had talked. Which they had, but I had not revealed that in my question. Have since vented my spleen and promised discretion no more.

Made plates and plates of spinach-ricotta-ravioli for dinner tonight.

Has back-to-back duty calls coming up soon.

Finished good work on a major project today.

Spent minimal time outside in the glorious spring.

Has a book going out into the world today. My character is charming. He will make friends, I hope.

Afterticipation

I don't get out much.

To travel that is. I didn't get on a single plane between 1996 and 2005. I had three kids in that period of time, mind you, but no flights.

Part of me wishes I had traveled more before I had my kids because I don't like leaving them, but part of me thinks that traveling less has given me more of an opportunity than more frequent flyers to both anticipate and afterticipate travel. Because, oh baby, do I ever.

Anticipating a trip is a fun challenge. Choosing a location, scouting out information about the destination, planning an itinerary. There are many travel guides and books to help you do just that.

Afterticipating a trip is something I've never heard anyone talk about at all. (And not just because I coined the term!)I'm glad I don't travel often because I have the opportunity to savour a trip afterwards, for days, weeks, months and yes, years.

A year ago today, for instance, I was in Florence, Italy. Or, more accurately, in the countryside outside Florence, being driven by a woman my age who inherited a castle and returned to Italy to run cooking classes. We traded maple syrup for olive oil. We learned to make ravioli, we drank fresh, lip-puckering, throat-warming red vino. We took the bus home and were asked by tourists if we were locals.

So, what am I doing today? Making ravioli and afterticipating.

Afterticipating means a number of things to me. In 1992, we were given free flights to Australia where my husband and I spent a month, staying in every level of accommodation imaginable and having a terrific adventure. For months afterwards, when we were bored or driving somewhere, I would suddenly say, "I'm thinking of somewhere in Australia," and he would gamely guess where.

I've seen and heard friends go through photos from a trip with different people, giving the exact same travelogue every single time. I wonder whether they realize they have reduced their trip to the few sentences they always say, remember only the places they have photos of. Playing the Australia game, remembering the obscure moments and details of a place, secures its place in your memory in a visceral way.

Afterticipating is also the ravioli. We spent 10 days in Italy. These ten days I am trying to recreate, just briefly. I sent flowers to my husband - the yellow mimosas I was given at a restaurant on International Women's Day in Italy. I bought a tub of lemon gelato, as cold and frosty white as snow, but warming to remember when we first had some, our first sunny morning in the Santa Croce Piazza. I considered buying incense to remember the church we visited - but we didn't like it then either.

The risk of afterticipating is failing to savour the present. My son said to me last night, "if I dwell on the past, I will have nothing good to dwell on in the future." Smart kid. But I'm not stuck in Florence or anywhere else. One of the remarkable things that occurred to me in my nostalgia this week was that last year I missed the glory that is late winter here in Waterloo and that this year I get a chance to enjoy it fully.

So, even though a little bit of me wishes I could hold the moments of a good trip in time, I'm not stuck at a point in the past. But neither have I dismissed it to go on to more and more new trips. I'm just taking a few moments to reflect, to raise a glass of wine, to remember, to afterticipate.

Olympisomnia

Olympisomnia - The state of sleep deprivation that results from staying up far far too late watching Canadian athletes seek, and often find, glory.

My kids are amazed that the Olympics will be over so soon, but they also feel like they have lasted forever. I, who almost never watch television, have actually loved the new habit of serving food on our coffee table in front of the television. Watching the Olympics has not curtailed family conversation in the least.

I think my favourite Olympian was actually Christine Nesbitt, the long track skater. Because she had heavy, tired legs toward the end. She didn't have what it took. And she listened to the crowd cheering her on and she dug deep and found reserves she didn't know were there and she won. And Charles Hamelin, who had the most beautiful Gallic fey face. And of course Joannie. Dave said they were overusing words like brave, but I disagree. That girl has guts to skate as she did when the tears were that close to the surface and when grief must have filled her body. I loved the skating coach with the dark glasses and the passionate cheering. I turned into a bit of a cougar about Shaun White, although I mostly just wanted his hair, for my own.

Matt and I had conversations about cheering for other countries. We decided he was more patriotic and I was more Olympian.

***

In other news, I stole a recipe today: I memorized it in a magazine I did not buy. I made it tonight and had to share it. It was so phenomenal - you can steal it too. I only memorized the ingredients, not the proportions, so I suppose it is kind of mine.

In a roasting pan mix cauliflower florets and grape tomatoes. I used about 1/2 a head of cauliflower and a dozen tomatoes. I would have used more tomatoes though. Drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with pepper. Roast at 400 degrees for about 20 minutes or so.

At the same time, boil 1/2 lb of pasta. The recipe called for orrechiette or little ears/little shells. Drain.

Chop together about 8 fresh sage leaves (I freeze fresh herbs, so took a chunk of sage), 3 garlic cloves and several pieces of prosciutto. I used a Pampered Chef chopper and it worked well.

Toss the cauliflower/tomatoes with the sage/garlic/prosciutto and return to oven for another 20 minutes or so. When nicely browned, add a couple handfuls of baby spinach or arugula and mix with pasta. Sprinkle with Parmesan and serve.

Even the non-cauliflower lovers at our house loved this.


****

Finally, after working extremely hard on revisions to my Quebec novel and being really pleased with the result, I am about to embark on revisions to its sequel. Which currently stinks. At least by contrast with the first one. I've needed the time of the Olympics to shift gears. Here's hoping I can gird my loins to tackle this.

****

One more day. Go Canada go!

Yeah, so, I'm not ashamed to admit it.

http://sports.yahoo.com/olympics/vancouver/blog/fourth_place_medal/post/Video-Middle-aged-ladies-LOVE-Shaun-White;_ylt=AjJCcfVDspQV46DRoKYY5GlotLV_?urn=oly,221013&cp=1#comments

Absolutely Brilliant

If you are a writer and would ever consider being tattooed, this article would provide the text for your tattoo. Read it and impress it to memory. Wow.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/feb/20/ten-rules-for-writing-fiction-part-one