My parents are up visiting this week, bearing with them a significant portion of suitcase real estate dedicated to the miscellaneous mail and packages that I've somehow justified sending their way during the past month in exchange for my boundless enthusiasm and know-it-all airs about our newly adopted city. One of the items was a mystery issue of Vanity Fair, a magazine that I do not subscribe to but which appeared at my forwarding address at my parents' house nonetheless. Interrogating some likely sources about its origins ("Um, did you give me a gift several months after my birthday, not tell me about it, and then send it someplace where I don't actually live?") turned up no clues, so I accepted the mystery magazine. It's better than the inexplicable subscription to Maxim that I acquired a few years ago, I figured. "And, hey!" I said excitedly to Pete, "this month's issue is the one with Carla Bruni on the cover! I want to read that!" Which then sent me into a completely inadequate explanation of a) who Bruni-Sarkozy is, and b) why the French care so much, but that's beyond the point.

Then my parents showed up today, and -- amidst the random books and DVDs and forwarded notices and eBayed vintage belt and fabric linings that I just had to buy from Stateside sources -- there was a plastic-wrapped Vanity Fair. Which turned out to actually be an advertisement on the verso of my one last un-forwarded magazine, Bon Appetit. And really, I was shocked by the depths of my disappointment about this. Apparently I had been very much looking forward to this magazine, or at least Carla Bruni-Sarkozy. Maybe even enough to take them up on the $15 / year subscription offer.

... which is only available in the US, because it's $38 plus GST Canadian. Maybe enough, anyway, to subscribe at my parents' address in the states, and then have them forward it up to me irregularly? Or, more likely, just wait until we start accumulating catalogues at this address, so I have reading material suitable for occasionally spilling my dinner on.

8:22 PM »  (0) Comments

Even though the Bounty Fun Print cat-patterned paper towels do a great job of mopping up spills while expressing my inner flair, I need to start buying the most dirt cheap paper towels available. Considering that about 80% of them go towards mopping up varying types and consistencies of cat vomit, the cute similitude -- look, cat patterns! For the cat puke! -- really does not justify the extra cost.

11:09 AM »  (0) Comments

It took a friend to remind me of this on Facebook, but today is Pete's and my two year anniversary. Huh. I still tend to think about things in terms of our dating anniversary, which will be rolling around to the big number 10 (!) in October. We might go out to dinner this weekend or something, but the week surrounding our wedding was marked by long stretches of time happily spent watching hours of Tour de France coverage on TiVo. We will continue to spend each wedding anniversary with the redoubtable Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwin as long as we can, because really, what present could be better than the Alpe d'Huez?

In other news, Pete bought a new (well, his first) laptop with his research funds, which arrived today. Unbeknownst to him, it has a fingerprint scanner, which... well, of all the things to adapt from the vaguely forward-thinking computers featured in dystopian action movies set in the near future, wouldn't have been my first choice. If Dell had made the built in webcam a combination camera / retinal scanner, then I'd be impressed. Most shockingly of all, we now have three legal, legitimately-obtained copies of Windows operating in the Jejune household. And three out of four ain't bad.

4:21 PM »  (1) Comments

... dessert.

No, seriously. It's fortunate that moving to a city without a car coincides with my not having a job and not knowing very many people, because the additional exercise perfectly balances out the extra time that I've had to bake. During the past two weeks, I've made:

• Creamy Lemon Blueberry Bars, which I loved. Have shot up to the top of my list, at least during blueberry season.
• Triple-Layer Pistachio Petit Four cake. I tend to overlook nut- and fruit-based desserts in favor of more firmly chocolate- and, well, sugar-based flavors, but these cakes smelled simply amazing while cooking. My only quibble is that the chocolate ganache overpowered some of the more delicate flavors in the inside; I'll probably make it without next time.
• Chocolate Chip and Banana Ice Cream Sandwiches, albeit with maple ice cream instead of banana because the former is ubiquitous, and the latter not so much.

... and right now, I have a covered Kitchen Aid mixer bowl full of chocolate chip cookie dough chilling, because after reading this New York Times article modifying a recipe I've already made a million times, I just had to see if there was an improvement. The problem with this recipe, though, is that it involves refrigerating the dough for 24-36 hours. Which is a great idea, unless you're at home, sitting in front of your computer while chipping away at your dissertation, and your pre-lunch thoughts just keep turning towards the bowl full of cookie dough just waiting for you in the fridge. There, waiting patiently. For you. Full of sugary, doughy, chocolatey, tasty goodness.

I think that a bike ride, or brisk walk, might be in order this afternoon.

9:54 AM »  (0) Comments

I've been spoiled by Madison's network of bike paths. My commute to campus involved trundling two blocks through our quiet neighborhood followed by 6 miles spent entirely on well-maintained, dedicated bicycle paths, unless I felt particularly lazy and stopped in at Monona Terrace to use the bicycle elevator to get to the top of the hill. And it wasn't unusual to see someone pedaling heavily through our former neighborhood with a child seat holding a wobbly-headed toddler, then an older child pedaling along on a third-wheel trail-a-bike, followed up by a bike trailer holding either a third child or a mishmash of the attendant stuff that must always accompany expeditions with small kids.

I'd heard good things about Montreal's bike-ability, and on my very first morning in the city noticed a substantial flow of bicycle commuters weaving in and out of the rush hour traffic along our side street. Not just skinny guys in Crédit Agricole and Cofidis racing kits, but men and women in varying degrees of business and casual wear on various types of bikes, cruising serenely by honking cars.

My first bike expedition out, however, was considerably more white-knuckled. Thing is, for a city of its size, Montreal has very, very few dedicated bike paths, and only a handful of roads with bike lanes or even shoulders. So, you're almost always riding with the flow of traffic. The flow of fast, crazy, impatient, traffic. "This isn't so bad!" I first thought to myself as I cruised down my street, following the woman in her mid-40s, dressed in capri pants and a striped shirt, biking ahead of me. "This is totally do-able! Look at me, taking in the urban landscape like a native!" The woman ahead of me went around a car waiting to turn left at the same time that a passing Yaris accelerated to do the same. She slammed on her brakes and started yelling at the driver who cut her off, following him down the street to the next stoplight. "Hey! Hey! Va te faire foutr'!" she shouted, banging on the passenger-side door of the car with her fist until the light turned green. And so it began.

Later, the traffic report on the CBC discreetly referred to an in-town road closure due to an "incident" with a cyclist, who was doored by someone in a parked car, then run over and dragged by a vehicle going the opposite direction. Moreover, what bike lanes there are are overflowing with not only cyclists, but a volatile, vile admixture of cyclists, small children, oblivious pedestrian tourists, mopeds, motorized wheelchairs, rollerbladers, skateboarders, illegally-parked delivery vans, and strollers, and criss-crossed by rapidly-turning cars not checking for oncoming cyclists behind them and city buses (which legally have the right-of-way in traffic).

That said, now that I've acclimatized to the insanity a bit more, I'd rather ride my bike here than I would in some sprawl-y suburb where I'm likely to be run over by somebody who can't parse the concept of "cyclist" and "roadway" in the same sentence. While there are plenty of idiot, aggressive drivers here, I've also been given plenty of space by nearly every vehicle who passes me, and I've even -- while waiting at a red light next to the curb, with a car waiting to turn right directly on my left -- had drivers look back at me and wait for me to clear the intersection, instead of risking cutting me off. Furthermore, I'm in good company. Everyone -- young, old, men, women, students, seniors, tourists, enthusiasts -- cycles here. And, when it comes to getting a feel for the city, I've learned far, far more about it during the leisurely outings I've made during the past few weeks than I ever would have just by walking, the Metro, and the bus. (Sometimes, confusing bike-path organization helps with this, too.)

Things that I have seen and places that I have been and things that I have discovered so far, thanks to my bike:

• The Old Port
• Innumerable snack-bars, yarn stores, creameries, and bike shops (where I should probably stop for a cheery bell plus spare tube and travel pump. Mmm, and some nice panniers would be good, too...)
• Lots of city parks, including ones I can't find on maps
• Some kind of Hare Krishna fun fair
• That on a warm summer's day, the air surrounding the pool in Laurier Park smells like strawberry popsicles.
• The backs of old warehouses coated with graffiti along the CPR tracks
• Lines of laundry neatly hung out to dry along the backs of houses in Villeray
• Locks and old factories along the Lachine canal
• Habitat 67
• The tower of the Olympic stadium hanging ominously over everything within a half-mile radius, like some kind of alien mothership
• Ile Notre-Dame, after an accidental crossing of the St. Lawrence
• Random parts of downtown, setting up for Just for Laughs
• Almost the top of Mont Royal. After feeling my heart and lungs trying to escape my chest cavity and draping myself limply over the handlebars, I conceded that if it is hard enough for Eddy Merckx, it is definitely too hard for me.
• Random mimes
• Some guy playing with devil sticks in Lafontaine. I know, right -- how long has it been since you've seen those?

Once I start knowing my rotes a little better, I'll even begin to bring my camera. At the moment, though, traffic and constantly being pleasantly lost are enough to keep me occupied.

1:54 PM »  (4) Comments

We often refer to Sebastian in affectionate terms as "fierce," with about as much seriousness as one might reserve for Christian Siriano. "Awww, look at the ickle fierce kittums!" I'll croon, rubbing his belly. "He so fierce!"

More...

6:57 AM »  (0) Comments

If you'd had a hidden camera aimed at Pete and me when we were shopping at the local drugstore on Saturday, you would've had a good laugh. See, the razor refills -- you know, the particularly expensive ones for the multi-blade razors that we all initially laughed at ("three blades?! When will it end?") but have since come to love -- are on carried on their shelves behind a broad protective plastic flap. It's unlocked, and has a lip for you to lift it up, but is covered with "ALARM WILL SOUND" warning signs (in both French and English, natch). So... what, exactly, does that imply? Are you supposed to take them yourselves, and trigger the alarm in the process? Do you need to flag down an employee to deactivate the razor sector for you? There wasn't anybody around to ask, and no other customers came by to model the proper procedure. After hovering sheepishly for about five minutes, Pete gathered the courage to lift the alarmed flap and make a dive for the razor refills. Contrary to what I'd imagined, he didn't immediately trigger an earsplitting "WHOOP-WHOOP-WHOOP" safety alarm accompanied by spinning lights and a security gate closing off both ends of the aisle, but instead a banal little "beep-beep-beep" notification. It was simultaneously a relief and a letdown.

In other news, I'm working my way through the more distinctively Canadian offerings at the supermarket. Verdicts:

1. Cadbury's candy bars are very sweet and all varieties taste primarily of sugar. This is definitely to my taste, but I think I'll be craving the garden variety assortment of Hershey's that can be found at any U.S. gas station soon enough.
2. Dill Pickle-flavored potato chips: pretty tasty. Not surprising when you consider that they're basically a greener variety of salt-and-vinegar.
3. Map-o-spread maple-flavored spread is... odd. Again, I'm a fan of the sugar, but it's kind of like eating toast with pancake syrup on top of it.
4. Finally, my beloved Nutella chocolatey-hazelnutty spread is everywhere, and I'm delighted to announce that it is delicious when consumed on top of gingersnap cookies. And completely, tremendously unhealthy, but that goes without saying.

12:01 PM »  (1) Comments

I was prepared for the awkwardness of having to find a new stylist, and the attendant language barrier that might arise with said stylist, but I'm really not very fussy about my hair. And, despite the fact that the quantity of leave-in conditioner that he put in my 'do made the top of my head temporarily resemble an oil pit, he did an exacting, precise job. The one thing that I didn't envision, however, is that I'd have an honest-to-god mustachioed Québécois absentmindedly crooning "you will look fabulous, dah-link" through a heavy French accent as he whipped a comb across my scalp with razor-sharp precision.

The shock that I felt at hearing such clichés directed towards me -- me! -- makes me think that perhaps I need a bit more French-accented fabulousness in my daily life.

3:30 PM »  (1) Comments