Below are the 9 most recent journal entries recorded in Marn, eh's LiveJournal:

Tuesday, July 15th, 2003
12:01 pm	Disappointing crusts and green freaks Dear Diary: Oh yes, I'm still alive, but I come to you a woman nearly broken by tragedy. No. Really. I mean it. First off, on Friday I took my second stab at Codex Barbecue Pizza, my quest to create the perfect pizza from scratch cooked on a barbecue. Stab is probably an excellent verb to use here, since the crust was so terrible that the spousal unit asked me if I was trying to kill him or something. Personally, I'm blaming the whole ugly situation on our local health food store. I always feel like such a fraud when I walk into a health food store. I mean, I look at all these wonderfully serene, incredibly healthy looking people discussing the benefits of oh, I don't know, a Chinese basil colonic purge or some such esoteric thing and immediately feel out of place. In my heart I know that these are the people who grind their own grains and store it in pottery they have made themselves. I, on the other hand, have Coca Cola in my fridge. Even worse, I Buy It In Cans! I can feel them judging me. I am convinced they can smell the Coke cans on my hands. It was necessity that drove me into the health food store Thursday. Our local grocery store was out of whole wheat flour and I needed it for the second attempt at Codex Barbecue Pizza, so I gathered together all my courage and off I went. Now in a sensible store, they sell but one kind of whole wheat flour, because, well, I think that we can all agree that REAL people eat white food--white sugar, white flour, white rice. However, when I got to the whole wheat section of the health food store I was appalled to find that there were infinite kinds of whole wheat flour available. There was your organic and your not organic, which Right There was already twice as many kinds of whole wheat flour as I was used to contemplating. But then it got even worse! Within your worlds of organic and not organic you also had your sub categories of your sifted and your not sifted. But then it got even worse! There was your sifted for bread and not sifted for bread. There was your sifted for pastry and your not sifted for pastry. EEEEEEEEEEEK. It Was A World Gone Mad, I tell you, A World Gone Mad. Since I was baking a bread like crust, I finally decided to buy the sifted organic whole wheat flour for bread. I only substituted one cup of this whole wheat flour for one of the three cups of white flour that made the pizza dough, but the dough went from being light and airy and tasteless to being, uh, well … Let's just say that the word "leaden" gives you an overview of the general texture without forcing you to contemplate the full horror. Back to the drawing board. Well, I was well on the road to recovery from this crushing blow when I made the mistake of going to see that movie "The Hulk" last night. I'd read the reviews and they were pretty scathing, so we went on the ultra cheap $6 night so we wouldn't feel cheated if the movie was terrifically bad. Now first off let me say that since childhood I have been a sucker for The Movies About Mutants and/or Freaks Who Are Saved By The Love Of A Good Woman, which in turn is a sub-genre of the whole Women Civilize Men movie theme. (Any woman who's opened a laundry hamper, managed to survive the experience AND actually launder a week's worth of man-a-rrific socks knows the basic truth that Men Are The Heart of Darkness and Without Women There Would Be NO Civilization. Movies just tend to expand on this by going beyond the hamper.) Now about the sub-genre which I love … If said mutants and/or freaks are repressed or unaware of their feelings (oooh, Batman, come to Marn; Tarzan, sweetie, Marn LIKE Tarzan) I find them especially intriguing. One of my favourite movies of all time is the RKO classic "Mighty Joe Young" (ignore the Disney re-make, find the original in all its cheesy glory). Okay, now, for these movies to work, You Have To Love The Freak. I'm serious. If you don't love the freak, then the movie falls apart. Stop looking at me that way. I am NOT weird. Look, you can come to care for emotionally repressed freaks. I mean, look at Batman. The man is a twisted vigilante, and yet you root for him. In the end that's why "The Hulk" doesn't work, or at least didn't work for me. (We'll completely ignore the last half hour which was so horrifically plotted that the term "suspension of belief" does not begin to cover what Ang Lee was asking of his viewers.) See, the thing with The Hulk was that somehow I just couldn't come to care for Bruce Banner. Even worse, I couldn't buy that there was any Twue Lub between he and Betty and I think we can all agree that without the Twue Lub between the freak and the good woman one of the central conventions of this genre has been violated. Oh! Oh! Oh! And speaking of plot conventions, in these movies The Good Woman always does something misguided that she feels is in the freak's best interests, but of course turns out to be terribly, terribly wrong. Then she spends the rest of the movie rectifying her mistake. Except in this movie Betty Kept Making The Same Freakin' Mistake And Delivering The Hulk Into The Hands of the U.S. Military Via Her Father! MARN WANT TO SMASH BETTY. That said, the movie is visually stunning. And the split screen effect Ang Lee uses to mimic the panels in a comic book? Brilliant. Oh, and I loved it that Lou Ferrigno had a teensy part as a security guard at the beginning of the movie. But, uh, if you love the genre, this would be a movie to avoid. So yeah. A pizza crust AND a much anticipated movie that both went terribly, terribly wrong. Some days it's all I can do to put one foot in front of the other, eh. --Marn (Comment on this)
Wednesday, July 9th, 2003
12:45 pm	Slither on little buddy, slither on Dear Diary: Zubby has a distinctive, almost mournful little trilling ditty he sings when he has a Really Cool Dead Thing to show me. I consider him the B.B. King of the cat world. (Yes, yes this is another of those insanely tedious Middle-Aged Woman Writing About Her Cat deals and if that isn't enough to get authorities somewhere to just pull the plug on this internet business, I don't know what is.) So I'm working away in here and off in the distance I can hear the soft strains of the I Got Me A Daid Thang Blues: I got me a daid thang for ya, momma A hefty hunk of fast coolin' junk Ohhhhhhh I got me a daid thang for ya, momma A hefty hunk of fast coolin' junk If ya don't come outside And tickle mah pride I'm gonna come drag it inside Since I'm not a big fan of having to frisk the cat for dead things every time he comes to the door, I have learned it's just best to go outside, praise him for his wondrous abilities, and then go back to work. This way he feels affirmed and I don't have a house full of wee corpses. This works for us. Out the front door I headed and I could see the cat in the dappled sunshine on the driveway. He was staring with rapturous fascination at his latest dead thing. As I got closer I realized I could see movement, so technically his latest dead thing had not yet departed this mortal coil. I steeled myself for the idea that I might be on a rescue mission. Normally, under the Marquis of Queensbury Rules of Marriage, picking up extremely spitty semi-dead things and setting them free in the woods falls to the spousal unit, but in a pinch I will do it. Silently, under my breath, I cursed the cat for not waiting until the spousal unit was around. As I got even closer, I realized that the cat had not used his powers on some creature of the rodential ilk, his preferred victim pool. No, that would be too easy. THE CAT HAD CAUGHT A FREAKING SNAKE. Oh, I know that there is a smartypants or two among my three loyal readers, someone who will point out that there are no poisonous snakes in my part of Canada and what the cat and I was looking at was a harmless garter snake and a tiny garter snake, at that. YOU SHUT UP. IT'S A SNAKE!!! I know that it's stupidly feeble-minded to be terrified of snakes but I am. That said, I forced myself to look at Zubby's snake. I couldn't see any sign of injury so I decided that it would be wise to pick the snake up and hide it in the woods from him. All those years of watching Crocodile Hunter re-runs finally paid off. "What would Stevo do?" I asked myself, and the answer was that he'd break off a branch, slide the branch under the snake, and carry said snake on the branch to safety. Well, since I live in the woods, the branch part was a piece of cake. Getting the branch under the snake, now that turned out to be a whole other kettle of fish. The snake was freaked out by the cat and did not want to know anything about leaving its coiled state on the ground. Every time I started to raise the snake on the stick, the snake would start to writhe and the cat would go mental with joy, assuming that This Was Some Insanely Cool Game We Were Playing With The Best Dead Thing Ever. The cat would try to attack the writhing snake, alternately patting it and trying to bite it. Oh man. Two tries and I could see that if I kept it up, the snake was definitely going to get hurt by the cat. So I scooped up Zubby and began walking towards the house with him. He immediately glommed on to the idea that I was probably going to shut him up in the house far, far away from The Best Dead Thing Ever and he began to struggle and protest mightily. The cat is down to about 12 pounds of almost pure muscle now. That silent cursing I had been doing earlier under my breath? It was now completely audible. My Crankymeter had redlined. My mood had gone from Bad to Come One Step Closer And I Will Rip A Limb Off You And Beat You Soundly With It. Stomping all the way, I got the cat locked in the house. I stood on the front step for a second and mentally girded my loins to go back to my snake wrangling. Even you know what? The snake was gone. Vamoosed. Amscrayed. Yes, between the time I imprisoned the cat and I returned to the driveway, the snake had slithered to freedom! You cannot imagine my relief and joy. Slither on, little buddy, slither on. --Marn (Comment on this)
9:03 am	It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas ... I have been staring fixedly at hot dog reindeer for the last few minutes thanks to that evil genius, Kid Congo. Oh, sure, I know it's only July and Christmas is months away but people, it's NEVER too early to start planning for those festive occasions. Weiner origami. Maybe globalization isn't all evil, eh? (Comment on this)
Monday, July 7th, 2003
10:40 am	Really, for the bursting into flame part, you want television Dear Diary: I'm self-employed and have an odd kind of job. This morning the Quebec part of the CBC interviewed me on the radio about it. A researcher questioned me several days earlier so that the radio host had a good idea of questions to ask. I spent a few hours this weekend looking up material so I'd have little anecdotes to tell her. I even typed out a few notes. Oh yes, I was calm. I was cool. I was collected. I Was Prepared. And then, at 8:10 a.m. the phone rang as they told me it would. In the 1.3 nanoseconds before I picked it up, my mouth turned to cotton, my heart began to race, my palms started to sweat and my life flashed before my eyes. Now normally, as my Three Loyal Readers well know, the boredom of my life flashing before my eyes would induce a coma-like state. I live a life so quiet that I can actually write paeans to a lawn mower engine. This morning, however, even my life flashing before my eyes was not enough to calm me down. I have never, ever known such terror. Oh, and even better, when I began to answer the host's questions, my voice started to crack. Yes, I am a 52-year-old woman, and yet somehow I managed to make my voice crack. And, as I tend to do when I'm nervous, I RanAllMyWordsTogether because What'sThePointofEnnunciatingClearly, especially on the radio? Andy Warhol once said, "in the future everybody will be famous for 15 minutes". My teensy radio interview was as close to fame as I will ever get and I've got to tell you, I'm terrifically grateful it didn't run a second over five minutes. Frankly, had it run 15 minutes, I would have probably spontaneously combusted from the stress. (I think we can all agree that while radio is a wonderful medium, really, you need television to fully appreciate the wonder of a profusely sweating 52-year-old woman speaking in the tones normally associated with an adolescent boy and then bursting into flame.) Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to push the spousal unit out the door early this morning. He said, though, that he'd listen for the interview on the radio on his way to work. Oh man, I am going to take such a teasing over this. Am I too old to run away from home, assume a false identity and start a whole new life? Am I? --Marn (Comment on this)
Sunday, July 6th, 2003
5:35 pm	Bathtub shrines--not just for virgins, anymore Dear Diary: Here in Quebec we are partial to the Virgin Mary In A Bathtub Shrine. Being an agnostic myself, I don't foresee religious statuary in a bathtub in my future. However, when my current lawnmower dies I may erect a bathtub shrine for it. Could you please join me in a minute's silence to contemplate the wonder and power of the Briggs & Stratton 3.5 h.p. classic lawn mower engine? Thank you. There. Wasn't that refreshing? This afternoon I went out to my daffodil meadow and judged the daffodil leaves ripened enough that the meadow could be mowed. For those of my three loyal readers who are not rabid gardeners, daffodils gather the strength for each year's flowering through their leaves. When each year's leaves drop to the ground and begin to yellow, usually some time in July, they can be called ripened and cut off. Well, my daffodil meadow is on some of the best soil on our property. This year the spring was so wet that it's produced some of the highest grass I've ever seen on it. People, we're talking prairie here. "I think I'd better scythe that grass and rake it before you try to take the mower through it," the spousal unit opined. You can well imagine my shock. As gently as I could, considering the circumstances, I pshawed the notion. I gave him the "o ye of little faith" sermon on the mighty powers of the Briggs & Stratton 3.5 h.p. classic lawn mower engine. In a voice laced with skepticism, he told me to go ahead and try. You live over half your life with a man, you bear him a child, and you think you know him. And then ... and then ... and then you realize he doubts the power of the Briggs & Stratton 3.5 h.p. classic lawn mower engine. Excuse me, I just need a moment to compose myself. There. I feel much, much better. Well, here we are at the halfway point: as you can see, the meadow is well over the top of the handle of the mower: And here it is, all done: Yep, at the minimum I think we're talking bathtub shrine here. I may even get that puppy bronzed, eh. --Marn (Comment on this)
Saturday, July 5th, 2003
10:54 pm	Mambo Italiano So tonight we motored nearly an hour to get to a theatre showing "Mambo Italiano" a small, independent Quebec film about being gay, Italian and coming out in Montreal. It's turned into a surprise hit, Quebec's "My Big Fat Greek Wedding". Paul Sorvino (Mira's dad) and Ginette Reno were exquisite as the parents--oh, man, they *looked* so insanely married it was incredible. The central love story was uh, well, it was written from the heart and it was poignant but it was just too pat. Still, there were some incredible scenes and the fact that this movie was made at all shows how much things have changed in the last few years. Yep, one of Quebec's big hits this summer is a homo coming out/love story. Can "My Big Fat Homo Wedding" be far behind? (Comment on this)
12:10 pm	An Unexpected Spin-off Dear Diary: Remember, in science There Are No Failures, there are only, um, unexpected results. Yeah, that's it, unexpected results. And really, in some ways, they could almost be called, uh, spin-offs. Yesterday here at MarnCo Labs, a wholly owned subsidiary of MarnCo, the ruthless multinational behind The Big Adventure, we conducted our first experiment towards Codex Barbecue Pizza, the creation of the ultimate BBQ Pizza. Methodical souls that we are here, we're starting with the crust. Since MarnCo Labs are the kind of Luddites who own neither a food processor nor a bread machine (our motto: Yes, Science Is Okay, But Do We Actually WANT That Many Appliances?), we decided that our first step was to find a hands-on, machine-free pizza crust recipe. When in doubt, go to Bread World. So we made the basic recipe here, using the traditional yeast because We Fear The New Fangled Things of the World. The MarnCo Labs team, which would be me with my cat, Zoe, watching expectantly, made the simplest crust to start out with. It was a plain, unbleached white flour crust, its bottom dusted with finely ground cornmeal. We broke it into four small crusts, figuring that would make individual pizzas which would be easier to handle on the grill. So far, so good. The dough was extremely elastic and despite vigorous use of both a rolling pin and very colourful threats, it refused to roll out to anything less than 1/4 inch thick. That looked stupidly thick to me, but frankly I was tired of messing with it. There is only so much science I want to know about. That left the problem of creating an outer rim, the wall of dough that holds in the sauce and toppings. No mention of how to accomplish this feat was given in the basic recipe because the recipe writers assumed that Any Moron Could Figure Out That Part. I stand before you, The One Moron Who Could Not Figure Out That Part. What I decided to do was to just kind of pinch the dough into a rim, like you do pie crust. I put the dough on the BBQ with my pinched rim side down (because I wanted to create a light crust on the side that would hold the toppings) and the moment it hit the heat of the grill the dough puffed out, completely erasing my rim. Thus, when I flipped it, to my horror I saw I had created two completely smooth 9" bread disks. Well. Okay. I took them off the grill, turned them unbaked side down on a cookie sheet, put on the sauce, toppings and cheese on the side I'd just baked. Then I put them back in the BBQ to cook the other side of the crust as well as the toppings. Since all the goodies were on a completely smooth surface, without a wall o' crust on the outside to hold them in, as they heated and bubbled many of them slid serenely into the oblivion of my BBQ's innards. Fine. I decided that maybe the problem was that the rim side had gone on the grill face down. Maybe if I put the bottom of the crusts on the grill first, then the rims would be preserved. I had two small pizzas left with which to test that hypothesis. On the grill they went. Down went the lid. Small beads of perspiration formed on my forehead. When I lifted the lid of the BBQ I again saw two completely smooth 9" bread disks. Remember, in science There Are No Failures, there are only um, unexpected results. I finished them up as I had the first ones. Because the MarnCo Labs first stab at BBQ Pizza Crust bears a startling resemblance to a frisbee, the brain trust over in our Marketing Department has suggested calling our first, uh, spin-offs either frizzas or pisbees. Feel free to let us know which would be more appropriate. One of my three loyal readers sent me an e-mail last week mentioning that Fine Cooking had a past article on how to grill pizza on a BBQ, but unfortunately they didn't post that article on their site. What they did post, though, were the instructions that Explain The Mystery of the Pizza Crust Rim. Of course, I only found that this morning, because, well, This Is The Way My Life Works. I will try it next time. Okay, so visually and structurally Work Remains To Be Done on the Crust. What about flavour and texture? Well, the BBQ gives the crust a lovely smoky flavour. The texture was superb--crunchy on the outside, chewy on the inside, and the dusting of finely ground cornmeal on the bottom was a great touch. However, because I didn't get it rolled out thinly enough, it was a very thick crust and a lot more crust than I'm used to. Even worse, the crust itself is a bit bland. I'm thinking of swapping out a cup of the unbleached white flour for a cup of whole wheat flour, which should give it a slightly nuttier taste. I'm thinking some Parmesan cheese might be in order here. The Possibilities Will Be Mulled Over in anticipation of next week's effort. So there you have it, Round One in the creation of Codex BBQ Pizza. Not exactly what I hoped for, but now, if you ever have the need for a home-baked frisbee--and really, who amongst us has not, at one time or another, wished to create a home-baked frisbee?--well we at MarnCo Labs have Shown You The Way. There will be further bulletins as events progress. --Marn (Comment on this)
Thursday, July 3rd, 2003
9:20 pm	Enabler. Dear God, I'm an enabler Dear Diary: Packrat? Did someone mention the word "packrat"? I always know when the spousal unit's brought something home he doesn't want me to see. When his truck pulls into the yard he checks to see if I've heard him drive up, if I'm looking at him through the kitchen window. If he spots me, he gets this, "Oh, crap, I'm busted" look on his face that cracks me up every time. Tonight was no exception. When I saw that expression, I could have strolled out into the yard and peered into the back of his truck, but half the fun of these situations is making him sweat a bit. So when he came into the kitchen we made some small talk about our respective days, and then I handed him half a dozen ears of corn to shuck. I guess he found some extra courage when he was out on the front step with the corn. When he came back into the kitchen with the corn he immediately 'fessed up to his latest "treasure". Apparently the woman at his current job site had been throwing out some magnets and he had decided to bring them home. Now say the word "magnet" to me, and I envision some small thing you stick on your fridge, eh. That didn't seem too bad to me, and I said so. Sheepishly, he admitted that what we're talking about here are industrial strength magnets. The spousal unit said that when he was schlepping them out to his truck he'd picked up two and brought them too close together. The force was so strong that before he knew it, they had slammed together, pinching his stomach. He lifted his shirt to show me his reddened owie. There are moments when I feel as if I have been married almost 29 years to someone who is 50 going on 8. The worst part of the situation is that these are the moments when I love him most intensely. I see all the layers time has built up fall away and there he is in all his goofy glory, just being utterly himself with no artifice at all. The spousal unit's joy at the acquisition of these magnets, which he obviously considered insanely cool, was palpable. That put me in a very awkward place. See, the packrat situation has always been a problem between us. Last fall we'd had another heart-to-heart about his collecting, uh, sickness propensities. I'd told him that I felt smothered by all the stuff he brought home on the theory that it was "good to have". I knew that he envisioned using this stuff in future projects, but the thing is that we're in our 50's now and the number of future projects is becoming finite. He thought about that, made a list of the projects he sees himself working on in the next few years, and did some serious winnowing of stuff. You cannot imagine my delight. And then tonight he showed up with about 35 industrial magnets. "So, uh, whatcha gonna do with them?" I casually asked him. I could see the wheels turning. He knew that Their Presence Here Had To Be Justified, that even though for him the words "good to have" were enough, for me there had to be some practical use. There was a pause. Scenarios were reviewed and discarded. And then … and then … I swear, you could see the lightbulb go on. "I'm going to stick them to the sides of my tool cabinets and use them to hold tools," he announced. We both knew that this was something he'd made up on the spot. We both knew that the odds of him actually doing it were slim to non-existent. But I could see how intrigued he was by these stupidly powerful magnets and well … Not only did I agree that it was a cool idea, I actually helped him carry these stupidly heavy things over to his workshop. You realize what this makes me, right? I'm An Enabler. Excuse me while I go and bang my head against the mouse pad. --Marn (Comment on this)
Wednesday, July 2nd, 2003
7:23 pm	Tuesday, July 01, 2003 Dear Diary: It was pouring rain and we were all transfixed because we figured we were about to watch a man explode into flames. If you happen to have the Dueling Banjos theme from the movie Deliverance, you might want to use it as background music while you read on. So yeah, we were at the Canada Day celebrations at Sherman's tonight and the sky opened up, just poured, right after we finished the potluck. The group of us huddled in the small lean-to shed, contemplating the enormous mountain of bonfire wood piled up in the middle of the meadow. Russ decided he would light the bonfire and strode over with a small propane torch in his hand. Well, the wood and kindling were just too wet to light. No problemo! This is the boonies! EVERYONE has a container of gas in the back of their truck! So, Russ went and filled several empty beer bottles with gas and WITH A LIT PROPANE TORCH IN ONE HAND PROCEEDED TO THROW GASOLINE ON THE WET WOOD WITH THE OTHER HAND. People, not only is gas itself insanely flammable, but gas fumes are pretty much explosive. This guy was creating huge arcs of both gas AND gas fumes from the wood he was trying light right back to himself. Himself, as in a man holding a half full beer bottle of gasoline. You know, your basic equipment for your Molotov cocktail. I think what saved him was our collective intake of breath as we watched him. I think the bunch of us just sucked all the oxygen right out of the surrounding vicinity. Someone managed to convince Russ that maybe gasoline wasn't the way to go, especially since turning himself into a human pyre might put a bit of a damper on the Canada Day festivities. Still, that left us with a bonfire that wouldn't light. No problemo! This is the boonies! Neil hopped into HIS pickup truck, a truck which has a spare 50 gallon tank of diesel and gas pump in the back, and drove a loop around the bonfire while someone sprayed the bonfire with diesel. Russ was standing nearby with a lit propane torch. Now granted, diesel isn't nearly as flammable as gas, but still. Someone managed to convince Russ that walking back up to the bonfire pile with a lit propane torch, said bonfire pile consisting of a mountain of wood now soaked with both gasoline and diesel fuel, might not be a wise thing to do. No problemo! This is the boonies! What I am about to tell you has profoundly shaken my belief in Darwinism and has me seriously contemplating the validity of Creationism. Russ picked up one of the Canada Day fireworks someone brought, lit it, and pointed it at the pile of bonfire wood. I will just give you a moment to contemplate this image in all its glory. Alrightee then. Trained professionals put fireworks in heavy duty metal tubes, light them and stand far back, because, you know, Sometimes Things Go Wrong. Sometimes these things explode because they are basically controlled bombs. Yet, a man who was just holding a beer bottle full of gasoline, a man who had probably saturated his skin with gasoline, picked up a tube of explosive goodness in said hand and lit that tube. A small, brightly coloured flaming ball of gunpowder fueled goodness rocketed out of the firework towards the mountain of bonfire wood. It skimmed by the bonfire and narrowly missed a car. Russ adjusted his aim. In a split second the next brightly coloured ball of gunpowder fueled goodness rocketed towards the pile of bonfire wood, hit its mark and Bounced Back At Russ. Yes, a small, brightly coloured flaming ball of gunpowder fueled goodness bounced off the gas and diesel soaked pile of bonfire wood and ricocheted just over Russ' head. As he ducked to protect himself, the final small, brightly coloured flaming ball of gunpowder fueled goodness shot out of the firework. Somehow, Russ had the presence of mind to send it up in the sky. One thing I will say for the guy, he has remarkable reflexes. At this point, cooler heads prevailed. The bonfire was cautiously lit by others and it was as beautiful as years past. The fireworks afterwards were spectacular but I must admit, they were a bit of a letdown. But then, what can you expect? Once you've seen someone hold a gunpowder filled tube in their gasoline soaked hand and fire it at a mountain of petroleum soaked wood--AND seen the flaming ball ricochet right back at them--well, watching similar flaming balls shoot aimlessly into the sky just doesn't have the same impact. You know, it strikes me that sometimes the line between tragedy and comedy is just way, way too close for comfort, eh? --Marn (5 Comments |Comment on this)