Posted on February 28, 2013 under Storytelling with no comments yet

The number of food choices that we have today is staggering.  Go to any major city in the country these days and you can find restaurants that serve every imaginable food.  It is not unusual to have variety galore in small towns too, with national grocery chains now stocking their shelves with many products that are unpronounceable.   But it wasn’t always this way.  There was a time when meat and potatoes, with a bit of turnip and carrot for color, comprised the staple diet in these parts.  Throw in some salt cod on Fridays and we’re bordering on gourmet.

This occurred to me recently when I was the beneficiary of a mid- winter barbeque provided by friends. We were talking about the finer things in life like a good steak, premium baloney and corn beef and cabbage.  And speaking of beef, there has been a lot of talk in the news these days of beef products being sullied with a dash of horse meat.  I have been warned not to try this hybrid product as it could lead to a case of the trots.  Filly steak takes on a whole new meaning.  You may have to pony up a little extra for this delicacy.

Canada was once primarily an agricultural economy with most people living in rural areas. People raised their own beef, pork and poultry and grew their own vegetables.    Grocery stores didn’t carry a vast array of products because country people didn’t need a lot of extra help.  Besides flour, sugar, and the occasional bottle of rum, pretty well everything else was homegrown.  And when rum was too expensive, well they took matters into their own hands and made their own hooch.  Holy water, as it were.

I grew up in a big family and as far as I can recall, meat and potatoes was a daily ritual. We were “townies” so raising our own beef and pork wasn’t an option.  Once or twice a year, our parents would buy a side of beef or pork.  We were taught the fine art of wrapping the meat in brown paper, tied with a string and labelled with a magic marker… our first lesson in automation as we all stood around the kitchen table, each with a specific task as the meat progressed from one end of the table to the other.

Of course being Catholics, we gave the cows and pigs a break on Fridays and usually had some manner of fish.  Back then, the cod were plentiful and could be purchased for 5 cents a pound. Today cod is near extinction and is priced similar to caviar.  I can still see the salt cod sitting in a pot of water overnight to remove the remnants of the salt mines.  And every once in a while, a leg of lamb would appear on the dinner plate.  Ewe wouldn’t believe how much we enjoyed that. 

Later in my married life we raised chickens in town – causing quite a flap!  A six year hiatus in the county satisfied the kids’ 4H ambitions and we returned to town sans Aloysius, Grumpy and the harem.  Now, as the kids have flown the coop as well, we procure our meat from local sources.  “Buy less but pay more for it“ is my wife`s formula for sustainable communities.

My steak has been nicely digested but I must admit to being a bit hoarse.  I didn’t quite finish my steak.  I think I will get it tested.  If you see me pawing the ground tomorrow morning, you’ll know why.  Might have to do a gallop poll.  Take that, you neigh sayers!

Posted on February 28, 2013 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Good Morning,

A little later today I am going to post a story that was prompted by the recent news out of Great Britain about traces of horse meat being found in beef products. I happened to be at a mid winter barbeque when I heard the news which prompted this story. However, I must warn you that the style is a bit different. If you don’t appreciate puns or are a vegetarian, you might want to take a pass on this one. I shared this with a few people and the horse puns haven’t stopped. I didn’t realize how many puns one could make with a single reference.

Happy end of February!

Posted on February 27, 2013 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Standing in the hallway leading to the front door of the house, in my pajamas, I hand over my money to the lady selling 50/50 tickets.  I don’t normally buy tickets on games of chance because my track record is abysmal.  But when the ticket seller is your neighbor selling tickets to support her daughter’s hockey team, well, what chance do you have to say no?  Maybe my luck will change and maybe the Maple Leafs will win the Stanley Cup.  Hope springs eternal.

The first time I had a chance to lose my allowance was the annual parish bazaar held at the old, iconic Parish Center.  I have often wondered who designed the building.  It had several curious design features, none more so than a small room, a veritable bomb shelter, overlooking the gymnasium floor.  The only time I ever remember it being in use was for the fish pond at the bazaar. It may have had something to do with the Cold War but building this room that the Dept. of National Defense would have relished seemed a little extreme.  I mean, stuffed animals, plastic toys and religious artifacts are hardly the stuff that would be treasured by the enemy.

Ok, so I won a stuffed dog at the fish pond, if you can call that luck.  Wait now, everybody wins at the fish pond so strike that off the list.  A few years ago, I did actually win fifty pounds of lobster in a draw that only fattened my waist line and not my wallet.

I do remember the exact date when I hit the mother lode.  It was February 28^th. The year is unimportant. It was the last day of RRSP season and as a financial advisor, this was one of three dates on the calendar when there was a deadline.  And it was frantically busy, when the phone rang with an incredibly cheerful voice on the end of the line announcing that I was a winner. Why are these telephone people always deliriously happy, as if they had won the stupid prize? The conversation was brief.  “Mr. MacDonald, you’ve won…”  “I don’t care what I’ve won; I’m too busy to talk.”   “But Mr. MacDonald, you don’t understand…”  “No, you don’t understand.  I’m extremely busy and under the gun.”  “But Mr. MacDonald you’ve won a leather chair!” “I don’t give a rat’s ass what I’ve won. I don’t want it. Give it to someone else.”  And with that I hung up.

 The day mercifully came to an end and as we shut off the lights to the office, my wife asked me about my day.  I told her about the annoying telemarketer who tried to foist a leather chair on me.  She didn’t have to say anything.  I could tell by the look on her face that the word “idiot” was about to cross her lips.  You see, she had put our names into a draw awhile back when we had purchased new furniture for our home office.

Moments later, she was on the phone frantically trying to track down someone in a call centre to claim stupidity on her husband’s part and to plead for clemency.  A few weeks later, a lovely high backed blue leather chair graced our office.

If I receive a call today saying that I won the 50/50, I will just pass the phone to my wife.  Don’t want to push my luck.