Thursday, August 02, 2012


So we're renting a cottage for a week with the Roomie, L'Armi, Pingy and Montreal I.  I'm super-pumped and I love all those cats to death.  I threw up a menu plan because I've been project managing this whole ordeal and that's what I do.  I don't really need to know what other people are making, of course, it's really just a place so that we can divide up responsibilities for common items and so that you don't end up with like, five bottles of olive oil or something.

The Roomie is notorious for saying stuff to me like, "I really just like fruit for dessert" and then eating a tonne of whipped cream or rhubarb eton mess, which used to drive me crazy when we were living together but now I'm removed from it so it's no biggie.  You just go on lying to yourself.  I was a little concerned that we would be bringing up proper cottage food (read: chips, and plenty of 'em!) and then she would bring like, Brazil nuts and sunflower seeds and then eat all my chips and Cheezies, but I reconciled myself to it.  I totally did.

Then we had a phone chat where she's talking about how she would prefer to do all her cooking in advance and just bring up frozen entrees to the cottage and I was like, "okay, that's cool." but internally I'm like,'re at the cottage for 7 days.  That's 168 hours.  What are you going to do with all that leisure time?!?  Cooking at the cottage is one of the major events for the day!!!  But I'm like, okay, sure, I can deal with that.  It's like when we divided up cooking responsibilities last year at my family's cottage week and for once made my mum contribute something other than being a giant succubus who basically sits on her iPad and then demands to be fed and then doesn't help clean.  So my mum was like, "I'm doing 'cook your own' steaks" and the Dotytron was like, "ABSOLUTELY NOT.  The whole point is that I DON'T have to cook my own dinner.  I want your mother to come down to the dock, and say, 'dinner is ready' and I come up and dinner is in front of me."  In the end, it was a mix.  She roped Uncle Rico into cooking the steaks and she had prepared salads and dessert that she had obviously put a lot of thought into.

That's the thing: I don't know if the reticence is because of: a) laziness; b) self-consciousness about cooking skills; c) lack of enjoyment of food (and by extension, life).  In my mom's case, it was a bit of A and B.  That I can totally get.  You want to do a good meal and you're nervous about pulling it off.  Totally understandable.  A and C alone are the pisser ones.  Because it's like, YOLO dudes, YOLO.  People who don't enjoy food totally confound me.  And I totally THOUGHT that the Roomie was a foodie.  But then the Dotytron set me straight.  Left to her own devices she has weird tastes (that is, she will eat gummy bears and coconut ice pops and acidophilus and Taco Bell) that occasionally dovetail with mine.  When the Roomie was living with us, she was basically getting gourmet meals (which she contributed financially to) and leftovers and I thought that because of this, she was a chowhound.  I was wrong.  Basically, if you walk up to her and leave food on her doorstep, she'll eat it if it's convenient, but she's not really going to search out food or she doesn't think about it.  No biggie.

Anyway, this is all to say that the Roomie and L'Armi updated their cottage menu plan and one of their breakfast offerings is oatmeal and I'm all like: A#$(#@*(!! and feel like I'm being punished.  That is NOT my idea of vacation food, yo.  Just scramble some eggs, you cowards!  You can do it!  Especially cuz I KNOWS you're going to be scarfing down my cornflake crunch French toast with Mennonite smoked breakfast sausage like there's no tomorrow (YOLO).  So...does it make me a dick if I bring my own bacon and make myself a bacon'n'egg sammy on the oatmeal morning?  Think about it in the spirit of YOLO.  I'm also of the opinion that when I go over to people's houses for dinner, I want to be served meat.  A comment that infamously got me in trouble that time we went to R & R's house and they made pasta puttanesca and I inadvertently slammed the meal (which was delicious).

At the end of the day, I'm just grumbling and being a giant, pissy curmudgeon. I'm sure I'll love the oatmeal and I love the Roomie to death and I know and accept her indifferent attitude to the spirit of excessive cottage consumption.

...I still might bring up a pack of personal bacon, though.

We were talking about YOLO with R & R when we hung with them a couple of weekends ago and about how all the grade school kids are all YOLO-ing all over the place and I we were wondering if YOLO works the other way.  So like, do you want to go snorkel through the Great Barrier Reef? YOLO.  Do you want to supervise a Grade 8 field trip to Quebec City? Uhhh, no. YOLO (from the teacher's perspective).  Pretty funny.

So I've recently become obsessed with Neil deGrasse Tyson and I think I want him to be my dad.  He's awesome and I've put a hold on every DVD he's ever been involved with and bringing it with me to the cottage, which will undoubtedly make Montreal I very happy, because she is one of the geekiest knowledge-hunters I count amongst my friends.

Speaking of wondering in the universe and how we can feel both big and small.  The Big Yam is a riot, lately.  He's started saying "oh" in context, and the style of the "oh" modulated in response to the scenario presented and it's SO FREAKIN' FUNNY.  It kills me and the Dotytron every time.

Big Yam: "Baba! Help!" (wanting to help grate zucchini)
The Dotyron: "Sorry, buddy, I'm just finishing up here."
Big Yam: "Oh."

He also says things really wrong sometimes, and then when we try to correct him, he does this thing where he slooowly repeats back to us his wrong pronunciation.  So, for instance, he calls "ambulances" "bee-bim."  He's got insane super-sonic hearing, so he heard an ambulance while we were driving and piped up from the back seat, "bee-bim!"

Me: "It's AM-BU-LANCE."
Big Yam: "Oh."
*long pause*
Big Yam: "Mama?"
Me: "Yes?"
Big Yam: "Baba?"
Dotytron: "Yes, buddy?"
Big Yam: "BEE-BIM."

Last night for dinner I made us a low-carb cobb salad with chicken breasts brushed with my chipotle bbq sauce, bacon, avocadoes, lettuce, tomatoes, and a creamy buttermilk-chive dressing.

Tonight R (Momma D's friend who owns the farm and who rooms with her during the week when she works in Toronto), had brought back a boneless leg of lamb from farm country, that I marinated in red wine, garlic, oregano, and rosemary.  We grilled it and had it with zucchini fritters and CSA snowpeas tossed with scape pesto.  I also made a blueberry pudding cake with whipped cream, on account of me nailing a perfect medium on the lamb and all.


1 comment:

Nicole said...

The big yam doesn't take word corrections. YOLO mom and dad.