Some marbles remain

Some while ago — BC (before Covid) — we spent most of our summers in the Adirondacks at our beloved Nest.  Our sons built this ‘chalet’ over 25 years ago, with the help of many others. For all of that time we had a tank of tropical fish. It provided entertainment for the grandchildren and tranquillity for the elderly. 

Arranging for the fish to be fed while we were away was a hassle. I did not  trust the white chunks of long lasting food to give them what they needed and tended to rely on neighbours to feed them when they came to water the plants. Eventually, the neighbours also disappeared during the summer and I had to find another solution. About 10 years ago I decided to join the modern era and googled ‘automatic fish feeder’. Lo and behold a reasonably priced one turned up. I ordered it  and assumed it was coming  from Amazon. It arrived on time, but when I tried to install the battery I was stumped. Most of the instructions were in an oriental language and the drawings were of no help. I decided a call to Amazon would be of little assistance and, instead, foolishly perhaps, sent an email to the vendor. 

I was astonished when, within a week, I received a detailed reply with excellent drawings and complete explanations. I installed the battery and all was well. As time went on, however, I became less adept at filling the container with fish food. I simply couldn’t align the container with the motor. Each filling meant hours of frustration. I usually succeeded, but recently on two occasions disaster struck. Though I thought the pieces were aligned, they came apart when I accidentally tapped the unit while it was mounted on the tank. All the food then dropped into the water. The fish were happy but their master — me — was most unhappy.  The spill required that I immediately grab a fishnet and scoop out as much food as I could before it was rapidly sank to the bottom of the tank. 

After the last such incident I decided it was time to buy a better, preferably simpler, and less expensive feeder. Before I got around to exploring the options on the web, it suddenly dawned on me that it could be years before Covid would permit us to cross the border again. That meant we would not be spending any length of time at the Nest or any other foreign destination. Hence, there was no need for an automatic fish feeder. I simply had to remember to feed them by hand as I had done in the pre-bC past.  

This discovery convinced me beyond any possible doubt, that I still have a few good marbles left. Feeding fish by hand may not be the most noteworthy intellectual accomplishment of the decade, but for me it ranks right up there with discovering two black holes colliding — or whatever it is that such holes enjoy doing. And my fish are happy to be fed in person, so to speak.  

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On daily swims

Today is September 2.  In less than a week our local outdoor pool will shut down for the season. A day later, the indoor pool at the YMCA opens. How lucky for me. A while ago I wrote a blog entitled “What a jerk I am” because in all the years we have live here I had not taken advantage of the Y or the outdoor Westmount pool, both one block away. Once I started doing so, it changed my life. 

This past summer we have been unable to visit our country place in the Adirondacks because of Covid, but the outdoor pool compensated well. I have managed to swim for nearly every day. The scheduling only permits an hour so I usually arrive on time. As there is no changing room,  swimmers arrive in bathing suits, take quick showers, and get started.

My swims take about 2 minutes per lap and the pool is 25 metres long. So 20 laps takes 40 minutes. My longest swim this summer was 29 laps. Usually I swim slowly and am more concerned with how long I swim rather than how fast.

I recently discovered that I was having trouble raising my right arm and thought it was from having had polio as a child. Then I found that a slight roll to the left made it easy to use the right arm properly. I now have a nice relaxing steady rhythm, even though my kick is still not great. Most days I have little or no angina and only use a preventive squirt of nitro. If I eat too close to the swim I belch a lot but so far no one has complained. 

A few days ago it was cool and cloudy. When I arrived mid-afternoon at my appointed time I found I had the pool to myself. On a few other occasions, when it rained, it was much the same. Having few swimmers means I can relax more. Specifically, I don’t have to worry about  backstrokers who often repeatedly whack me, or the 300-pounder with flippers on hands and feet who ploughs along at top speed. I fear being concussed if he crashes into me. 

Labour day is around the corner; the pool will close a few days later. Before we know it the leaves will turn. Then summer ends. I will miss these swims; because of them I feel far fitter, more relaxed, and sleep better. I am, as they say, ‘a happy camper.’ Thank goodness, the YMCA awaits right around the corner so I can continue.  By way of a more formal thanks, I offer an ode – the first I have ever written. 

Ode to the Water

Oh Westmount pool

I sing to thee.

I praise thy gentle caress

Giving thanks for

Near-daily access. 

Your waters are as silk

Your warmth comforts my breast

As I breathe I see the sky,

Blue and a cloud-scattered rest.

On clear days

The sun’s ever-shifting rays

Weave patterns in the pool.

To not have swum

Would be dumb 

It could make me 

Such a fool. 

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Happy coincidences: Discovering Yates

I assume that by now most readers of this blog will have concluded that I am passionate about reading. I recently discovered an author I had never heard of.  The discovery came about as the result of several happy coincidences. But, I’m not sure where my story really begins. Perhaps it starts with a 2015 Subaru Impreza. .

Last year I gave up on my beloved Volvo because almost nothing worked properly any more. I gave it to a friend whose car only went backwards which made his plight seem worse than mine. I bought the used Subaru driven rarely by the same little old lady who drives all these cars. This one was a 2015 model that had a place where you could plug-in an iPod. A few weeks later, when rummaging through some drawers for no particular reason I found an old iPod. I had forgotten I had it, thought it would not work, and I had no idea what was on it – if anything.  

Luxuriating in my ‘new’ car, In between listening to audiobooks on CDs and some hockey games and classics on the radio, I decided to give the iPod a try.  It turned out that it not only worked but had on it many classical recordings and and some good jazz.  More importantly to this story of coincidences it also included recordings of a series of broadcasts from BBC 4  done in October 2012. 

One, called BBC Extra Debut, hosted by Nick Fraser, made a persuasive  case for rediscovering the work of  an American novelist, Richard Yates. It seems Yates was much admired by other writers and most critics, but his books never sold well. They disappeared from the bookshelves soon after he died in 1992.  His best book, Revolution Road, was re-published following the release of a movie version starring Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio in 2008. This book was a finalist for the 1962 National Book Award, and his first short story collection, Eleven Kinds of Loneliness, brought comparisons to James Joyce.  As well as the film, interest in Yates was revived by a glowing essay in the Boston Review and by a biography.

After listening to the BBC broadcast I searched for and found an audio version of the book in my library. I listened to it, enthralled. As advertised, it perfectly captured the mores, behaviours, and speech patterns of middle class Americans in the late 50s. The plot was clever, captivating, and well constructed.  

With the book fresh in my mind I returned to BBC recording on my old iPod. I realized that in my determination to discover Yates I had not finished listening to it. When I did I discovered that Yates and I may have been neighbours in Boston. In the early 1960s he lived on Beacon Street in Boston. My wife and I, with our first child Tamara, lived around the corner.  

I urge you to read something by this gifted author. I cannot imagine that you would regret doing so. 

PS… Do you recall an earlier blog about getting rid of books? One that was in the discard pile that I held back on was Steinbeck’s The Pearl. I don’t recall having read it before. I opened it last night and discovered that  It belonged to our local high school had been owned or loaned by students going back to 1964 including one who was, temporarily, my physician. Small, strange world, eh?

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The French have donc and alors; others have “like”; but the rest of the world — especially Americans, it seems — is determined to begin every spoken sentence with ‘’so.” The word is ubiquitous. It drives me mad. We even hear it spoken by intelligent politicians, broadcasters, and academics, especially when replying to a question. I am determined to reduce the frequency of its use, if not eliminate it  entirely. But how?

When I was young I was taught that if you want to get rid of a habit, you need to repeat it until some part of you rebels.  I was never convinced that this technique is sound, but it seemed worth a try. 

So, you ask, why not? So, I reply, there seems to be no alternative. So, I continue, don’t you agree it is worth trying? So, I add, let me explain again why I thought this might work. So, it is like this:  if you say something often enough, I would be more likely to pay attention to your views. 

A further and better example, perhaps, is this familiar conversation after being introduced to someone.  ‘So, Dr. Pless, what kind of doctor are you?” To which I might reply, “So, it’s hard to explain. So, when I was a resident I decided I wanted to do research… etc., etc.”

Snobbily, perhaps, I have been inclined to think of this sort of “so” only as a filled pause, similar to “um,” or “well.” But, given that all readers of this blog are scholarly, I wanted to be sure I was right. Accordingly (note:  not ‘so’), I did some homework and checked with Google. To my astonishment I found several essays supporting the use of the word in this context. One of these was an opinion piece on NPR’s Fresh Air broadcast. (So, What’s The Big Deal With Starting A Sentence With ‘So’ September 3, 2015Heard on Fresh Air)

The Fresh Air essay notes that “so” is a “conversational workhorse”. It announces a new topic, it connects causes to results, it sets up a joke. Geoff Nunberg, the author of the NPR essay claims that starting sentences with “so” isn’t a new trend. We are not doing it any more often than we were fifty years ago. The only difference is that back then nobody had much of a problem with it.

There is, however, hope for increasing company in my growing disdain. Nunberg acknowledges that “It’s the ‘so’ that you hear from people who can’t answer a question without first bringing you up to speed on the backstory.” Apparently this tendency is especially favoured by nerds and techies. Nunberg adds that  “By now that backstory ‘so’ is endemic among members of the explaining classes…” He writes that a psychologist has called it “a weasel word that people use to avoid giving a straight answer.”

Another wit writing in Grammar concludes his lengthy explanation of when, where and how the word can be properly used with the following:  “Putting these thoughts and guidelines into practice should help us rein in runaway so’s in formal writing, so let’s commit to doing so, shall we?” 

Incidentally, informs us that “In English, the word ‘so’ is highly polysemous. In case you don’t know what that term means (I did not), it refers to the fact that “so” can play several grammatical roles:  as an adverb, a conjunction, a pronoun, an interjection, or an adjective. In the context under discussion in this blog, it might act as a coordinating conjunction if the connection were genuinely grammatical. To my ear, it rarely is. 

But there is a downside to this tirade: Ever since I started writing this I found myself using the dreaded word repeatedly at the beginning of sentences. It is infectious! Beware!! 

While we are at it, can we please do something about “you know”? Nowadays, far too many conversations are laced with this meaningless phrase, to which most of the time, if I were in the mood to respond, I would shout, “NO! I DO NOT KNOW!” 

Maybe I’m being greedy and asking too much. Reluctantly, I will settle for banning either one of these irritants and take up my cudgel against whichever remains at some later date.

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Bah bah blog – an update

Some time around 2016  I decided I wanted to write a regular blog. This proved to be a challenge for several reasons. One was that at the time I was not sure what a blog was.  I looked it up and learned from Wikipedia that the word itself is a truncation of ‘web log’ . It entry also explains that a blog is “A discussion or informational website … consisting of discrete, often informal diary-style text entries (posts).” With that out of the way, I proceeded and made a start. Then I faltered and did not recommence for another two years. . I resurrected the project in 2018 not knowing who, if anyone, might read it.  I did not even know how they would know it exists and I am still not sure I understand the process. 

I recently realized that the blog is hosted by a website that is fairly expensive and is, of course, in US dollars.  I wanted to know if there were enough readers to justify the cost. I have now been able to answer part of that question: It seems I have posted 44 blogs that have been , viewed by 801 visitors (not necessarily different people). For some reason or other, the statistics indicate that my blogs have been viewed over 1800 times. I do not believe this is correct. 

Some blogs have proven to be far more popular than others. I was not surprised to learn that those that are brief are more warmly received than the long ones. The most popular was ‘More Chatchkes’ – 55 views. The least popular each received only two viewings. The topics of these failures included ‘Miracle Wrap update’, ‘In need of a new word’, and ‘Your time is valuable.’ It only goes to prove… I am not sure what!

The website that handles all this is  It is a bit complicated but once you get the hang of it it does a good job. It provides other statistics if you know where to look. For example, you can differentiate views from visitors – suggesting that one visitor is so enthralled or such a slow reader, he or she returns several times to read the same blog. Reassuringly, the number of views is always greater than the number of visitors. I even have learned who my 14 followers are though only some are people I know. I also know who I invited but declined. I can even tell which posts garnered the most comments and how many words on average each commenter used. I know for certain that our daughter, Tamara, is my most faithful reader and commentator. 

Fascinating stuff, no doubt. But is it worth over $80 US per year? I have decided to abandon WordPress when it expires next year. During the transition I intend to combine the blogs with these fortnightly Staying-in-Touch emails. Fair warning. I should add that I could not bear to part with links to all the old blogs so I copied them all, did some light editing, and intend to put them in a slim printed volume. For posterity, of course. 

All joking aside, when COVID began to isolate us, I resolved to keep in touch with family and friends and sent an email to about 60 of them every fortnight. Not everyone replies; I don’t expect them to. But those who do seem to appreciate the initiative. I  concluded that the recipients of this email are a better target for my blogs. Doing so will save me a bundle of money that I promise will go to a good charity. 

With many thanks for your patience,  

Posted in MUSINGS, Uncategorized, writing | 5 Comments

Don’t put off saying it

few roses and scattered petals on desktop
Had he lived, my dad would have been 117 years old today. He died on June 22, 1997 at age 94. I considered writing something about his life, but realized that would be too personal for a blog. Instead, after attending a memorial service for him via Zoom, I chose a related topic. Before saying more, I want to state that the recent Father’s Day is mostly unrelated to this message, but it does lead into what I have in mind. 
I want to share some thoughts about how we behave with the sick and dying.  Obviously these thoughts were prompted by the anniversary of my father’s death, but they apply equally to any relative, friend or colleague. When anyone we love, respect, or owe gratitude toward dies, we too often think about what we wish we had said when they were alert and well. I’m not talking about the perfunctory sentiments expressed on birthdays, fathers’ days, retirements, or other such occasions.
It’s easy to agree on this point about timing our expressions of love and appreciation. There may be other questions about when is best, but there are other perhaps more important questions related to why we need to say these things and for whom we do so.  If there are aspects of your relation with someone that require a degree of reconciliation, then it should also be done before the person dies or becomes insensate. Clearly, religious beliefs are part of the answers for many, and of course, these questions have no right or wrong answers. 
To reiterate the when: I am convinced that you should never delay sharing your thoughts or feelings with those who matter to you; don’t put it off. There will never be a perfect moment. Because these conversations may be difficult for us, we tend to justify a delay by telling ourselves that saying anything that could hint at impending death should be avoided lest it upset the person. This is a foolish notion: I suspect most of those who are near death realize that the end is near and some may even welcome it. It does no good to pretend all is well. This pretence does not excuse us from withholding our feelings. Ideally gratitude and positive thoughts should be repeated often. What harm can there be in saying to a parent, spouse, child, or other, “You are a good person; I admire you; I love who you are. I am grateful to you and I want to thank you for being my parent, spouse, child or other”?
The why is complicated because it is so closely linked to the question: for whom do we say these things? For the dying or for ourselves? We may do so to avoid spending the future with regrets, or simply in an effort to bring comfort to the dying. Or maybe it doesn’t matter and the most sensible answer is ‘both’. No matter what your beliefs about the hereafter, those who live on carry a bundle of memories with them. These include acts of omission, possibly even of commission, that we regret. We should acknowledge these acts with those we love or to whom we owe thanks. The timing is never ‘right’ but it is often ‘wrong’:  if we wait too long and put off saying what we feel, we may miss our chance entirely. 
I’m sorry if this comes across as a message on a Hallmark card. It is not just a product of old age; I tried to express much the same idea years ago. In 2001 I wrote an editorial with the title “Mentoring and Momenti: On Timely Thanks.” It followed the death of a cherished mentor, Jack Tizard. I wrote about how deeply I regretted not thanking him properly for all he had done for me. Sadly, the same feelings were true for many others, including, of course, family.
Posthumous eulogies are largely worthless. I resolve to say thanks whenever and wherever I think about it. Consider doing likewise. 

close up of a withering sunflower

PS… This message applies equally to the young, fit and well, especially family. Tell them often and clearly not just that you love them, but why you do. 

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In Defense of Trivia (or Love in the Time of Cholera, 2020)

Two days ago I sent off a ‘staying-in-touch’ email to about 60 friends and family.  Initially, I had intended to use it in this blog, but as it was time for my Covid-free fortnightly email I chose to use it there. That email described my reactions to a book I had been on the verge of throwing out but instead decided to add to my toilet reading. I was impressed at how well the book was researched and wanted to share my pleasure with my readers. My comments were certainly not intended to suggest that this book about the origins of everyday things was in the same league as War and Peace, but the times seemed conducive to some diversionary reading. 

I have been doing this sort of email for nearly two months. Generally, it seems to be well-received. Only a few respondents asked to be removed from the list;  surprisingly few failed to respond at all. In reference to these, I concluded that either their emails were wrong, or that they had died. (I refuse to entertain the idea that they might have decided they no longer wanted to bothered by me). To this mailing some replied quickly and several even announced they intended to buy the book! (I was not trying to boost its sales, but did mention that it was still being printed). 


One quick dissenting response was from a former student, now a distinguished researcher working in China. He was not at in the least impressed with my choice. Below, is some of what he wrote. It is slightly edited because English is not his first language. 

“Besides academic reasons,,,  the question is whether to know “the source of everything” is of any value in daily life besides spending more time in the toilet. More practically, is it is (not) better to spend …. the same amount of time on finding solutions for daily challenges?

I think the focus on “finding solutions on everyday problems” is a better use of our limited time…. I react today because I think it is a wrong use of our time and a mistake of our Western philosophy / psychoanalysis to believe that it is necessary to understand the source of everything in order to find the solutions. 

In spite of some stumbles, I understood his message and replied that I did not agree. For me, at a time of stress, there is value in attention to unimportant matters. To help hammer that point home, I will paste here one of the examples I included in my email copied from the book in question. It was one I mostly chose for fun but also because it related to my decision to allocate the book  to my  ‘toilet reading’. I  hasten to add, that is not at all derogatory. What appears below is a photo of two pages from the reference section of the which I cleverly stitched together.  (For the record, I was one of the many who believed the Crapper account, and for those who do not know it, that term is one of the many ways Europeans refer to the toilet). 

Screen Shot 2020-05-11 at 2.58.46 PM

By way of an encore, and to reinforce my conviction that it is helpful to acquire  tiny bits of information when we may be too stressed to doing anything more substantial, you will find below a copy of some footnotes from a similar book. It also exists in the realm of toilet-reading, albeit this one lives on a different commode. 

Photo on 2020-05-11 at 4.21 PM

These are just a of the literally hundreds of footnotes in the book, one on almost every page.   You may already know them; you may have no interest; you may think they are all trivial, or simply silly.  You may even wonder if they are true. So be it. Do with them what you may. The book is 499 pages long and I chose one every 50 pages or so. 

  • Sure but  why? Scientists have figured out how to store video in the DNA of bacteria. 
  • The first draft of Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” is six pages long.
  • Sea monkeys breathe through their feet.
  • 9,000 years ago, an ear of corn was about one-tenth the size it is today. 
  • Harvard University (est. 1536) is older than calculus (1660s). 
  • Ants breathe but they don’t have lungs. (No insects do).
  • Hang up! There is 18 times more bacteria on your smartphone than on a toilet handle. 
  • When sunlight hits the Eiffel Tower, the metal heats up and expands, causing the tower to grow as much as 6 inches. 
  • A fence designed to keep dingoes out of sheep-grazing land in Australia, is longer than the distance from Seattle to Miami. 
  • Per her request, Elizabeth Taylor’s funeral began 15 minutes later than it was scheduled. (She wanted to be late to her own funeral). 
  • You’re 33 times more likely to be killed by bess than you are to win a lottery jackpot. 

Given my choosing method, I then these are reasonably random. If you judge them all to be pointless, you may then ask why in the world am I wasting my time on these blogs. Now THAT is a good question. All replies are welcome. 

Blog, May 11, 2020





Posted in Books, MUSINGS, Old age, Toilet reading, Uncategorized | 3 Comments

Getting rid of books

Although the fashionable term nowadays is decluttering, I have too much affection for most of my old books to think of them in this respect. But the time has come when I absolutely MUST part with many. Doing so, however, involves two problems: which to choose and where should they go?

The hardest part is the first of these: deciding which to part with. There seems to be no simple guide. I am certainly unlikely to re-read many – if any – of them again, much as I might wish to do so. There are so many treasures among them; books I loved for much of my life and others that are simply ‘important books’ that deserve to be spared. And, of course, some are both, loved and cherished.

Then there are some, easily identifiable, that I can part with without much angst albeit a few odd regrets. After a book I edited was published by Oxford University Press (OUP) I began receiving requests from OUP for reviews of books they had under consideration. The reward for these reviews was not monetary but a choice of books in their catalogue. I usually chose the most expensive, but most of these were tomes I never bothered to read (although the dictionaries and such were useful). They all looked good on my bookshelves and gave some visitors the impression that I was more scholarly than I really was. Perhaps in this category are also a dozen or so that were acquired when we were part of a Book of the Month club. These too we also neglected to read. We used to joke about the Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire and other such heavy-duty challenges. 

In another category are the few books I had written, edited, or in which I had written a chapter. Then I asked myself, why? And – atypically – I had no good answer. I had no intention of reading them again. They were usually painful to write and I suspected, even way back then, that they would never be read. Nor could I imagine any of my family reading them. I know no library was keen to have any of them. I offered them to my local library, my hospital and university libraries but none were in the least interested. Not because they were ‘bad’, or even because they were outdated. They were both, but I guess mostly because they would consume precious space. (Or were the librarians too polite to tell the truth?)

So much for choosing possible discards. Determining which are ‘keepers’ is more difficult. There are many books on my shelves that I hope some of our children or grandchildren may want to read. Failing that, they may be offered to old friends. These would include many classics: Dickens, Jane Austen, Shakespeare and collections of poetry. All the great Russians. Then there were closer to home authors that need to be kept for patriotic reasons including, for example, Jack London and Mark Twain. I guess Mordecai Richler falls into this group and, now that I think of it, there are at least a dozen strictly Canadian writers that must be protected for posterity. Finally, I am not ashamed to admit that I would be reluctant not to try to pass one many favourite ‘popular’ writers including Simenon and John Macdonald. Sheepishly I confess I am also inclined to keep the only two books I received as prizes: the first a high school English prize – something by Costain that I never read; the other a Pediatric textbook for the highest marks in paediatrics and thus the main reason for choosing this specialty. I did read some of this one.

The second question was, where might the discards go? So far, I have been dumping them, box by box, in a large container at our local library. This forces others to decide which should be junked and which someone might be willing to take or buy. There may be other such dumping destinations but this is the most convenient. I confess, however, that the longer I do it – especially with badly worn books – the more I realize that I may be doing something naughty. I don’t want to caught and labelled a ‘book dumper’. (I just coined that phrase). And I am haunted by memories of the burning scenes in Fahrenheit 451. 

What I absolutely cannot even consider doing is putting any book out with the garbage (trash for my American friends), or even in the recycling dump. Even the worst of them deserve more respect than that!IMG_1648.jpeg


Posted in Books, Old age, The environment, Uncategorized | Tagged | 4 Comments

My life transformed

I have a strange body. As is true of most of my fellow octogenarians, I have a small but significant pot belly, but unlike many others, I have a truly small bum. Consequently, my trousers – no matter which I wear – have a nasty habit of sliding down. They do so even when my belt is tightly fastened. Hence I spend a lot of time grabbing them when I am trying to cook or wash dishes,  or even when out walking. In fact it was more than just grabbing: much of the day I had to hold on to my trousers while doing other things. It  was beginning to be truly troublesome, and, at times, embarrassing.

Some of my family and friends suggested I try wearing different trousers. But, as I wrote, this seemed to make little difference. Others suggested I use suspenders (braces). I was reluctant to do so even though I had acquired several pair (is that really plural?) that were actually quite attractive. Well, at least they were unusual. My reluctance to wear them stemmed back to my childhood. At that time most boys wore suspenders. But then, as I assumed still would be true today, I realized that if I was wearing a sweater with them, I had to remove the sweater or jacket whenever I needed to make what we then called ‘number two’. For those who are mystified by this terminology the hint is that urinating was number 1. (Of historical interest, in those days if you had to leave class to visit the ‘bathroom’ you signalled the reason  by raising your hand and showing one or two fingers. NO, I  am NOT making this up!) Anyway, my point is that at that wearing suspenders was, at best, a nuisance and occasionally a disaster if you could not shed the layers fast enough.  

Recently, however, I realized that my wardrobe had changed somewhat over the last 70  years. Specifically, nowadays I rarely wear sweaters or if I do it is likely to be a cardigan that is easy to remove. More often, I simply wear a shirt. All of which is to explain that adding a pair of suspenders would not pose the same problem as it did long ago. Accordingly, I decided to try them again. I did so and they are now incorporated into my regular  wardrobe – such as it is. And … what a relief! How my life has been transformed!! I no longer clutch at my waistband or am vexed at ever-descending trousers. Free at last! 

By the way, as I searched for a synonym for braces or suspenders, I learned that the word ‘braces’ was first used in the  14th century. It originated from the Middle English for Anglo-French for clasp or pair or support. These words derive from the Latin ‘bracchia’ –  the plural of bracchium or arm. Suspenders, however, has no synonym and is simply  defined as “one of two supporting bands worn across the shoulders to support trousers, skirt, or belt —usually used in plural and often with pair”.  

So to be entirely safe, in future I shall refer to my things as ‘a pair of suspenders’. That should not be confused with the fussy phrase ‘belt and braces’ which is what our children urge me to adopt … that is, both belt and braces …  just in case one fails and they, the family, is cast into everlasting shame.

Photo on 2020-03-05 at 6.29 PM

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More on cooking

In the mid-sixties we lived in Rochester NY for 8 years. It was a great experience because we were in the midst of an early wave of progressive causes. One of these was the co-op movement that we joined and from which we bought, among other things, sacks of wheat to make our own bread. This was my first introduction to cooking and it was reasonably successful – so much so, that when we moved to Montreal in 1975 – we brought the sacks of wheat with us. McGill was paying the moving costs. At the  time I knew how to bake bread reasonably well though I recall one attempt at either bagels or chala ended up with an object that only served well as a doorstop!

In Montreal I did little cooking for a long while. Then, around 2000 – near the time of my retirement – I began to assist Ann with various recipes. An early one, which remains a favourite, was an entirely “spontaneous” vegetable soup. There was no recipe, just an amalgam of all the veggies on hand: potatoes, onions, leeks, mushrooms, parsnips, and some seasoning. Later, I began to assist in the far more challenging and laborious making of orange marmalade. After Ann died, I continued to do so, but my success rate remains about 50%. The last two batches included one successful, and a second that was still soupy after three tries with supplementary pectin. This is the most challenging dishes I try each year when the Seville oranges arrive, usually in January.

Along the way I perfected a banana cake recipe – simple and satisfying. Somewhat less simple but equally popular and usually good was my honey cake.  I can nicely cook fish and chicken and have had some successes with beef in the slow cooker. I have also had many slow cooker disappointments. The quails that were traditional for our anniversary dinner the week before Xmas seem to have fallen out of favour. My roast beef has improved, as has a roast leg of lamb. Occasionally, the tricky Yorkshire puddings are worthy of praise. The most recent triumph, quite unexpected, was oxtail soup. I am anxious to try some calves brain and maybe a few other related exotica but have not yet summoned the courage. A reasonably consistent triumph is gravlax – the Scandinavian equivalent of smoked salmon but far cheaper and incredibly easy. I am also good at toast and tea, made the British way in a teapot with tea leaves.

Generally, I think – especially for a latecomer – I am a reasonably good cook. I have learned that only some recipes demand strict obedience, especially baking while others allow for creativity. In other words, there are many recipes that you can take with a grain of salt (clever pun intended). You can usually take liberties with the amounts of salt, sugar. But you cannot risk exchanging baking soda with baking powder. I am not much good with herbs and spices and other forms of seasoning.

As a bonus for my faithful followers (both of you), here is my recipe for gravlax. If it works as well for you as it does for me, you may never buy smoked salmon again.

  1. Buy a not too thick, not too large piece of reasonably good salmon.
  2. Mix half cup of coarse salt and half cup of sugar with about ¼ cup of fresh dill cut into small pieces. (It doesn’t matter how small but probably the smaller the better. I do it with scissors, but it could be chopped).
  3. Rinse then pat the salmon with paper towel. Put a sheet of saran wrap on the bottom of a casserole or a glass dish long enough for the salmon to sit comfortably.
  4. Sprinkle half the salt/sugar/dill mixture on the saran wrap. Lay the salmon skin side down; sprinkle same again over the top of the salmon; cover with saran wrap.
  5. Put a board over the top; add a weight; put in the fridge for 12 hours; turn the wrapped salmon over; repeat after another 12 hours; repeat one final time. Total about 36 hours.
  6. Take out of fridge and pour off the fat that has leached out; scrape off remaining mixture from top and bottom; slice thinly and serve preferably with brown bread.
  7. Bask in the praise that is certain to follow. 

  8. IMG_1519

Gravlax … awaiting consumption. 

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