Bixis and bike thieves

July 28, 2010

Bea Arthur, the new blue bike I so excitedly posted about in April, was stolen from my porch two nights ago. I didn’t have it properly locked up because I’m naive and overly trusting (and didn’t think anyone would be so foolish as to steal a rusting vintage cruiser with one existing brake and a dangling, nonfunctional shifter). I suppose I have learned my lesson and am doing what any freshly-minted realist would do: keeping daily tabs on Craigslist and seething.

I moved to Toronto in the fall of 2004 with a 40-year-old Schwinn two-speed strapped to my parents’ rental minivan, the ride a relic from my grandmother’s wig wearin’ and child rearin’ middle years. “Toronto’s the bike theft capital of North America,” my dorm’s third-floor R.A. warned me as I struggled to manoeuvre  my clunky green cruiser into the elevator’s open mouth without dinging its fenders. I know now what she was thinking then, that my well-cared-for vintage pinup bike begged to be seized and resold to the first vain 19-year-old willing to cough up a hundred of her daddy’s dollars for the privilege. The bike was slow, had an unwieldy shifting mechanism and was unforgivingly heavy, but it sure was sexy to look at. I, however, was less concerned with humping a trophy bike than with the radical concept that my wheels should possess the ability to move at least a little faster than walking pace. So, the following summer, the green cruiser was returned to the  garage from whence it came and, in its place, my mother’s hideous early-’90s black Schwinn hybrid made the journey to Toronto. Not cool by any stretch of the imagination, but a more than adequate city bike whose theft-proof aesthetics eased my mind. Bea Arthur came into play only after my Paris-bound former roommate needed it gone, and I figured I’d be safe.

I figured incorrectly.

At least there will be bicycles for everyone else. Tonight is the launch party for Toronto’s BIXI bike share program, and I will be there with my Hopey Glass haircut and a pair of sore feet—because, let’s face it, cyclists don’t invest in walking shoes.


All I want to do do do is dance!

July 16, 2010

I just finished week one of my new job as a program manager at an NGO (!) so I’ve been a bit distracted, but a real post will follow soon. I’m so happy, and so excited to update you on all the thrilling personal, foodie, and crafty going-ons of the last couple of weeks. I’m so pleased with how July has shaped up thus far, and it’s only getting better. I hope the same can be said for YOUR month, too! Now, my big sloppy grin and I have to go and let loose. Happy Friday, dolls!


Ah, Wilderness!

July 6, 2010

The past few months have been exciting, unnerving, and overwhelmingly stressful. Thankfully, this past weekend I had the great joy of leaving my second boyfriend (aka the city of Toronto, my hot hazy piece of love on the side) to spend some time reacquainting myself with that which we call the Great Outdoors. The bf and I rented a car and motored off to Oka, Quebec, a land I once knew solely for its delicious cheeses and Mohawk territory tensions.  Turns out, Oka is also the site of Parc National d’Oka–a Quebec national (or ‘provincial’ if you’re a true Federalist) park. In other words, woods. And beach. Oh, glorious beach. Sure, it was car camping (which some will argue is not *really* camping at all), but it helped me to clear my head. So, there.

For one, we hiked. A lot.

We acted out Quebecois stereotypes by drinking Molson Dry beer and eating beachside poutine in the sweltering, 30 degree celcius sunshine.

(Actually, only Jon did that. )

We visited the Abbey of Notre-Dame du Lac, the Trappist monastery where Oka cheese used to be made. It is now a heritage site, and the cheese is made in a factory down the road.

While at the abbey, we looked at pictures of the monks who used to make the cheese. This picture here is from 1960. There were others from the 19th century, as well, but I liked this one because it showed the cheesemakers in action. They look so serene, as though the creation of cheese is a devotional act. I wonder if making cheese brought them closer to God, if it gave the monks a heightened sense of religious vocation. Maybe they were just hungry.

On our last day in Oka, we had friends come to visit us for a day of beaching and fireside barbecue. One of them is staying in nearby Montreal for the month, so we opted to pack up and join her for the grand finale of our vacation. The jazz festival is wrapping up there, so we caught some stiltwalkers and musical acts. We also hit up Tam-Tam, the weekly Sunday drum circle at Mount Royal park. Jon (as a highly skilled drummer) and I (as a bore) tend to find drum circles irritating, but Tam-Tam is always a good time. Our friend quickly spotted a separate group of men playing an assortment of Brazilian percussion instruments, and Jon joined them for a brief jam on the tamborim. The drummers’ eyes lit up as soon as he started playing. “Samba!” said one older man excitedly. Cliche as it may sound, music really does bring people together.

I met up afterward with a friend who closely follows (and blogs about) the Montreal jazz scene. Her boyfriend was drumming as part of an “organ jam,” a late night jazz improv session featuring some really astounding musicians (including a jazz organist, of course). I’m not a jazz expert by any stretch of the imagination, but even my novice ears could tell this music was HOT. It was a suitable ending to a solid weekend–and an appropriate segue into the literally hot, real-life heatwave that awaited me back home.


Weekend of mayhem

June 28, 2010

Oy. This has been an intense week, followed by a particularly treacherous weekend. The G20 summit affected my city in ways I could never have anticipated. Friends of mine were arrested without cause, assaulted by police, gassed and targeted with rubber bullets. Storefronts in the downtown core of my beloved city were smashed to bits by out-of-towners in black sweats, including some small businesses whose owners I am told will have to pay for the damage out of their own pockets. I spoke with a heavily accented business owner after Saturday’s mayhem as he stood, destroyed, outside of his vandalized jewelry store beside a pile of glass. I asked him whether his business had been looted, and he shrugged. “Don’t know yet,” he said blankly, though I immediately recognized that this was beyond the point. He, as a small business owner who came from elsewhere to make a life in Canada, had been targeted along with big businesses who are actually able to absorb the costs of the damage. He wasn’t expecting this kind of treatment. He shouldn’t have.

I saw a police cruiser set ablaze, was charged by riot cops, was illegally searched, and in general felt like an outsider watching the spectacle of my city from behind a hazy shield. The city sat in stillness as we, its residents, tried to march through our daily lives like zombies as tension brewed around us. This is not the home I know. This was not my city.

Today is a beautiful summer day, but I remain shaken by the tension of the last 72 hours. Please forgive me if I seem discouraged or pessimistic.


My father is fantastic

June 20, 2010

I was going to title this post “Dads are awesome,” but decided against it for three reasons: 1.) Not all dads are awesome. Some are awful, and it’s a shame; 2.) I have never once in my life called my father “Dad,” so it would be weird to go on talking about him with the word “Dad” attached, because that isn’t his name; 3.) This post is about MY father, who IS awesome.

First off, some clarification of nomenclature: my father is “Papa.” He was “Papito” when I was very small, and then “Papi” for a brief while when I got a little older, but for most of my life he has been Papa. None of this “Dad” or “Daddy” business for Rick K.

Growing up, I went back and forth between thinking my father knew everything and thinking that he was a tremendous dork, but adulthood has given me some perspective into his extraordinary life and how *actually* cool he is. After graduating from university in 1978 during a previous “great recession,” he applied for a job at a salt warehouse. When that didn’t pan out, he joined the Peace Corps–something for which he, as a fluent speaker of Spanish, was actually somewhat qualified to do. He was shipped out to rural El Salvador, where he installed dry pit latrines, contracted hookworm, and fell in love with a beautiful and ballsy young teacher. When the volunteers were pulled out of the country in early 1980 due to rapidly escalating political tensions, my father (then barely 23 years old, a full year younger than I am now) got legal paperwork together to make the Salvadoran teacher his wife. Then, he went back into the warzone to marry and retrieve her. My mother.

My father spent the entirety of my childhood working full time (first as a municipal affairs reporter, then as an addictions counselor, then for the last 20 years as an educational psychologist) in addition to either pursuing a degree (he has completed both a Master’s and PhD in my lifetime, both while also working 40+ hour weeks and co-raising us kids) or teaching university classes. He’s a guy who has stuck to his guns and cultivated his passions to make a real impact on his family and community while also making my brothers and I feel valued, respected, and loved. I can’t think of anything more heroic, and I look up to him tremendously.

Big Rick shows Little Rick his new toy

Happy Father’s Day, you big lug!


How not to take things for granted

June 16, 2010

Sometimes you realize how lucky you are to have the things you have, but usually you take them for granted. By “you,” I mean “me.” After seeing Azar Nafisi last night (and having the privilege to write about it), I’m reminded of the great gift it is to be free to chase your curiosities and passions without fear of pursuit. I hope to keep this in mind for a long, long while.


Seeing Azar Nafisi

June 15, 2010

I hope my last post didn’t make anyone think I’m on the brink of flinging myself into oncoming traffic (because a precariously employed Type-A is essentially tragedy waiting to happen). If there’s any truth to my life, it’s that things always end up working out. Tonight, that half-full glass comes in the form of Azar Nafisi.

I first encountered Nafisi in my first year of university, when the spine of her memoir Reading Lolita in Tehran caught my attention from a packed bookcase at Milwaukee’s  Broad Vocabulary bookstore. I had only just read Lolita myself, which had left enough of an impression to keep me submerged in a state of dreamy fangirl veneration for at least the following year, so even though I knew nothing about anything (and even less about Iran), I was sure I needed this book.

I plowed through Nafisi’s account of clandestine book club meetings in one sitting and immediately decided that she would be my new hero. The timing was perfect: my recently handwritten four-page fan letter to my childhood role model, Madeleine L’Engle, had gone unanswered (I had no way of knowing, but she was in the clutches of dementia at the time), so I was ready for an upgrade.

While the transition from 18 to 19 isn’t quite a leap from innocence to adulthood, for me it marked the difference between a time when it seems appropriate to pen hyperbolic confessionals to your literary role models and one in which you respect their work from a measured distance. Maybe this is the reason I never bombarded Azar Nafisi’s literary agent with a slew of emails until the poor, defeated soul relented with a contact address for my stalking convenience. Still, I can’t help but imagine how my 19-year-old self would react if she knew I was about to see Azar Nafisi, in the flesh, as a rookie Toronto journalist five years down the line. She’d probably look in the mirror and breathe a sigh of relief.


Chronicles of funemployment

June 14, 2010

Since the beginning of February, I have been without consistent employment. Sure, I’ve been freelancing with relative consistency and office temping, written more than I’ve ever written and traveled more than I’ve ever traveled. Still, as I sit between temp contracts (and save for a few freelance writing gigs) I can count myself among those social castaways we refer to, with judgment and pity, as “the unemployed.” And, as I am here to tell you, it absolutely sucks.

I’ve gained ten pounds (ten! in four months! and I’m short!), tested a few new hairstyles and a couple new lifestyles, consumed unprecedented amounts of coffee and watched the weeks pass with an increasing sense of self-reflection as the temporary no man’s land I anticipated in late winter has turned into a seemingly permanent state of limbo. I’ve heard an impossibly manicured prospective employer gently inform me that I am overqualified to work for her, endured a pointed “don’t you have a real job yet?” from someone I terribly respect, and been on the receiving end of a whole lot of sympathetic nods. I will actually avoid social situations where the question “so, what do you do?” will be asked, which means that I haven’t been getting out as often as I probably should. My life has become a war zone of twentysomething career angst, and my home office is my fallout shelter.

I pretend I am not at the end of my fraying, tension-wrought rope so that I can get through the day without a deluge of self pity. This is the pill of poison I have chosen for myself, the aftermath of a spring of travel and whimsy. I carry on because I know this is temporary. I know this, because I haven’t ever stopped moving. I know this because I have skills, ambitions, a work ethic, and a burning curiosity to learn anything about everything.  I know this because to consider anything else is too hard.


Personality Crisis!

June 10, 2010

I’m having a little bit of a personality crisis. Okay, so maybe it’s more of an identity crisis, but I really wanted to use the New York Dolls as an AV aid.

Specifically, this blog is having a crisis of direction. I started writing BGH in November with the very ambitious goal of making it a nearly-daily forum for ideas, recipes, and projects. Trouble is, I don’t know what this thing has become. Back in May I had the idea to restructure and introduce new features, but I didn’t follow through. People just didn’t seem interested, and I don’t want to bother folks with things they don’t care to read.

I guess the question I have is, what should I keep writing about? Should I focus more on the food? Should I focus more on myself? Should I entertain more of the DIY projects and current-event opinions that I’ve only occasionally brought up so far? More Toronto-focused content? Less Toronto-focused content? I want to know.

TELL ME, DEAR FRIENDS!!

(……..please?)

XO Kelli


Marbled Nutella cupcakes

June 2, 2010

Yesterday was the main squeeze’s 25th birthday, so the least I could do (apart from encouraging him to drink entirely too much beer on a work night, of course) was bake the man some cupcakes. Since Jon’s all about the milk chocolate and hazelnut combo, I figured, “heck, why not just dump a pile of Nutella into some cupcake batter?” So, that was precisely what I set out to do.

That’s the view of my marbled chocosensation from the top. While I used this recipe as a template, my version calls for less sugar and butter, so it’s marginally healthier without being too pushy about it. My adapted recipe is as follows:

  • 4 tbsp butter, softened
  • 2/3 cup unrefined cane sugar
  • 3 eggs
  • 1/2 tsp vanilla
  • 1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
  • 1/4 tsp salt
  • 2 tsp baking powder
  • Approximately 1/3 cup of Nutella (or similar hazelnut-chocolate spread)
  1. Cream together the butter, sugar, and vanilla extract until well mixed.
  2. One by one, add the eggs. Mix well.
  3. Sift flour, baking powder, and salt into the mix. Combine.
  4. Spoon batter into a muffin tin (lined with paper muffin liners or not, your choice). Each cup should be filled approximately 3/4 with batter. Top off the cups with about a teaspoon of Nutella. Swirl in the Nutella with a knife or toothpick.
  5. Bake at 325 degrees for 20 minutes. Yields 12.

"EAT ME!"

These cupcakes are as delicious as they are easy to make, rich and flavourful without being overly sweet. The best part? No need for icing; when swirled into the cupcake batter, the Nutella bakes into a soft and slightly crumbly cover that does just fine on its own.