Diet, Dessert and Dogs

Having lost my own mother over 15 years ago (yes, far too young, for both of us) and never having personally enjoyed the tangle of emotions that is motherhood, I tend to overlook today’s particular holiday, celebrated by the bulk of the Western world.

While catching up on my ever-expanding list of blogs on Google Reader, I happened upon Ashasarala’s poignant post for today.  It got me thinking:  aren’t I still a daughter?  And what about those other “mothers” I’ve known in my life (both actual and figurative), from my beloved CBC to my older sister to a couple of my best friends? This seems the perfect day to connect with those mothers, whether through birth, adoption, extended family, or simply psychological ties.

So here’s a wish for all of you who are, have been, or just feel like mothers today: may you enjoy meaningful, happy and loving encounters on this day, with the people (and pets) who mean the most to you–whoever they are. 

["See, Chaser, I told you you were adopted!"

"Um, hate to tell you, Elsie, but with that shnoz, it's obvious that you shouldn't be sounding so smug, either."]

Tonight I start my course, Total Health, and I can hardly wait.  I am truly hoping that a holistic, well-rounded approach to diet and lifestyle will put me back on the right track to improved health.  This is one area where the HH has a hard time comprehending the Herculean effort it takes to avoid certain food-related temptations, as he is naturally slim, has never had an eating disorder, and knows exactly when to stop eating, even if he adores the food on his plate. 

As I’ve mentioned before, food isn’t the only area where the HH and I differ.  My beloved and I are, shall we say, sort of like Oscar and Felix. . . like analog and digital. . . like yin and yang. . . like ice cream and tofutti. . . like Sonny and Cher. . . like Jack Spratt and–well, you get the idea.  (And, on another note: how did we ever survive without Wikipedia–seriously?).

Anyway, that got me thinking about the old cliché that says dog owners and their dogs come to resemble each other more and more as the years go by. . . I’m not sure about the looks department, but Elsie and Chaser sure do mimic me and the HH in the realm of personalities.  (I’ll leave it to you to guess who’s who).

You couldn’t invent two more polar opposites than The Girls:  while Elsie is demure, reserved and shy, Chaser is entirely in your face. 

["Ha ha Elsie, bet you can't catch me!" "Oh, really, Chaser, you are sooooo immature."]

Where Elsie is timid and afraid, Chaser is “I can do it!  C’mon–let me jump out that second storey window!” 

(”Hmmm. . . all I need to do is push up that blind, then balance on the windowsill. . . yep, I’m sure I could do it. . .)

Where Elsie is polite and respectful (”Why, yes, Mum, please do go ahead of me through this doorway, I wouldn’t have it any other way”), Chaser is always pushing the envelope (”Doorbell!  I’m on it!  Let’s go!! Outta the way!  Someone’s there!!”).

(”Here is that frisbee you requested, Mum.  Where would you like me to deposit it?”)

Where Elsie is elegant, graceful, and glides silently from room to room, Chaser is the class clown, the one who lacks coordination and who’s all legs, thumping her way across a room (and, in fact, one of her many sobriquets around here is “Thumper”).

(”Chaser, you’ve got your legs in my back again.  Sheesh. Can’t a gal get any sleep around here?”)

Where Elsie is a little chubby, rounded and soft (in all the right places), Chaser is lanky, lean and lithe.

(”Mum, Elsie’s taking up too much room. . . my legs don’t fit in this space.”)

When we first got Elsie, we were afraid that she had no vocal chords.  In fact, we didn’t even know she was capable of barking until she was about 10 months old. 

(” *Sigh* “)

Chaser, on the other hand, whined the entire way home from the first afternoon we got her.  She is also, as the HH is fond of saying, rather “lippy”:  I’ve never known another dog that yelps, whines, howls, cries, barks, growls, and basically complains as much as she does.  Oh, and she groans.  Like an old man, like a creaky rocking chair, like an exasperated audience at the comedy improv:  there we’ll be, late at night in utter darkness, trying to sleep. . . when suddenly, I’ll hear the rumble of an outboard motor–but emanating from the foot of our bed: it’s just Chaser, changing position in her sleep, and groaning.

(” *** Groan ***”)

Well, despite their differences, The Girls have managed to find a balance, to develop a true love for each other and their respective quirks and peccadilloes (as have the HH and I). 

 And anyway, what would life be without a little contrast?  

[Photo of a photo of] The HH and me dressed as Sonny and Cher for a Hallowe’en party, the year we met (and before the dreaded weight gain). Dig those wigs! .]

(”Mum, you totally embarrass us. . . no, we don’t care that people know about our cute little quirks, but how could you publish that photo of you and Dad?? Oh, cringe. . . “)

*Or, It’s a Long Road “Back”

*Or, Things You Think About While Lying Flat on Your Back for Ten Days

Well, I may not be completely “back” just yet, but I am at least vertical once again–if only for a couple of hours a day.  YIPPEE!  Talk about an ordeal. I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on anyone, nosirree.  Not even the nastiest bully from grade school.  No, not even the most loathed former boss.  Not even the rudest clerk at the video store.  Or even the most reviled ex-boyfriend (He of the Black Leather Pants).  Yes, it was that bad!

And I am thrilledl to finally return to the world of blogs and blogging!  It feels like eons since I’ve written on (or even looked at) this site, or any of the other blogs out there I so enjoy reading. I promise to catch up on them all over the next week or so.  But before I even begin to write about my unanticipated interval of Great Bed Rest (aka Grevious Back Relapse)–or GBR, I want to share a recipe I discovered as soon as I returned here:

Blogger Twice Marinated in Wet, Salty Broth

1) Get Ricki to hurt her back, badly. Result: first marinade in wet, salty broth (also referrred to as Crying Jag Number One).

2) Get the HH to write a short note explaining her absence (no easy feat, considering the blog-shy HH).

3) Have Ricki return to the blog about 10 days later, read the parade of amazing, supportive and sympathetic comments from readers and other bloggers. Result: second marinade in wet, salty broth (also referred to as Crying Jag Number Two).

4) Allow Ricki to marinate for about 5 minutes before she returns her attention to the blog.

5) Accept her heartfelt gratitude for your wonderful, generous outpouring of good wishes, which is appreciated beyond words.

6) Wrap carefully and store in a safe place.  Will last indefinitely.

In other words, THANK YOU ALL for your comments and kind thoughts while I was away! I have missed you all, and am very, very happy to be “back.”

And so. . . what the heck happened, anyway??

Well, the official diagnosis is a one-two punch of, first, a bulging disk (sometimes erroneously called a “slipped disk”), followed almost immediately by an inflamed facet joint (the latter occurring due to an overly strenuous exercise regimen prescribed by a zealous physiotherapist, only ONE DAY after the original injury! Definitely a no-no).

I had thought the initial pain was pretty bad, but the second injury catapulted it into the realm of “no adjectives available.”

It’s true, the HH and I have no children, so I never had the experience of childbirth as a reference point for that particular brand of agony.  Nevertheless, I can only attempt to express the depths of physical torment inflicted by this back attack:  for the first three days or so, each time I even ATTEMPTED to get off the bed, I would be overcome with an immediate draining of blood from my face and I’d begin to black out. If not for the deft and sturdy embrace of the (relatively) strapping HH, I would have surely ended up in an unconscious heap on the floor.  And though he’s not especailly musclebound, the HH was, thankfully, still strong enough to lift my mumblemumbleundisclosednumber-pound frame back onto the bed.

["I really hated it when you were sick, Mum."]

As it turns out, the word “vacation” in this blog entry’s title, above, is not merely a euphemism.  You see, here in Ontario, colleges run year-round, offering three full semesters (including one through the summer months).  I happen to be one of those weirdos trailblazers quirky teachers who prefers her holiday in the winter, and who teaches all summer. Given my oft-declared abhorrence of winter, being able to curl up by the fireplace, hunker down, and just do nothing when the snow makes its unwelcome appearance is a privilege I truly appreciate.

And while I did spend the last 10 days or so lazing around, reading, sleeping as much as I felt like (more than I felt like, actually), and being waited on hand and foot (I am eternally in your debt, Oh Great HH), it was not, by any stretch of the imagination, akin to a “vacation.” Being stuck in bed with nothing to do but follow the aimless peregrinations of my (painkiller-enhanced) thoughts did, however, allow me to formulate some interesting observations.

Here’s what went through my mind as I contemplated my lot over the past fortnight or so:

1. Never begin an exercise routine for a sore back the day after you first injure it.  Never.  NOT EVEN IF THE ZEALOUS PHYSIOTHERAPIST TELLS YOU TO.  You will regret it.  You will rue the day.  So, never!
2. Dogs are strange and wonderful creatures, and I love them more than ever. Throughout the Great Bed Rest, every day and all day, Elsie and Chaser held vigil at the foot of my bed. Not quite close enough for me to touch them, but close enough so that I knew they were there. Eventually, we three began to sigh, heave, and sleep along the same diurnal pattern, until the HH came home.  (”Um, don’t mean to hurt your feelings or anything, Mum, but we were actually just worried that we might not get fed any more–not that we weren’t concerned about you, too, of course.”)
3. When you are stuck in bed, staring straight up at the ceiling for over a week, the stucco finish begins to look strangely like snow.
4. When you are stuck in bed, staring straight up at the ceiling for a week and the stucco finish begins to look strangely like snow, the actual snow outside will melt, and so when you finally get up again, it will be spring!
5. The HH is one helluva good sport.  Can’t cook worth a dime, unfortunately, but nevertheless one very sweet guy. He took care of daily housework and chores, walks for The Girls, feedings (theirs and mine), hairwashing (mine), as well as other less appealing ablutions. He came home from work at lunchtime each day to ensure I had food and a break, and also to confirm that the house hadn’t burned to the ground in his absence (an outcome I would have been helpless to prevent, in any case).
6. Finally, I came to the clear realization that this GBR would never have occurred at all, had I not gained all the weight I’ve been earnestly trying to lose since I began this blog. And so, this latest episode has prompted a reaffirmation of my resolve:  I must get healthy! 

It’s with renewed determination that I return here to focus on all three: DIET, dessert, and dogs.

And, of course, all of you.  Thank you all for continuing to visit, for reading, and for commenting (I love hearing from you!). 

And while the latter part of the Lucky Comestible posts will have to wait until I can stand a bit longer, I’m looking forward to scanning my files and posting about some previous exploits in the kitchen as the back continues to heal. 

Yes, it’s great to be “back”!

(Oh, and I promise never to write the word, “back,” in quotation marks, ever again.)

["Glad you're feeling a bit better, Mum!"]

["Can you guess why I'm so happy?"] 

Last week, we took Elsie for her annual checkup at the vet (a place she absolutely loves–go figure).  At the end of the appointment, the vet pronounced her an ideal specimen of canine health.  Not only that; Elsie had lost nine pounds since her previous visit.  Nine pounds!  That’s, like, 63 in dog pounds!  She’s been hanging on to that excess weight for a couple of years, at least. 

This was quite the contrast to our first vet appointment, back in 2002, when she was both underweight and unhealthy. We got Elsie from a Rescue Mission here in the city, because  I was keen to save a little pup that would otherwise face certain death.  But there was also a monetary consideration, as the mission charged only $200 versus the $1200 or so we’d have to dish out for a purebred pup.

I remember the event perfectly: it was a blustery, snow-swept Saturday in February (a day very much like most of last week, come to think of it–except THIS IS MID-MARCH), and we were assured that our little 12-week old fuzzball had received all the pertinent shots, was proclaimed worm-free, and had been given a clean bill of health by their vet. 

As he shoved her into my eager embrace, the scuzzball “attendant” behind the counter drawled, “Waell, you just take her in to your vet on Monday morning, and if there’s any problem, you can bring her on back.”  (Right.  Quick inventory: cramped, smelly, fecal-encrusted and rusty cage in dingy, musty basement; approximately 50 clamoring, whining, unkempt pups crammed into it shoulder to shoulder; Elsie, sweet, reticent, timid, hovering in the back corner, eyes pleading as she silently implored me, “Please!  You must help me! Get me out of here!  Pleaaaassseeee. . . . “). Return her to that torment, under any circumstances?  Um, I don’t think so.

Needless to say, when Monday morning rolled around and we  made it to our regular vet, we were hit with this diagnosis:  worms (yes, the scum-bag guy lied!  Imagine that!), fleas, mange, parasites, broken tooth, and your garden-variety malnutrition. To look at her, you’d never have known; she was nonetheless alert, frisky, and exhibited a voracious appetite (which remains to this day).  We embarked on a series of medications, unguents, and shots to rid her of all the vermin.  Ultimately,  we calculated, restoring Elsie’s health cost us about the same as if we’d purchaed 2.7 purebred pups instead.  Of course, by then  we already loved her so much that there was no question–it was worth it. 

[Elsie, pre-weight loss]

So, now that she’s svelte and healthy, how did Elsie achieve this amazing feat? The same one, I must admit, that’s been eluding me since I started this blog back in November? And, more important, what can I learn from this?

First and foremost, Elsie now has a new sibling to share her time and energy. Ever since little Chaser Doodle arrived on the scene, Elsie has spent most of her time warding off the “let’s play” advances of her baby sister.  Chaser attempts any tack to entice Elsie to play: tug a little on the ear, nibble a little on the collar, poke a bit at the bum, taunt ceaselessly with the Nylabone, or nudge repeatedly with a paw. Sometimes, Elsie just gives in and plays. And play means exercise.

Human Counterpart: Seems I need a new baby or a new playmate. Hmmmn.  Baby may pose a challenge, as both the HH and I have passed our best-before dates for procreation (together, we must be something like 4,732 in dog years). And a new “playmate?”  Well, I’m not sure how the HH would like that one, either. But I do think a dieting buddy is a workable option; most of the women I know are watching their weight, too, so it would make sense to team up. 

[The new, svelte girl]

Second, I’ve cut way back on the treats I offer The Girls, compared to the quantity Elsie received before Chaser’s arrival.  Partly because current dog-training philosophy advises against treats, and partly because I no longer require treats to engage Elsie’s attention (since she’s got another dog to play with now), the number of daily biscuits has diminished by half at least.  That’s like cutting out snacks during the evening, or reducing your meals by 25%.  No wonder she’s lost weight!

Human Counterpart: Cut down snacks.  I may need to establish nap-time between 2:00 and 3:00 (when my blood sugar crashes) for a while, but that, too, shall pass. And fewer snacks means fewer calories.

The Girls also spend a lot of time romping outdoors, running off leash for a minimum of 45 minutes per day. Before Chaser’s arrival, Elsie was walked for the same length of time each day, but never felt the urge to run (or even walk very fast).  Obviously, having a playmate has made a difference.

Human Counterpart: Take a daily romp in the woods.  Well, if I translate this into human terms, what I really need to do is more exercise.  I’ve read that in order to lose weight, the average person must exercise ninety minutes a day.  Ninety!  And once women reach perimenopause (and after), they require an hour a day just to maintain weight.  So if I tally up the hour or so I walk The Girls each day, plus whatever extra I add on with the treadmill or the workout club, I should realistically be able to reach that goal. 

Why haven’t I incorporated any of these tricks yet?  Maybe I needed Elsie as my inspiration. I know it’s worth a try. I mean, Elsie does look marvelous, and, even better, she seems to have more energy these days for frolicking and gamboling.  And lord knows I could use more frolick and gambol.

“Yes, Mum, I’d highly recommend it.  I do enjoy my frolicking.  But now, can you do something about getting Chaser off my back?”

Ar mum is dung doo doo ng duing fine shes werking hard. she mises th blog and hoeps to bee back sune.

we mis it to.

x o  Elsie + Chaser

PS pls give us fud.

It’s so great to hear from people who enjoy seeing (and hearing!) The Girls in the blog.  But I have to tell you, folks, what with all this attention, and then with the Oscar buzz happening yesterday (yay Daniel Day-Lewis!), they suddenly think they’re celebrities or something.  They’ve even begun to re-enact famous movies. 

For instance, here’s Chaser doing her own rendition of Queen Elizabeth (and believe me, she rules around here, too):

Here she is again, this time as Lucy in Dracula(the Gary Oldman-Wynona Rider version, not the Bela Lugosi version):

Not to be outdone, Elsie went ahead and rehearsed for Bull Durham (though I think she’d make a better catcher than a batter):

And my favorite, their collaboration on Ingmar Bergman’s Cries and Whispers:

I’m really not sure how to handle them with all this puffed-up ego in the air. . . for now, I’ll just humor them and hope it goes away soon.

(”Mum, truly, this is has to be the worst embarrassment ever. . . but, while we’re here anyway, perhaps one of these nice people would like our autograph?”)

Both our dogs contain a generous sprinkling of Border Collie, a breed known for its patience. As a working breed, BCs were meant to guard sheep all day; and since sheep are not exactly what you’d call wild and crazy guys, the BCs must be willing to sit still for a very long time. Moreover, they exhibit what’s known as the ”Border Collie Stare”–that steely gaze that bores right through you  and makes even the most obstreperous mutton acquiesce to their wishes.

I’ve been the object of that stare, more times than I can tell you. You see, the house we live in is an ”open concept” design, so the living room opens on to the kitchen, which opens on to the rest of the house.  After many hours of sweat (mine) and a lot of practise (theirs), I’ve trained The Girls to ”stay out of the kitchen” on command.  Basically, this means they are not allowed to put paws to tile (but wood or carpet–the floor coverings of the living room–are acceptable) while I’m cooking.

Chaser learned fairly quickly by emulating Elsie that, if Mum’s cooking, it’s time to “take up the position.”  Situated at the border between living room and kitchen, they are willing to lie for hours–literally–until I finally finish my culinary experiments and reward them with a morsel of whatever I’m cooking, or a treat, depending on what’s in my pot or pan (no chocolate or onions, obviously, for them).  Now, that’s what I call patience.

And what has all this talk of breeds and patience to do with food? Well, when I started my Week of Chocolate Asceticism, I knew it would take no time before I craved something sweet and soothing.  And since I’ve also vowed to avoid added sweeteners–or pretty much anything baked or sweet–my options are severely limited.  But then I remembered:  Raw Pudding!  Cashews and carob and dates–oh, my!!  And for this recipe, despite its matchless simplicity (only 3 ingredients), patience is definitely required.  The Girls, however, never mind waiting for this one. (”Oooh, Mum, is this that date and carob thing you make?? We love that thing!! Can we have some?? When will it be ready?  Now?  WHEN???”)

Even though my One True Love will always be chocolate, I am a big fan of carob as well.  And I have nothing but admiration for fellow bloggers like Deb at Altered Plates and Veggie Girl, who regularly choose to bake with carob instead of chocolate. In fact, carob even made a chance appearance this week over at another blog, Have Cake, Will Travel.  So I felt it only fitting that I grace the blog with Raw Carob Cashew Pudding.  (”Oh, it IS that carob-date thing you make!  Is it ready yet, Mum?  Can we have some?  When??”). 

I was first introduced to carob years ago when I was a Teaching Assistant, at a university English Department party.  Another one of the TAs, a quintessential Child of the ’60s,  brought along two hippy-dippy dishes, quinoa salad and brownies made with carob.  She was one of those graceful, ethereal women who seems to glide effortlessly just above the ground as she moves, skirts undulating softly behind her (quite a feat, actually, since she was wearing a miniskirt, as I recall). 

Ms. Flower Child also spoke with the lilting, velvety voice of FM radio, the kind of voice that causes you to crane your neck and focus intently on her lips so you won’t have to repeat, ”Pardon?” after every sentence she utters. So when I asked about the recipe for the brownies, and what was in them, I never quite caught the entire answer.  All I knew was that they tasted good, and I liked this newfangled ingredient, and I’d be using it again.

I ate quite a bit of carob over a two-year span several years ago, when I followed an ultra-strict, sweetener and fruit-restricted diet. I discovered that carob is naturally sweet (it’s also low in fat and surprisingly high in calcium).  At a local organic grocery store, I happened upon whole, dried carob pods. Resembling brown pea pods, they conceal diamond-hard (inedible) carob seeds inside.  But if you gently warm the whole pods in the oven for about 5 minutes, they soften, become pliant and chewy, almost like fruit leather.  Delicious!

 So, back to the pudding (see, I told you you’d need patience for this recipe).  This is actually a variation on a simple cashew cream,  a vegan cream substitute that’s perfect over pies, cookies, fruit, or other sweets.  I’ve taken the concept just a step further, using raw cashews (which produce a creamier product) as well as dates for sweetness, carob, and optional vanilla.  Three main ingredients–four if you add the vanilla–and the result is so rich and creamy, you’d swear it took hours to make.  (Oh, wait.  It sort of does take hours to make–but only the soaking part).

Oh, and The Girls like it, too. (”Okay, so does that mean we can have some now?  Can we? How about now? MUM??”)

Raw Carob-Cashew Pudding or Mousse

The hardest part of this recipe is having enough patience to blend the mixture thoroughly, until it’s sufficiently smooth and creamy. When I’m feel that gnawing impulse for something sweet, I’m tempted to dig in early, but I’m always sorry if I do. So don’t skimp on the blender time with this recipe–you’ll be rewarded with a truly rich and celestial pudding. 

1 cup raw cashews, soaked in room-temperature water overnight (if soaking for more than 10 hours, place in the refrigerator)

12-14 dried dates, soaked in room temperature water overnight (if soaking for more than 10 hours, place in the refrigerator)

2 tsp. carob powder

water or soymilk, as needed

1 tsp. pure vanilla extract, optional

After the nuts and dates have soaked for at least 6 hours, drain the nuts but not the dates.  Pour the cashews, dates and soaking water, and carob into a blender.  Blend over low speed until combined.

If the mixture seems too thick to blend, you can either blend smaller batches or add more liquid, a small amount at a time, to encourage the mixture to whirl round.  Stop every few seconds and scrape down the sides, then blend again, continuing to blend at progressively higher speeds, until you have a perfectly smooth and creamy pudding. This may take 5-10 minutes.  Unfortunately, a food processor isn’t going to get the  mixture quite smooth enough, so you’re just going to have to wait. 

Once smooth, add vanilla if desired and whir just to blend.  Makes 2-4 servings, depending on your self restraint. Any leftovers can keep, refrigerated, up to 3 days (it will thicken more once kept in the fridge).

[The Girls, finally rewarded for their patience.]

WOCA Update: Well, it appears the crisis has passed, and I am happy to say that I haven’t succumbed to the chocolate cravings.  Despite my (attempt at a ) humorous spin on this issue, I’d like to clarify: I truly believe that chocolate addiction can be just as tenacious as addiction to cigarettes or heroin (actually, I once read that cigarettes are MORE addictive than heroin!–but that has nothing to do with chocolate).  So even though I joke about it, I really do consider this to be a very serious problem, and one that far too many people have trouble dealing with. 

That said, I want to send out a heartfelt THANK YOU to everyone who left words of support or encouragement here–it really does help!  And knowing that I’ll have to write about it on the blog (well, okay, technically I don’t HAVE to, but I would) if I slip has actually kept me on the WOCA straight and narrow these past few days.  Bloggers are awesome!

*Or, How Our Puppy Got Her Name 

 Once, several years ago, I read in a women’s magazine that the best time to discuss “serious” issues with your male partner is when you’re in the car, preferably going for a long drive. That way, you are in close contact with each other, it’s quiet and private, he can’t escape, and he doesn’t have to look you in the eye (always an intimacy-buster for men).  I have absolutely no doubt that writer knew whereof she wrote.  With that in mind, here’s a little glimpse into my past. 

(Scene One: Early morning. Ricki and her HH, driving in the car, circa February, 2006.)

Ricki  (sweetly, with a quiet, loving tone): I just love Elsie so much. But you know, she’s lonely.  She lies on her pillow all day, moping and sighing, or else she just wanders over to the window and stares yearningly at the birds and squirrels outside. And I feel so guilty going off to work and leaving her alone for such long stretches of time.  Dogs are pack animals, you know. They’re not meant to be alone.  It’s so hard on her. She needs a sibling.  What do you say let’s get another dog?

HH: No.

(Scene Two:  Mid-Afternoon. Ricki and her HH, driving in the car, circa May, 2006.)

Ricki (gesturing expressively):  Oh, come on, why can’t we get another dog?  You know that you love Elsie.  You know  you do. Okay, okay, fine; I promise to take full responsibility for house training.  I’ll even be the one who gets up in the middle of the night to let her out to pee until she’s trained.  Oh, come on, honey, you’ll love it, I know you will.  And isn’t Elsie great? Isn’t she? Isn’t she just the cutest thing in the universe? Don’t you just adore her?

HH: Elsie, stop nipping my ear! Get off me! Back! Go on, get into that back seat!

(Scene Three: Evening.  Ricki and her HH, driving in the car, circa January, 2007)

Ricki  (Despondent.  She pouts.):  But I have to have another dog.  You know how much I love dogs.  I am bitterly unhappy!  I simply cannot envision my life without another dog in it!  Two, two is all I want.  Really. I need a puppy.  Elsie needs a sister.  Seriously, I don’t think I can live without another dog.  I will never have another happy moment in my entire life unless we get another dog. (She sheds a tear.)

HH: Elsie, I said get back!  This dog is driving me crazy. Go on, get away, I can’t see where I’m—

(Screeching noises.  The car lurches to a stop, millimeters from a tree.  Silence.  The HH glowers.)

(Scene Four.  Ricki and her HH. Mid-morning, driving in the car, circa May, 2007)

Ricki (from the back seat): Oooh, look at this little angel! Isn’t she just the sweetest little thing?? Ohhh, hello my little fuzzy wuzzy, ooooh you are so cutesie wootsie, what a darling little puppy wuppy kiss kiss pat pat. . . .

HH:  She hasn’t shut up since we got back in the car. Can’t you make her stop crying?

Ricki:  Just ignore her.  Besides, we can’t really get her attention until she knows her name.

HH: But she doesn’t have a name yet.

Ricki:  Well, I’ve got some excellent ideas!  How about–

HH: Wait a sec, YOU named Elsie/L.C.  You said I could come up with a name for this one.

Ricki:  (Suspiciously) Okayyyyy. . . . what’s your idea for a name?

HH: I don’t have one.

Ricki: Well, then, let ME pick one!

HH: No.

Ricki (after a pause): Okay, well, let’s brainstorm.  I’m sure we can come up with something.  How about related to your hobbies.  I know, what about a cute car name, like Bentley, since you love cars?

HH:  You mean, like, ”Come here, Ferrari!”  Naw, too stupid sounding.

Ricki:  Well, what about a famous musician’s name, then?

HH:  What, like, “Come here, Rachmaninov!”  Really stupid sounding.

Ricki:  Okay, let’s look at some of our favorite televison shows.  What about Star Trek?

HH:  Oh, yeah, like, “Come here, Seven of Nine!”  Right.  Mega stupid. As if we’re going to find a name in a television show!

Ricki: Hmmmm.  What about House?  Who are our favorite characters. . . .let’s see. . . .Gregory House, Dr. Foreman. . . .

HH:  Really, this is not going to work.

Ricki:  There’s Dr. Chase. . . Hey!  How about Chaser?

HH:  Hmmmnnn.  (Pause). Perhaps, perhaps.

Ricki:  Yeah, that’s kinda cute, actually, little Chaser. . . .

HH:  Sort of like a “chaser” after a drink. . . yeah!  Hmm!  VERY cute!

Ricki:  Yes!  And she’s so energetic and bouncy, I bet she’ll be chasing Elsie all over the place–

HH:  Okay.  I think I like it!

(They arrive home, and, as they both cradle the puppy in their arms, they kiss.  They enter the house as a family unit).

(Scene Five.  Morning.  Ricki and her HH, driving in the car, circa January, 200

Ricki:  See, I told you they’d get along eventually!  See how Chaser just loves Elsie. . . she doesn’t leave her alone, in fact.  Actually,  I think the only one that Chaser loves more than Elsie is yo–

HH:  Chaser, off!  Stop nipping my ear!  Get back in the– 

(Screeching noises.  The car comes to a stop millimeters from a flowerbed in someone’s front yard.  Silence, followed by loud and enthusiastic barking.  The scene fades to black.)

Well, if I learned anything from the experience, it’s this:  we sure could use a chauffeur.  

(”Um, sorry about that last part, Mum.  But since you already told Elsie’s story, thanks for telling mine, too!”)

On one episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, Larry David’s post-Seinfeld exploration of our modern cultural zeitgeist, he explains why he got rid of his dog by saying “It’s like having a bum living in your house.” 

As much as I adore Mr. David’s show and can understand how he might feel that way (Larry’s character has had his share of run-ins with unsavory types), I’m more inclined toward the following joke I once heard on CBC One (Canada’s public radio station):

The dog says, ”You pat me. You feed me. You shelter me. You love me: you must be God!”

The cat says, ”You pat me. You feed me. You shelter me. You love me: I must be God!”

Needless to say, I prefer dogs to cats. 

And even though the Furry Girls may laze around quite a bit during the day, those soulful brown eyes and wagging tails make it all worthwhile (well, maybe, except for the part about picking up poo in a plastic bag). 

I thought today’s entry would be perfect for Peanut Butter Etoufees  Food Bloggy Pets of the Month event.

(”Chaser and I are very grateful, Mum.  We will wag our tails for you any time.  Now, please bring me over another biscuit, and be sure to spread a little of that nice organic peanut butter on it, would you?“)

It was all quiet on the DDD front yesterday, as I’m both preparing to return to school (gak!) tomorrow, and am still fighting off a weird viral thingie.  So with my sinuses throbbing, I didn’t much feel like being creative in the kitchen.   Woke up feeling very cold, only to discover that someone had stolen the blanket from the bed and was hogging it!  (”Sorry, Mum, but since you won’t let me up there, I have to get in on the act somehow.  Sheesh, haven’t you heard of the Family Bed?”)

Well, after catching up on some of my own blog reading, I was inspired by Veggie Girl’s recent baking marathon to get at it myself.  In another recent post, she had mentioned the fantastic cookbook by Ellen Abraham, Simple Treats, a book I own and love, but had left, forlorn and forgotten, on the bookshelf for the past while.  With my memory jogged, I set about finding something from the book to bake.

I adore freshly baked muffins or scones for breakfast, and was in the mood for something like that.  I also had a bag of dried figs that have been waiting on the shelf for just such an occasion, so searched for something and came up with Ellen’s Walnut-Fig Bread.  The recipe is straightforward and I love the fact that she uses barley flour for a change from spelt, so I dug right in.  Rather than bake the bread in a loaf pan, I opted for a 9 x 9 inch square so we could cut it in cubes, sort of like a cornbread (not sure why; just in the mood!).  The square pan cut the baking time almost in half, but other than that, I followed the recipe exactly.

Well, was it ever delicious!  Dense, moist, with the crackly seeds and sweet chewiness of the figs dotted throughout, plus a hint of cinnamon–perfect for a cold winter’s morning with a dollop of almond butter and a steaming cup of green tea.  My HH, reluctant to try it at first, ended up ready to devour the whole thing and ate three squares in quick succession, even after having had a full breakfast! (And no, despite my many references to how much he eats, my HH is NOT overweight, and has never had a weight problem.  Is that warped, or what?).

Most of the time, I find baking to be therapeutic and soothing. Unfortunately, the effort this time pretty much wiped me out, and I spent the remainder of the day just reading and procrastinating attempting to do some course prep. By the time dinner rolled around, I abandoned my original, more ambitious, plans for pasta and focused instead on some kind of quick but warming and nutritious soup to make.

To me, soup is a saviour in the kitchen, since you can basically throw any and all vegetables–whether fresh or even a little past their prime–into a pot, boil away, and you’ve got something hot, yummy, and good for you.  Even when the combination is otherwise less than dazzling, just pour the whole mess in the blender, add a splash of soymilk and/or a previously boiled potato for creaminess, and you’ve got a great potage.

Last night, I just combined whatever bland winter veggies we had on hand.  I began by sauteing an onion, some chopped garlic, sliced celery, and sliced carrots.  While those were softening up, I chopped some broccoli and a Yukon Gold potato.  To the pot, I added some salt, pepper, fresh parsley, dill, and just a pinch of smoked paprika along with about 6 cups of water.  The mixture was still looking a little pallid, so I ramped it up a bit with a teaspoon of instant veggie broth powder, a squirt of ketchup (we had no tomato in the house, and it needed something) and a splash of Bragg’s.  By then, its appearance had perked up a bit, so I tossed in the broccoli and potatoes an set it simmering.

But something was still missing. . . . something to add the chewy density you’d get with pasta, something to give it a little more oomph. . . .ah!  It hit me: dumplings!  I have a wonderful recipe for a curried vegetable stew with dumplings, so figured I could just wing it and create something similar to go with my veggie soup.  For variety and flavor, I settled on fresh herbed dumplings:  in a bowl, I mixed about a cup of oat flour with chopped fresh cilantro, salt, thyme, and some ground mustard.  I rubbed in about a tablespoon of coconut butter, then splashed about 4 tablespoons of soymilk into the bowl, tossed with a fork until it came together, and rolled little balls that I placed gingerly on top of the simmering soup, where they bobbed gently (covered) for about 10 minutes.  This is the end result:

 It turned out to be quite satisfying, with a hearty flavor and big chunks of the veggies.  The dumplings provided a contrast in consistency, light and tender on the inside with a springy bite. 

After slurping up a couple of bowls, I was feeling a little better and was able to spend the rest of the evening relaxing with my HH and Girls.  I guess Chaser could tell I wasn’t feeling up to par, as she didn’t even attempt to steal the covers at night, but just let me sleep. 

(”I thought I’d give you a break, Mum, since you were under the weather.  But now that it’s morning, how about some of that fig bread?”)