My wabi sabi

Wabi Sabi. Just say it - it sounds really Star Wars "ish" - like something Yoda would say to young Luke Skywalker. Wabi-Sabi, wabi-sabi...

The definition of this Japanese term is one that is not easily defined. Very loosely translated - it means finding the "beauty" in imperfections. Such as this mug - not "perfect" but "wabi-sabi". This is very loosely translated, I might add. I wanted to keep this term as a future reference for my life - use it as an excuse to tell my friends - "Oh, I am just practising "wabi sabi" - hence the messy house and spaghetti noodles all over the ceiling". While googling some wise wabi sabi terms this evening - I came across a website dedicated to various "quotes on imperfections". Reading through them - I was struck by the following...

"The day the child realizes that all adults are imperfect, he becomes an adolescent; the day he forgives them, he becomes an adult; the day he forgives himself, he becomes wise."Alden Nowlan

This particular quote was meant for me to read tonight - after the disastrous evening which occurred in our house. I had set unrealistic expectations in my mind on numerous tasks I wanted to accomplish today - and when evening fell, and I was feeling frustrated with my lack of accomplishments. I lashed out at my family. There were toys everywhere, the bathroom sink was full of toilet paper, the dishes from supper were piled everywhere, laundry was spilling onto the floor from the couch...and I snapped. My girls ran around frantically under the screaming fanatic drill sergeant "mommy" (which would be me) - arguing back at me that it was the "other" one who made the mess. Tears, pj's and toothbrushes later - they were in their bedrooms.

That's when the WTF moment hits me. I certainly didn't accomplish anything constructive during my rampage - and now I felt like crap. Cuddles and kisses followed, along with an apology from me. It's hard to admit to your kids that you are not perfect - but it's even harder pretending like you are. I know this to be true. Forgiving myself for my "imperfections"hasn't come quite yet (I am not a fool - I have two daughters to go through the teenage years) - but I look forward to the day I can call myself "wise"...

Or...wabi sabi...

Cut to the chase...Valentine...

Please - do NOT get me wrong...I love Valentine's Day! It brings back memories of my childhood. Endlessly scrutinizing each and every Valentine given and received to see if some sort of "hidden message" was implied because the cute boy in the class gave you a "bigger" GI Joe Valentine than your best friend...and vice versa.

Now that I am a Mom, I still scrutinize each and everyone of the Valentine's my daughter's receive. Not to look for any secret love messages...but to see what "Mommies" have "one-upped" me once again. Carefully prepared packages with pencils, hand-crafted and hand-tied with ribbon and glitter - each one more elaborate than the next.

My daughter's first year of pre-school at the age of 3 found her coming home with 26 Valentine pencils, 18 heart-shaped erasers, 253 packages of Valentine stickers, a set of Flash cards, 4 plush teddy bears holding little red hearts and a double chocolate fudge cake. The poor thing toppled backwards down the stairs due to the weight of her over-stuffed Barbie back-pack. I felt like a mommy failure - my daughter...only armed with her 26 Dora Valentines with little white envelopes that I spent licking closed until 2 a.m the night before. The paper-cuts on my tongue were nothing compared to the giant stabbing pain in my heart that somehow I had missed the "mommy memo" regarding "old-fashioned" Valentines traditions were a thing of the past.

Then...reality set in...

I had another kid, my workload doubled, and I came to the realization that I am NOT one of those moms. I do a mini victory dance around the kitchen if I even remember that it's Valentine's Day...or Easter, or my daughter's 6th birthday. So...we will continue to hand out the small paper Valentine's cards until the day my daughter finds a part-time job.

I must admit, however, my 6 year old daughter surprised me last night (yes...we were doing Valentines the night before at 9:00). She took each and every one of the 21 Valentine cards and carefully thought about each one. On the front of each envelope - she wrote a personal message to each classmate. Some standard "I love you" messages (concernedly all boys) and "You are funny" were the majority...other's were written messages like "Boo hoo" (an inside joke, I am told) and "You are speshle" "I lik your blu hat". The point was, she thought of each and every classmate, and tried to individualize each one in her own way with messages and pictures of freaky heart shaped heads. My absolute proudest mommy moment last night was when she was pondering over one of the last cards for a little boy. She stared off into space...trying to come up with some sort of personal message - when suddenly she shrugged her shoulders, grabbed the marker and wrote two giant question marks on the front of the envelope. When I looked at her for clarification - she shrugged again and said "He's really confusing"...

That's my girl!!

Score one for the Russians...

You have two choices in Calgary. Hide inside and grumble for the entire winter - or attempt to keep your sanity through some creative planning. That's what we have chosen to do. I love to cook, and experiment with new recipes, ideas and techniques. I didn't say I was any good at it...but I do like to give it a good go.





Recently, my good friend and I came up with a plan to get us through the rest of the winter. We chose 8 different countries, put them in a hat and selected our picks. It was then formally agreed upon that we would take turns hosting an internationally themed dinner party based on our selected nation.

Now when I say "formally" agreed upon, let me be clear. Yes - we both became excited about the different possibilities and ideas we had churning...but deep down...we both knew the hidden agenda. It was an unannounced, informal declaration of WAR! Dinner party WAR was on, and we both secretly knew it! We parted ways with a friendly hug...securely grasping the Santoku knife behind our backs...and backing away...slowly...

First up - my dear friend. Country represented - Russia! Almost a guaranteed win for me, I mean come on...Russia? Who can cook Russian food, and what the heck do Russian's eat, anyway? My dear friend was hooped from the start with her "unlucky" draw from the hat!

The "guests" to the party were responsible for bringing the dessert - so I googled Russian desserts and came up with Pavlova - a meringue based cake covered in fruit. Easy peasy. I was going to rock this one, and blow everyone away with my culinary skills. Score one for me!

Ingredients purchased, recipe followed to the LETTER - watched in amazement as my creation rose and grew and browned as it baked into a picture perfect image of the perfect Pavlova. Did I mention how "perfect" everything was?

I took my pride and joy out of the oven to cool on the counter, and as I prepared the whip cream topping I heard a strange sound. It sounded like a slow leak from a balloon...followed by really thin ice cracking. I actually WATCHED this thing deflate in front of my eyes. Now - the recipe said it might fall and crack a bit...but by the time this thing was done...it looked like the Saddledome. Rather than panic...I was confident I would be able to fix this obvious defect by piling on the whipped cream and arranging the fruit in a very decorative manner - thus hiding the giant grand canyon looming in the middle of my otherwise perfect dessert.

The "Saddledome" a.k.a Pavolva

Well - it looked great - so I brought "The Saddledome" to the dinner party - head held high at my obvious pending victory. I even dressed the part as a slightly overweight Russian ballerina - complete with my hair pulled so tightly in a bun - I had trouble opening my eyes.

Walking into the party, my hopes began sinking faster than my Pavlova. Lights turned down low, blazing fire in the fireplace, Russian army marching music playing in the background - the smell of food was everywhere. Our male host was dressed like Russian Mafia - right down to gold chains and slicked down hair, and my friend...well...her green paisley print dress, hair pulled back and bright pink lipstick made me feel like I was standing on the streets of Moscow! The table was adorned with a lace tablecloth, place cards written in Russian, gold plates framed with various stemware along the plates of chilled capers, pickles and caviar. Dinner was nothing short of pure authentic, right down to the imported Russian Beer. They had translated the recipes from a true Russian cookbook - and apparently received a "family" traditional recipe from "grandma" who was born in Russia.

A sample of the table decor...note the handwritten place cards...in Russian...

I will admit, everything was fantastic, more than fantastic...and had to concede defeat once my "Saddledome" was served, covered in kiwi - which my host was mildly allergic too. To top it off - I couldn't even claim victory if I wanted too - Pavlova is actually an Australian dessert named after a famous Russian ballerina. It tasted great - but failed in comparison to the work my hosts had put into their event. As my friend smiled slyly at me across from her coffee...savoring her unspoken victory - I began formulating in my head my new menu for my upcoming "French" theme... that did NOT consist of french fries...

Score one for the Russians...