December 19, 2011
They have Christmas carolers in the shopping malls now.
They’re singing cheerfully about walking in a winter wonderland, but with Christmas looming just over a week away and crowds of excited shoppers surging from store to store, I can think of very few places less likely to be described as a wonderland. A mall under even the best circumstances is an unpleasant place, where the greasy smells of the food court collide with the heavy florals of the perfume counter while packs of pre-teen girls in low-slung jeans and too much eye makeup giggle at passing packs of pre-teen guys. Enter a mall anytime within six weeks of Christmas, and you’re voluntarily walking into the retail version of hell on earth.
In hindsight, I probably should have picked a better time to do my shopping. Monday morning would have been good – nobody goes to the mall on Monday morning, even in the depths of the holiday shopping season. I could have stopped in on my way to work, avoided the crowds, avoided the inevitable crowd-induced rage, and been back out on the street within ten minutes. But that would have required planning and organization, two personality traits that have been in short supply lately. So naturally I left it to Friday afternoon, where I would be forced to fight my way through packs of slow-moving shoppers while cursing the person who first decided to turn Christmas into a month-long materialistic frenzy.
I had come to the mall on to find and purchase a new pair of tights to wear with my dress for the office Christmas party (which happened to be taking place in a few hours), a benign and predictable mission that should have gone exactly as planned. I knew what I was looking for, and I knew precisely where I’d find it. But somewhere between the store’s doorway and the cash register, everything changed. The smallest hint of soft blue fabric poking out from between two heavy grey sweaters caught my eye, and the next thing I knew I was standing in front of a three-way mirror, draped in swaths of silk chiffon (strapless, save for a single gauzy strip of fabric making its way over one shoulder) and flanked by enthusiastic sales girls.
I left the store with zero pairs of tights and one very unnecessary dress.
I also left the store with a new mission, which involved acquiring a bra worthy of a suffocatingly tight, mostly-strapless dress as well as finding an altogether different pair of tights to coordinate with this sudden switch-up in office party attire. And this is how I found myself repeatedly circling the fluorescent-lit lingerie department of The Bay (Canada’s answer to Macy’s, but with fewer brands and more depressing wall-to-wall grey carpeting). I had just speed-walked through a gauntlet of overzealous perfume salesladies, dodged a pair of demonic-looking toddlers in Santa hats and tripped over a life-size cardboard reindeer cutout. The sound system was playing a particularly aggravating rendition of “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus”, which, out of all the Christmas songs, has always been the one that will instantly put me on edge, I was about to spend the better part of a hundred dollars on a bra that was a necessary purchase only because of a moment of inexplicable retail weakness half an hour earlier, and I still hadn’t found an acceptable pair of tights.
This wasn’t because I couldn’t decide what I wanted – no, it was because the entire section of the store that sold tights looked like a hurricane had swept through it, having been combed over and picked through by hundreds of frustrated women preparing to squeeze themselves into a dress and high heels for their office Christmas parties. Every time I thought I found what I was looking for, it would somehow turn out that someone had ripped a pair of queen-sized, control top, thigh-compressing fishnet tights out of their proper box and then stuffed them inside the box formerly belonging to the pair of small, slightly sheer, basic black tights that I was so desperately seeking.
Twenty minutes later, with one pair of tights clutched in a possessive death grip, I was waiting – no, seething – in a never-ending line for the cash register while the minutes ticked by and the women ahead of me all made complicated purchases involving exchanges and gift cards and calls to the manager. “Frosty The Snowman” was now playing in the background, which I found ironic given that the temperature in the store was approaching that of an oven. Thirty minutes later I burst out onto the street, shopping bags dangling limply from my hand. The sky was already dark. A group of children was singing “Silent Night” in front of the entrance, their voices emphasizing the words calm and bright – two emotions that I was certainly not feeling.
This story has a happy ending… sort of. The impulse-bought dress gathered compliments, the over-priced bra did its job, and the tights encased my legs in just the right amount of sheer black lycra. But a perfectly good afternoon was sacrificed in the process, one cardboard reindeer was fatally damaged, and I just might lose my cool next time I hear “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus”…
Unrelated tech note: A couple of people have mentioned that they’re seeing my posts show up three times each in their feed readers. Has this been happening to you too? Let me know. I’m trying to get this fixed!
December 11, 2011
Right now, in the middle of my living room, a loaf of Italian dessert bread known as Panettone is dangling upside down between two chairs, supported precariously by a couple of slightly charred wooden kebab skewers stabbed through its bottom. Tradition dictates that the bread is supposed to remain suspended this way for several hours to prevent its domed top from collapsing as it cools, but I doubt that this loaf is going to last anywhere near that long in its inverted state. The skewers are flexing alarmingly under the weight of the Panettone, and I can imagine it crashing to the floor in a shower of crumbs, candied citrus peel, and shattered dreams. Even if by some miracle it doesn’t fall, I’ll probably end up letting the nerves get the best of me (I’ve positioned my chair within arms reach of the bread, and I keep shooting it anxious glances every few seconds). I know I’ll end up whisking it away to the safety of the kitchen counter before it’s properly completed its time in mid-air.
Eating Panettone bread has become something of a Christmas tradition in my family. I’m not sure how this came to be – we don’t have even a shred of Italian heritage, my parents haven’t ever been to Italy, and yet the loaf of dense, fruity bread was a holiday staple in our household. Growing up, the bread always came from the store – sometimes in elaborately illustrated tins, sometimes in glossy boxes, and always wrapped in that trademark brown and gold paper. This year, though, I decided that I’d try something new while keeping the tradition alive: I’d bake my own Panettone.
I’m not normally the type of person who feels attached to holiday traditions. I don’t decorate my apartment. I don’t care for turkey or mashed potatoes or pumpkin pie. And I have absolutely no problem giving up the concept of a winter wonderland in exchange for some time spent lounging under a palm tree in Hawaii at Christmas. But for reasons unknown even to me, I do feel oddly attached to Panettone. And so I headed into the kitchen, armed with the world’s longest recipe and enough candied citrus peel to send me into a permanent sugar overdose.
There are two ways that a person can prepare their own Panettone. The first is the modern, time-saving method, an adaptation of the traditional techniques tailored to suit time-stapped housewives or those of us who just can’t commit to a two-day-long baking endeavour or a recipe that requires us to develop and cultivate our own wild yeast. The second way – the traditional method – requires patience, a lot of time, and a meticulously scheduled series of steps that guarantee a weekend devoid of both late nights out and lazy sleep-ins. It might be better suited to commercial bakeries than apartment kitchens, but I’ve never been one to shy away from complicated recipes, even ones that require driving across the city just to procure a couple of ingredients. Besides, with a wild yeast starter already developed for the normal bread I bake each week, I was already way ahead of the curve. Or so I thought.
Panettone, as it turns out, is a stressful dessert to prepare. The ingredients must be precisely weighed. The dough must be kneaded and kneaded and then kneaded some more, and the temperature during the rise has to be kept just right. Panettone is rather picky. I found myself sitting in front of the oven (warmed only by the oven light during the initial twelve-hour rising period) well past midnight, staring at the bowl of dough while willing it to rise faster, and the next morning I nearly had a nervous breakdown in front of my KitchenAid when the texture of the final dough was decidedly not what the recipe described. I added more flour – when in doubt, always add more flour – and kept mixing, kept feeding the dough ball more little cubes of softened butter until it was fat and glossy, ready to rise some more and then get placed into its traditional brown paper wrapper for baking. An hour later I swooped the finished Panettone out of the oven and immediately suspended it upside-down between the two chairs I had already arranged – so far, so good. As long as the bread didn’t slip out of the paper and plummet to the floor, my Christmas tradition would be a success.
Taste-testing after writing this post gives the homemade Panettone a solid two thumbs up for flavour, although the next iteration will definitely include a custard filling for additional calories wow-factor.
Since the recipe is so long, I’m not going to post it here. If you’re interested in making your own Panettone, you can find it here.
November 1, 2011
When the last day of October came to a chilly close, I felt like part of me had died, the part of me that was clinging desperately to the concept of autumn and to the ability to stay warm and comfortable throughout the day. While few will admit to actually truly liking winter, there probably aren’t very many people who loathe it with as much passion as I do. It’s not just that I hate the way the leafless trees look so spindly and menacing against the heavy lead-coloured sky or the way that sky is capable of drizzling rain for weeks on end, rather, it’s the fact that I know I won’t be able to feel truly warm again until April, or maybe late March if I’m lucky and the weather patterns have somehow all aligned in my favour.
I’ve come to realize that some people aren’t very picky or sensitive about their climate. They can find a reasonable degree of comfort in the dead of winter as long as they’ve got a few sweaters nearby and a thick pair of socks on hand, and they’re every bit as content in the middle of an unexpected August heat wave. But me? This concept of multi-seasonal comfort just doesn’t exist for me. I have a narrow range of acceptable temperatures that spans a total of maybe five degrees Celsius – let’s say it’s from nineteen to twenty-four degrees, although if I’m being perfectly honest, nineteen is just a touch too cold and twenty-four is bordering on sweaty – and as soon as the temperature edges outside of this range I become distinctly, noticeably, uncomfortable.
Fortunately, it’s not too often that I have to deal with the upper half of that spectrum. Heat waves are rare and short-lived here in rain-prone Victoria, and my ground-floor apartment, conveniently devoid of the slightest trace of afternoon sunlight, doesn’t begin to approach balmy temperatures on even the most searing of summer days. I love summer. I love the freedom to drift between indoors and outdoors without needing coats or scarves or umbrellas. I’m a big fan of spring, primarily because it means that summer is just around the corner. I can even appreciate the first half of autumn – the picturesque half, where the weather is summery but the leaves are multicoloured – but as soon as the temperature starts dropping, my comfort levels begin to plummet right along with it. By the time the calendar hits November, which, in my mind, marks the official beginning of winter, I’m fully engulfed in my downward spiral of seasonal misery.
Winter wouldn’t be quite so bad if staying warm was just a matter of throwing on a heavy coat before heading outdoors, but it’s not that simple. Getting into the car in the morning is like crawling into the freezer and closing the door. Sitting in a coffee shop or restaurant becomes an exercise in tolerance each time the door swings open and blasts the place with a gust of cold, damp wind. The office, where I spend more waking hours than pretty much anywhere else, is subjected to year-round air conditioning thanks to our uncontrollable climate control system, which makes it chilly during the summer and downright glacial for the rest of the year. And my apartment, which should be my safe haven from all of these sub-optimal temperatures, the one place where I can feel truly comfortable, is instead transformed into an arctic environment as soon as my woefully underpowered baseboard heaters become unable to keep up with the heat-leaching single-pane windows. And so I shiver my way through the season, layering sweatshirts and leg warmers and wrapping myself in blankets while I’m at home and then resigning myself to losing all feeling in my fingertips and nose while I’m in the office, sinking my chin into a scarf and pushing my hands into my pockets whenever I’m walking down the street.
I’m aware that winter in Victoria is hardly comparable to, say, winter in New York City or winter in some snow-swept prairie province stuck in a state of perpetual deep-freeze for more than half of the year. I wouldn’t last for more than a week in those places. But Victoria has its own brand of winter that can’t be completely written off: It might only snow for one or two days each year, but nearly constant rain is a given, as are regular winter windstorms that combine with the rain to form little hurricanes of misery. And today, on the first day of November, I’m pulling the heavy coats out of the closet, dusting off my boots, and making sure that each of my purses is stocked with a pair of gloves. It’s time to prepare for winter.
Above: Capturing the last few days of autumn in Victoria. See the blue(ish) sky? That’ll be a thing of the past soon.
