An Open Letter to Mr. Caldwell: The Power of an Amazing Teacher

Note: Mr. Caldwell was my teacher in 5th, 6th, 8th, 11th, and 13th (OAC) grades.  I first tried to look online to contact him when I was teaching English overseas.  I realized the immense frustrations that can come with the job, and also realized that kids don't see you as a person, they see you as teacher.  I wanted to write and apologize for occasionally being disruptive in class and for any disrespect I may have showed. As kids, we don't realize we're being disrespectful, we are generally just being kids.

Teachers come into children's lives for a brief time period.  They build relationships, they nurture, they care, and then, yearly, they move on to a new batch of students, and have to build new relationships.  It must be a difficult task, losing touch with students they care about, connecting again with new budding minds.  Teachers are transient in our lives, but the good ones leave a significant and lasting impression.

Since I started working for the Ministry of Education five years ago, I have been constantly steeped in effective practices of educators, and am frequently reminded of the teachers that had such an important influence on my life.  None had so great an impact as Mr. Caldwell.  I have wanted many times to say thank you, and after several failed efforts to find him online, I decided that if I couldn't say thank you directly, I would write him an open letter.  I hope that somehow it finds its way to him.  


Dear Mr. Caldwell,

As children, we are almost universally unaware of the impact the people around us are having on us. It isn't until later, until adulthood, when we can see with clarity what was done for us, and what it meant. Teachers have the power to inspire young people, to help them choose their path, to show them that someone believes in them.  You did all of these things for me.

On Thursday of last week, I co-chaired an all-staff day for my Division at the Ministry of Education, on the topic of Student Well-being.  The overarching theme of the day was the power of relationships, and the power of the teacher as a caring adult in a child's life.  As I listened to the key-note speaker, talking about the importance of making children feel valued and heard, understood and supported, my mind went, once again, to you, and I wished once more that I could thank you for being an amazing teacher who did everything right.

You taught my sister Michelle before you taught me, and my father said that you were the first and only teacher in all of his years of parenting to give his home phone number to his students and their parents.  Michelle had struggled a bit in school prior to your class.  One teacher even went so far as suggesting that she needed extra tutoring.  You noticed that Michelle liked math, and you encouraged her, and built her up, and made her believe that she was smart.  By the end of grade six, you nominated her for the Wellington County mathematics award, which she won, which brought her immeasurable pride.  Your belief in her engendered her belief in herself, and eventually, she went on to study math at the University of Waterloo.  

When I became your student, you noticed that I was a writer.  I wrote for fun and pleasure, and often shared my new stories with you.  I re-read them as an adult, and let me tell you, they were pretty brutally bad (although to be fair, I was 10-12).  But, you wrote comments in the back of each of them (because I had created a comment section). You read them on your own time.  They weren't part of your job, but you read them and encouraged me.  You made me feel respected and valued and special, which in turn helped me believe in myself and my abilities.  You selected me to attend 'Author Author' without any kind of classroom competition for the right to go (which totally angered my friends, I might add), and in doing so, you honoured my passion and efforts.  I continue to write, both for work, as a policy analyst, and as a hobby.  

Dr. Jean Clinton spoke on Thursday about the importance of kids who have adults whose eyes light up when they come into the room, who truly care about them.  She talked about the importance of teaching children self-efficacy, as well as self-esteem, and how building a relationship with a child helps their brain develop much better.  A supportive and caring teacher lowers the cortisol levels in the brain, reducing stress, which makes children more prepared for learning. After the talk, we discussed alternative theories of education, including the idea of continuity of a teacher in a child's life.  I told them about you, and how you taught me in multiple grades, and as such, you were able to develop strong relationships with your students.  I'm so glad that I had a truly caring and excellent teacher for those multiple grades.  I think my outcomes may have been different in life, otherwise.

Mr. Caldwell, you made me feel heard, seen, and respected.  When so many teachers seemed to see us as kids, you saw us as people. You treated us with integrity, you built us up, and helped each of us see our own unique gifts.  I thank you from the bottom of my heart for being an amazing teacher, and for helping me become the person I am today.

With heartfelt thanks,

Ashley

On Memory-for Marc

I've often joked that if had a super power, it would be my memory. My oldest memories start at the age of two. I remember playing with my sisters, slipping around a yard covered in ice, running through sprinklers naked with friends... and so many more. I have always been grateful for my memory, but recently, when I learned of the sudden passing of a childhood friend, Marc Crozier, I felt more gratitude than ever at the number of memories and moments I could remember that Marc was a part of.

I met Marc at the age of two, at our babysitter Winnie's. There were many kids there of various ages, including my sisters, and Marc and I developed the typically antagonistic relationship of three year olds of the opposite gender. Occasionally, when I was lucky, I could convince the other kids at Winnie's to play 'Kingdom and Castle' a role-playing game that I made up. Given that it was an RPG designed by a four year old, it was rather unsophisticated. Marc was typically cast as a knight, and I was generally a kidnapped princess that needed rescuing (see why it was difficult to convince other kids to play this game?) But, Marc generally seemed pretty happy to act out a character, which was a part of his personality that endured. I loved him for this, and by kindergarten, I had a total kindergarten crush. In response, Marc and the other boys would chase me around the school yard calling me "Ashley King of the Ashes", a nickname I still find strange to this day. In turn, I called him “Marc King of the Markers”.

My Kindergarten French Immersion class was tiny, and over the years, as we grew up, it continued to shrink until only five of us remained. As a result, we all knew each other well, and had many memories together. When we went to Harriston Senior, for some reason my friend Lindsay and I rarely managed to make it to the bus stop in time. Marc would wait at the corner of Toronto and Prospect for us, and would wave at us to run if the bus was coming. There were many mornings that we made it to school only because Marc was looking out for us, and because Bill our bus driver would open the door at the stop sign at the corner).

Marc had an individuality that was unique among kids in puberty. At an age when we were all desperately trying to fit in, Marc continued on, unconcerned about what people thought of him. In grade 9, when someone told Marc that his acid-wash, wide thigh, tight ankle jeans were very much not in style anymore, he shrugged and said they were comfortable. He couldn't have cared less. I envied that in him. To be so unselfconscious at a time when most of us were cringing with embarrassment on a regular basis seemed incredibly brave to me.

In the 10th grade, some friends and I took on the Lawrence Park renovation project. We had many kids in the school participate, and our friends were group leads. Marc took on one of those roles for us, and showed up many times to help us with prep work after school, as well as with taking a leadership role on the days when we had permission to miss school (when it was MUCH easier to find participants). The next year, at the school pep rally, Katy and I were asked to prepare a presentation about the park project. For some strange reason, we decided to adapt the song 'I will Survive' for this purpose. In our version of this song, it was the park that would survive. For this presentation though, we needed people who weren't afraid to sing in front of the whole school. I REALLY was. And of course, I thought of Marc. Fearless, kind, tone-deaf Marc took the lead on our song, because he loved doing things like that. Another great example of Marc’s penchant for dress up and performance was in OAC French when I did my independent study on the evolution of music and society in the 20^th century. For my presentation, I had friends dress up in costumes from different decades. Marc, representing the 50s, dressed as Elvis, and completely hammed it up. It was awesome.

I am so grateful for the countless memories I have of my childhood, and growing up in French Immersion in our tiny town. I am grateful for my memories of Winnie’s, and of Kindergarten, and of riding the bus to Harriston Senior. And of course, I am grateful for every memory I have of Marc, because when someone with a charming, large, kind personality like his leaves us suddenly, the only recourse is in the stories we share, and the memories we keep. By continuing to share and remember, lost friends are never truly lost.

Rest in peace, old friend.

Memories of Freddy

Today, as it happens from time to time, I am preoccupied with thoughts of Freddy. My Grandfather passed away almost eight years ago. This September would have been his 100th birthday. But, it isn't thoughts of loss that are occupying me at the moment, but rather thoughts of abundance. My Papa and I had a magical relationship. He was my friend and my mirror, as much as my elder and ancestor.Sometimes, I sink into old memories, the way I would sink into his sweaters in the months after he died, wanting to smell him again, to find something tangible that I could hold onto, when I could no longer hold onto his hand. The old memories are better than the smell of his sweaters though, and I think sometimes they need to be brought out, recycled, and replayed, because only that will prevent fading. The smell of the sweaters are long gone, but the memories, I can most certainly keep.

Freddy was a great story-teller, like my father, and myself I suppose. When my sister Kristen was very young, she started asking him about his childhood, growing up on the farm in the early 20th century. In response, he wrote and illustrated a book, dedicated to my sisters and I, titled 'From Papa With Love'. He gave us each a leather bound copy; our individualized books had photocopied photos of ourselves. I was about two when he finished it. The book chronicles his early days, before he met our Grandma, and before he left for the mines in Sudbury. He wrote about his

one room school house, his pets, wildlife, and all the ways he got up to trouble. He even gave us step by step instructions on how to make our own pea shooters and sling shots. By writing those memories all down, he ensured that it would never be forgotten, and I thank him for that. I cherish his book and his words.

Freddy was also a letter writer. Last fall, when I was packing to move, I came across an old stack of letters that he had sent me. I sat and read through each one, laughing, and crying a little, loving his syntax, his voice coming through so clearly in the pages. I had a great many penpals in my youth. Freddy was my favourite. When I was about 9, I asked my Grandparents for a subscription to 'Disney Adventures' for my birthday, and instead, every month, Freddy

would write me a letter, and mail me the magazine along with it. WAY better than a subscription, if you ask me! Some months, he'd forget that he'd already sent me a copy, so I'd get two letters. I didn't mind.

More than anything else though, Freddy just loved his Grandkids. The day Kristen was born, he quit smoking and heavy drinking on the same day. He now had a reason to live, and he certainly did. He was a lighthearted, laughing, happy person who always had a twinkle of mischief in his eye. He was generous to a fault, but sometimes would combine generosity with pranks, such as when he taped $20 to Michelle's foot in her sleep, so she woke up with tape wound between her

toes, but $20 when she could get it off. I think he did this mostly because she was such a deep sleeper, and it was amusing to him to see how much harassment she would take before she woke up. (Sidenote, my dad once woke Michelle up by shaking the whole mattress and yelling that there was an earthquake... she didn't wake up until the mattress shaking rolled her out of bed lol).

Freddy and me were kind of our own thing though. We got each other on a totally different level. I believe that people can have many soul mates, and my grandfather was certainly one of mine. We used to laugh, talk and share secrets like co-conspirators. He treated me like an equal long before I was grown. When he died, I felt like a part of me was gone. To lose that relationship, with someone who understands you so completely, and loves you all the more for it, felt like a painful severing.

Now, many years later, I don't see it quite the same way. I feel like I've sort of absorbed Freddy, by holding tight to the memories of him. I love to look for new people to share my stories about Freddy with, because there is a finite number, and well, I know people hate hearing the same anecdotes all the time. Sharing these memories are really my way of spending time with him. They make me smile, sometimes make me choke up a bit, bring my heart to my throat, and fill me with beautiful emotion. With all my energy, I send all my love out to him, in memory of him, and I feel it come back to me. I breathe, and sink into that cyclical flow of love, and know that wherever he may be, he's happy I'm thinking of him today.

Vote! (and vote well)

Ah spring...when a young government's fancy turns to election. That's right, its springtime in Canada, otherwise known as election season. This year, I anticipate the election with some trepidation. I feel nervous every time there is an election in Canada, because I care about who leads our country, and what they stand for. Too many Canadians don't seem to feel the same; or, at the very least, they don't feel that how they vote is relevant. Too many Canadians of voting age don't vote. In the last federal election, voter turnout hit a record low, at 59.1%. In the first free and fair election in South Africa, people lined up for hours and sung and danced in the heat, joyfully, in order to exercise their right to vote. Voting is a privilege and a right.

In Canada, many of those who vote frequently feel that their only choice is to vote strategically, against someone, rather than proactively for someone. I read today in the Globe and Mail that many, many more Canadians would vote NDP if they believed that the NDP could actually form a government. How absurd this herd mentality seems. What about voting with your conscience, driven by your beliefs, and choosing someone who represents you? I admit, its hard to get excited about politics when you're most concerned about voting against, rather than for.

A significantly greater concern than the trend to vote against is the huge amount of people who don't vote at all. Have we forgotten what a privilege it is to be able to choose our leaders? Yes, it is our right, but it is a right that is denied to people around the world. My Great Aunt Marg once said to me that the greatest thing she saw in her lifetime (which spanned 93 years) was when women got the vote. This is a BIG DEAL. The right to vote and choose our leaders is a BIG DEAL. And yet, most Canadians generally seem perturbed by being asked to go to the polls again.

Maybe it makes me nerd, but I love voting, I love having the opportunity to choose my representative. Do I think we have a perfect system? Hell no (I favour a proportional representation system, but I am apparently alone waving that banner). But, regardless, I am grateful that I have this right.

Tonight, I watched the leadership debate in the Atrium of the CBC building, and I heard the Prime Minister refer to the democratic process multiple times as 'bickering'. He consistently ignored the other candidates with whom he was apparently debating and stared directly into the camera with small, creepy condescending smiles and did his best to convince Canadians that he deserved a majority government. What he didn't really do was participate fully in the democratic process, in that it didn't really feel like he was debating with anyone at all, and he seemed to indicate that anyone who took issue with his statements were squabbling unnecessarily. While I clearly have my own politics that lean away from Stephen Harper, what I really couldn't stand to see tonight was his disrespect for democracy (not to mention, of course, his policies on military spending, crime, immigration, social welfare, health care, international diplomacy, or any of his economic policies really at all--but I digress).

Canada is a fantastic country. I love it here. I have voted every opportunity I've had, and I am so grateful I have that ability. On May 2nd, 2011, please vote. Make an informed choice, and participate in the democratic process.

And remember, a vote for Stephen Harper's Conservatives is a vote against hugs and puppies.

void

Some days
blend, endless
like unset ink
bleeding hours minutes seconds
into one unit of time
mind drifts
and
swells
in
the

void

I be Hatin'.

As you might have noticed (or, if you managed not to, colour me shocked), yesterday was February 14th, Valentine's day. As a child, I always kind of liked Valentine's day. You got to make pretty little mailbox crafts in school, and you'd get fun cards from the kids in your class. Valentine's was an outpouring of love. It was, of course artificial love, and even back then, centered around the expectation that you'd give cards to receive them. But, I didn't mind. The point was, back then, everyone was included, even the odd kid in your class who never said a word and picked his nose a lot. Even he got a card that said 'I like you!' So what if it was lies?

As we age, however, Valentine's stops being inclusive. It becomes a day that is to be celebrated with a significant other, or alone with a pint of Haagen Daas (or a bottle of tequila for the true lonely hearts). Valentine's becomes a contrived observance steeped in expectation once you reach a certain age. For those who are single, it is a reminder of thus. For those who are coupled, men have an expectation to perform, (and not in the enjoyable way), and (some) women feel entitled to their one day a year flowers and chocolates. For serious? This is how we express love?

In high school, my sis Michelle and I decided that this whole day was balls. One V-day, I made her a card, that said "Happy Two Cool Sisters Day!" (proving just how nerdy we really were). Every year thereafter, we still wish each other a Happy Two Cool Sisters day. My sister is married, and she still refuses to celebrate Valentine's day. This makes me proud.

The thing is, I really love love. I adore everything about it. I love seeing expressions of love, and the way people who are truly in love interact with each other. I am by no means a bitter single person. I am full of happiness and pleasure and joy. My Auntie Doriann's birthday happens to also be valentine's day, and her partner wrote her a song, and posted it on facebook for all to see. I love that. I love seeing two people I adore joining their lives together; I love seeing people who after 40 years together, like my parents, are still totally happy and in love. It makes me so happy to see people become stronger, better-off people because they have that positive force in their life. I just honestly feel like Valentine's day doesn't celebrate love, it celebrates the expectation of what love should be. People who are in love are lucky, and in my opinion, every day is their day. There is absolutely nothing more sublime than the feeling of being in love. As my older sister K says: "Love is my favourite drug".

Maybe my hate-on for Valentine's day is actually born of my love of love, and I hate seeing something so amazing corrupted by this red and pink teddy bear heart chocolate long stem roses crap that gets vomited over everything for the first few weeks of February. If you love someone, and you want to get them a gift to show them that, by all means go for it. But, please, make it something that is actually of meaning to them, rather than one of these clichés that are so horribly overdone.

The last several years (whether or not I was in a relationship), I've made a point of spending Valentine's day with my friends. I've had Valentines with 8 people over pitchers and wings, Valentines that have turned into kitchen dance parties lubricated by excessive amounts of tequila, Valentines at the movies watching a slasher horror flick, and this year, I had a nice Valentine's with my roomie, working out and making a nice dinner together, followed by crochet and House. I love celebrating love, you see. I just don't like being told how to do it.

Yesterday, I got a message from my ex, wishing me a happy V.D. I wrote back, and said "Happy Venereal Disease to you, too!" And then I laughed.

Thoughts on the Bullying Question

For several months now, bullying has been prevalent in the media in

a way that it really hadn't been before. After several gay teens in the United States committed suicide as a result of bullying, a national level discussion emerged around the damage of bullying and the lofty notion of zero tolerance. Largely, the focus of the discussion was about victim impact, and in some cases looked at the larger question of a culture that turned a blind eye to the exploitation and abuse of gay youth. Dan Savage, of the brilliant and internationally syndicated advice column, 'Savage Love', started the 'It Gets Better" campaign, promising youth to keep pushing through and things will improve. It was inspiring, moving and touching and gathered the support of people in the public eye across the US, right up to the President.

During this high profile discussion of bullying, there has been very little talk about the bullies themselves. What makes a bully? And, is it a simple 'white hats/black hats' type of affair? Through my work, I

am exposed to daily discussions about bullying. These discussions talk about three groups of kids: the bullies, the victims, and the bystanders. Its often easiest to focus on one side of the coin, rather than another. I started thinking about writing this entry after watching Sunday night's Glee episode, the much hyped post-Superbowl episode. Typically, when Glee has a really hyped up episode, it tends to disappoint me. The Superbowl episode, however, did something quite unexpected that made me incredibly impressed and moved: they humanized the bully.

Its so easy on television shows to make these things appear to be simple. Kurt, the spunky, opinionated openly gay glee club member was tormented by Karovsky, the closeted teenage bully. Its easy to say, 'Karovsky bad, Kurt good'. Of course Kurt is good, and of course Karovsky's actions were bad. Kurt felt so endangered and terrified at school every day that he ended up transferring to another school. However, in the most recent episode, instead of continuing to vilify Karovsky, the show had teachers attempting to support, encourage, and include him. Student leaders followed suit. Instead of allowing further division, they showed that through support and inclusion, people can channel their frustrations into something more productive. While they had a breakthrough moment with Karovsky (who secretly is good at the song and dance glee routine), I thought the ending was much more realistic. It didn't end happily with Karovsky wanting to join the glee club, it ended with him denying his enjoyment of glee, and focused on his desire to maintain his social status, and not appear 'gay'. "I'm on top right now, why would I want to change anything?"

Today, in the Globe and Mail, there was an article about how popular kids are most likely to be bullies. What was most surprising to me about this was that it was news at all. I was a victim of bullying in school, and it was never done by a socially marginalized kid. It was ALWAYS the same group of girls who thought they had the right to degrade and humiliate other classmates who they considered 'less than'. To me, its interesting looking back that it never remotely occurred to me to say anything to anyone about it. Fear of reprisal for being a 'narc' was far greater than a desire for a bully to get suspended for a few days. Eventually, my own social status climbed to the point that I was no longer an appropriate/easy target. I would defend myself, and defended those who I saw being bullied.

People in high school who weren't victims or perpetrators of bullying were almost certainly bystanders, the problem being that pervasive in schools. Almost everyone witnesses bullying. Sometimes, someone speaks. Sometimes, someone will come to another person's defense, but, that's rare. I had close, lifelong friends who witnessed me being bullied and stood by without speaking. They were good, kind people, but terrified of provoking the bullies and creating enemies for themselves. Much research indicates that if we find a way to remove the bystander, we remove all of the bully's power. Bullying rarely happens without witnesses; that would defeat its purpose as a social tool.

Is it possible to overcome this issue? I really don't know. Can we teach empathy in a different way? What made me speak out for other kids being bullied was that I had been bullied myself, but had risen to a social position that meant it wasn't a threat for me anymore. Empathy was fundamentally what drove me, though. How do we create a climate where kids who are bullied are protected, but the bullies are supported as well? How do we remove bystanders? I wish I had answers. Instead, all I have are questions, all bundled inside the complex microcosm of the extremes of human nature that is high school.

Evil Alien Kitty

I currently live with a cat that might be an alien. I'm not kidding. Her eyes are bright green and in the sun her pupils go into little thin vertical slits that are disturbing as fuck, I kid you not. I apologize for the profanity, but how does no one else notice that this cat looks quite profoundly evil unless she has giant pupils that give her the illusion of innocence? Her sun-eyes also look like that of an alien. Or a snake. Neither are things I'd want in my home. Well, maybe if it was a cool alien, like Worf. I'd like Worf in my home.

I am not deceived by her cute demur attitude and tiny stature. I know that when everyone went home for Christmas, and the angel was left on top of the tree, someone was responsible for her unsafe plummet to her doom. I'm guessing her name starts with a T and ends with okyo.

I give you exhibit A)

Isn't that scary?

Now, in all honesty, I couldn't begin to guess how this cat managed to scale the tree and stalk the angel at the top, but... stop and picture her trying for a moment. I can imagine her hanging off the tree, stretching toward her saintly prey... if anyone could manage such a feat, it would be Tokyo. Now, how she managed to do so without knocking ANY other ornaments off the tree, I'll never know.

I long ago decided that the best way to address a house pet is as a sentient being who might be capable of understanding you. My problem with Tokes (her nickname), is not that I think she's a stupid cat who doesn't understand me, my problem is that I think she does. I think she understands a lot of what's going on, but she chooses not to behave accordingly; or worse, she intentionally sabotages a situation.

Exhibit B) The Proposal

So Tokyo is my roommate Chloe's cat. Chloe loves her a lot, as does her fiance Blake (who I stole this photo from. Thanks Blake). Back in November, Blake decided to enlist Tokyo's help in proposing to Chloe. Seriously? Would you trust THAT cat? With an engagement ring?! Well... he did. Blake and Tokyo practiced several times in order to get it right. Blake would leave the room, and come back in a bit, to find Tokyo sitting on the bed, looking up at him, wearing the ring. Of course, when the time came for Chloe to come to the door with Blake, Tokyo bolted. They had to chase her around the house to get the ring back so that Blake could properly propose. That cat knew exactly what was going on, and she had sabotage in her heart.

She wants you to think she's stupid, but make no mistake. The second you underestimate this cat, she will prove you all kinds of wrong. And not in a good way. The smart thing to do is maintain a healthy awareness of her capacity for destruction and her constant plotting of vengeance for imaginary wrongs. And, just as a precautionary measure, plot yourself some kitty vengeance as well. The best way to emotionally defeat a cat is to think like a cat. Unless she's an alien. Then I'm likely screwed.

Everyone wants to eat my tuna (salad)

So, I've been in a bit of a slump this week (sometimes January gets me down), and I decided that in order to cheer myself up, I would go to the St. Lawrence Market. As we all know, I love the farmer's market. It is relaxing and pleasant, and puts me in a solidly good mood. Today, as I perused the market, I decided I would treat myself to some exceptional sashimi grade tuna. From there, I put together a salad in my mind that would prove to be pretty much the best salad I've ever eaten. Ever. No exaggeration.

So, I thought I'd share it with you guys.

First, cough up the money for some exceptional sashimi grade tuna. The tuna steak I bought cost me $20 (for two meals worth of tuna), which was worth every penny. Then, I bought some baby greens fresh from the grower. Then, I picked up a perfect avocado and an atulfo mango. YUM. Along with cucumber and red pepper, that formed the basis of my salad. Every part made a greater whole.

I marinated my tuna steak for several hours (about 3 or 4 I think). I made a marinade with:

1 tsp sesame oil

juice of one lime

1/2 tbsp maple syrup

2 tsp mushroom soy sauce

3 cloves garlic

1/2 tbsp ginger

Later on, when you're ready to eat (this salad really only takes about 20 minutes to prepare), get out all your ingredients and have fun!

Step 1: Put your lovely fresh baby greens in a small pile on the plate. Use the cucumbers to contain the pile by slicing them thinly and placing them in a circle.

Step 2: Peel and slice an atulfo (yellow) mango. My awesome roommate Chloe introduced me to this type of mango, and I've never gone back. I was never terribly fond of mango. It is fibrous, and didn't have the most appealing flavour in the world. Atulfo mangos are heaven. Really. Yum. They are like yummy mango butter. Place your mango decoratively around the cucumber (one mango per salad, unless its huge, then use your judgement. Maybe half, in that case).

Cut your avocado in half (use one half per salad). This avocado was probably the most perfect avocado I've bought in a store in Canada (though it still doesn't quite reach the level of the avos in Chile. YUM). Slice your avo and arrange decoratively on the salad.

Thinly slice your red pepper (red pepper is probably my favourite vegetable), and arrange it decoratively on the salad. Doesn't this salad look kind of like an artistic interpretation of sunshine?

Ok, now for the cooking step. Heat a skillet on the stove until it gets very hot. I added a thin layer of sesame oil to the skillet. Pan sear your tuna steak for 20-30 seconds on both sides. It is supposed to be just cooked on the outside and still raw on the inside. mmmmm... Remove from the pan. Ask.com told me that tuna will continue to cook once out of the pan, so be very careful not to overcook your tuna. Don't be scared though. This was the first time I made really good tuna, and it turned out like heaven! Or, as my roommate said 'OMG Ashley, its like candy!' But not cause its sweet, because its that damn good!

I made a dressing out of sesame oil, rice wine vinegar, soy and maple syrup. If I had more lime, I would have used that too.

I added some pine nuts to the middle of the salad, laid out my tuna and dressed my yummy creation!

My gourmand sister says, 'first, the eye must feast', and indeed, this was not only the best salad I've ever tasted, but one of the prettiest too.

People often have a hate-on for salad as a meal. Clearly, they've never eaten this salad. One of my roommates has often said that she's not a fan of any salad but mine. I try to explain that there isn't a trick. She doesn't seem convinced. When I present a salad like this though, I realize that there is a trick: high quality ingredients, and the pleasure of creation.

Oh, and btw, a piece of sashimi grade tuna with a piece of atulfo mango and a piece of really good avocado produces a foodgasm. Prepare yourself. OMG its so good.

Ash+Christmas=Love

Hello internet ether! Guess what? I exist again! So, its been rather a long time since I've posted, I recognize. This is due to a number of factors. They are as follows:

1. Work has been too busy to spend half an hour writing a blog post in the middle of the day (yeah, I do that sometimes).
2. Since I've moved into a new place with roommates (hooray!) I no longer feel the need to sit alone in my room and write. I have actual real live friends to hang out with every night!
3. I've been crocheting up a STORM with the impending winter and Christmas season.
4. I haven't had any batteries in my camera to take pictures of the awesome stuff I've made recently. And there's been lots!

Oh, which brings me to my reason for posting today: Christmas! I really love Christmas. I completely blame my parents, though my grandparents were definitely co-conspirators in the creation of my Christmas addiction. Its just such a happy/pretty/loving time of year. I'm not even a religious person, I just love everything about it. Ok! Its list time again! Here are my

favourite things about Christmas:

10. The smell of clementines. Mmmm... I love how

in November or so, people start buying boxes of

clementines, and bringing them into work, and they

just smell SO good when you peel one open. I also am very fond of trying to keep the peels all in one piece like my sis and I used to do when we were kids.

9. Kids in snowsuits. Man, I just love how kids look in snowsuits. They are just so ready for fun and excitement! They know what's going on. I also love that they can't really put their arms down completely. Its pretty funny. I frequently wis

h I had snow pants on so I could just bust out a random snow angel on the way home from work. Just sayin'. Perhaps I'm also just reminded of Ralphie in a Christmas story l... 'I can't put my arms down!!!!' Classic.

8. This segues quite nicely to Christmas movies! I adore a good Christmas movie. Its important to recognize, of course, that not all Christmas movies are created equal. You've got your classic Christmas, 'Its a Wonderful Life, and 'A Miracle on 34th St.', Then, there are the Christmas cartoons, Rudolph, Frosty, a Charlie Brown Christmas, and Polar Express. There is a special category for Christmas comedies, of which the ultimate #1 best is certainly 'Elf,' but National La

mpoon and A Christmas story get honourable mention for being classics. And of course, my favourite Christmas movie of all time, a special shout out to the 'Muppet's Christmas Carol'. When they sing 'It Feels Like Christmas...' my heart sings too. Incidentally, this was also my late grandpa's favourite movie ever. He had good taste.

7. The Christmas Miracle. Anyone who's ever watched 'The Days of Our Lives', know that Christmas is a special time for miracles! Magical things happen at Christmas. I recently

lost my brand new iPhone, and a random person found it on the street and returned it to me! She used my sim card to track me down and called my service provider who gave her my email address. Crazy. That is a Christmas miracle. But, there are better ones too! Chloe singing on Days and waking up her mom was pretty awesome! Ooh, and when it snowed in Sunnydale, so the sun couldn't rise and Angel couldn't kill himself, and Buffy and Angel could spend Christmas morning together hand in hand in the streets full of fake snow. Does anyone else ever wonder how fake snow on TV shows and movies looks so OBVIOUSLY fake? Aren't effects better than that these days?

Freshly fallen snow doesn't look like that. But it sure was a great Christmas episode!

6. This brings me to... Christmas TV episodes! I love a nice Christmas special, and there have been a few standouts in my mind over the years. The above Buffy ep is pretty great (and also introduces the first

storyline WAY back in season 3 which is only there for one ep and then becomes the main story for season 7. Brilliant. Gotta love Joss.) A wicked ep was on the super cheese show Roswell, when Max saved ALL the kids in the cancer ward because he was being haunted by the spirit of a man he killed. I also love 'Laurelai's sense of Snow' on the Gilmore Girls, when Luke has to help Laurelai reconcile with snow... But, my VERY favourite Christmas episode is the 'My So Called Life' Christmas ep, when Ricky was being abused *so sad* and Angela befriends a homeless girl who turns out to be an angel. SO SO SO great! I think I'll watch it tonight!!!!

5. Christmas Music! Man I love Christmas songs! I love singing them, I love hearing them in the mall, I love having them on my iPod accompanying me to work! I love the classic Christmas carols, like O Holy Night, Silent Night, Little Town of Bethlehem, Angels we Have Heard on High, and so many more... But, I also adore the Christmas cheese like 'Do They Know Its Christmas Time', and 'Last Christmas', which was recently voted the worst Christmas song of all time. I love it all. Every Christmas, my extended family used to get tog

ether and sing carols. Eventually this just became the 12 days of Christmas. In recent years we haven't sung at all. Maybe I'll rectify that this year!

4. Christmas traditions. I am known in my family as the Christmas traditionalist. I love the little traditions that go along with the big ones. In my family we always play 'Sesame Street Christmas' on the turntable (pretty much the only day of the year the turntable gets used), when we decorate the tree. I love that. I love that Michelle, Grandma and I always break the bread for the stuffing right after presents. I love that we open Pyjamas every Christmas eve, so that we can wear our new PJs for the pictures the next day. I love all the small rituals that make the whole.

3. Snow and twinkle lights/snow falling in the streetlight. I know I know its terrible to travel in, but snow is just SOOOO pretty. I really love it. I love when it falls, and I can see it coming down so peacefully in the streetlight. I love when people put twinkle lights on their trees or bushes,

and then snow falls on top of it, and it makes a little lit upsnow-dome. I love snow. It makes me happy, peaceful, and feels like magic. For me, the first day the snow stays on the ground is the official first day of Christmas. I'll never forget the first day of Christmas in first year, where we took the screen out of the window, and the snow fell into the room, and we sang Christmas carols with people who could actually sing in harmony. SO pretty.

2. Turkey dinner. You only ever are going to make turkey dinner when you're feeding a ton

of people. Its elaborate and delicious, and happens pretty much just twice a year. If you're doing a turkey dinner, it takes a whole day of preparations and effort. Everyone loves it, and everyone comes together for it. I've done turkey dinner for thanksgiving several times, but always as potluck. This was the first year I did the whole dinner myself. GO me! It was for my Christmas kick off tree decorating party, and every part of that was awesome.

And the number 1 reason I love Christmas...

1. Love. Christmas is all about love and generosity. Its about generosity to strangers and loved ones as well. People are more charitable, more forgiving, more willing to express how they feel about each other. My family always gets a little tipsy at Christmas which leads to 45 toasts about how much we all love each other. I love searching for the perfect gift for someone, and seeing them open it on Christmas morning. I loved all the Christmas stories that were read to us with love, and that when my grandfather could no longer see well, I read to him. I love the solidity of family at Christmas, and the knowledge that even when we're apart, we're together in our hearts. There is truly nothing better.

Merry Christmas, everyone! XOXO

Packing Schmacking

You know what sucks? Packing. Not packing for a lovely holiday. That can be fun. You download the customizable universal packing list (seriously, do this, it totally rocks), and pick out some pretty outfits and buy some new sunscreen. No, I'm talking about packing an apartment to move. Yep, its a universal truth, moving is one of those things that pretty much everyone loathes. Piles of boxes, extensive purging of items, organizing, bending, lifting, house in disarray. Its miserable.

But you know what else is miserable? Living in one of the worst neighbourhoods in Toronto. Two years ago, when I moved into my place I didn't know quite how sketchy the area was. I knew it was a bit rough, but I also knew that since I literally had one day to find a place to live, thanks to my Dad's screw-up, I likely wasn't going to do much better. My priorities were to be walking distance from work, and to pay less than $1000 inclusive for a one bedroom with a balcony in downtown Toronto. I found that. I also got the bonus of a pool.

However, I also got the experience of living a half a block away from the mission. I've witnessed drug deals and hooking, arrests for various types of offenses. In two years I walked outside my apartment after 10pm by myself twice. I was very careful. I learned that certain streets are safter to walk on than others, and certain sides of the street are better as well. But, I also learned a lot of different things. After awhile, you come to know and recognize a neighbourhood, and the people within it, as they recognize you. People in my area face all sorts of mental health challenges, of abject poverty, or drug addiction. I came to understand these issues a lot more, and much of my fear was broken down. I was still careful, but more conscious of the reality of the situation.

That being said, the building itself was pretty terrible. It has the most terrifying elevators you've ever encountered. Ok, maybe second most. Its a rough ride. The doors get stuck. I once was stuck in an elevator, and I had some nachos and salsa, and a couple girls in there had a 12 pack of beer, and we were like, "well, at least we can have a party if we don't get out". A minute later the elevator started up again. The man who was in the elevator expressed his disappointment that the elevator party didn't pan out. Amusingly, the elevators in my building are something of community builders. An elevator is broken, and you're standing in the hall, getting progressively later for work, and more and more people come and join you, having a common focus to bitch about caused people to talk to each other more. Raging at the building that has so many fire alarms that no one takes them seriously and actually evacuates during them is better done in concert with your neighbours.

Anyway, I am mightily pleased to be leaving my building, but packing, packing sucks. Putting your life into boxes and taking stock of the things you have to tie you down, getting sweaty and sometimes dirty, and realizing that you keep stupid things from time to time (like 27 mismatched socks. WHY? WHY???). Hauling and moving and worrying about the timing and logistics, its just not fun.

What should be fun is my new place. I'm going to be living with friends again, which will be a very nice update from living alone. I've enjoyed living alone, but I think that my new place will have a great balance. It will be in a far better neighbourhood with people I really enjoy and no more elevators or fire alarms. And, I'll admit, no longer living next door to the mission will be a lovely side bonus as well.

But booooo packing.

A Stroke of Awesome

So, first off, my apologies for my prolonged absence. I imagine I've likely lost all of my already limited readership. Perhaps my kind sister still checks back on occasion to see whether I've written anything new, but I can't expect the rest of you to have maintained interest. So, I thought, hey, why not come back to the blog with something loud, exciting, and wicked... bound to capture the interest of all! (Or just you, Shelly). What could be so awesome that it gets you as excited as an explosion in the first 30 seconds of a movie (or better yet, an explosion during the opening credits? thanks,Team America). You guessed it: A Thunderstorm!

(Props to my Mom for this wicked pic!)

Ok, maybe you didn't guess it, but thunderstorms are freaking awesome. I'd have sworn there, but there might be kids reading this. How they ever found this blog, I'll never know. But, its the internet, where children know far more than their parents. Seriously, as an aside, if I were a parent, I'd be TERRIFIED of the internet (and yet simultaneously enthralled! So much useful parenting and child development information!)

Right. Thunderstorms. So, I was never a kid who was afraid of thunderstorms, really. This was largely because my parents intentionally made a storm into an exciting and fun event. When we were kids, if there was a storm, especially at the cottage, they'd wake us up, and we'd all go into the veranda and watch the lightning and jump at the thunder, but feel enthralled by the entire thing.

Thunderstorms have never really lost their magic for me. Its been something that's endured. The majesty of nature is bewildering at times, and I've felt humbled to bear witness. Last month, my best friend Lily came up to my cottage for an awesome weekend with some family members and friends. On Saturday night, we got treated to an amazing show. After dinner and dishes were done, we retired to the dock as we typically do, in order to watch the sunset.

Well, that Saturday night, there was no sunset, per se. The lake was placid and calm, but we could hear a storm brewing around the bay. There was no rain or wind, but thunder would rumble around us like we were in the middle of a Tibetan singing bowl that had a very low voice. Then the lightning started. The lightning was intense and exciting, but well across the lake. We sat at the end of the dock watching this storm for a good 45 minutes until finally Mom had the common sense to inform us that the storm was about to hit, and we shouldn't be on the end of the dock inviting a lightning strike. She was right. We retired to the cottage, and two minutes later the storm hit us. We turned off all the lights and sat in the dark listening to the storm and Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. If you're ever wondering what is the appropriate music during a thunder or lightning storm, that would be it.

Once, a few years ago, my Dad and I were hanging out playing some cribbage, and a crazy lightning storm started. We quickly flipped off all the lights and power except for our stereo which had just started playing Dark Side of the Moon. Over the next 45 minutes, the lightning storm was exactly in time to the album. It had the same breath, the same spaces, multiple flashes and action at the same time as the beats. It was us, Pink Floyd, and God, and it was amazing.

So, to all you parents out there, don't let your kids be afraid of a storm, instead, help them get excited about it. You'll be doing them a favour for a lifetime. And guess what? They're calling for a thunderstorm tomorrow! Keep your fingers crossed!

The Sum of Meaning

I'm fifteen and leaving my first concert with my best friend. My body is tingling. I am five, swimming in the public pool for my dog tags, with people cheering me on. I'm twenty-five, holding the person I love in my arms. We are a sum of defining moments, perfect in their simplicity, magnificent in their complexity.

The smallest things often end up holding the most meaning. Its not the large 100-person house party that holds significance, but rather, the intimate gathering occurring spontaneously on the night of the brief, great black out. The large, planned out residence formal pales in comparison to the first day of snow, when we took the screen out of the window, and sang Christmas carols.

We are a sum of the moments of our lives, as they reflect our values, desires, sources of pleasure. We choose what has relevance based on our character:

Fifteen years old, clearing the table with my best friend. Under our plates are two tickets to silverchair, which my parents have hidden there. I'm twenty-two, sitting by my window, crying after making the Dean's list. I'm seven, playing mini-golf with my Papa. I'm ten, lying on my back watching the Northern Lights dance across the sky at the cottage. I'm walking across a stage, twenty-three, being handed my degree.

I am the moments of my life, magnificent, and insignificant, summarized and memorized and often forgotten.

I am three, riding on my Daddy's shoulders at the zoo. I'm 23, turning back to see my parents watching me walk through airport security. I see them cry. I am 19 saying goodbye to my sister, not saying a word. I'm 20, leaving a newfound sister, weeping just the same. I am 23, crying on the floor with my dog, preparing to leave my life, and all I know, behind.

I am forever, staring at the stars, on the end of the dock, in the Austrian sky, in the Korean mountains, in Ottawa, in Palmerston. I am the sum of the moments I have lived, a sum of the people I have loved, of the places I've been and the skies I have seen.

I am the moments of my life, in summary.

Exodus

During the summer, on Friday nights, thousands of cars line up on the highway, attempting to impatientienly manoeuver their way up north to their cottages. Horns sound,

cars are cut off; city dwellers already wound tight as a drum from a week of work are further wound on the highway. I, myself, don't drive, but last Thursday I found myself sitting in the back seat of my sister's car while my brother-in-law fought the traffic to our family cottage. Michelle was stressing over whether we'd make it to the cottage in time for sunset, Anthony was mostly just trying to stay mellow in the face of the traffic insanity (he did a pretty good job of it too. Dude is super chill).

Myself, I looked out the window at the scenery passing by. I watched the fields of corn, the swaying of trees, baby animals frolicking with their mothers. I watched as streams cut through fields and bloomed into pools, I saw the beauty of their blue-on-green. I mark the contrast of dilapidated red barns marked against the sky and fields. Soon, rocks could be seen by the side of the road, proud harbingers of Muskoka. I knew we were sitting in stop and go traffic, but I didn't care. I chose to see the beauty, because this entire road is the cottage road, and what's more beautiful than that?

Oh, yeah, actually arriving to this:

I am one of those truly blessed people who was born into a family cottage. More than 70 years ago, my great grandparents decided to build a summer vacation spot for them and their family. My Great Grandfather was a principal at a school, and several teachers bought lots in the same bay. Every summer the families all vacationed their together, with JB leading the way (that's my Great Grandpa. JB Temple).

My cottage was built on the cheap, but it was built by hand. My great grandfather's fingerprints remain on the ceiling from where he laid the boards. His DNA is in the boards that built the cottage, and in me. People who were born to our family, born to the cottage feel like its etched in our bones. My Grandpa, Bud, spent his youth fishing and playing at the cottage. He brought his own six children there every summer. There is a beautiful photo of my mother on the beach in diapers with her curly blonde hair. Many, many years later, there was a photo of me taken in diapers with my curly blonde hair. The continuity is comforting.

The cottage has kept my extended family close. It allowed me to get to know and love my cousins. Every August 1st long weekend we'd have a birthday party for all the summer babies, and this August 1st was no different. In a way, it was a throwback to the long weekends of old, with cousins, aunts and uncles, my Grandmother, and the newest member of our family, my cousin's baby Molly. She's the 5th generation of our family to play in Skeleton lake. This is magical. This place will be in her blood, like it is in her mother's, grandfather's and ancestors.

The sun dips down below the horizon, the sky glows red and purple and orange. The bay is calm and the firey sky is reflected in the waters. We sit and watch the sunset, and for however many we've seen up there, we look at it with new eyes. The beauty never fades. Neither does the love.

Lily is a flower (and also a kick-ass best friend)

Yesterday was my best friend Lily's birthday, and I thought I'd celebrate by writing a blog entry about her and why she's so awesome. Lils and I met through a random act of fate (I suppose most meetings are, yes?) and to this day, I think it is one of the kindest strokes of luck fate has dealt me.


On the first day of my undergrad, I arrived in Ottawa nervous as all hell. I lived my whole life prior to 19 in a tiny town, in the same house that I came home from the hospital to. My parents still live there. Unlike most of the people I knew who chose to go to schools in Guelph, Waterloo, or Toronto, (all less than 3 hours from home) I chose to go to Carleton for the Bachelor of Public Affairs and Policy Management. I knew no one there. In my graduating class of 350, I was the only person to choose Carleton, and one of two to choose Ottawa in general. I had no family there. I was shaking in my boots. Not to mention the daunting prospect of being placed in a shared room with a total stranger. This is what I mean about random acts of fate. Because, as you might have guessed, the total stranger I was placed with was the amazing Miss Lily.

Lily and I became very fast friends, frequently amazed by our eerie similarities. The pic on the left was taken on a random night in res (note this a scanned photo from the days prior to digital! Long time ago now) when we decided we were bored so a bunch of us did random things to our hair. Yep. Sometimes, that was what we did for fun. Lils and I shared many things, our program of study, our horrific capacity to create a mess, our love of musical theatre, disdain of ignorance, love of animals, adoration of planning, the list goes on and on. Once, the night before an econ exam, neither of us could sleep, and we stayed up past four am singing musicals from our separate beds. I can't imagine behaving this way with anyone else on the planet.

First year was a wild ride of stress and tears and laughter and partying. An early bedtime was 2:00am, more common was 3:00am. Once bed time did roll around, Lily and I spent every night talking each other to sleep. One person or the other would eventually fall asleep (it was never consistent who), though there was never offense taken. That was inevitable. For a year, Lily and I became an inseparable unit. There was no, "is Ashley coming to dinner? Is Lily coming to dinner?" It was always "are AshelyandLily coming to dinner?" It was like our name had become one. The last day of res, when I was going to return my keys, Lily followed behind me like a puppy while both of us cried. The idea of going back to falling asleep alone in our parent's houses two and half hours apart was daunting indeed.

Things changed, as things are apt to do. Circumstances and fate nearly worked to tear Lily and I apart entirely, and they almost succeded. I won't delve into that part of the story here, I don't like it very much. But, our friendship was too rare and amazing to not fight for. It survived the end of our undergrad, and an entire year apart when Lily went to teach in Japan, and I went to teach in Korea (yes, these countries are close together, and yes, we could have visited, but fate was working against us then, too).

I went to Queen's to do my Masters, then Lily followed the next year. Lily is such a good friend that she even made sacrifices like going to the football game at homecoming, because she knew that I loved it and was so sad that I missed it the year before. She told me that she couldn't get tickets, then surprised me with tickets when I arrived. She went and cheered happily, despite the fact that it was raining and she didn't like football or rain. See? Awesome friend.

Lily and I haven't lived in the same city for the last several years. Not since we finished our undergrad, in fact. It pains us both that we don't get to hang out all the time, but when we do, nothing has changed. We still share the same (sometimes bizarre) lexicon, we still mock each other with scathing adoration, we have a deeply amusing shared sense of humour that no one around us can possibly understand. We're neurotic planners and both love that the other is the same in that regard (case in point, in the above right picture, Lily is holding a cup. This was at Queen's homecoming. There was no open alcohol allowed past the check point, so in my planning preparations, I brought in my purse a 26er of rum, a litre of coke, two cups and some limes. Planning brings more fun times!)

Most importantly, though, is that between us there is a shared, deep and trusting love. We've seen each other at our very worst, and we're still best friends. We know what its like to lose that friendship, because we did once, and so whenever issues exist between us, we discuss them like grown-ups. I guess because we are, now (welcome to 28 doll!). I've often joked that Lily is the person I'd like on my side in a debate or a knife fight, because in both regards, she'll defend me fiercely. At the end of the day, those are the people you want in your life.

So, in conclusion, I'd just like to say, Happy Birthday Miss Lily! My life has been greatly enriched by the last nine years of friendship, and I look forward to many more years of your scathing wit and creepy ability to read my mind. Get out of my head woman! XXOO