Help wanted from Montreal readers

When I lived in San Francisco, my neighborhood’s coffee houses offered ruggelah, a small rolled pastry with brown sugar and cinnamon. I loved this stuff! It reminded me of the little pets de soeurs my mom used to make with the leftover dough from her pies. I believe this is a pastry of Jewish origins and I thought I could easily find it in Montreal, but I haven’t had any luck so far.

Does anybody know of a store in Montreal that sells ruggelah (also spelt ruggelach, and rugulah)? I guess I could bake them or order them online, but with the Jewish population in this city, there has to be a bakery somewhere that makes the real stuff…

Quelqu’un a fait une recherche sur Google pour des femmes en manque de sexe � Montr�al, et mon site est apparu en dixi�me place dans les r�sultats.

Eh bien…

Quelqu’un essaye peut-�tre de me dire que je passe vraiment trop de temps devant mon ordinateur.

It’s a wild, wild world.

Since I moved in my new apartment in the very urban Plateau Mont-Royal in Montreal, a few neighbors have come around to check me out. First it was the upstairs neighbor’s cat, followed by a few more kittens, some of them bold enough to walk right in my apartment and check under my bed (sorry, nothing exciting there…).

Then I had the occasional nervous squirrel, taking refuge from the alley cats on my balcony.

But last night it was a masked thief who stared at me through the screen of my patio door. First I thought it was just another curious cat, but then as I got up to grab my digital camera, I saw the typical heavy weight shift from one side to the other as the thing ran away and started climbing the post at the corner of my balcony.

Now I understood who had been picking at my garbage bags so methodically! The little guy was a real urban brat. He was hardly scared of me and looked straight at me while he proceeded to eat the strange beans hanging from my backyard tree. By the way, does anybody have any idea what kind of tree that is? (You can click on all the pictures to enlarge them).

I got closer to the raccoon to get a better shot, and the brat hissed and swore and even stuck out his tongue at me!

He must have been hanging out with the wrong crowd. I’ve noticed that neighbors have put cages out, probably to try to catch him and release him into the wild. I think they should send him to reform school instead, before he steals my scooter, which is parked right under that tree.

The first person who identifies the tree in the pictures gets a selected piece of my garbage.

J’aime la t�l�. Je ne m’en cache pas. Ce qui ne veut pas dire pour autant que je regarde beaucoup la t�l�. Mais quand une s�rie me pla�t vraiment, c’est un grand plaisir pour moi de me donner un rendez-vous hebdomadaire pour savourer une �mission lors de sa diffusion “live”, plaisir dos� par les pauses commerciales. �trangement, ce n’est jamais tout � fait pareil quand je regarde une �mission enregistr�e. La t�l�commande me donne trop de pouvoir et j’aime l’aspect passif du petit �cran, lorsque l’oeuvre qui y est pr�sent�e ne me fait pas perdre mon temps.

Apr�s trois �pisodes, c’est d�cid�: j’aime beaucoup la s�rie Bunker, le cirque. Les s�ries sur le pouvoir politique, r�alistes ou non, m’ont rarement int�ress�e, mais Bunker ce soir a r�ussi l’exploit de donner du suspense et de l’humour � une convention de d�l�gu�s r�unis dans un centre sportif pour �lire un nouveau chef. Faut le faire… La t�l� qu�b�coise ne flatte pas souvent notre intelligence de cette mani�re et j’aime le fait que les cr�ateurs de la s�rie n’aient pas senti le besoin de nous expliquer � outrance toutes les blagues, dont plusieurs sont visuelles (enfin, la t�l� d’ici ne fait plus de la radio!), tous les jeux de mots et autres subtilit�s. On voit rarement une t�l�s�rie qu�b�coise faire aussi peu de compromis. �a roule vite, c’est inventif, bien r�alis�, tr�s bien jou�, la musique est excellente et �a fait des miracles avec un budget qui doit �tre relativement modeste.

Je m’�tonne que des personnalit�s publiques, surtout du monde de la politique, se soient offusqu�es face au “cynisme” de la s�rie et de son manque de r�alisme. Le r�alisme, on s’en fout. C’est de la t�l� dont il est question ici, de la fiction, et ce qui se passe vraiment en politique est probablement encore plus difficile � croire que ce que Bunker nous pr�sente. Et avec toutes les t�l�romans remplis de bonnes intentions qu’on diffuse habituellement, le cynisme est un juste retour du balancier, assurant l’�quilibre mental de notre collectivit�. Rien de moins! Les politiciens et politiciennes devraient �tre contents qu’on s’int�resse finalement � eux, m�me si dans ce cas-ci ce sont les rouages, davantage que les id�es, qui nous gardent fascin�s. Et puis la controverse peut parfois renouveler les ardeurs. Qui sait?

Reste � voir si �a tiendra la route pendant 11 �pisodes. Nous lasserons-nous de la salle de bain blanche ouverte sur l’ext�rieur et des monologues qu’elle inspire? Des s�ances d’observation des �toiles par le s�duisant Mathieu, dont le coeur reste intouchable, malgr� ses fantasmes tout ce qu’il y a de plus domestiques?

En tout cas je ne peux m’emp�cher de sourire quand l’�mission finit, que la binette de St�phane Bureau appara�t et que les v�ritables journalistes et politiciens reprennent le contr�le de l’�cran. De la bonne t�l�, m�me quand on la regarde passivement, �a peut changer notre mani�re de voir les choses.

Note: M�me le jeu, disponible sur le site Web de la t�l�s�rie, est dr�le et mordant. Testez votre aptitude � faire un bon politicien et � obtenir le pouvoir gr�ce � 5 �preuves. Le pointage est repr�sent� par la quantit� de liquide rose dans une bouteille de Pepto-Bismol…

Crappucino anyone?

Blork told me last week about these funky looking cat/monkeys whose droppings are used to make the most expensive coffee in the world. These animals climb up trees to eat the coffee cherries, which they are unable to digest. Someone waits for the cherries to pass through the animal’s digestive system and picks up the coffee beans from their droppings. According to this CBC article, the enzymes in the animal’s stomach add “something unique” to the coffee’s flavour through fermentation. The beans are thoroughly cleaned and then roasted at 249 degrees C.

This upscale grocery store in Edmonton is testing whether its customers will shell out $600 per pound for this delicacy.

But is it fair trade coffee? ;-)

I got Blork a new book about food from all over the world, and we found out that Moroccan goats climb trees as well to get to the berries. Local women (of course) pick up the undigested berries from their droppings, this time to make a stinky kind of oil, used for food, skin and lighting. Check it out, it’s quite a sight.

So what’s next? Nutella from squirrel poo? Shark’s ass sushi?

Coming home

Sleeping for 9 hours instead of the 4 hour nights I’ve been getting in the last 10 days. Taking a very long shower, letting the burning water massage my tensed shoulders. With the help of the steam, being able to take the first deep breath in what seems like a very long time. Getting through one of the most stressful periods of my life with the help of his arms, his food, his words and his stories. Coming back home completely beat, but grateful and comforted by the knowledge of having finally found the right person, and the joy of finding this person at the right time in my life.

(Pardon my little “Linda Lemay” public display of affection here… ;-)

In 4, 3, 2, 1…

I’m back in front of the camera, after working behind it for the last 12 months or so. I’m the high tech “expert” for this tv show and there’s a computer on the set which we use for my segments. Television is all “hurry up and wait”, and since I’m a bit nervous about being back on cam, I kill time playing with the computer’s very fast net connection. While I type this message, I’m surrounded by spotlights, cameras and people giving orders. Not quite my usual “blogging from the living room” experience…

And on a lighter note…

Here’s the new instalment in the “Why switch to a Mac” ad campaign.

Vers la fin des ann�es 40 et pendant les ann�es 50, mon p�re avait fait partie d’un groupe qui s’appelait Les Swingmasters. Il �tait contrebassiste et chanteur et jouait tous les standards de jazz de l’�poque, traduits en fran�ais. Je suis n�e trop tard pour conna�tre cette p�riode de la vie de mon p�re, mais ces chansons ont tout de m�me berc� mon enfance car m�me apr�s la dissolution du groupe, mon p�re n’a jamais cess� de chanter. La musique �tait sa seule v�ritable passion, la seule qui aura dur� toute sa vie.

Quand il cessait de jouer d’un instrument, papa s’en d�barrassait rapidement. Je ne l’ai donc jamais vu jouer de la contrebasse, mais je r�vais souvent d’en louer une pour lui ou de r�unir les anciens membres de son groupe. Ce projet ne s’est jamais concr�tis�. Pourquoi? Les membres du groupe auraient �t� difficiles � joindre. Plusieurs sont morts. Il est difficile de louer un tel instrument. Papa n’aurait peut-�tre pas �t� int�ress�. Les raisons que l’on trouve pour ne pas faire les choses dont on r�ve sont nombreuses et futiles. La vie se fait courte pour nous le rappeler avec ironie.

Aux fun�railles de mon p�re samedi � Qu�bec, j’ai d�nich� un jeune contrebassiste qui a jou� sur le parvis de l’�glise, alors que nous recevions les condol�ances. Sa belle musique nous as envelopp�s jusqu’� ce que les cloches nous appellent � l’int�rieur.

Certains disent qu’il n’est jamais trop tard pour bien faire. Je m’accroche � ce clich� comme on repose sa t�te sur l’�paule d’un ami.

Merci � tous ceux qui ont �crit, appel�, ou qui sont venus aux fun�railles pour nous t�moigner leur soutien. Ces gestes l� comptent beaucoup, m�me quand, � travers un blogue, ils proviennent de parfaits �trangers…
Thanks to all of you who took the time to write or call. Your kindness made a difference, even when I didn’t know who you were…

Quebec City, September 10th.

I got to Quebec City right on time to hold your hand before it would turn cold. Your fingernails were long and stained from nicotine. You probably didn’t have the strength to trim them anymore. I played with your fingers in mine, noticing how your hand was the only part of your body that still looked strong. Sometimes you seemed to reply back with a little pressure, but I couldn’t tell if it was voluntary or just a muscle spasm.

I got there early enough to see you breathe still, even though it had become hard for you. You wanted to talk, but it made you cough. I gave up the idea of hearing your voice again and asked you to simply nod yes or no. When I asked “are you in pain, Dad?”, you nodded “no”. When I asked you if you would squeeze my hand when you were going to feel pain, so that I could get you medication, you nodded “yes”.

I got there right on time to see you open your eyes, but it was already too late to find any expression in them. You only opened them when the nurses moved you, because you didn’t want them to. You didn’t even want me to wet your lips so they wouldn’t be so dry. You just wanted to sleep. You wanted to go.

I got there right on time to ask you if you knew that I loved you, even though it was probably the first time I told you out loud that I did love you. I waited until the other ones were gone, until there was no nurse around, to kiss your tiny head and tell you so. We don’t say these things very easily in the family. It always makes us cry and god knows we’re not comfortable with tears.

I did not get back to your room on time to be there when you died. None of your kids were there. Knowing you, you probably chose it that way. In social gatherings, you would come around to make us all laugh, and then you would walk away in your corner, turn on the t.v. and tune out. You chose to spend Christmas eve and other holidays alone when it was held somewhere else than your apartment. You didn’t like phone calls much, or visits. You wanted peace and quiet. You often said so. “La paix”, we would often hear you mumble, as you sat down on your chair in front of the t.v.

I just hope it’s very, very peaceful where you are right now.