A Starbucks Birthday

The rain streaks down the window. My eyes flit from the road to the clock. Yes, I'll make it. I won't be late for the birthday latté with Jean: 10:30 on a wet and grey Saturday morning. It's great weather to sit huddled in a coffee shop with a friend and talk.

I find an empty coffee table in the corner against the window: perfect. I settle myself in and wait for my latté companion so we can celebrate her birthday. Uncharacteristically late, I spot Jean's little car zip around the corner and pull into a spot just down the street. Good, I was starting to get concerned we had got our wires crossed, which has happened before.

Hugs, apologies and warmth: it's good to sit with a friend. Jean whips a pink wrapped gift and a card out of her bag, again apologising, this time for missing my birthday back in March. Don't worry about it, I smile. I wasn't even here. I was in France.

We order our companion chai lattés. Jean chooses a cinnamon fruit swirl. I choose a lemon cranberry scone. We can't go wrong. We cut them in half and share. This is our makeshift plan since our tea room of choice for birthday celebrations went out of business.

I unwrap my gift: the French edition of a Victoria magazine. How thoughtful. Jean found it in an antique shop in Fort Langley and, knowing I like all things French, chose it for me.

I have another perfect plan: this afternoon while the rain trickles down the window and the sky increasingly darkens, I will cuddle on the couch under a blanket with a cup of tea and escape to France for a while.

Heaven Tastes Like...

You know you've got a winner when hubby's supper comments run the gamut of:
"Mmmm, good chicken."
A couple of bites later, "Excellent!"
After the next mouthful, "How did you make this? Is it tapenade?"
To finally, "You must make this for Ron and Jean when they come for dinner."

Heaven tastes like chicken cooked in a creamy tapenade sauce.

A Bench in the Park

Let's sit on the bench in the sun for a while, M suggests. Why not? I have no objections. The sun has eventually come out and we're winding up our Victoria Day long weekend with a walk in the park.

Let's pretend we're young lovers, I suggest. M looks at me quizzically. Scoot up to the end of the bench, I say, so that I can lie on the bench with my head on your lap. And so we do.

Now, I suspect young lovers talk cooingly to each other. He runs his fingers through her hair and let's his fingers linger across her face. Their eyes are only for each other. I shield my face from the sun, draping my jacket across half my face. I close my eyes and nod off. All is quiet on our lovers' bench.

I open the uncovered eye to check on hubby. His eyes are shut. He too dozes in the sun. I smile. We may no longer be young lovers, so what, older love is so much better.

Eggs-pert

I test the egg with my knife. The egg yolk breaks through and runs, hot and vibrant orange, across the egg white, over the slices of roast beef, the beschuit and down on to the plate. Perfect! Victoria Day, the third day of our long weekend: the day I successfully poached eggs for the first time.

Back in Durban, conversations with my brother, Mark, turned from poetry (see As Daydreams Draw Flame April 2010) to poaching. It must've been over breakfast that the subject of the perfect poached egg was broached. It's scandalous to poach an egg in an egg poacher, so it was said. No, eggs must be poached directly in hot water or don't poach them at all. The trick, according to Master Chef Mark, is to use a fork to create a whirlpool in the boiling water and then to gently drop the expectant egg into the whirlpool. The success of the whirlpool is keeping as much of the egg white together as possible.

This quiet tea-drinking, pyjama lazing and pillow-talking morning is the perfect opportunity to try my amateur chef's hand at poaching. I butter two Dutch rusks with soft goat cheese, layer on roast beef and get two pots boiling with water. Using a spoon, I create a tentative whirlpool. The egg slips quietly from the ramekin into the hot water. The second egg is less co-operative. It sploshes into the water and a drop of hot water scalds my hand.

I set the timer for three minutes and wait.

Oops, my amateur kitchen doesn't have a slotted spoon. I add it to my shopping list. I scrummage in the kitchen drawer and out comes my spaghetti spoon. After three minutes, the timer pings annoyingly. In a deft move, I switch it off and put the spaghetti spoon into service. Easily the first egg nestles into the spoon and fills the gap where I measure the spaghetti portions. I slide it out on to the waiting paper towel to absorb the excess water. The less co-operative egg slips through the gap in the spoon and lands back in the hot water. With great precision I coax it out, balance it on the spoon and ease it on to the paper towel.

I lift each egg onto a waiting beschuit. I sprinkle parmesan cheese and smile: looking good. Now to see how eggs-pertly I cooked the yolk.

Home, Sweet, Home

Mutter, mutter. "What's that?" M asks as I mutter and haul the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard for the second time on my long weekend Saturday. "Home, Sweet, Home," I mutter once more. I thought I was done with household chores but here I am, vacuuming a bit here and there again.

One day of our weekend is always taken up with chores: vacuuming, cleaning, washing. M is a helpful husband and we are a team in doing household chores. He has his tasks and I have mine. I can't complain about that. I can complain about horrible chores and the time it takes out of my weekend.

I mutter some more to myself. It doesn't help that I've just read an old school friend's blog and seen the beautiful lily-in-the-sunset photograph she snapped in her garden while her housekeeper helped her son learn his Zulu phrases. A housekeeper? Who teaches Zulu phrases and keeps the house clean. Does she cook as well? My disenchantment with vacuuming and housework increases.

It's part of the reason M and I downsized into an apartment. We found our three bedroom townhouse on three floors time intensive to maintain. And here I am still resenting the time it takes to complete household chores. Oh, for a housekeeper, even a maid a few times a week! What a difference it would make.

Then I could live in my little house with its garden patio. I could have my wrought iron set with white cotton table cloth because someone else would iron it. I'd have white pansies in white pots because someone else will dust the pots and water the pansies. Oh, and never mind just some help in the house, I'd have a gardener to help with my flowers and to do the hard work in the vegetable and herb garden. He'd prune our fruit trees and cut the grass.

Re-vacuuming done, I haul it back to the cupboard. I sigh over the luxury of the South African lifestyle of housekeepers, maids and gardeners. It's attainable in Canada but not at a price I can afford or am prepared to pay. I add up the $100 a month it would cost for domestic assistance for a few hours twice a month. Over a year, that's $1,200. I think of what else I can do with $1,200.

No, I'll do my own housework and work through my envy.

Good, Better, Brooks!

My efforts have paid off! Brooks is a better behaved bird. Reading the books I brought home from the library did the trick. One I have already read from cover to cover and the second one I am progressing through every night before bed.

The biggest change we've made is restricting Brooks' access to our shoulders. Shoulder time becomes a territorial and dominance issue for her and she pecks, nips or bites us when she thinks our heads are getting in her space. There is a marked difference in her behaviour since we have tried to keep her only on our forearms. Brooks is also not allowed out of her cage when we are working with food or having our meals. She has downtime in her cage regularly and is packed off to bed at about 9pm.

She sometimes likes to bath in her water bowl over the sink and is now learning to shower. Apparently, water will calm and socialise Brooks, burn off energy and contribute to healthy feathers. This little madam is also learning to sit quietly on the towel rails in the bathroom, observing or preening, while we ready ourselves for work.

Brooks is small in size and so you would wonder what the issue is all about. But parrotlets are known to have fiery personalities and to attack birds three or four times their size. They are big birds in little bodies. The breakthrough in her behaviour came in one day; the same day I stopped her access to my shoulder and played a towel game with her. Surprisingly, Brooks is quite happy to be wrapped up in the folds of a towel and then find her way out. It calms her and builds trust.

Little by little we're letting her know the type of behaviour that is acceptable and teaching her in a way that she will understand. As one of the books I read indicated, bringing home a parrot is not the same as training a dog or a cat; it's completely different.

Now just to find out why Brooks hates the telephone so much; it's one of the things that still brings out the worst in her. Back to the books...

Let Summer Begin!

M's response when the Vancouver Canucks were knocked out of the Western Conference hockey semi-finals this past week, "Yeah! Let summer begin!" I had to agree.

Not that we weren't sorry our team lost, but there is freedom in not following their games one after the other while the sun shines and the temperature warms. Yes, we could switch off the television, lock the door and go out into the sun but we'd feel guilty not sharing the Vancouver excitement of the playoffs. At least now the time spent out in the sun is guilt-free!

We eagerly anticipate boerewors and burger braais at the beach, sun-and-sea-spray filled walks along the sea wall, fish and chips at Steveston, bike rides and iced cappuccinos.

Yes, let summer begin!

To Mom, With Love

Second to "Welcome back, how was your holiday?" I've been asked, "How's your mother?" Even in an email from far away Australia. On Mother's Day, I am happy to update that my mother is doing exceedingly well.

It was strange to see my mother with no hair (see Home-Grown March 2010). But everything else about her was the same, no - it was better. My mother has modeled embracing hardship and seeing the humour in it. She's modeled looking life square in the face and holding her head up high.

On holiday at the Natal Coast my mother saw the humour in wearing hats and bandanas in public by putting an African weaved basket on her head. "Do you think this will work?" she asked with an easy smile. With no hair, her improvised hat and orange T-shirt, Mom looked like a rice paddy worker cum Buddhist monk. We all had a good laugh!

I encouraged Mom to wear her bandanas rather than the caps that shield her eyes from curious looks. The bandanas both softened and opened her face. They were feminine and pretty. A cousin of mine had sent Mom some from Australia: a bright one, a bold one and a classic black and white. Mom wore the brightly bold one to the beach, the classic black and white to the store and church and the strong red one just for fun.

Next Mom greeted curious looks with eye to eye contact and a warm smile. Her confidence blossomed. As I read 'Riding the Dragon' by Robert J. Wicks (see Beach Reading March 2010), I saw how Mom was riding the dragon of cancer in her life and receiving it as a gift to grow her and change her. She would not be the same after cancer: she would be better. Cancer has given depth to my mother's life: a richness in daily living that only comes out of a place of suffering.

One of the sweetest memories I have of my mother's cancer journey was the change in her head from bald cragginess to a soft covering of hair like the light dusting of snow on hard ground. In three short weeks, I went from adjusting to her new look to tucking her into my arm embrace and running my hand over her snuggly soft hair. Being a head shorter than I am, I had a good vantage point, "Mom, it won't be long and you'll have a bed head."

And of course, the smile and happiness in her face when she showed off her millimetre long fringe invited closer inspection. It was a miniscule step away from the trying time of chemotherapy toward a life free of and forever changed by cancer.

Mom, Happy Mother's Day!

I appreciate the lessons on life you still teach me.

With much love, Brenda

Coffee Shop

Her life is miserable and poor.

She doesn't beg yet she sits outside the coffee shop on Lonsdale alone and hungry. Her lips are nicotine stained; a brown-yellow lipstick lining the inside of her lips. All her possessions she keeps in three small black bags at her feet. Every night she sleeps at a shelter on the downtown Eastside and, in the morning, she packs her belongings to carry with her through the idle-long day.

I approach her table near the entrance to the coffee shop. Do I hide behind my sunglasses and ignore her? She won't recognise me from church, I'm pretty sure, and I can just pretend that I don't see her.

She looks up. I smile. She smiles too and we say hello.

I step inside. I'm five minutes early and my appointment hasn't arrived yet. I step outside and ask, "Would you like a cup of coffee?" Her smile is wide. I apologise that I've forgotten her name. "And I yours," she responds. We exchange names and I ask how she likes her coffee. Cream and two sugars.

I place her order; I place mine. I hesitate and look at the tray of muffins. I choose the healthiest chunkiest one with bran. This coffee shop has the very best muffins. I take the coffee and the muffin to her outside. "Thank you, lady. God bless you."

She invites me to join her. I decline: my appointment will be here any moment.

Bad, Bad Brooks

M and I stand, side by side, making our lunches for the next day. Our kitchen is small; we are companionably close. When Mrs. Magoo was in our lives, our kitchen couldn't accommodate two adults and a large cat, somebody had to leave. Brooks is different. All ten or so centimetres of her sits snuggled, between us, on M's shoulder.

The kitchen is companionably quiet with sounds of breakfast yoghurt and sandwiches being prepared: a swish of butter, a slice of cheese, a spread of raspberry jam. I spoon plain yoghurt into containers, add ground flax seed, muesli and sweetened cranberries. The tablespoon, dipped in yoghurt and covered in flax seed, is knocked twice against the container to dislodge the excess before I get to lick it clean.

As I knock, Brooks jumps off M's shoulder on to mine. I glance at her. She pecks briefly at my shirt and my upper arm. In two jumps, she's at my wrist and bites hard. Stunned, I just look at her. She releases her grip and makes a second even more determined attack on my skin. I can't get past stunned. Nor can M.

"She's biting me!" I state the obvious. M replies the obvious, "I know. I see that". My knight in work clothes, M reacts before Brooks sinks her beak into my flesh a third time. With a swish of her wings, Beastly Brooks retreats from her attack into the study. In more than two squawking and protesting ticks, she's in her cage with the door firmly shut. Bad, Bad Brooks!

Brooks is 80% feathered cuteness and 20% terror.

The day after the attack, I nurse my wounded spirit. But on day two, I'm in fighting form. The internet's not enough, nor the e-book I downloaded, I head for the library. I take out all the books they have on parrots: Breaking Bad Habits in Parrots, Guide to a Well-Behaved Parrot and The Second-Hand Parrot. The three titles tell it all, except that Brooks is third-hand. Armed with my artillery, I greet Brooks as I come through the door. "Hello Brooks! See what I have here? I'm going to beat you, Brooks!" The battle is on.

That evening, she is all her 80% feathered best behaviour. She amuses herself on her floral chair, looks out the window, preens and investigates while we watch hockey. She flies between us and settles on M's shoulder for a snooze. At bed-time, she happily and obediently hops onto my finger, zips into her cage peacefully and is rewarded with a piece of cashew nut. Good Brooks.

My investigations reveal that our parrotlet is baby, toddler and rebellious teenager all rolled into one. If parrots don't get enough sleep (12 hours) they can be cranky like the rest of us. They need a lot of play and interaction. And at about two years, Brooks is just the right age for hormone issues. Hormone issues?!! Who would've thought? Plus it's spring, the mating season - enough reason for her hormones to be raging.

An author advises that hand-me down parrots come with baggage but dedicated noble humans (his description, not mine) can bring out the best in them. For her sake, I aim to win.