A week on Sunday 8/52

Painting

This week I primed and painted the wall-mounted shelves Christian made for me in 2024… made of pine, they perfumed the guest-room/office for a year as I let them dry, before applying the special primer this kind of wood takes. Tidying the space this way felt good.

Listening

Painting a piece of furniture takes hours. Some of them I let be silent, the rest I let fill with audio… Jad Abumrad’s podcast series “Fela Kuti: Fear No Man” and a French audiobook titled La maison vide by Laurent Mauvignier.

The first line of Mauvignier’s epilogue caught my ear: “C’est par l’invention que l’histoire peut parfois survivre à l’oubli.” (Sometimes it is through invention that a story can survive through time.) And thus, by inventing a story, Mauvignier remedies the pieces of a tragic story that were handed down to him in real life. He says as much in the second interview here (“j’ai l’impression qu’écrire c’est peut-être pour réparer une angoisse de l’enfance; une peur lié à cet enfance…”). And so, as much as I appreciate listening to French fiction for the sound of it in my ears, I’m all the more interested in the real-life connections, the way fiction and facts cross-pollinate in this story.

Date night

We postponed our Valentines supper out and went to Gather at the Assiniboine Park’s horticultural garden this week instead. Isn’t it pretty reflecting sunset rays?

On the actual Valentine’s day, we went skating with the kids and treated them to boba at (our favourite) KHAB Tapioca…  

The special was a Ferrero Rocher drink that, when ordered, came with the question, “any nut allergies?”

Eating

Cooking from Hailee Catalano’s cookbook By Heart continues to surprise and delight… (Her website is really nice too!) On Sunday last week, a “Pasta alla Norcina with Roasted Squash” so delicately flavoured, so wonderfully balanced - one could decide that Beef Stroganoff had been permanently dethroned. Then, on Wednesday “Spinach and Artichoke Ziti” described as a pasta rendition of the beloved appetizer. The fact that the dip is not beloved in our house is a trifle when you’ve decided to whole-heartedly trust a good cookbook author, and this trust was rewarded! Not a single artichoke-spinach sauce-covered noodle was lost, cast aside, distractedly left for the dishwasher or digestive failure of our dog (shallots and a whole head of garlic, roasted and blended, would surely finish a beagle). 

Dog coat

An Etsy purchase for Enzo arrived this week… a perfect-fitting coat made of 73% wool for when the temperatures really dip in Winnipeg…

Here’s what he looks like on our walks, most of the time, sans coat.

Postcard

It’s cold again as I write, but still, just the way the light is, in the mornings, on our walks, shows the approach of spring even if it can’t be felt in the temperature.

Happy Sunday!

Friday Five

Welcome to my little spot on the web, where, like a bird on a blade of bluestem I cheerily chirp in comfortable invisibility. Ha! This week brings more thoughts on writing, the foundational joy of these weekly dispatches, and… some fall colour! Cheers!

1 Writing

I like listening to writers talk about writing because I crave all their voices and experience in the silence of muddling along. For example, I nod along with Alexandra Shulman when she says “I’m somebody who never knows what I’m going to write ever until I start writing it. […] I write it down and then once I’ve written down wherever I get, then I go back and try and turn it into something that’s a bit more ordered.” It makes me think of Joan Didion’s expression: “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.” But do you see how Shulman’s statement is a little more raw, a little less literary? In the yellow glow of my black desk lamp, I more often feel like Shulman, a little humbled by my inability to draw up a plan and follow it. It’s in the glare of sunlight through a café window, joking with a friend over lunch that I can venture to be Joan Didion-like, just “writing to think…”

Or, for another example, I like how Jon Ronson said he needs “months to write”, that being a columnist wasn’t something he liked because his brain just didn’t work that way… “I’m very slow.” And while this might seem like an unflattering quote, such confessions are deeply reassuring for people whose creativity has a matching way of working itself out.

Slow percolation and spontaneity … I wonder if it’s related in a way to Carson Ellis’s own observation on the subject of narrative storytelling, when she tells Debbie Millman that she wishes she “felt more comfortable with it and better at it” but that she freezes when “faced with the challenge of making up a story, even if it could be about anything. Like you’re telling a story to a three-year-old with no expectations, the bar is very low, and I still feel kind of frozen by it.” I too get the same feeling.

Perhaps the fun of listening to this kind of “shop talk” is the excitement of a kind of pattern recognition, whereby I find in the professionals things I’ve begun to notice in myself and it’s a boost to my confidence. 

2 Breath

The ideas in this book have recently taken over our thoughts and modified some of our habits… I originally heard about the book on the podcast “People I Mostly Admire”. James Nestor’s writing voice is nice to read and he has a kind tone. Steve Levitt remarked on this in his podcast, saying “you came to book writing somewhat late” and then noting the success of his books. Nestor answers that for him, writing has been an outlet, “what I would do to feed my soul at nighttime and on weekends.” I find it inspiring that this kind of attitude toward writing imbues a reader’s experience of the book itself.

3 Eating

I made doughnuts from scratch for the friends and family festivities at our house Halloween night. It was a little chaotic… Christian had to serve supper on limited counter space while answering the door and being cheerful while the dog howled so I could concentrate entirely on managing dough and hot oil. But! They were a SUCCESS! I followed Sohla El-Waylly’s recipe in Start Here to the letter, and the outcome was plush and crisp and perfectly sweet. I learned about proofing dough - comparing the right amount of proofing to a handprint on memory foam was effective - and used coconut oil for frying as she recommended. Having our whole house smell like it was doused in coconut-scented sunscreen seems like an extra perk of the recipe. Wow.

Photo credit.

4 Research

I’m doing this little side-project for fun and it involves these directories that get bigger and bigger along with Winnipeg’s population growth. They’re called Henderson Directories and they list an individual’s name, their occupation, place of employment and address. They also list house owners by street. These tactile sources of data amaze me. They’re also a poor subject of conversation, of the “did you know” type. 

Research makes me think of Tyler Virgen’s post “The Mystery of the Bloomfield Bridge”. I really like this blog post. It begins small, leads to a little goose-chase and lots of sleuthing, contains self-doubt, has moments of humorous refocusing, plunges into dusty archives, contains newspaper clippings and delivers a satisfying ending. If I were a professor, I’d dedicate a class to this blog post, just for the illustration of research it provides.

5 The view

It’s so colourful this time of year…

I feel like milkweed makes a flamboyant show in the fall compared to the demure dusty-rose of its summertime flower clusters.

In case you were doubting the above statement…

The river recedes from the shore, going so low as to reveal new islands and the perfect profile of a duck.

Today, a row of willow looked like this, still leafy:

Happy Friday!

Everything I didn't know about the Red River

When I was little, I lived in an apartment building in downtown Saskatoon that overlooked the South Saskatchewan River. The river has lovely blue-green water, rushes almost straight through the city, and never floods. When I moved to Winnipeg, I got to know the Red River, which, in contrast to the river of my childhood, is a repugnant brown, winding back and forth in loops around neighbourhoods, and come spring, a river that may or may not flood. You can’t see into its water, the banks on either side are muddy, they suck at your feet and make you loose your footing. When I sit on a stump to watch the river, I balance my fear against the quiet and try to feel the calm. 

I can’t swim and even if I could, the thought of not being able to see into the water makes me feel as if it holds all kinds of secrets. It might not, really. The Red River might just hold a lot of fish. Paired with the Assiniboine, it shares some seventy nine species out of the one hundred and eighty in Canada, so that if you were to collect fish, you wouldn’t need to leave Winnipeg to find almost half your collection. Most especially, the Red River hosts sturgeon, a great big fish that has evolved since pre-historic times, with a flat bony plate on its head and eyes to the side, almost forced to extinction when in 1890, its meat was found to be a passable substitute for the fancier smoked halibut. Sturgeon are bottom-feeders, they don’t stop growing, and only when they are a mature twenty-five years old do the females spawn every four to six years. 

The Red River is eight hundred and eighty kilometres long, but almost half of that distance is its east-west bends. In a straight line, the Red River travels four hundred and fifty kilometres from the confluence of Ottertail and Bois de Sioux rivers in the United States to lake Winnipeg’s Netley Marsh in the north. Old rivers meander, drawing loops back and forth until perhaps, during a period of high water, there is a breach between the ends of a loop, and the river decides to leave the circuitous path and straighten out a bit. It’s called lateral migration and the abandoned loops become oxbow lakes, and while the Red River is eight thousand years old, it hasn’t created many oxbow lakes. In fact the rate at which it widens its loops is slow, only four centimetres a year near St-Jean-Baptiste. 

It is assumed that there is a valley because there is a river, but for the Red it’s the opposite. There was a glacier, then there was Lake Agassiz, and the clay deposit those two left behind was heavy. It sunk a little and drew tributaries to its centre.

Our time in the history of the Earth is like the lead-lined tip of a long spiralling pencil shaving, and lake Agassiz’ formation and rule over Manitoba was the last big event. So much of what the province is and has is attributed to Lake Agassiz; the dark black soil, the mineral deposits, the south to north flow of the river, the way conifers and then grasslands followed its retreat into the Hudson Bay. 

The Red River tends to flood, forming a lake over land, and it has done so for centuries. Geologists used to look at settlement records, and then examine oak tree rings, and now measure sediment layers in lake Winnipeg for clues into the river’s past floods, concluding that the Red River has a major flood once or twice every one hundred years, and then that these floods occur in clusters: 1747 and 1762 (15 years apart); 1826 and 1852 (26 years apart); 1950, 1979, 1997 and 2011 (29, 18, and 14 years apart). 

Rivers give the impression of time passing, possibly change, but the Red River maintains a kind of temperamental sameness. Its opaque water resembles what it did hundreds and thousands of years before and you wonder if in all its consistency it’s not just us who are temperamental. The more I learn about it, the better I appreciate it. 
 

I learned all of this thanks to a great little book entitled “In Search of Canada’s Ancient Heartland; Discover Manitoba’s Geology, Palaeontology and Archaeology” by Barbara Huck and Doug Whiteway, published just this year. My favourite quote from the book is about climate change on page 34. It reads: “In fact, even as we worry about global warming, even as arctic and mountain glaciers shrink, even as polar bears sit each fall at the edge of Hudson Bay, doing the polar bear equivalent of twiddling their paws, we are STILL in the midst of the Ice Age. Our warming world is simply an interglacial period, a period between glaciations, though admittedly one that may indeed be significantly affected by the impact of human endeavours.”