THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! To all the YouTubers out there who take the time to organize, shoot, and post helpful videos, for free, on your own time, to assist all of us in learning how to solve problems or challenges in our lives, homes, or businesses.
My first experience in getting help – for free – on a really thorny problem was when I was able to figure out how to fix my running toilets, as detailed here.
I also used YouTube to learn how to post ads to my website: a real estate agent in Virginia actually posted a little lesson in coding to help people learn how to do it.
Of course, the cooking videos I watch are legend; there are some great volunteer videographers out there, and I love to keep “PhillyBoyJay” or “Hands that Cook” running in my kitchen while I am doing monotonous tasks.
This summer, I have been pestered by “fridge pee,” puddles of water leaking out of the freezer of my Maytag refrigerator (with which I am NOT happy, and Maytag has not been helpful at all. So much for the myth of the Lonely Maytag repairman! Basically, they told me, “Bite it.” Thanks for nothing, Maytag.)
So I went on YouTube and searched, “Maytag fridge leaking water” and immediately came up with several helpful videos, some amateur and some professional. This is the one I found most relevant and it did, indeed, solve my problem! Yay, YouTube! Thank you, smart people who give away video solutions!
I shoot and post cooking videos, too, so I know precisely how much time and work is involved in the process. Editing a 15 minute video can take two hours or more, easily.
The fact that knowledgeable plumbers, carpenters, appliance repairmen, cooks and computer specialists take time to share their skills is really a gift to everyone.
I am long past due in taking the time to say, “Thank you.”
More than 30 years ago, when I was just a novice cook (well, I started cooking when I was eight years old so I was not exactly a novice cook; maybe more of a novice gourmet) I bought the December issue of Chatelaine magazine with a cover photo filled with home made gifts you could make for Christmas.
The most appealing photo and write up on the recipes was Brandied Fruit. It looked luscious and colourful and was packed in a mason jar with a ribbon and a lovely label. I was so excited to make some Brandied Fruit, and give it away as a gift!
Then I read the recipe, published in December.
“Clean a quart of fresh strawberries,” it read. “Rinse a pint of blueberries, raspberries and red currants….”
“Well, for cripes’ sake!” I exclaimed in disappointment. “The ONLY way you could make this recipe would be if you started in July!”
I won’t say the Chatelaine Magazine was a complete waste, as it did motivate me to organize myself to get out and get picking all the berries required the following July. But advertising Brandied Fruit as a “home made gift” you could give away for Christmas, in December, was pretty misleading.
It is no wonder young cooks get discouraged.
The entire reason I started shooting cooking videos is because I so despise the current batch of cooking shows. They are all stressful to watch, with young chefs getting cut, chopped, fired and insulted, running off of the set in tears. This is NOT what cooking is about, not at all!
I grew up to believe cooking was a wonderful thing, work done with love for people that you love. My mom and my sisters were patient, persistent and purposeful, involving me in every step of numerous processes so that I would understand cooking.
When I was eight years old, my mom handed me a box of Jiffy yellow cake mix and a chocolate frosting mix.
“Here,” she instructed me. “Make this.”
She only returned to the kitchen once, to tell me not to try to frost a cake hot from the oven.
“Let the cake cool before you frost it,” she told me, before she disappeared again. That cake was actually pretty good, which is kind of amazing when you realize I only learned to READ the year before; and now, I was reading instructions including measurements and oven temperatures.
My sister Jeannie taught me how to brown hamburger meat. “You never put raw hamburger in spaghetti sauce or chili,” she told me. “First, you brown it, and drain away the fat.”
My sister Mary, who worked in food service her entire life, made endless Easy Bake Oven cakes with me and taught me about the fact that food can go bad. I had no knowledge of this before the day she sniffed a container of potato salad and exclaimed, “This stuff smells raunchy! Throw it away!”
Mary, who worked in the kitchen of St. Joseph’s Home for the Aged at Cornwall and Cadieux from age 12, came home from work one day and informed me that the public health inspector had visited the home that day.
“He took a swab from underneath everybody’s finger nails!” she described dramatically. “THREE PEOPLE had germs under their nails that could make residents sick!”
So I learned early on to follow instructions, to fully cook ground meat, and wash, wash, wash my hands.
Also I learned how happy it makes people to arrive home to a meal cooked with love. All of my older brothers had newspaper routes and were gone early in the cold, dark mornings to deliver bike loads full of copies of the Detroit Free Press.
On weekends, I was happy to stand in front of the stove and fry eggs and potatoes for each one of them as they returned from their routes. They ate with such gusto and appreciation, I felt I must have been the most brilliant girl on Earth, that I managed to get a plate of good, hot food in front of them moments after they entered the door.
One of the first winter Saturdays on which I took over the stove, I was dismayed that the potatoes had turned an odd orange colour – I did not know what I had done wrong, and was quite embarrassed at my failure.
“I’m so sorry,” I confessed when I served the plate of eggs, ham, potatoes and toast to my brother Wally. “I do not know why the potatoes are orange.”
“Rita, honey!” he laughed. “These are golden brown! They are perfect! This is exactly how you want fried potatoes to be!”
That’s how I learned about “golden brown.” Who knew? I was eight, and did not know from “golden brown.” I knew how it felt to be loved, and to share love, though. To this day, I believe this is what cooking is about.
Now I see that cooking has become a combination of complicated, competitive, and confusing. I subscribe to a number of channels that deliver a new recipe to my email box every day, and many of them are simply wrong: the photo of the finished meal cannot possibly be achieved with the steps described.
The worst offenders are crock pot meal recipes. The photo provided often displays crisp, caramelized meats which can ONLY be achieved by broiling or barbecuing. Nothing that comes out of a crock pot ever looks like that! It is so unfair to mislead new cooks this way.
Then there are the almost-impossible “simple” recipes demonstrated in 30 second videos which skip half of the steps required. A friend recently commented on my fresh Ontario strawberries, which are – as all real local strawberries are – much smaller than the giant, woody imported berries she bought at the grocery store.
“I was trying to make Jello shooters I saw on a video,” she described. “I was supposed to hollow out the inside, and then flatten the bottom. I hollowed out the inside, but by the time I flattened the bottoms, the filling was running all over the tray. It was impossible to do!” she moaned.
“It was a stupid idea, which has probably never worked anywhere but on that video,” I comforted her. “Cups are cups, and strawberries are strawberries. God did not intend for strawberries to be cups, I promise you. Just enjoy the strawberries; make a daiquiri, if you want. Pour it in a cup.”
When I was a teen-ager growing up on the Bruce Peninsula in rural Ontario, we got two TV stations: CBC and CTV. The CTV affiliate, CKCO-TV Kitchener, had a cooking show and a sewing show which aired weekly. Each show was half an hour long and featured a mature woman, who clearly knew what she was talking about, teaching something that was sensible and helpful. By the end of half an hour, I had learned something new and had a hope of re-creating it.
There was nothing complicated, competitive or confusing about those shows. They used ingredients or materials we could buy locally; nutrition and value for money mattered; the women were friendly and informative.
Nobody ever got fired, or ran off the set in tears. No one was ever required to make a “mystery basket” recipe including fish and pineapple. There was no swearing and no insults.
I realize that we will never go back to those simpler times; however, I still feel sorry for young cooks who will grow up thinking that cooking has to be difficult and challenging. Cooking should be about love, whether you are cleverly whipping up a paella or just frying some eggs.
I have had to stop listening to the news this week as it is focused exclusively on the fact that Donald Trump Jr. received a meeting request from a Russian lawyer during the election, and he gave her a meeting.
Round-the-clock, saturation coverage of this meeting keeps triggering me and giving me flashbacks to the endless interminable meetings I have had with Falun Gong members on every campaign on which I’ve ever worked; there is no end to the requests, no end to the meetings, the letters, and the ambushes at events.
During one federal campaign, four Falun Gong members showed up at the campaign office on Election Day and refused to leave until they got a yet another meeting with the Campaign Manager (me).
“Buddy, we have a Get Out the Vote program to run today,” I finally exclaimed in exasperation. “GET OUT and do not come back!!!!”
“You don’t understand…” he continued speaking, completely oblivious to reality.
When I can finally shake off the Falun Gong memories, I cycle into the Tamil memories, and the rotating cast of characters from various groups that spent two months asking for meetings so they could warn me darkly to keep my candidate away from Tamils who belonged to other groups who were, I was told, dangerous liars, prone to violence, and certain to doom my candidate. Every Tamil group said this about every other Tamil group. I learned that I could predict the harshness of the threats I would hear by the cryptic urgency of the meeting requests: “Rita, I must speak with you personally about a very important matter…”
Poor Don Jr. Now he’s learned that election campaigns are to determined lobbyists as honey is to bees. Apparently, this Russian woman actually had no dirt on Hillary Clinton but instead wanted to lobby him on the Magnitysky Act. The fact that she lied to get a meeting is just so 100% politically perfect, Campaign Managers across the land must be shaking their heads in silent sympathy. Poor schmuck. Now look at the mess he’s in…there but for the grace of God go all of us.
So I’m taking a break from news for a while; yesterday I switched to 80s music on my Sonos and danced around to “Footloose” for a while. It was good therapy.
I hesitated to write this post because generally, I don’t write sad posts to generate sympathy. Also I cringe at “injury” posts: “Does this look infected?” Eeeeewwww….
However, I post so many happy, funny photos and stories of Forest and Leia that I realize I am at risk of being one of the Facebook users who only post good news, never bad. This could leave readers with the idea that news is always good and never bad – especially where large dogs are concerned.
Louise Drowley-Harris, an amazing and prolific dog rescuer, notes that the biggest reason young, large, healthy dogs are given up to shelters is because their owners had no idea how much of a physical challenge they can be (most likely, WILL be – which is not news to anyone familiar with dogs).
So to balance all the hilarious and fun Forest and Leia videos, I think it is also fair and responsible of me to post this week’s photos, which is the divot in my forehead and the road-rash on my face that resulted from Forest pulling me off of my feet on my driveway on Friday evening.
We were returning from a 90 minute walk on the Durham Waterfront Trail. It was really hot out and I was tired and sweaty, but pleased we had finished our second walk of the day and were headed inside for good food and cold drinks. I was so happy to be home, I did not notice that a family with stroller, toddlers and a dog was approaching on the opposite side of the street.
Both of my dogs were on leash, as is de riguer on our neighbourhood streets (not so much the trails).
Forest, who has become more protective and growly since Leia arrived (it is his job to protect her, I have learned ) barked and lunged forward. I was not prepared. He pulled me right off of my feet and I did a face plant on my own driveway.
I scrambled to my feet, collected up both dogs, and shoved them through the front door of my house before I realized I was bleeding. I picked up the clean “dog towel” I keep on the front porch and sat pressing the wound on my forehead for a while before my neighbour Christy, from directly across the street, approached me.
“You are really bleeding a lot,” Christy pointed out, looking at the towel and my forehead.
“Am I?” I asked, completely disoriented.
“Yes,” she said. “I think I should call 911.”
“Really? OK,” I replied, in a daze.
The paramedics arrived, cleaned my face, bandaged the wound and offered to take me to the hospital. After some conversation, lots of bobbing flashlights and commitments from neighbours to check in on me, they left me at home. Christy lived up to her word and turned up at 9pm with a chocolate cupcake for me, just “checking in.”
So, it’s been a painful weekend (four wounds that I can see on my forehead, eyebrow and in my hairline) and a giant, shining black eye (“You look like you got punched out!” Grampa Trent from Price’s Market told me cheerfully today. “Just tell everyone, ‘You should see the other guy!’”)
You know what’s the craziest part of it? This is the FOURTH time this has happened to me in my life. Twice with my lab/Great Dane Moose and twice with Forest. It’s the first time an ambulance was called, but the fourth time one of my big happy dogs knocked me out cold and left me with bruises, black eyes and scars. It always comes as a giant surprise; and yet, WHOOPS, there it is.
Our first errand today, Monday, was to go to Pet Valu and buy a “No Pull” harness for Forest (Leia already has one, and it works GREAT. I just did not think Forest, who is seven years old, needed one. I was wrong about that).
I asked my neighbour Stefani to try to get a shot of Forest modelling his new No Pull harness, and as a bonus, to try to get my bruised face in the shot. I think we got more of me than Forest, but anyway, I guess that’s the point of this post.
Puppies are SOOOOOOO cute. 8 week or 10 week old puppies of any breed are adorable. Labs rip your heart out. Boxers and Mastiffs look so clumsy and cute. Shepards and Rottweillers with the irresistible eyebrows and the wiggly bums…how can you say “no”?
Well, unless you have 3 hours per day to commit to a young dog, you have to say “no.” The walking, the training, the grooming, the walking….it is real work. Totally worth it, mind you – and if you luck into adopting an older dog who is already trained and needs a bit less exercise, it is easier.
Young, strong, healthy large dogs are a serious commitment of time and money and as you can tell by the photo above, can also be a “bruising” experience. Keep my face in mind next time you are looking at photos of “irresistible” puppies!
In 1998 when my son Tom was in Grade 8 he attended a special program at Holy Name School at Danforth and Carlaw in Toronto.
I was working for the Minister of Education in the Mike Harris government. It was a chaotic time, but I always felt my kids supported me.
One Friday morning, I pulled all the newspapers in from the front door and was shocked to see an enormous, half-front-page, above-the-fold photo of a protest at Holy Name School, as students were protesting the Harris government.
There, smiling brightly in the middle of the photo – one of the tallest kids in crowd, right in the front row – was my son Tom. I was gobsmacked.
I paced around for a couple of hours before everyone got up and out of bed to get ready for school.
When Tom finally came downstairs, I was waiting for him. I cleared my throat and spoke carefully:
“Honey….” I began tactfully, “What are you doing on the front page of the Toronto Star protesting the government I work for?”
“Ha!” Tom exclaimed, laughing skeptically. “Ma, that was no protest. The principal came on over the PA system and told everyone we were getting an extra recess and that we should go to the playground. So we all went to the playground, where a teacher directed us all to collect up along the fence. A photographer was waiting there to take our picture. After that, we all got an extra recess which everyone thought was pretty cool, so there were no complaints. There was no mention of any protest.”
While I was relieved to learn I was not being protested by my own son, I was disappointed to know the Toronto Star and the teachers would do such a thing. But you know what? It was a great learning experience for all three of my kids. None of them have ever read a news article without a healthy dose of skepticism since that day.
In fact, that same month there was an “education fair” at which students were invited to throw bean bags at a plywood cut-out of Mike Harris. This also earned the front page of the Toronto Star; when he saw it, Tom crowed in disgust: “Look at all those students, totally hypnotized by teachers!”
There has always been fake news. It used to be called “Yellow Journalism,” and then “propaganda,” and next “advertorial,” “sponsored stories,” and then “native content.” (What a devious description THAT is! Or as Tom Smith would snort, “Could you be a little more vague?”)
Now we have CNN reporting Russian hacking stories based on no evidence; the New York Times denying its own headlines to support a new narrative. Donald Trump’s efforts to blow up this entire ossified media infrastructure are to be supported and applauded; he is providing a giant service to everyone. At the very least he’s delivering a great wake-up call. At the best, he is yanking up the standards of serious journalism in North America.
On November 19, 2014, John Tory stated confidently, “Uber and Hailo are here to stay.”
Ironically, ride-hailing firm Hailo had left Toronto weeks earlier. A law-abiding entity, it could not compete, waved a white flag, and left. Tory was unaware of this fact.
Uber has been a different story. Toronto allowed it to break any by-law it chose for almost three years, giving Uber an unprecedented business advantage.
Alas, Uber has not lived up to John Tory’s expectations. In fact, Uber CEO Travis Kalanick was forced by investors to step down after a horrendous six-month run of disasters. Female engineers at Uber reported on sexual harassment and discrimination; regulators discovered Uber is using “Greyball,” software designed the help it avoid the law; Uber is being sued by Google for allegedly stealing its self-driving car technology. Uber is overcharging passengers and underpaying drivers.
Uber’s gleeful lawlessness is proving to be its Achilles heel. This was obvious to anyone with common sense while Toronto was re-writing its vehicle for hire by-law for Uber last year and SHOULD have been immediately apparent to the politicians we pay to make our laws. It was not.
On June 21, in an article entitled “Uber can’t be fixed; it’s time for regulators to shut it down,” Benjamin Edelman wrote in the Harvard Business Review: “The company’s cultural dysfunction, it seems to me, stems from the very nature of the company’s competitive advantage: Uber’s business model is predicated on lawbreaking. And having grown through intentional illegality, Uber can’t easily pivot toward following the rules.”
“Having built a corporate culture that celebrates breaking the law, it is surely no accident that Uber then faced scandal after scandal. How is an Uber manager to know which laws should be followed and which ignored?” Edelman asks.
In Toronto, the cost of the short-sighted decision to reward law-breakers has been brutal: it has caused a true crisis of faith for immigrants who came here honestly and work tirelessly. I doubt the damage done to their concept of Canada’s Rule of Law will ever be undone.
“I left home to get AWAY from this kind of corruption!” I have heard from cabbies from Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran and Egypt. “And here it is again!”
Hans Wienhold, a taxi driver and blogger puts it this way: “Given that the taxi industry is disproportionately populated by recent immigrants…what message does this send to the new waves of immigrants and refugees looking to build a secure life for themselves?
“I’ll tell you what message it sends… ‘Do not work hard and invest your life and savings for the long term, because you now live in a regime where everything can be taken away from you by a simple vote at a city hall.’”
Wienhold also made a sad observation on the fact that all of the most expensive elements of a secure taxi industry were never about safety at all.
“Now we see clearly that none of these things ever had anything to do with safety; they were just power grabs and cash grabs. No one will ever buy the politicians’ BS again.”
Recently, we have seen more drivers ignoring the law, refusing short fares, or requiring a minimum fare; basically rejecting the City’s authority to set fares and rules.
Because, what law?
John Tory and Toronto Council should have seen this coming. They did not.
As this week’s Time Magazine cover says, “Uber fail.”
Forest, Leia and I set out for a perennials farm yesterday to load up on new plants.
The place is lovely, and the owners so nice. Clearly, they are city-folk living a Green Acres retirement as the quaint wooden sign on their front lawn reads, “Living the Dream!”
“You can let your dogs out, if you want,” the fellow told me brightly.
“Really? Are you sure?” I looked around at the neat perennials beds and potted plants. “I wouldn’t want them to upset anything.”
“Sure! No problem! As long as they are friendly, we welcome dogs!” he offered magnanimously.
“REALLY? Are you REALLY sure?” I asked again, dubiously.
I didn’t see any good coming out of this. But the man and his wife were so generous and welcoming, I ignored my better judgement and let the dogs out of the car.
Immediately, they bolted for the fence line where there stood – two large red horses.
“Oh, except we hope they won’t bother the horses,” he added, a little anxiously and a lot too late. Leia had already bound through the wide gaps in the wooden fence and she and Forest were both barking their fool heads off at these huge new “dogs.”
“FOREST! LEIA! COME HERE!” I bellowed in my loudest dog-calling voice. Amazingly, Forest stopped before he reached the fence and came back. Leia was long gone.
“I’m just afraid the horse might kick them,” the man offered helpfully.
“Yeah, that would be a real problem,” I replied morosely, already imagining how much THIS vet bill was going to be, after Leia got sent sailing through the air by one swift kick.
I deposited Forest back in the safety of the car before I returned to the fence line to try and retrieve Leia.
Leia was in her glory, joyfully cavorting and gamboling directly under the horse’s feet. In fact, she was running perfect “Figure 8s:” around the front hooves; under the horse’s belly; behind the back hooves; under the belly again; another lap around the front feet. Every time she circled the horse’s back feet, I held my breath, waiting for the kick to come.
“That is one patient horse you have there,” I told the ‘farmer.’
“Oh, she’s not mine, this is my neighbour’s field,” he informed me cheerfully. Oh, lord, I groaned. Vet bills AND lawsuits!
Meanwhile, his wife came running over with a bag of dog treats, shaking it noisily and calling “Here! Treats! Here!” Clearly, this had happened before.
“LEEEEE-IIII-AAAAA, HEEEEEEERE!” I called in the trail walking command we have been practicing since February. She actually heard my voice over her own excited barking, turned and trotted over to me. Miracles happen!
“I’ll just put her in the car before I pick out my plants,” I panted, hauling Leia by the collar in the direction of the car. Both horses ambled back home to the far side of the field; perhaps they’d had enough excitement for one morning.
The rest of my shopping was uneventful and I picked out a trunk load of beautiful perennials for my garden. As I loaded them in the car, a woman pulled up with a German Shepard in her car.
“Is it OK if I bring my dog with me?” she called to the owner. “I have his leash, and poo bags!”
“Sure!!” the ‘farmer’ responded enthusiastically. “No problem!”
As I pulled away, I remembered I had planned to look at tomato plants. I decided those could wait. Like the big red horses, I figured I’d had enough for one day…
My brother hunts with beagles. The best photo he ever sent was of a “heap ‘o hounds,” four dogs collapsed together, a hilarious pile of big paws, long ears, and sensitive noses, sleeping in blissful, oblivious contentment.
“It’s good to be part of a pack,” my brother observed.
Viewing coverage of the protests by scientists organized for Earth Day, I can’t help but draw comparisons to my brother’s hounds: they were blissful, but oblivious.
Scientists are the most recent group to adopt the tactic of street protests which make everyone feel excited and empowered to be part of a pack but do little to advance their cause among elected officials.
Take, for example, teachers and the Mike Harris government. Aggrieved teachers took to the streets to protest Ontario’s new funding formula; inside government, we scrambled to respond to what appeared to be a public relations nightmare.
In fact, the team around Harris had gleaned through polling that the more the teachers protested, the more Harris’ approval ratings went UP; we actually began planning events that would attract protesters. Mike Harris easily won a second majority government in 1999.
The taxi industry in Toronto loves printing up yellow t-shirts and packing City Hall when taxi issues come up. In planning sessions I asked: “Why are we doing this? Councillors hate it when we do this. They feel threatened and intimidated. We are not allowed to speak or even clap. Why are we doing this?”
Because, the industry loves it. The Rotunda is a cross between old home week and a family reunion, thoroughly enjoyed by all. We lost every vote at council, though.
In 2009, I attended the Science Communications program at Banff with about 20 Ph.D scientists who were there to learn how to communicate science more effectively. At that time and in the years since, I have warned many of the good people I met, “Do not get into public protests. You will destroy your credibility, and garner no sympathy from politicians or taxpayers. Don’t become just another special interest group whining for more money. Don’t try to become politicians; they will not trust your advice if you try to compete with them as politicians.” Clearly, I lost that debate.
Under Stephen Harper, scientists paraded around Ottawa carrying a coffin, mourning “The Death of Science.” On Earth Day, 2017, they protested the Trudeau budget, taking their sector even further down the road toward being labelled as a group that will run out of governments to protest.
And yet, one of the Banff faculty members, who teaches journalism at an American university, posted this:
“I’ve been advocating for scientists to become more engaged in communication, policy, and politics for at least 20 years…I’m struck by how very far we’ve come and optimistic for what comes next.”
The coverage I saw had scientists waving signs that said, “Make America Smart Again” – mocking the president whose government will make funding decisions and insulting taxpayers who are not as “smart” as they are. Scientists should not play politics; they should not protest in the street. They should not call taxpayers stupid.
No matter how great it feels to be part of a pack.