The last time I went to the Canadian National Exhibition was twenty-six years ago, as near as I can figure.  I was about twenty and it was me and a bunch of unruly roommates.  The only thing I remember about the whole experience was the roller coaster.  Coming from PEI, I’d never been on a roller coaster before.  I loved it!  But that was about all I loved about the Ex that visit.  Because as I said it’s all I actually remember about the Ex that visit.  I’m not quite sure why that is, but knowing me and my roommates at the time, probably the roller coaster is the only thing we did that visit.

So I went back today with my family, and it was a completely different experience.  Mostly because my wife took firm hold of the reins and managed the entire experience like the sane, sensible adult that she is.  Rides in the morning, shows in the afternoon.  The rides were nothing spectacular, but they were pleasant enough.  The girls enjoyed them.  The shows were nothing spectacular, but they were entertaining enough.  We all enjoyed them well enough (Superdogs, some kind of Rock Figure Skating show called Beyond Broadway, I think, and a hypnotist).

We also attempted the Air Show, but that was pretty much a bust.  A major disappointment for me, actually, as I love planes.  The problem was we walked forever to get to a good spot to see the show, then waited forever for planes that never came.  Okay, that’s not entirely true.  One cool jet started the show, then after an interminable wait three guys parachuted out of a plane and took about twenty minutes descending, then a lame plane limped out towing a glider, then a goofy passenger airliner kept doing pointless circles above us, then we lost interest and left.  Later, in between the other shows I caught glimpses of the Snowbirds and a couple of other cool jets, but it seems if you really want to enjoy the air show, you have to devote the entire afternoon to it.

The weather was acceptable.  Hot and humid, but better at the CNE than we understand it was at home, away from the lake.  It rained once, but we were inside watching a show at the time, so it didn’t bother us.

The food was less than spectacular, but not a complete write off.  We ate both lunch and supper in the Food Building, which had the best variety and was out of the hot sun.  My wife had a Pita that fell apart and wasn’t particularly tasty.  I had a pulled pork sandwich that wasn’t particularly tasty but didn’t fall apart.  The girls had pizza that was perfectly fine for them.  For supper my wife and I both had hamburgers that have yet to make us sick, and the girls loved the 99 cent spaghetti on offer, and you can’t argue with prices like that.

So, I would give the CNE a solid six and a half out of ten on the Mahoney family enjoyment scale.  Points for modest entertainment, edible grub, inoffensive rides, plus additional points for the girls getting along great and the positive family vibe that still persists even as we try to get them into bed now, woefully late at night.

I do miss the roller coaster, which apparently was dismantled years ago, but roller coasters are what Canada’s Wonderland is for.  Which I believe is next on the agenda…

Back in the middle of the summer I had the best of intentions. Blog a lot more. Heck, start a second blog with a fictional character and blog every day on that one too!

I even managed to keep it up a while. But working full time and raising a family takes a toll. A toll on blogging, anyway. So I fell a little short of my goal.

Enough complaining. What is happening in (as the inimitable Lisa Trimble used to call it) Joe Land?

Writing the conclusion of A Time and a Place. Sure, I’ll be writing the conclusion for another two or three years, but at least it’s the conclusion I’m writing. Imagine if it was only the beginning? Then I’ll string a few cat motifs and allusions through the thing and it’ll be done.

Thinking about a little project with a friend that we’re calling Pilot. Have to finish the novel first, then we’ll tackle Pilot: The Pilot. Think Robot Chicken. Robot Chicken only with less talent, money and time. It’ll be a lot of work to do it right. But to paraphrase John F Kennedy, we don’t do these things because they’re easy. We do them because we’re kind of stupid and like to get in over our heads.

The sugar diet. I know you’re all waiting with whis’pring humbleness and bated breath to find out how the sugar diet’s going. The weight loss has slowed down a bit but it’s still going well. This morning I was 176. So I’ve lost 9 pounds since August 23rd by drastically reducing the sugar intake. If I could give up marmalade and orange juice it’d probably go faster, but alas. 176 is a good weight to be. It’s how much I weighed in 1992. So, not bad. Still, I’ll see if I can’t bring it down to about 173.

Oh, and the pumpkin pie I rewarded myself during Thanksgiving Dinner was absolutely delicious…

Chatted briefly with my mother this evening. I was making a homemade cornmeal pizza at the time, and looking forward to making some chocolate balls later. The cornmeal pizza was fairly healthful (all the cheese notwithstanding); the chocolate balls less so.

We got to talking about weight. I told her I thought chubby people seemed happier than skinny people. I have no scientific evidence to back this up, it was really a foolish assertion to make. And yet my life’s experience seems to bear this out. Which is just as foolish an assertion to make. And yet, dear reader, it is far from the last foolish assertion I will make in this post.

I told my mother, “Mom,” I said, “It seems to me that to be happy you have to be large. Which is why I’m feeding my family large slabs of homemade cornmeal pizza, and then later copious amounts of homemade chocolate balls.”

“Son,” she said, “You’re an idiot.”

I beg your pardon, actually she was just thinking that. What she actually said was, “So what you’re telling me” — idiot — “Is that in order to be happy you have to be unhealthy.”

I hadn’t actually thought of it like that until she said it. But the truth of it hit me like a bag of potato chips in the face. Which is to say it didn’t hurt much or leave much of an impression. “That’s it exactly Mom,” I told her. “I’ve known lots of skinny people and they’re all miserable sods” (another ridiculous assertion). “Whereas all the large people I know are full of joy, among other things.” The conversation soon drifted into other areas as my mother gently and without too much difficulty steered her idiot son toward more benign conversational material.

But the idea has taken seed, which is why my immediate family and I are going to eat our faces off this Christmas season. And I’m not talking pan fried fish here (although there will almost certainly be some of that… Arctic Char… hmm). No, it’s Chocolate Balls and Cherry Surprises for us. Turkey with lots of gravy and stuffing. Cherry Cheese Cake, Jell-O Pudding Pie, and Harold Squares. Red wine and beer. Potato Chips and Strawberry Wine.

We will be large. We will be happy. Life will be short, but grand.

Burp.

Some foods have to be right the first time you try them, or you may never properly appreciate them.  I have a friend who hates potatoes.  It’s so sad… and I know why.  It’s because when she was young her mother fed her mashed potatoes.  But not just any mashed potatoes… lumpy mashed potatoes.  A true culinary tragedy.  And now my friend cannot appreciate any potatoes.  Sadly, she will never know the glory of a baked potato baked in olive oil to perfection, and served with bacon bits, sour cream, and a smidgeon of butter.

I recall the first time I ever consumed Pad Thai.

A friend brought me to some now defunct Thai restaurant near Yonge and Eglinton.  She insisted that I try this noodle concoction called Pad Thai.  One bite in and I could not believe that I had lived to the ripe old age of twenty-six without ever tasting that TASTE! To this day I’m not exactly sure what the ingredient is that gives Pad Thai that particular perfection… coriander, maybe?  Just not educated enough in the culinary arts.  But it was (and I have never used this word to describe anything ever before) divine.

There’s an establishment where I work that serves something called Pad Thai.  Okay.  I don’t know what it is, but whatever it is it ain’t Pad Thai.  And I pity the people who try it and think, “THAT’S what all the fuss is about?”  Like my potato-deprived friend, they may never learn the delight that is true Pad Thai.

If you are prejudiced against Pad Thai and potatoes or any other food, I urge you to cast aside those prejudices and try the foods you don’t like with an open mind.  And keep trying until you get the real thing.  If you don’t like seafood, for instance (talking to you here, sis) because your salmon has always been overcooked or your mother (sorry mom) inadvertantly fed you those horrible frozen Captain Highliner disgraces, hie thee to a supermarket and pick up some fresh fish for a change.  Salmon, Rainbow Trout, or if you’re lucky, some Arctic Char, maybe.  Baste it in a nice Teriyaki sauce for half an hour first.  Don’t overcook it.  And serve it with a nice baked potato and fresh green beans.

Hmmm…. fresh green beans.

Let me know how it turns out.

… from the tortured mind of one Paul Gorbould….

Here’s a blast from the past — an old post from Tuesday, November 30, 2004.  It’s from an old blog I used to have that predates even my CBC Workerbee blog:

You know, I think of myself as a fairly grown up guy, reasonably mature, self sufficient, yadda yadda yadda. And maybe I am all these things in several respects of my life. Okay… two or three respects. All right, I can dress myself, that much at least I can do.

But recently I realized that I’m not at all mature or reasonable when it comes to chocolate. I have a secret addiction, a secret shame. When nobody’s looking, and I’m all alone… I dip into the chocolate chip cupboard. The cupboard with all the baking supplies. There’s a little cup with a cover on it in which we keep chocolate chips, the semi-sweet kind for baking. And it’s important to keep these chocolate chips, or there would be no baking, at least no baking with chocolate chips in it.

Which is why it’s such a bad thing when I dip into these chocolate chips. Which I don’t do very often, understand, certainly no more than eight, nine times an hour. Did I say hour? I meant day… yeah, that’s it. Okay, maybe I’m not quite that bad. But who am I kidding, it is bad. A sweet tooth that may well lead to NO teeth some day. But tasty, darned tasty, and better than smoking or alcoholism I would think. Except for the trans fats they’re probably loaded with… you know what, I don’t even want to look at the ingredients. As long as the chocolate chips have chocolate in them, that’s all I need to know.

So the other day I dip into them when Lynda’s downstairs. Suddenly, uh oh, she’s coming up stairs and I’VE STILL GOT THE CHOCOLATE CHIP CUP IN MY HANDS! There’s no time to put it back. I clutch it to myself, turn my back to Lynda, and kind of huddle in the corner of the kitchen. Lynda says, “So Joe, I was wondering… hey, whattaya doing, what’ve you got there?” And she comes over and I sheepishly show her the chocolate chip cup. And of course I’m still kinda chewin’ on a few chips. It was like I was a little kid again, caught red-handed. But she’s a good wife, a good friend. “Don’t eat them all,” she said. “I don’t want to be all out when it’s time to make chocolate chip cookies.”

And if that isn’t reason enough to restrain myself at least a tiny little bit, I don’t know what is.