I like writing. [Insert world’s largest ‘Well, DUH!’ here.] And while I’ve been content to write a blog — great practice for any writer, if you ask me — it’s just not the same as when you write for someone else.
Which I have. I’ve been fortunate enough to write a few things (articles, not long ones) for which I’ve been paid, and presumably read. That’s a bit more rewarding than merely standing on a soapbox and yelling into The Void. But even that isn’t quite enough.
I think that’s what I wanted to write a book. But not the one I just published.
So some time ago, my neighbour told me about a mead-making course being offered by the Squareknot Cooperative. While he ended up not able to go (his mead is now approaching epic levels, I should add), I went, learned a few things, and started making my own.
At the course, I sampled a hibiscus mead with rosehips. It was one that convinced me that I should make my own mead. It was deliciously red, sweet without being coying, and exactly the thing I’d expected from a mead.
I finally got around to making it. And boy, did it ever turn out. I can’t help but share this so others can try, too.
Six years ago from about now, I had come home, a newly-minted father, without the slightest clue what you were about to do to my life, Monkey. I had no idea what awaited me, not a hint of what things you would make me learn or the things you would teach me. I had no idea how much more I would value life, how I would see things differently, and how I would relate to the world around me.
Six years later, I cannot imagine my life without you. I have trouble even remembering you now as a baby, or the little toddler who simultaneous loved and could barely stand eating ice cream. Because who you are today seems so far from the tiny child you were.
Happy birthday, Monkey.
They say that when you put enough people in close proximity for long periods of time, their biological rhythms come into synchronicity. People start thinking the same, they pick up each other’s habits and nervous ticks … and of course catch each other’s colds. And … uh … we all got terribly, terribly ill and declared to everyone that we weren’t able to work for the day. Planned a couple of weeks in advance. In unison.
Okay, yes, we all played hookie. We had a good reason. We’re helping out Mt. Norquay with some of their marketing needs. And who are we to pass up an opportunity to experience our client’s business while taking a much-needed day off to go skiing?
Though … is it worth mentioning that I haven’t been near a ski hill in about 25 years?
Photo by Geoff S.
For our wedding, Alex and I got a breadmaker. (I think we had it on our list.) It’s a good breadmaker, and we’ve used it many, many times, though we had eventually stopped using it for the baking aspect — the loaf size was odd, and if you forgot to take the paddle out, the hole in the bottom was annoying.
Then, about a year ago, Alex started an elimination diet that eliminated wheat from her plate. Thus began the long (and not-infrequently bad-tasting) search for something to replace the gluten (and thus, wheat) that had been removed. That meant finding a different way to make bread.
It was much harder than I thought.
For me, 2012 was a bad year. Between a host of medical issues (brutal chest cough that led to pulled muscles, to appendicitis, to strep throat, a couple nasty colds-cum-killer flus, and a minor outpatient surgery), ridiculous amounts of stress, the ever-present struggle of being a parent to young children, a general malaise, and an unfulfilled burning need to travel, it’s truly a wonder I got out of bed in the morning.
So it wasn’t with any reservation that 2012 walked out of my life on Monday night, yet it still managed to leave me rather depressed. Sadly, 2013 woke me up looking already a lot like 2012, so I’m not sure if I’m able to look at this new year with much hope yet. Instead, I suppose I shall have to try harder to make things work more my way.
This not to say that I “didn’t like” 2012. It’s hard not to like an entire year in one’s life, especially one that brings so many new things to learn and experience. I just wish it hadn’t been so darned painful…
Dear Mr. Trudeau,
First off, thank you for putting yourself on the line for leadership of the Liberal Party of Canada. Names notwithstanding, the act is one that is necessarily of self-sacrifice, since the job of leading is often thankless, rarely appreciated for what it delivers, and may very well likely make you age before your time. It is the call of duty that is more admirable, that you would take on a responsibility that most Canadians would prefer to avoid. It will be refreshing to have a younger perspective on what has become a party bogged down in its past mistakes, real and perceived, and how that party could be transformed into something more relevant.
It is that relevance of which I am concerned. I am currently sitting in Calgary Centre, awaiting the outcome of a by-election. It’s been an interesting contest, and to some degree, has become even a microcosm of what we’ve seen across Canada. The same messages, the same tactics, and the same mistakes. It will be a turning point, of that I have little doubt, even if (regrettably) the “status quo” is maintained — there are lessons to be learned, here, Mr. Trudeau. And a very important one to which you need to pay very close attention:
Votes do not “split”.
It’s Thanksgiving weekend here in Canada, and as the waning hours peter out, I look back and see it as a far more interesting weekend than I’ve had in recent years, notably with the things we managed to do.
In particular, three things that I did. Notably, things I had never previously done before, and there was some concern (on a couple of them) as to how well they’d turn out.
As for how I turned out, that’s … well, part of the story.
A week ago, I sat in one of our meeting rooms at the office, discussing the current state of one of our projects, when I felt the all-too-familiar and sickening sensation of a rush of fluid in my nose. The generous drop of blood hit my finger a moment later.
It took nearly 20 minutes for the bleeding to stop. It freaked me out a bit because I had no real reason as to why it had bled. By the time I got home, there was no indication whatsoever of any issue, either. But it was Alex who got me thinking. Her thought?
I’d been drinking way too much caffeine.
It’s surprising how often I’ve been asked this question over the last few months. Once upon a time — some dozen years ago — I was a technical writer. I wrote manuals, technical documentation, and various forms of other literature for a living. And, to be quite honest, I hated it.
Well, hate is a strong word. I got bored of doing it. (Long story, suffice to say, I ended up making websites for a living.) But certainly the skill has never left me (I still write documentation to this day as part of my job), and I do know a few things about writing clearly and effectively.
Sadly, it’s not something that is done particularly well…