THE Best Burger.

New Year's Eve. The clock hadn't even struck twelve and I already witnessed a brawl involving fisticuffs outside my hotel suite, some arsehole throwing firecrackers at an urbanized deer, and a grown man wearing nothing but a diaper and a top hat. Spending the week in Banff was a memorable end to a memorable year. The greatest part was that I got to erase another task off the ol' bucket list: I ate a Kobe beef burger. 

Well...it wasn't REAL Kobe beef, as that can truly only be obtained in Japan under strict farming conditions. However, Eddie Burger Bar offers an Alberta-raised, affordable (in comparison) alternative. And. It. Is. DELICIOUS. Seriously, I haven't stopped dreaming about this succulent culinary delight since I returned to Saskatoon. I've succumbed to the fact that eating anything less is just setting up my palette for disappointment, although I do plan on attempting to replicate the flavoring at home. Toasty bun, crisp red onions, aged cheddar, mystery sauce milked from the Gods...since this post is already devolving into food porn, let's take it all the way:

Muy Bueno! I've since decided that when I return to Japan I will indulge (and possibly go bankrupt) trying the original. 

There is a competitor in the Banff burger wars, similarly named and claiming to have been voted "the best" in town, but rest assured, I tried it as well and it didn't come close. Eddie all the way! Now excuse me while I go back to salivating over my keyboard. 

I Heart Heart

"Craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazzzzzzyyyy on you". The moment when Ann Wilson belts that line at 3:20 in the song of the same name is utterly primal. Raw emotion captured on record that cannot be replicated in an era of Ke$ha. Quite simply, music at its mofo best. It's no wonder that a teenage me picked up a guitar completely enthralled and wanting to mimic these - and other similarly strong - women.

At fourteen, I formed a "band" with two other misfits. We called ourselves "Lithium" after a Nirvana song - this was the grungy mid-90s after all when Kurt Cobain was positioned as a generational martyr. Or at least that's what the necrophilia-obsessed media told us. In retrospect, they kinda sucked. Our band played on though, performing impromptu concerts in basements for an audience of younger siblings who wouldn't judge. We never could master more than three chords at any given time but that wasn't the point; swagger-jacking by proxy was the ultimate end goal. In those dark, dingy basements, we were rock stars...if only for an hour or two. Then it was back to the existential crisis of not having a boyfriend and wondering if we would ever use calculus in real life (I'm pleased to say that the answer to this is no).  

Music during my twenties was more a soundtrack, rather than an ambition and my tastes evolved to favour tunage created in the decades prior to my birth. There's something to be said of the 70s, when the world-at-large seemed a little more magical, a little less manufactured. It's sad that the likes of Ann and Nancy Wilson could not (and don't) exist today. Even their undeniable, proven talent is overshadowed by modern society's superficial expectations. I shudder to think what type of image Hollywood will normalize us to in twenty years. Ick. Living vicariously through their catalogue of hits, some of my fondest memories during this time of exploration and growth involve aimlessly driving through the streets of Winnipeg with my friend Rob while cranking Barracuda full blast. Then there were/are the feelings of loneliness and regret that make a track like Alone so relatable. Their songs speak to me and, in a way, speak for me.

In my compendium of all-time favorite musical artists, Heart would be tied with Led Zeppelin at third, trailing only The Beatles and Fleetwood Mac. I can't wait to see them this February. I can't wait to hear this live:

The Most Terrifying Place on Earth

Every few weeks or so, I find myself in a disturbing place. A place where all seven sins, in particular gluttony and sloth, are on full display reminding, né threatening, observers, that armageddon will arrive shortly and we should all just fasten our seatbelts and brace for the uncomfortable impact. Everytime I leave this house of hell, I seriously contemplate leaving everything behind for Siberia where I could have a cave dwelling, surviving amongst the cockroaches with Keith Richards. What place hath bespoke my heart's wrath? Costco, of course. 

As a single person living alone with nothing but a 10lb puppy to feed, it makes no sense to shop at Costco. Not only could I never eat such vast quantities of food, but I can't even store all of it. My membership was free though, a result of cashing in Aeroplan points that were too few in number to get anything good, but too high to waste on something like music downloads in an era of torrents. The fact that people kept raving about their pizza just solidified my decision. I would do anything for good pizza. It is my religion. 

The first time I entered the mega-store, it was like being initiated into the Illuminati. Pictures were taken. ID scanned. I was worried that my brief stint as a communist would be unearthed and I would be denied the opportunity to purchase 50lbs of Raisin Bran. With all of the security in terms of keeping the fortress safe from outsiders, I expected there to be some really great deals...but everything was pretty consistent with Wal-Mart and/or Superstore pricing. The only difference being the comically gargantuan shopping carts and the rudeness of fellow customers. Shoppers at Costco will park their carts wherever they please, even if it violates firecodes in several counties. They will launch a death stare should you try to feebly coerce your own cart around them or, heaven forbid, move theirs out of the way. They will shove small children and the elderly out of the way in order to be first in line for free samples of bite-sized quiche. It is truly a glimpse of humans at their most primal. I'm surprised the Discovery Channel hasn't devoted programming to "Costco Week". 

It's strange to feel claustrophobia in a building the size of an airplane hanger, but I often feel this way as I approach check-out. A soundtrack of Mussorgsky's Night on Bald Mountain reaching its crescendo in my head. The end of the journey being so close...yet so far. Surely I don't really have anywhere else to be, but I'd rather be anywhere else but in line behind a guy buying 600 tablets of Immodium. And then the crux of the entire experience: I am asked to show my membership card AGAIN upon leaving. Getting into North Korea is probably easier and more pleasurable than shopping at Costco. 

But enough ranting...back to eating my giant bag of garlic pita bites. No wonder I'm single. 

Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

Last night I watched a documentary called 'Gypsy Child Thieves' on CBC's The Passionate Eye. It provided a raw glimpse into the lives of gypsy children manipulated into petty crime in Europe while examining the larger scale organized criminal influence that fuels it. Parts of the exposé reminded me of odd situations I've found myself in while traveling, including having a 3-year-old boy try to pickpocket me in Chengdu, China. My initial reaction, upon feeling someone slide their hand into the back pocket on my jeans, was anger; I immediately turned around to confront the perpetrator. My next reaction was shock that the thief appeared to be barely out of diapers. Walking away somewhat saddened, somewhat wiser, it was my first introduction to the seedy underworld of child exploitation, the scale of which most Westerners will never comprehend.

The first (and only) time I encountered an actual gypsy was in London, England. A full day of sightseeing left me hungry and weak. With visions of beer-battered pub haddock dancing around in my head, it was unfortunate that the first place I encountered selling anything edible (barely) was a hot dog stand. Pork, ick. But I couldn't wait; my stomach needed to be silenced. Under Big Ben's shadow, I waited in line while studying the visual differences between a fifty pence and 10 pence coin. A figure saddled up to my right. Cloaked in traditional Eastern Bloc garb, it was a teenage girl, approximately 17-years-old, who's heavy, aged gaze belied an otherwise youthful appearance. "Please" she begged. Her hands extended within mere centimeters of my face. "Pleeeeeeeaaaaaasssssseeee". I felt horrible, but I couldn't. I wouldn't. The exchange went on for the next several minutes, another gypsy tugging at my purse on the left. The harassment escalated. Was a hot dog really worth it? Upon retrospect, no. Good lord, no! Sternly/loudly telling them likewise, the gypsy on the right took her hands away and stood stoicly, her eyes penetrating my soul. Before disappearing into the night, she muttered something in a language I didn't recognize. A curse perhaps? An ancient spell of damnation? That hot dog did end up giving me heartburn.

To watch 'Gypsy Child Thieves', click here and learn that the money you think is aiding children may be funding the most garishly ostentatious architecture on earth.

Whoomp! Here it is:


It was a crazy Saturday night. Some would say epic. The evening began with a simple herb-and-garlic chicken dinner finished with a slice of pumpkin pie, a treat I granted myself after spending daylight running around the city completing errands that were beginning to take on a life of their own. Post-meal at 8:00pm, I was exhausted but it was still too early for anyone under the age of 75 to go to bed. Choosing to mentally rest by watching mentally vacant 'America's Next Top Model', I pondered which contestant would land the coveted cover of Girls and Corpses Magazine. Containing my yawns was futile though and I eventually decided to just embrace the fact that my autobiography would never be a bestseller. My joints ached. Slumber called. But first, my canine companion needed to do some, ahem, "business". This is when my evening took an unexpected turn. 

Downtown Saskatoon is typically a quiet place on any given evening, but on this night the sound of music wafting through the air piqued my interest. It seemed to be coming from the general direction of the historic Bessborough Hotel. Heading towards it on the TransCanada Trail, I was soon met with a visual that I will not soon forget: hundreds, né THOUSANDS, of people marching towards me whilst chanting "Whoomp! There It Is". I was bewildered. I was scared. I was intrigued. Common sense would have had me head home to the comforts of Tyra Banks' forehead, but like a gullible rat following the Pied Piper, I joined the fray. 

Besides a questionable taste of music, the only collective theme of this gathering was the omnipresence of Canadian flags. I later discovered that this gathering was a cross-country tour called the decentralized dance party and that the only requirements are to a) show up and b) wear your national pride. According to the website, the event was supposed to be alcohol-free but the number of people passed out in the grass surely wasn't from strenuously performing the macarena en masse. Wavy Gravy circa Woodstock would have probably been more lucid than half the people there.

Monty, sensing trouble, became scared by all the drunk girls wanting to pet him. I, sensing trouble, became scared by all the drunk guys wanting to pet me. And so we watched from a distance under cloak of darkness as the revelers brought the rave to University Bridge. Monty eventually found the perfect spot to have a bowel movement; as did a gaggle of girls trading modesty for convenience. It was a crazy Saturday night. But then it was time for sleep.

 

Italian Tri-Colour Cookies

I came. I saw. I baked. But I did not conquer, as evidenced by the final product for my first "from scratch" initiative. There are no marks for presentation (damn food colouring! The batter was pink and green, I swear); however, they are pretty good. Not Eaton's Department Store-level good, but good considering my skill level. Baked with love, care and a whole lotta butter, my parents will be proud when they get to taste test them on Thanksgiving. At any rate, after this many years I'm sure they've learned how to hide their grimace well.

BONUS: I also now know what almond paste looks like! To think of all the time I spent in the Colgate aisle searching for it: