The day the golf course officially opens my husband does what he does every year. He excitedly digs out his clubs and shines them. He digs out his golf shoes and removes the dirt from the spikes. Then he’ll pack his golf bag with everything that he’ll need for the 18 hole curse fest, like Captain Blacks, a pencil and a brand new sleeve of balls that he’ll eventually lose, so he’ll pack another.

And then I dig out my black veil.

And then I make myself a beautiful Bloody Caesar.

I believed for a long time that I didn’t like Caesars. Maybe the Clamato juice turned me off or maybe because I resented making hundreds of them when I was a waitress, thou I admit that didn’t affect my reaction to most other drinks. But then I discovered that it’s not that I didn’t like Caesars, I just didn’t like the regular, run of the mill Caesars.

This is my recipe for a bloody good Bloody Caesar. You’ll discover that this might just be your new favorite breakfast beverage (after the Irish coffee).
This is what you’ll need:

Ice
Celery salt for the rim
Shake of Worshire
1 Drop or 2 of Tabasco
Pinch Pepper
1-Pickled carrots
1 Celery stick
1 ounce of vodka
1 cup of Clamato Juice
Lemon wedge
Teaspoon horseradish

First, make your pickled carrots. These just make a Caesar better and every fridge should have a mason jar of pickled carrots. Aren’t the beautiful?

Stuff as many carrot sticks as you can fit in a mason jar. In the meantime, in a pot boil 1 cup of water, ½ cup of cider vinegar ¼ cup of sugar and 1 Tbsp of pickling spice and pour over the carrots. See, easy peasy. They’ll keep in the fridge for 2 weeks. Trust me, they won’t last that long!

Then rim a tall glass with lemon and then dip in celery salt. This is vital!

Then fill the glass with all the other ingredients, including a pealed celery stick. It must be pealed; I hate those stringy things on celery.

After one, you’ll forgo making a single serving and just make them by the pitcher.

This blog post is dedicated to all of those disillusioned parents who, like me, had certain expectations for being parents of boys.

If you are pregnant or a new parent who, like me, said, “I am not going to allow guns”, or “There will be nothing that promotes violence in our home”, I’m really sorry to break this to you but you have absolutely no control over what they turn into a gun or grenade or sword.

Honestly, I’m probably the most non-violent person around. Our home is relatively peaceful, and aside from me hoping that someone would come and shoot the deer that destroy my once beautiful rotadendrum every year, I’ve never wished harm on anything. Yet my children have managed to turn tennis rackets, golf clubs and even sticks into guns.

I thought I’d post pictures of Colin’s last hunting expedition as proof.

I try to see the positive. He literally cleaned the yard of all the sticks.

And here Evan is in the background giving him bunny ears. When Colin saw this picture, he shot him with his AK-47.

Sorry, this isn’t that kind of blog. I’ll save that fetish post for my other blog, Tina Goes XXX. But I really do have a fetish. Are you ready for this? Lean in. I collect cookie cutters. I don’t know why. I have every different shape and size cookie cutter you could imagine. When I go to a kitchen gadget store, my heart starts to palpitate and I sweat and then I go immediately for the cookie cutter section and I almost always leave with a cool cookie cutter to add to my growing collection. And since many of them only cost little more than a dollar, I feel little guilt. These are just a few of my favorites.

Yes, one is a martini glass. It’s fun for baby showers. And the tulip is the perfect size for a short bread cookie with a lemon glaze.

My most used cookie cutters are these alphabet cookie cutters from Williams-Sonoma. I love them. I’ve spelled out “CONGRATULATIONS” and “GOOD LUCK” whenever the occasion warrants it. The best was when I sent a tray of cookies to Colin’s Pre-school class that read “HAPPY BIRTHDAY COLIN”, and every kid got to eat a letter.

Probably my favorite use of these alphabet cookie cutters is when I write a special message in my sons pancakes or French toast or ham and cheese sandwich.

It’s something they likely won’t appreciate now, but I’m betting that when they’re in university and are waiting for the pancakes to pop from the toaster, they’ll remember my famous French toast that had “I love you” written in it, and they’ll think, “God I wish Mom was here.”

Or at least that is what I tell myself.

Here is my recipe.

Orange french toast
4 eggs
1/3 cup whole milk
1 tsp cinnamon
¼ tsp graded nutmeg
1 tsp graded orange peal
I Tbsp brown sugar
6 slices of bread

Whisk the first 6 ingredients together in a bowl. Dip the bread in the mixture and fry.

OK- the sh*t is going down in this blog post. I risk getting hate mail or getting stoned on my way to the Superstore. But it has to be said, and it might as well be me who says it. We’re not going to solve anything here, but perhaps we can be heard, well at least I will be, and really it’s kind of all about me. Kidding, a-hum, awkward.

We’ve heard a lot about breastfeeding in public in the paper and on southshorenow.ca discussions boards in recent weeks. And I’m really not going to comment on certain letters written by certain people because I won’t respond to stupidity, and if you have been following it, I’m sure you know what I’m referring to. Anyway, I believe there are some underlying issues that you seldom hear about.

There’s a friendly war going on among us mothers. There’s working versus stay at home, epidural versus natural, vaginal versus c-section, immunization versus non-immunization, circumcision versus a helmet, and yes, breastfeeding versus bottle-fed. Breastfeeding in public is just noise disguising the larger issue.

Now wait, before you call me an MF’en idiot, hear me out. If you read the comments, people are rarely discussing people showing their boob in public. I mean really people, it’s a boob. It almost always goes back to nursing.

There’s no question that it’s strongly encouraged to nurse in the hospital. I think you’d be hard pressed to find anyone to say that nursing isn’t best for babies unless the mother is a raging alcoholic. But after being discharged from the hospital and ripping the scabs off my nipples and uncurling my toes, I instructed my husband to go buy bottles and formula. We had neither because not nursing was not something that I had prepared myself for.

As I was sterilizing the bottles the public health nurse called and David told her that we were getting ready to give Evan his first serving of formula. She said she’d be right over. When David told me what had just gone down I looked at him with a sincere urge to kill him.

Less than an hour later I met the public health nurse as she was about to knock on my door and I told her that if she had come here to try to convince me to keep nursing, that I’m sorry, she was wasting her time and her gas and that if not having breast milk was going to turn him into some kind of a freak, well than we’d join the circus together because I was fed canned carnation milk…watered down and aside from the little twitch on my left side and my inability to count by 3’s, I’m relatively normal. I feel rather bad about it now but lets face it, Public Health Nurses see all kinds of crazy new mothers like me.

I’ve had many discussions with other mothers who tell me that not being able to nurse is foolishness. That nursing is natural and that’s what breasts are for. They’ve suggested that we just don’t try hard enough, or that we aren’t strong enough to suffer through the pain. Pain that would give our children a better start in life. They acknowledge that some people can nurse easier than others, which I totally appreciate. I mean, I could nurse; I was in pain, like sticking fondue forks in my breasts but had I stuck it out, I’m sure I could have successfully breast fed for longer than a few days. But I have to admit, I wasn’t feeling like I’d be a very good new mother if I had to endure any more discomfort.

In these friendly discussions with other mothers, I’ve agreed that nursing is a natural thing and what our breast are for. But so is having an orgasm and not every woman can have one. Should we say, “You’re just not trying hard enough?” or “If you gave it more time before giving up you’d reach one?” Well, you will not catch me saying that. While I believe that it’s a natural thing and that’s what down there is for (said as a throw back to my mother), I will never tell someone else what they can and cannot do with their body.

A friend of mine breast-fed beautifully. She loved it. And I was so jealous. She later told me that she felt jealous of me. My husband was able to feed my sons, and my mother, and mother-in-law. She had to get up at every feeding, when she was completely exhausted and the only person up in the world, it sometimes felt like. She felt that there was so much pressure on her to milk. It feels to me like as mothers, we judge ourselves more than we judge other mothers.

The moral of my story, just as nursing mothers wish they could nurse in public without judgment, I felt that same way about bottle-feeding. I hated the glares from people who looked at me like I was feeding my babies vodka.

So go, nurse, bottle feed, and do it without judgment. Surly we can agree to not add to the long list of labels our children will be faced with.

It was a beautiful Good Friday and it called for a drink. A week before we’d gone to our friends, the Campbell’s, for a party and I had the best drink ever! It was a lemon martin and had the perfect combination of sweet and tangy. I drank them all night, which is great because I didn’t wake up with red lips from red wine but bad because I didn’t wake up.

So today I decided to make some and while this isn’t the same recipe as what was made at our friends, it was just as good.

This is what you’ll need:
1 cup of freshly squeezes lemon juice
1 cup Vodka
1 cup Triple Sec
1/2 cup simple syrup (equal parts sugar and water boiled and cooled)
Mix everything in a shaker with the rind from the lemon and ice. Shake and serve in martini glasses. Top with soda water if you want.

I went to a dinner party Good Friday night so I took the drink as a pre- dinner cocktail. I put it in a Mason jar and it really took me back to my many camping parties at Rissers Beach as a teenager.

Thirsty?

I was in Walmart with the boys and I wondered why it is that I never remember why I shouldn’t ever do that.

Evan was whining because for the 212th time, I told him that I would not let him buy Grand Theft Auto, even with his own money.

“I don’t know why you won’t let me. Other kids have it, and Ryan told me you can turn off the blood,” he argued. “So why, why won’t you let me?”

“Well, the same reason why I won’t let you pierce your ear, or let you stay out until midnight or stick chop sticks up your nostrils. Just cause. And when you are paying a mortgage and the bills that supply power to that machine thingy that plays Grand Theft Auto, by all means, buy it. But until then, just cause is the only explanation that I’m required by law to give you.”

He pouted for the remainder of our time there and I believe I heard him mutter, “I want to die,” or something dramatic like that.

Colin on the other hand loved walking aimlessly through the aisles looking at stuff. He picked something up in one of the aisles and said, “Maybe I could get dis for my next boyce day, Mommy?” And I could have bought it for him just to prove a point to his brother.

Walking to the car Evans Arms were crossed as he fought back tears. Colin looked up at me and said, “I love Walmart. But not more den I love you, Mommy.”

Colin, is going to have a very successful life.

What is it with boys and hockey trivia?  My kids know the names of all the players in the NHL, but can’t remember to flush the toilet.  I mean seriously!

 Evan likes to quiz me on hockey trivia as we drive in the car.  It’s safe that I won’t know the answer and he likes to humiliate me.  Delightful child.

 But one day driving to Martock, I surprised him, and myself.

 “Hey Mommy, Do you know the legend of Bill Barilko?”

 I didn’t, but I was a big Tragically Hip fan in High school and I remembered that the lyrics of Fifty Mission Cap were about this Bill Barilko person, and I have to admit, at the time I had no idea who it was or that the lyrics would one day serve me well.

 “Why yes, Evan, I do.  Bill Barilko disappeared that summer in 1951.  He was on a fishing trip.” Dah dah, dah dah.  “The last goal he ever scored, in overtime, won the Leafs the cup.”  Dah dah, dah dah.  “They didn’t win another until 1962, the year he was discovered.”  I literally had to sing it in my head.  I looked in the rear view mirror to see my son silenced.  He looked at me with an admiration that he never had before.

 “But…was he a forward or a defenseman?” He quizzed.  He’s kind of hard to impress.

 I sang the rest of the song in my head, but it gave me no clues.  I guessed defenseman as I thought that would make for a better story, and he informed me I was right.

 I hope to God he never hears that song.

 Which brings me to another piece of hockey trivia that I only know because my son is a big hockey fan.  And allow me to step on my soapbox for this one.  I do so with great trepidation as the last time I was on this box I was told I’d be going to hell.  Beware, morons walk among us.

 My friend and esteemed colleague, Patrick Hirtle, writes a column called Bleacher Bum for the Bulletin and Progress.  I read it mostly because I like his writing style and because he writes it in a way that you don’t need to be a life long fan of sports to understand. This week he wrote about the reaction of Alexander Ovechkin after he did a little jig after scoring 50 goals.  In case you didn’t catch it, here’s a link. And while I adore Patrick, I disagree with him, sort of.  I think our friendship can handle it.

I thought it was terrific to see Ovechkin get excited and do a jig.  I’d much rather that than see him pound the shit out of another player.  But according to Don Cherry, pounding the shit out of another player is a part of hockey.  Apparently Don thinks that you need to get penalties in order to be a “role model” or to have “class”.  In the clip, he says, “Good guys like Malone say’s he’s (Ovechkin) gonna get a pay back.”  Yes Don, that is being a role model and a “good guy”.  And according to Don, doing a celebratory dance is a “spectacle”.  Don Cherry…talking about being a spectacle…crickets chirping.  I digress.

I love to watch golf.  I remember when Tiger Woods came on the golf scene and the golf channel went crazy when he’d do his fist pump or point to the hole. “This is not what Golf is all about.  This is a gentlemen’s sport.  And he doesn’t even have a rod in his ass,” the commentators would say.  Well, not that last one.  And what did he do?  He single handedly revived golf, and now if he doesn’t do it, they’re all, “why isn’t he doing it?  This is part of what he does.  And still, no rod!” 

Would it be a bad thing for hockey to change?  To be able to watch an entire hockey game and not see a fight, to not see blood, or a stretcher on the ice, or to see a hockey player, aside from Wayne Gretzky be able to form complete sentences and not be all punch drunk?  Sure, it’s been that way since forever, but maybe it’s time hockey changed in more ways than abolishing the hockey mullet. 

That’s the lowly opinion of this hockey mom who never watches a hockey game with her two boys because she cannot stand watching grown millionaire men act like stupid children.  But I’ll admit, when the Capitals play, I watch for the chance to see my boys’ eyes light up watching hockey, and no, not because of a fight, but because of the celebration from Ovechkin.

 And now, that I have officially stepped down off of this soapbox, let the fighting begin.