September 21, 2010
We made it to Montreal and back in one peice.
Tired, but in one peice.
We returned with at least 24 loaves of egg bread, or challah, or kolache. Whatever you want to call it.
Bags of kolache buns, too.
Whatever you want to call it, its good and we can't get it here.
The freezer is full to bursting, and if I want anything other than bread, like homemade jam, chicken breast, steak, frozen veggies, etc., I will have to dig below the bread layer to retrieve whatever I can get my hands on first.
But it's still worth it.
And you should have seen the look on the cashier's face when we unloaded all the kolache Maxi's (the Montreal version of the Superstore) had onto her conveyer belt.
We had a couple of other items, Spruce beer for example.
You can't get it here. Ask Keith what it tastes like and he'll respond, "It's like Christmas in a cup!"
Stephen's father's intimate dinner for 30+ people was held at La Chambertin.
At least that's what I think its called.
Tables were set up end to end, two rows, and for six hours we dined on a squash/carrot soup with warm kolache, followed by a salad with the most wonderful dressing. Next we had a choice between escargot and shrimp. I had the escargot: six glorious snails floating in garlic butter, and another warm kolache bun to sop up the sumptuous garlic butter. There were four choices for the entree: chicken, salmon, veal, filet mignon. Stephen and I had the filet mignon; it was perfect: brown on the edges and red in the middle, a beautiful chateaubriand sauce with mushrooms on top, mashed potatoes piped onto the plate in a mouthwatering pile topped with watercress. Veggies artfully arranged.
Dessert: baked Alaska soaked in Grand Marnier and then lit on fire.
And if I drank less than one bottle of wine, I'll eat asphalt.
This place was packed. I addition to our party, there were two other parties: an anniversary and a birthday party in our room, and a wedding in the adjoining room.
And every party had baked Alaska.
When the baked Alaska was ready to be served, the lights in the dining area would dim, a waiter would come out with the baked Alaska held high, sparklers proving the only light, and the voice of an unseen woman would boom over the speakers wishing Happy whatever to whomever, and everyone would clap and sing.
It was loud.
Very loud.
And with more wine everything became louder.
Six hours to eat a five course meal and drink at least a bottle of wine.
THAT is what I call dinner!
Sunday morning found us tired, wanting more sleep, me with a slight headache from the excess of wine I had consumed, and in St. Sophie's Ukrainian Orthodox Church.
Stephen's family has been attending this church for at least the last 50 years. And each Sunday we are in Montreal, we attend church with Stephen's parents and Aunt Irene.
Well, we sit in the pews, they are all in the choir.
The very first time I entered the sanctuary of St. Sophie's, I nearly fainted.
I attended the United Church when I was a kid: Oromocto United Church to be exact.
It looked like this:
Trust me when I say the interior isn't any more exciting.
The interior of St. Sophie's looks like this:
Can you see the difference?
I can see the difference.
And it is even more breathtaking up close.
I spend the entire two hours of church gawking at the colors, the icons, and asking every five minutes what Father Kushnir is saying as the entire service is in Ukranian.
I love it!
There were dinners and church and visiting, and yet we still had time to go shopping.
I have lots of favourite places to shop in Montreal, too many to mention. However, we were able to get to Adonis, a grocery store of epic proportions, a smorgasborg of ethnic delights, none of which are available in Fredericton.
A 9 foot long display case of nothing but petit fours. $18.00 a kilogram.
We bought a half a kilogram.
Chocolate, vanilla, pistachio, dipped in chocolate, or nuts, or with chocolate or jam in between flaky, melt in your mouth cookies. Petit fours with icing, without icing, I just looked at the man behind the counter and said, "give me three of everything."
A six foot long display of gelato. . .lemon, coffee, chocolate, strawberry, vanilla, raspberry, orange, lime, pistachio. . .and beside the display case a freezer containing a melange of gelato creations with fruit, as cakes, in muffin-like plastic containers each holding a baseball size scoop of gelato in various flavours.
15 feet of nuts, mounds of cheeses I've never heard of, multiple kinds of tzatziki, hummus, and things I've never heard of.
I could have spent all day in there.
It makes shopping at the Superstore feel like digging through a thrift shop.
But of all our purchases, the one that brought the most joy to Stephen's face, the one that made him dance with glee was a $4.99 bottle of Herb de Provence.
Another thing we cannot get here.
However, we did get a small bottle from Stephen's parents a while ago. And he put it on everything.
And he loves it.
When we found it, and it was one of those club pack spice bottles, he grabbed it to his chest, cuddled with it, stroked it, looked at it lovingly as it sat in the grocery cart.
Several times over the weekend he grabbed the bottle from the car and caressed it in the same way a Price is Right model would show off an appliance or car.
Thankfully none of the neighbours saw this.
After church on Sunday, with Mary Ann and Roman, (Stephen's sister, my sister-in-law, and her husband, our brother-in-law) we went to the flea market of all flea markets.
Rows and rows and rows jam-packed with vendors.
I found nirvana.
Shoes, socks, jewelery, winter coats, leather coats, pants, shirts, suits, cowboy boots, watches, earrings, necklaces, paintings, bedding, towels, sheets, duvets, guns, video games, dvds, cds, candy, purses, wallets, kid's toys, sunglasses, literally rows and rows of sunglasses, dishes, cutlery, pots, pans, egg cups, plastic containers, cell phones, washers, dryers, futons, chairs, persian rugs, clocks, olive wood birdcages, cutting boards and various other cooking utensils. . . .
And the list goes on, and on, and on, and on. . . .
Bartering was expected.
"Just for you, I sell this watch for $25.00."
My reply: "I'll give you $20.00."
Three pairs of shoes, all for me, for $60.00.
A dozen pairs of socks for $10.00.
And something I can't mention here because it may possibly be for someone's birthday. . .a birthday coming up next month. . . .and that someone occasionally reads my blog. . .
You could spend days in this flea market and not see everything.
We were only there for a couple of hours and Stephen only got me out of there under threat of what his mother would say if we were late for dinner.
And no flea market was enticing enough for me to take such a risk!
Meanwhile, back at the ranch. . .
Roadtrips in our house happen infrequently, and when they do its either a combination of me and all the kids, me and some of the kids, me and Stephen and all or some of the kids, and on every occasion possible we include Frankie and Tikka. . .
Can you see a pattern here?
Roadtrips always include at least one of the kids.
Not this roadtrip.
This was an important rite of passage for our little family.
The parents went away.
The kids stayed home.
I suspect that the kids were experiencing the euphoria that accompanies having your parents believe you are trustworthy enough to stay at home overnight on your own.
Or even more than one night.
I remember that feeling. Having the entire house to yourself. You could play your music where ever you want, whenever you want and no one would loudy request that you "turn that crap down!"
The television remote, the seat of power in any home, becomes your sole property. No one is going to invade your television membrane and a.) change the channel without saying a word to a television program so boring you would rather watch the grass grow, or b.) take the remote and starts surfing through the channels competely oblivious to the fact that you were watching a really good program, or c.) flop down on the couch and ask, in that condescending tone of voice that can only belong to parents, what you're watching and surely there has to be something, anything better on.
You can eat chicken nuggets, hot dogs and nachoes slathered in cheez whiz, washing it all down with Kool-Aid, in the same meal because your mother isn't going to come into the kitchen and wonder aloud whether or not you've hit you're head on something because that could be the only plausible explanation for any sane human being to want to eat that much processed food and sugar in one sitting.
And you can have your friends over for as long as you want to play video games, watch movies, drink yourselves into an alcohol induced coma that results in you waking up the next day on the front lawn wearing your sister's bra, panties, a pair of red patent stilettoes and the words, "For a good time call. . ." written on your torso in permanent marker, while the neighbour's dog urinates on your leg.
The kids were, I think, a lot more comfortable with us going away for a few nights.
A lot more comfortable than I was.
Throughout our drive to Montreal, when I wasn't sleeping, I would turn to Stephen and ask, "Do you think the kids are going to be alright?"
And each time he answered me exactly the same way, "They'll be fine. Relax. They're responsible kids and there won't be any problems."
He was half right.
The kids, at least two of them, were responsible.
The problems, well . . .
The dogs were on medication for their scratching issues.
This medication has had some side effects.
Among them, excessive drinking, which led to excessive urination.
And for some reason, they were pooping a lot.
A. Lot.
Every morning we were away, Em and Keith, well, actually Em, woke up to a river of pee covering the tile and rubber mats in the entry way.
And fecal boats floating amid the river of pee.
No matter how hard they tried, how well they timed the bathroom activities of our beloved canines, there would still be loads and rivers in the house.
By the time we arrived home Monday evening, Emily looked as if she could happily spend the rest of her life dog free.
Keith spent the weekend home with Em, who in addition to dealing with bladder and bowel issues of two medicated canines, was sick with a cold.
Congestion, runny nose, fever. . .
Meredyth, on the other hand, spent her weekend with Tim, drinking at the Social Club, eating the meals prepared by the sick and miserable and up-to-her-eyes-in-pee-and-poop Emily and not helping with the dishes because she was "in the bathroom" or "on Mum's computer."
Initally Keith and Em were supposed to come with us, and Mer was going to look after the dogs.
As it stands, it was probably good that Keith and Em stayed home. Otherwise, we would have come home to a house flooded with dog piss and poop floating around aimlessly, cats trying to swim their way through the house while coping with the indignity of one, having to swim and two, being saturated with urine.
So, we are home. I taught my two classes today, and then HAD to go to the grocery store. We may have two dozen loaves of bread and bags of buns and bagels, but, one cannot live by bread alone.
The other necessities, milk, cereal, fruit, veggies, cheese, were conspicious by their absence. If I didn't get groceries the kids would have had to take a mixture of dog and cat kibbles for their lunch, seasoned with baking powder and cumin.
Yummy!
Title Lyric: Comin' Home Baby by Michael Buble
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