Almost Wordless Wednesday on Thursday

Thanks for your patience concerning Almost Wordless Wednesday.

My final pictorial reminder of nature's wonders seen this year comes straight from our backyard deck. This summer we were stunned and blessed by the presence of a mama mallard nesting in one of our flower boxes mere inches from the backdoor. The five week odyssey saw the eventual birth of eight ducklings and a webcam setup that was viewed with excitement by hundreds of friends and followers. The Husband was able to capture the actual hatching with grace and beauty. This photo was snapped within an hour of hatching. This particular shot is The Husband's favourite of the hundreds he took that day as he thinks the little guy in front looks like a character right out of Angry Birds. It was a miracle right at our doorstep.

Nature's Miracle at My Back Door

Proverbs 12:10 states;

"The righteous person regards the life of his animal."

This statement provides the perfect counterpoint to;

"God is good to all, and God's tender mercies are over all creatures" (Ps. 145:9).

In Judaism, one who is cruel to animals cannot be regarded as a righteous individual. This commonly held ideal is summarized in the Hebrew phrase ts'ar ba-alei chayim, the biblical mandate to not cause pain to any living creature. And while we bi-peds are consistently exerting our dominion over the less formidable, it is our sacred duty to protect, cherish, and reduce their suffering whenever the opportunity arises.

Such has been our month-long encounter with our duck squatter. Removing the nest that Mama Mallard dug into my geranium flower box would have been oh so easy. Destroying the eggs would have required no thought whatsoever. The idea of little ones soiling the backyard and pool area was not one easily swallowed, and several people told me to simply ditch the duck. But, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. You see...I have to at least attempt to live by the premise of not causing undue pain to any living creature. Moving the nest would have been cruel and torturous to the mother. Destroying the life that she created was unthinkable. My guilt overwhelmed me. So instead, we allowed the miracle to play itself out on our deck. And what a miracle it turned out to be!

We interacted with nature in a way that is almost unthinkable here in the suburbs. Our Mama Duck became quite calm in our presence once she knew that we meant neither her nor her eggs harm. She simply understood that we were sharing the space, and we in turn became enraptured by her routine. There wasn't a day that passed that both The Husband and I weren't staring and gaping at this patient and most probably bored mama doing what comes naturally. We were totally captivated.

There also wasn't a day that passed whereby some friend, either in real life or via the connection of social media, didn't enquire as to the health and well-being of our duck. Regular updates became a necessity by virtue of the constant questioning. We embraced the new-found celebrity. We posted pictures, blog posts, videos, and even the odd satire or two. Friends (and friends of friends) were now emotionally invested in the well-being of our mallard. We sought out advice from experts in the subject, and even those authorities kept up with us through regular email and phone call briefings.

This past Monday, I begged The Husband to set up a webcam. We knew that this whole experience was coming close to its end and so many people wanted to be in on the fun. It wasn't an easy venture given the outdated equipment that we had on hand, but my genius was able to make it work and on Tuesday we began sharing our duck with the world. Our timing was perfect. On Wednesday afternoon the magic started. The fledglings began hatching. We were glued to the live-stream and to our backdoor windows watching as one by one little heads, eventually totalling eight, began poking up through Mama's wing feathers. We were live-chatting with friends from across the continent as they joined us in watching our little miracle unfold. We answered questions as best we could, all the while totally engrossed.

Yesterday was the piece de resistance. As daybreak arrived, The Husband urgently summoned me downstairs to watch the little guys literally leap off of the railing and follow Mama into the pool for their first swim.

What followed was an extended comical farce of attempting to help the babies out of the pool. Mama didn't give much thought to that end of the deal. They can't yet fly and are certainly too small to jump out on their own. Watching The Husband, clad only in sweat pants, run around with a skimmer net in the pouring rain trying to help reunite mother and children was priceless, but so in keeping with our credo of ts'ar ba'alei chayim. 

And then....just as suddenly as it began, it was over. The ducks moved on to greener areas and murkier waters, probably to the pond a kilometre or so north of us. Last night The Husband remarked that we are now true empty nesters.

We will miss our friends, but I have no doubt, given the migratory and imprinting habits of mallards, that we will see them again.

When James Gandolfini passed away earlier this month, I couldn't stop thinking about the myriad of scenes during the run of The Sopranos in which Tony is either feeding the ducks or just watching them  paddle happily in his pool. These creatures continually bring such joy and peace to this extraordinarily tormented character.

Even brutal Tony Soprano understood the balance that needs to exist between humanity and nature.

We have been blessed this month. We know it and we wouldn't have done it any differently. Thanks for coming along for the ride.

Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech ha-olam
She-kacha lo B'olamo

Blessed are You Adonai our God, Ruler of the Universe
Who has given us such things in the world.

Some Burning Questions Answered

As we patiently await the upcoming hatch-fest that will most certainly define the summer of 2013, I thought that I would take this opportunity afforded by this boring period of downtime to answer some of your burning mallard-related questions. These are some of the most common queries that I have been asked over the last three weeks--some in person--many more through email and social media.

Q. "What's her name" or "Why don't you name her?"

A. I don't want to name her for the simple reason that she is not a pet. She is a wild animal and she needs to stay that way in my mind. Naming her, even in jest, would give her a permanence in my life that will only be heart-wrenchingingly difficult to part with when she and her babies eventually fly the coop or geranium box as the case may be. I know. I'm a suck.

Q. "When will the ducklings hatch?"

A. According to our research, a typical mallard will tend her nest for 28-30 days following the first egg laid. Since the first egg was discovered three weeks ago this coming Sunday, our best guess for hatching is next weekend, Canada Day. I have an all-Canadian duck! I am only hoping that we are home to witness the blessed event. There is every possibility that we may return home on one of those weekend days to a duckling-filled pool. Which leads me to....

Q. "When will the babies be able to fly?"

A. Hold onto your weaves! Environment Canada tells us not before 50 days. 50 DAYS!! No, we are not going to house them for the remainder of the summer. Our expert has told us that when we see them in the pool, we are to gently scoop them up with a strainer, place them in a box outside of the pool gates and mama will come to lead them away. Let's hope that happens.

Q. "Won't they hatch over a period of eight days since they were laid over a similar period?"

A. Not according to the experts. (Thanks to Environment Canada's special wildfowl biologist!) The most likely scenario is that they will hatch over a 24 hour time frame.

Q. "Why didn't you just move the box and let her abandon the nest?"

A. This is actually the most posed question so far. Why? Well frankly, because I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I realize that my deck probably isn't the best place to nest and hatch ducklings, but honestly it is one of the safest. We don't get all that many mallard predators visiting, (f***ing squirrels excepted) and it is my belief that we have encroached on her habitat just as much as she has on ours. I get it. It is my house. But something about the natural order of this whole thing really does appeal to my holistic sense of balance. She has not created any hazard or fouled (pun!!) any of our space. We are able to use our pool and surrounding areas, including our back door, (she has become as strangely comfortable with us as we have with her) so I have chosen to just leave her be. 

Q. "Where is Daddy Duck during all of this waiting?"

A. Where you might typically expect a fun-loving male who is on the precipice of becoming an octo-dad to be---out with the boys. We personally haven't seen Dad in more than three weeks, but my neighbour told me that he saw him very early one morning, paddling in the pool and checking in on the Mrs.  Even though mallards mate for life and are said to be monogamous, it is my guess that he is out on the nearby pond playing poker and smoking cigars with all of the other expectant fathers looking for one last fling. 

Q. "Do you feed her?"

A. On this point I am unequivocal. ABSOLUTELY NOT!! She is a wild animal who is quite capable of sourcing her own meals. Remember I told you that she hasn't been soiling our pool area? Well, I am quite convinced it is partly the result of her eating elsewhere. Ducks are omnivores. I am certain that she would happily eat if I fed her, but I just think it is best if she fends for herself. By the way, while many of us spent hours in our formative years feeding bread and other carb-laden products to ducks, it is really unhealthy for them. It is the equivalent of junk food for waterfowl; a kind of Big Mac for mallards. It can lead to unhealthy weight gain and changes in mating and migratory behaviour. So, don't do it.

Q. Aren't you concerned that mallards are creatures of habit and will return next year for the sequel?

A. Yes and no. Yes I would like her to nest elsewhere and yes we are already taking steps to ensure that this occurs. We will remove the flower boxes once the babies have departed and we will stop any nesting if it occurs next year, but that is the future and I am living in the now. Currently, I am entranced and enthralled by nature arriving and playing out squarely on my doorstep. I find myself watching her a lot and I know that she is also watching me. We have bonded. I know that sounds deluded, but it is true. I am convinced that she knows me and feels that she can trust me. I can come and go without incident, and she inherently understands that nobody here will hurt her or disrupt her nest. It has been a truly fascinating experience.

So there you have it. If I haven't answered your question, put it in the comments section below and I will to the best of my ability. I realize that to some of you I seem obsessed with this small natural miracle playing out in my backyard, but honestly it is so beautiful to me. So much so that describing it adequately has been difficult. Keep you posted.

The Thornhill Mallard

A guest post today courtesy of The Husband. This is how he spent last evening. Obsessed with our duck visitor. For those of you not in on the joke, relax it's a Canadian thing. In order to understand check out Hinterland videos on YouTube.

Just a side note...My guy is brilliant and deceptively funny. This project is just tangible proof of those qualities.

A Ducking F*** Follow-up

As posted last week, our deck has become a home for unwed ducks. As of last evening Momma Mallard (I fear giving her a pet name because frankly, while I find the whole situation fascinating, I really want her to do her biological business and leave us to resume proper summer use of our backyard) was squatting on an "eight is quite enough" pack of ready-made omelettes.

Ms Duck hasn't left the nest for more than a half an hour at a time, and for no more than once or twice a day. You can't say that the girl lacks commitment.

But here's the rub. The weather is improving and we would like to use the pool. Every time we even attempt to open the back door, she squawks, moults, and flies off in a rage. She has also taken to soiling the pool on occasion, but nothing that we can't handle with some diligent cleaning and chemicals. Our research has taught us that this could be another month in the nesting and hatching process. Not only that, it is said that when mallards like a location, they tend to make it a yearly experience, kind of like Canadian snowbirds jetting to Florida in December. Patience never being one of his strongest virtues, nor at all liking the idea of operating a wetlands retreat, The Husband decided that he would look into what might be involved in humanely relocating our growing avian family.

He started by calling a wildlife removal expert who told him that they would come and move the ducks but that they require a permit. Ok. This is now descending into the complicated. Onward to step 2. He emailed the Department of Wildlife Conservation which apparently (who knew?) is a subset of the Ministry of the Environment. They responded immediately with a phone call. The lovely lady informed him that the ducks could only be removed if they were causing a hazard. (hint hint) He asked if her soiling the pool constituted a hazard and she (far too gleefully for my liking) answered that it did indeed, and that she would issue the permit to remove the ducks and destroy the eggs and nest. The Husband, dedicated vegetarian and environmentalist that he is, told the eager duck killer that we are looking for a humane removal and have no interest in destroying the eggs, nor in sending the mother into immediate shiva. Wildlife Lady responded that she will have a wildlife specific biologist from the ministry contact us to determine if such a method is possible. A wildlife specific biologist!! Our little duck nest has officially become a federal case.

It is so nice to know that my federal tax dollars are hard at work toward the task of saving and rescuing Momma and her unhatchlings. I should note that my federal Member of Parliament just so happens to be the Environment Minister. I wonder if Mr. Kent might come over and remove the family personally. It might be the first environmentally humane thing he has done in his not-so illustrious career.

Nature Comes To My Door

I have made no secret of the fact that I live in the suburbs; an often derided concrete mess of strip malls, Walmarts, uninspired housing designs, and synagogues of every possible denomination. It isn't the most beautiful place in the world to call home, but I love it and feel quite comfortable here. My kids, of course, made a beeline for the urban jungle that is midtown Toronto just as fast as their re-gentrified legs, paychecks, and public transit would take them. Way too cool for the 'burbs, Mom!

I have often lamented at the fast-paced urbanization of my little "City Above Toronto". Where there used to be farmer's markets, there are now condos. Where there used to be horseback riding locales, there are now condos and big box outlets. Where there used to be green space and forestry, there are now condos, big box outlets, and traffic congestion. And...don't forget the toll-activated highway that runs through all of it. This rapid development has meant that indigenous wildlife has been uprooted and displaced. We often see deer roaming the shoulders of the 407. We spy foxes wandering our neighbourhood streets at night. Raccoons, squirrels, chipmunks, and skunk settle in our garages, pools and attics and make messes of our properties. This is the norm for life above the city. We have usurped and stripped them of their homes, so we are left trying to coexist and make peace with the critters. Sometimes we succeed and sometimes we don't. (Squirrels beware!) But, never before have I seen anything quite like the duck family that seems to have made my deck their personal obstetrics ward.

Our mallard friends are frequent visitors. I wrote back in March about how they spent Good Friday paddling happily for hours  in the cover of our yet-to-be-opened-for-the-season pool. They took off that day, and we hadn't seen them again since. We just figured that they were nesting somewhere near the pond that is about a stone's throw from our house. At least that is what we thought until yesterday.

On Saturday, The Husband and I finally decided to get around to completing our spring planting. We had been procrastinating terribly due to some personal issues, but the small boxes on the deck were crying out for some attention, and we purchased some geraniums to brighten up the railings. I spent an hour this past Shabbat lovingly caring for the plants and was immediately cheered by the vibrant flowers. And then...Sunday arrived. We were up early, awakened by the rain. The Husband went downstairs first and called up that I should come and see what those f***ing squirrels had done to my freshly planted blooms.

I went out in the rain, cleaned up the mess, and started to replant when I noticed this....

All I could think of was that now the f***ing squirrels were stealing eggs from unsuspecting ducks or chickens, and hiding them in my flower boxes. I carefully removed the egg (yes the guilt is coming!) and replanted the flowers. All was right with the world again.....until......

Yesterday.

We saw this.

And this....

And then again today this....

And now this...

Just to clarify. This box is two steps from my back door. We are that close.

Needless to say, I feel like a murderer. I have taken to calling it my culling of the flock or, if you prefer, a selective abortion. Please don't send the pro-life crazies to my door. It was an honest mistake, I swear.

We have decided to see where all of this quackery leads. We will leave Mama Mallard alone to tend her young. After all, it is her home too. (According to some diligent online research by The Husband, mallards can lay one egg a day for up to 9 days. I am not certain that my flower box is big enough but we shall see.) I figure that since we bipods have continually infringed on their environment, it is the least that we can do.

A post script. For those of you calling on me to apologize to the f***ing squirrels for accusation without evidence.....it will be a cold day in hell when I do that. Those nasty creatures are responsible for so much mayhem on my property that I cannot  find that kind of forgiveness within me. I still say that while they may not have created this situation, they have created dozens more. I am certain that one day when I descend to the lowest levels of the hot place to spend my eternity, a f***ing squirrel will be there, eating through the cord of the one electrical fan issued to me. It is my destiny. So please understand that they will now and forever be labelled as f***ing squirrels.

A Really Good Friday

I have spent the better part of today staring at the morass that is my backyard pool. As the snow and ice continue to melt off in the relative heat (?) of a late March sun, the putrid brown water that has replaced them is a certain sign that spring is on the way. And with that ever-increasing pond scum comes the surest symbol of the changing season....the annual arrival of the mallards.

Over the last number of years, The Husband has taken to awakening me in the early morning hours whenever he catches the first glimpses of our duck friends, and today was no exception. The returning couple arrived with a male friend in tow. A truly unusual occurrence for mallards who mate for life and don't like to introduce sparring partners into their relationships. If they form a threesome, it is most often two girls and a guy so that he can feel like some pumped-up lead in a porno flick. So when we saw the extra green head this morning, I couldn't help but to cheer wildly and with increased vigour for my feminist fowl friend.

The odd thing is, that as of this writing some 5 hours since we first spotted them in the pool, they are still here. And while the jealous boyfriend fought off his tenacious rival some time ago, the happy couple seems to have buried roots in my backyard. They are happily paddling, occasionally snoozing, quacking in good spirits, and seemingly searching for an adequate location to nest. It is as if they are test-driving the space. A condo for canards?

I have spent the better part of my day photographing them, staring at them with awe and wonder, and pondering how I might increase their happiness and comfort in an effort to get them to hang around just a little bit longer. I have found the entire experience very zen and extraordinarily calming. There is something so easy and relaxing about enjoying the minute and short glimpses of true natural beauty that living in the suburbs affords us. I have loved every second of this incredible Good Friday.

Gus and The Grandparents

The grand-puppy came to spend a few days.

Cute, isn't he? His people were terribly excited to watch the Buckeyes pummel the Wolverines in the flesh, so The Husband and I became babysitters for this American Thanksgiving long weekend. He came to us totally equipped. Equipped with copious amounts of paraphernalia, toys, food, treats, medication, and above all...instructions. Things we should absolutely do and things that we should absolutely avoid. He has spent time here before and is quite comfortable within our walls, but every day in the life of a five month old puppy is like thirty-five in people days. Change is the only constant. So, while Younger Son and his Young Lady had the best of intentions in detailing their instructions, they failed to note the fluidity of puppydom.

Here are a few examples of the expectation versus the reality.

His Day Bed

Where he actually sleeps during the day

His food bowl

Where he demanded I place the food, because he was afraid of the bowl

The time we were told to expect him to awaken on the weekend

The time he actually woke up on the weekend

His myriad of chew toys

That on which he would rather chew

That with which he would rather play. Look carefully for the nose and tongue prints

His bathroom

Where he thought his bathroom was on day 1

We are new to this grandparent thing, but I think that I have finally figured out why it was that I had to de-program my own kids every time they went to stay with Bubby and Zaidy. I think I've got it. The key to a successful grandparenting experience. Ready??

1. Go with the flow. 
2. Don't get too worked up if the kids aren't doing exactly what their parents had hoped they would. 
3. Spoil them just a bit. (ok. Maybe more than just a bit. After all that is where all the fun is!) 
4. Show them off to all of your friends.
5. Return them in one piece so that nobody is the wiser to all the damage you have inflicted upon the progeny and their best intentions. 

It's been fun Gus. Time to go home!

Gus and The Art of Teshuva

As autumn settles onto a city that still longs for summer, and as I still pine for a Blue Jay team unsaddled by season ending injuries that might have propelled us into October baseball, or a hockey preseason unfettered by greedy billionaires and millionaires, I finally have a moment or two of solace to reflect over the just completed High Holy Days.

I have often wondered (sometimes aloud) about others who lead their communities in prayer and music over the Days of Awe. Do you all find it as difficult as do I to discover an inner space in which to reflect, contemplate, and to perhaps converse with that still small voice found deep within? Are we so immersed in the task before us that we tend to overlook our own teshuva-repentance? I have attempted mightily to avoid this....

but I often fail miserably as my mind and voice are always set several pages ahead to avoid dry spots and gaps in the services. I struggle greatly to find that personal space. 

This year something happened to compel and encourage me into conscious and meaningful acts of teshuva. What happened? He happened. 

Meet Gus. Gus is the new adoptee of Younger Son and His Young Lady. Since the aforementioned are currently (and temporarily) residing with us, so is Gus....and all of Gus' paraphernalia. Now...regular readers of this space will know me to be both canine loving and canine friendly. I have been actively lobbying for a dog ever since our big goofy Labrador left a huge hole in both heart and home, so having Gus arrive on Shabbat Shuva, right smack in between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur was an excitement I could barely contain. He is sweet, lovable, easy on the eyes, and smart. Although there have been some frustrating training moments that have challenged two sleep-deprived, working young adults, he really is learning fast. He loves to cuddle (as I type this post, I am contorted into a still to be invented yoga position because he has decided to fall asleep in my lap) and he rarely barks, putting aside the stereotype of small and yapping dogs. 

But....Gus is a puppy...a baby. He requires constant attention and even more supervision. It has been almost 20 years since we have had a puppy in this house. I hadn't forgotten it all as much as I had romanticized it. The schedules, the chewing, the worrying about inadvertently poisoning the poor creature because he is digging in a houseplant, the standing in the rain waiting for him to....well you know. And believe me when I say that I am happy to do it all. I have become quite attached to this little guy, but I must admit that 20 years is a very long time. I seem to remember that I had an endless storehouse of energy back then. To where did it all disappear?

Gus is a walking advertisement for teshuva. He has reminded me to consciously curb my temper, to re-develop my patience gene, to refocus my attention on something other than myself, and to willingly accept the wondrous affection and unconditional love that goes hand in hand with sharing one's space with a dog. In these past ten days, I have become a grandparent. I have had to listen to and follow the demands of my children when it comes to how they wish to rear their child, all the while curbing my selfish instincts to shamelessly spoil the creature rotten and let him have free reign of the house. (I must admit that it would be so easy to do. He is just so damned cute!) But I refrain and restrain, knowing that I must act in the best interest of Gus and his long term well-being and the long term mental health of Younger Son and His Young Lady. I have turned inward and have rediscovered a long-dormant part of me. Gus made me remember what the Yamim Noraim are about. U'tshuva, u'tfillah, u'tzedakah....But repentance, prayer, and charity temper judgement's severe decree. 

It is so very easy to get caught up in the extraneous stuff around the holidays, so much so that the purpose often becomes camouflaged. This year I was reminded of it all by a 7 pound Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. This year I found that still small voice within.

Disturbing, Disgusting, and Dumb

A few random items have caught my eye over the last few days and I must confess that each and every one elicited a response of "WTF?" I have to seriously wonder what went into the thought processes behind these campaigns. Somebody, somewhere had to realize that they would make the files of the disturbing, the disgusting, and the dumb.

Disturbing:

Clothing maker Benetton launched their new UnHate campaign yesterday with a series of creepy visuals of world leaders kissing each other. Check them out here.

Yes, that is the pope kissing an imam, Mr. Obama smooching with Hugo Chavez of Venezuela, Benjamin Netanyahu lip-locked with Mahmood Abbas, and Germany's Angela Merkel getting it on with Nicholas Sarkozy of France. It should be noted that the Vatican was so outraged about His Holiness puckering up, that Benetton pulled that picture from its campaign. Alessandro Benetton, executive chairman of the company launched the ads yesterday and attempted an explanation.

"While global love is still a utopia, albeit a worthy one, the invitation 'not to hate', to combat the 'culture of hatred', is an ambitious but realistic objective. At this moment in history, so full of major upheavals and equally large hopes, we have decided, through this campaign, to give widespread visibility to an ideal notion of tolerance and invite the citizens of every country to reflect on how hatred arises particularly from fear of 'the other’ and of what is unfamiliar to us."

While I can certainly appreciate the ideals of love and not hate, there is something untoward about these pictures. I am not getting the vibe of world peace that I believe that Benetton was aiming for, but rather an uncomfortable and squeamish feeling in the pit of my stomach. An age of understanding cannot be forced upon us with a kiss. There is actually a christological Judas imagery that comes to mind. In truth the photo of Angela Merkel and Sarkozy is the creepiest for me. It reduces one of the most powerful women in the world to a sexist punchline. This is just my opinion, but I certainly would be interested in others.

Disgusting: 


Just in time for American Thanksgiving, those whack jobs at PETA are at it again. In a campaign aimed squarely at children comes this little gem that is popping up on a roadside billboard near you.

Nice? Friendly? Grotesque!! And I'm a vegetarian! I have discussed PETA's over the top tactics before and how I truly believe that their mandate of animal protection gets lost in the morass when it behaves abhorrently and batshit crazy. All this ad serves to do is creep out a bunch of unsuspecting kids and probably land them on a therapist's couch trying to figure out from where their nightmares emanated. I know that it kept me up! All I could think about was some weird science experiment involving the dog Eddie from Frasier. Get with the program PETA. If you truly want to educate kids about ethical eating my advice would be to tone done the nonsense, stop trying to scare the shit out them, and stop thoroughly pissing off their parents. 

Dumb:

And now for the truly dumb. On Tuesday the United States Congress decided that pizza is a vegetable. From the Associated Press:

The final version of a spending bill released late Monday would unravel school lunch standards the Agriculture Department proposed earlier this year. These include limiting the use of potatoes on the lunch line, putting new restrictions on sodium and boosting the use of whole grains. The legislation would block or delay all of those efforts.The bill also would allow tomato paste on pizzas to be counted as a vegetable, as it is now. USDA had wanted to only count a half-cup of tomato paste or more as a vegetable, and a serving of pizza has less than that.Nutritionists say the whole effort is reminiscent of the Reagan administration's much-ridiculed attempt 30 years ago to classify ketchup as a vegetable to cut costs. This time around, food companies that produce frozen pizzas for schools, the salt industry and potato growers requested the changes and lobbied Congress.

A series of high-powered lobbyists from companies that produce and provide frozen pizzas and tater tots to school cafeterias managed to get the deep thinkers from the Congress to classify the two tablespoons of tomato sauce on a pizza as part of the daily requirement of vegetables that school children consume every day. And all of this whilst the United States is battling a growing obesity problem amongst the nation's young people. Jamie Oliver is out there somewhere crying into his fresh veg. Congress is sacrificing children's health and well-being in exchange for a deep-dish from Di Giorno. And we wonder why Americans have no faith in their legislative bodies.

If you have others from the files of disturbing, disgusting, and dumb please forward them to me or comment below.

P.S I've been syndicated on Blogher They liked my post entitled "What Have You Learned, Dorothy" so much that they published it. They like me!! They really really like me! Does this mean that I am now a professional writer? You decide.

Spinning Squirrel

It is really a squirrel's world! Finally-karma bit the little bugger in the ass. Happy New Year-even to the rodents. :)

Labrador and Dolphin

Today's mental health moment!! Two of my favourite creatures on earth. A labrador retriever and a dolphin. Excellent!!

Nobody Here But Us Chickens!

I have officially seen it all. I didn't think it was possible to still surprise me, but I have once again been proven hopelessly wrong. Today a chicken wandered right up onto my front lawn and made himself (herself??) at home smack dab in the middle of the North Jewish Ghetto. The cynic in me would like to imagine that he/she is wandering around the neighbourhood offering her services for some upcoming Shabbos meal, but the vegetarian that is me is hoping that the old lady across the street doesn't come flying across the street with a cleaver and a soup pot. I swear to you-a chicken. A red-feathered, comb wearing, high strutting chicken. The Husband has taken to calling him General Tao and Younger Son chimed in with the inevitable "Why did the chicken cross the road jokes". I am still flabbergasted that a chicken is head-bobbing across my suburban lawn.

Several years ago, the man at the corner used to keep chickens for eggs, but he and his wife sold out five years ago and took the hens with them. From where did this bird materialize? Somebody's pet, perhaps? But honestly! Who keeps a Rhode Island Red as a pet?

This neighbourhood is home to much wildlife. Deer, skunk, racoons, the dreaded and hated squirrel, but I can categorically state, this is our first wild chicken. Maybe she will pay us rent in eggs. Check out the pictures.

When The Message Gets Lost

I am a huge fan of dog shows. I realize that this passion is a bit off the wall and I know that many of you would rather watch paint dry then tune into a canine convention, but it is a love that permeates to the deepest regions of my soul. I believe that it comes from my childhood and a unique experience afforded me by my Other Father.

When I was a kid, my Other Father and Other Mother owned and operated a small breeding kennel that raised Miniature Schnauzers and Bichon Frises. They ran this business out of their home, so it was inevitable that the 4 of us younguns would be drafted into service to do whatever needed to be done. While we fought vehemently against cleaning the pen, (I still maintain that gloves are better than shovels!!) we loved the care, feeding, playing with, and training of the multitude of puppies and young adult dogs that passed through. (Some were so beloved that they never left!) My mother the nurse, and thus the closest thing we had to a vet, was in charge of whelping, and Other Father became an expert in all things American and Canadian Kennel Club.

It became obvious early on that in order to make a good name for the kennel, showing the animals was a necessity. Customers love the title of show champion on their pets, and they scrupulously research lineages. Showing provided all of that and it enabled the kennel to raise its profile in the doggie world. I was the child who showed the most interest in the process, so I was allowed to tag along from time to time to such far-flung locales as Cobourg and Peterborough, and when my Bichon Alfie was in the circuit, I was even permitted on occasion to take him through his paces. Oh the excitement. Seriously. I loved it.

The dog world is comprised of a truly unique group of souls. There are a lot of women clad in cheap polyester suits and sensible shoes. At the major competitions, the judges come decked out in evening wear. Behind the scenes, there are more hair care, nail, and teeth whitening products than can be found in the finest salons and spas. But, this is a community of true and committed animal lovers. Nobody can ever doubt their passion for the dogs, nor should anybody question their love and concern for animals.

Which made the ridiculous protest by two misguided PETA supporters at The Westminster Kennel Club dog show all the more irritating. As the Best in Show competition was just getting underway, two well-dressed women made their way to the centre of the show ring and help aloft signs that said ""Mutts Rule" and "Breeders Kill Shelter Dogs' Chances". The sold-out crowd gasped in disbelief and proceeded to boo the women off the floor as security removed them. What was truly sad about the display, is that Westminster and the American Kennel Club have been tremendous supporters of the efforts to adopt shelter dogs. Every commercial break on USA Network featured at least one ad advocating the practice. The crowd was filled with well-heeled and celebrity dog lovers. Bernadette Peters was in attendance. She is one of the driving forces behind Broadway Barks, a New York program that actively pursues these adoptions. Last summer The Husband and I were fortunate enough to attend the street adoption fair that she hosts every year on Shubert Alley, and we witnessed many dogs find new homes. The idea that PETA thought that this show was the ideal location to launch yet another misguided protest, demonstrates to me how irrelevant and fringe they have become. Their messages are getting lost in the stupidity and poor timing of their activism. It seems to me that there might be better ways and means of advocating for animals without alienating the very people who purport to support you.

I am an animal lover and more specifically a dog devotee. This stretch of five years is the longest I have gone without a canine companion since the age of six, and believe me I miss it every single day. When the time comes to bring another four-legged friend into my home, I will seriously consider a shelter dog, but I do not need nor do I want PETA to garner any of the credit for my decision. They need to re-think their strategies.

Life:Bottlenose dolphins mud-ring feeding

Yet another reason that I am absolutely infatuated with dolphins. Thanks Mom for passing this on.

Dolphin Football!

Yet another reason I love dolphins! These beauties were captured playing football using a few unsuspecting jellyfish as their game ball. They could teach the Rams a few things. Fantastic!!!

Some Truly Interesting Squirrel Facts

I realize that I have been somewhat obsessed with the f*@#ing squirrels lately, as they have been somewhat obsessed with me, and frankly I am even starting to scare myself with my blood-thirsty daydreams. It would seem to me that if these creatures were to die in some gruesome manner, and I am not for a minute suggesting that anyone out there engages in squirrel-a-cide, the most ecological and environmental thing to do would be to make use of all parts of the animal. It is reminiscent of the ethical eating in which our First Nations people always engaged. All parts of the creature were used for something-food, clothing, shelter, weaponry, etc. Now, I am not the quintessential carnivore. I can barely tolerate red meat at the best of times and chicken must be served to me off of the bone, otherwise I find myself the victim of some extreme nausea. (That gnawing sound really turns me off!) But I do believe in ethical eating, so it was with some evil sense of amusement that Twin Son's Better Half located the following recipes in some very old, but very mainstream cookbooks. I absolutely swear that these are legitimate. Believe me! Even my twisted brain couldn't have concocted this stuff.

In 1931, Irma S. Rombauer a widow from St. Louis Missouri, needed to find some sort of an income to support herself and her children following her husband's suicide. She compiled a bunch of family recipes and, using illustrations by her daughter Marion and her own money, she self-published the first 3,000 copies of The Joy Of Cooking. Given that it was the Great Depression, Rombauer included many recipes that we today might find slightly on the obscure side, but if it fed an American family during the "Dirty Thirties", it found a home in Rombauer's tome. So I shouldn't have been too shocked to find the following excerpt on pages 453 and 454 of the great American cookbook. (The accompanying illustration is straight from the book as well!)

About Squirrel

Gray squirrels are the preferred ones; red squirrels are small and quite gamey in flavour. There are, proverbially, many ways to skin a squirrel, but some hunters claim the following one is the quickest and cleanest. It needs a sharp knife.

To skin, cut the tail bone through from beneath, but take care not to cut through the skin of the tail. Hold the tail as shown on the left and then cut the skin the width of the back, as shown in the dotted lines. Turn the squirrel over on its back and step on the base of the tail. (I love this part!!) Hold the hind legs in one hand and pull steadily and slowly, as shown in the centre sketch, until the skin has worked itself over the front legs and heat. While holding the squirrel in the same position, pull the remaining skin from the hind legs. Proceed as for Rabbit, page 452, cutting off the head and the feet and removing the internal organs, plus two small glands found in the small of the back and under each foreleg, between the ribs and the shoulders.

Stuff and roast squirrels as for Pigeons, page 475, barding them, or use them in Brunswick Stew or prepare as for braised Chicken. (I always knew that squirrel tasted like chicken!!) Season the gravy with walnut catsup and (here is comes--the best!!) serve with POLENTA!!!

Don't you just love the diagram of the foot on the tail. I think that this is priceless.

As if that wasn't grand enough, we stumbled upon this gem of a book printed way back in 1960.

The Bull Cook and Authentic Historical Recipes and Practices by George Leonard Herter and Berthe E. Herter of Herter's Waseca, Minnesota (you can't make this stuff up!) was compiled as an ode to the lumber camp and pioneer days of the northern middle states. These cooks learned from each other and old world cooks, and the Herters decided to codify these recipes. On page 39-40 we find a recipe for Belgian Squirrel. (Frankly, all I could think of were squirrels dressed like Agatha Christie's famed detective Hercule Poirot, complete with tiny little waxed moustaches.)

Belgian Squirrel

There are very few people that I have talked to that know something about eating that do not rate squirrel at the top of the list when it comes to eating wild animals. Squirrel meat is light coloured, fine textured, with a mild delicate flavour. Squirrel meat is far superior to venison or moose (Insert moose/squirrel joke here!) and you do not tire of it as easily as you do such meats when you have it for a mor or less steady diet.

I have eaten fried squirrel, roasted squirrel and stewed squirrel in the central, southern and eastern states and I just love them in any of these styles.

If I get to eating too much squirrel, (TOO MUCH SQUIRREL!!) I make sure to have it Belgian style as I never tire of it that way. Be sure to try it this way. I know you will enjoy it a great deal.

The recipe continues on in great detail about cutting the animals into serving pieces, browning them in copious amounts of butter, placing them, browned onions, a lot more butter, water, vinegar, thyme, salt and (wait for it!!) 1 1/2 dozen PRUNES into a deep cooking pot and baking the whole mess in the oven at 325 for 45 minutes. Thickening the sauce after cooking with some flour makes for a nice gravy to go alongside the rodent. Never let it be said that squirrel cooking shouldn't also aid in regularity!

Please understand that I DO NOT advocate the catching, killing or cooking of squirrel, but it is interesting to note that some very fine home cooks adamantly disagree with me. I am not enough of a foodie to even contemplate consuming the beasts. The only squirrel that I want anywhere near me is this one:

He goes well with chocolate MOOSE!

I love Geeses to Pieces!

The goslings have arrived! In an update to my previous post about the nesting geese in front of the distillery, I wanted to advise that the little ones made their appearance this afternoon. We sent Older Son out with a flak jacket and the camera again (Mama Goose was in attack mode!) to document the happy event. Hopefully the entire family will find new lodgings as soon as the 5 (we think?) babies are travel-worthy. 

And It Isn't Even Grey Goose!

It seems that a Canada goose and his mate have taken up residence in front of The Husband's and Twin Son's new distillery. (We pause briefly for this commercial message. A wonderful new malt vodka will soon be available from Still Waters Distillery. Their website will be operational soon, but in the meantime, you can follow their progress on Twitter. You can also keep up with the guys at Premium Bottlers  or on Facebook. Please do! I have a family to support and it would be nice to be able to pay for Younger Son's college tuition next year.) Back to the geese. The feathered pair have apparently decided to construct their dream house directly in front of the distillery building. Mother Goose has come to the conclusion that it is a great parenting plan to birth and raise the little ones in close proximity to a den of alcoholic production. One can only imagine her next rhyme.

The Husband and Twin Son have gotten together to whip up a new batch of booze

"The vodka" they cried has become "scotch"ified

So pick any poison you choose! 

Anybody who has ever been up close and personal with a nesting Canada goose knows full well to stay the hell out of her way. This little lady is no exception. She has apparently developed a nasty attitude when any person approaches and makes quite a racket when pissed off. For the last couple of days, the boys noticed that 2 eggs were dispatched from the nest. One is now gone, probably as a result of a nocturnal visitation from a local fox, but the second one remains, orphaned by its parents. After a bit of research, I have discovered that this is common practice for a goose if the egg is no longer viable, or if there is no more room at the inn. In other words, if the nest is overcrowded as a result of an overly fertile and sexually active goose, the mother will actually push a few of her children out of the house early and nest on the remainder. (An interesting idea that might have real human world applications!) She is still quite protective of the orphaned egg and nips actively at onlookers. Older Son took these photos, and was quite concerned about being kamikazed by a tight-assed, hormonal and behaviourally challenged she-goose. I thank him profusely for his service to the cause. Enjoy the photos.

Maybe she wants a taste. She really does seem to be begging like an alcoholic in front of a bar window.

Poor little orphan. We have been told not to touch it, just in case Mama and Papa decide to repatriate it.