Pretty much my favourite thing in Canada is bagels. This is not to say that the skiing here is crap, or that I don't like Canadians. Rather, this should be taken to mean that I really, really like bagels. Running out of bagels is pretty much the worst thing that can happen in my day to day life, and when bagels are reduced to just $3 a bag (which is made even better because bagels are not subject to sales taxes) it's time for a change of undergarments.
I should be clear, however, that I don't just mean any old bagels. My bagel of choice is made by Dempsters (one of the big Canadian baked goods brands), and I especially like the blueberry variety.
So, imagine my joy today when I went to the local grocery store (which is fantastic, by the way) and bagels were $3 a bag. That's 50 cents a bagel - such a good deal. I check the bagel aisle every time I go to the supermarket to see if those little red "special" tags are out and when they are I can assure you that stirring music plays in my soul and my lungs are filled with the freshest of fresh mountain air. Think about that scene at the start of The Sound Of Music where Maria is singing about being in the mountains while atop a grassy knoll. That is akin to the sense of wholesome, expansive wonder that I feel upon finding cheap bagels.
But today, something was different. At first I thought it was a new brand of bagel. I was intrigued. Could these be even better than Dempster's bagels? Is that even possible? But no, both the normal bagels I'd grown to love and the new bags were both made by the same people. I thought it might have been a low fat variety, but no, that wasn't the case either. And then I saw those fateful words:
New, Improved Recipe!
I'm a hopeful, positive kind of guy (LOL), so I was ready to give the new bagels a chance. If they really were better, this was pretty big news in my life. I gave them a gentle, non-destructive squeeze. They seemed a little softer, which was bad because the density and crumb characteristic of the original recipe verge on perfection. A softer bagel is not something I welcome. But things were about to get worse.
The new bag of bagels was 200 grams lighter than the old style. 200 grams, people! What, did they think I wouldn't work it out? Are consumers all so dumb that we won't notice if you take 31 percent of our bagels away and charge us the same amount? It's bad enough that you'd meddle with what is possibly the greatest mass produced foodstuff that can't be dissolved in water for a nutritious and tasty snack (Sustagen - the sport variety, chocolate flavour). But to basically steal 200 grams of bagel from us in broad daylight? While pretending this is an improvement? Why don't you take 31 percent of our happiness and joy as well?
I have a strong compulsion to tell the people of Dempsters what I think about their "New, Improved Recipe". Stay tuned.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Surprise!
Every Monday evening I trundle home from work, thinking about the four days of skiing and general good times that lie ahead. My working week goes from Saturday to Monday, and after three days talking to people about skiing at work, I'm always pretty excited when Monday evening rolls around the real business of life in Rossland stretches out ahead of me.
I think about things like the snow, the upcoming weather, how great my new skis are, avalanche conditions, whether I'll go touring, what skiing stuff I should be practising, how great my new skis are, whether I need more bagels, whether I should make dinner for the house, and how great my new skis are.
I don't, typically, think about how a friend of mine who is supposed to be back in Canberra is hiding behind the corner of a building waiting to surprise me. Which left me quite unprepared when a friend of mine from Canberra hid behind the corner of a building and surprised me., Well played Tom Watson.
I know it would make for a better story if I freaked out. Everyone who was in on this plan is probably hoping that I shrieked and jumped in surprise, or that Tom and I ran towards each other in glorious slow motion and embraced in a manly but heartfelt way, or that I paniced and stabbed Tom before realising who it was. Sadly, the truth is that I was so surprised that it took me a while to work out that Tom wasn't actually supposed to be there, so I had already got a fairly standard greeting out before the bafflingness of the whole situation clicked. I was slightly troubled that he'd managed to work out where I lived, but I guess it's his job to work stuff like that out, so I shouldn't be too concerned.
Thanks everyone for your letters and thoughts. It's very flattering and slightly unnerving to see the effort that people have gone to to convince me that Canberra isn't an empty, lifeless hovel where hope and good times go to die. Which it probably is, but I've never been especially interested in hope and good times.
Tom and I will spend the next few days skiing and talking about ultimate. Hopefully the Kootenays put on some decent snow for his visit. Right not it's sunny and warm. Yawn.
I'll be thinking about where to go and what to do next over the next couple of weeks, so I'll keep you all posted. Thanks again everyone for your letters.
I think about things like the snow, the upcoming weather, how great my new skis are, avalanche conditions, whether I'll go touring, what skiing stuff I should be practising, how great my new skis are, whether I need more bagels, whether I should make dinner for the house, and how great my new skis are.
I don't, typically, think about how a friend of mine who is supposed to be back in Canberra is hiding behind the corner of a building waiting to surprise me. Which left me quite unprepared when a friend of mine from Canberra hid behind the corner of a building and surprised me., Well played Tom Watson.
I know it would make for a better story if I freaked out. Everyone who was in on this plan is probably hoping that I shrieked and jumped in surprise, or that Tom and I ran towards each other in glorious slow motion and embraced in a manly but heartfelt way, or that I paniced and stabbed Tom before realising who it was. Sadly, the truth is that I was so surprised that it took me a while to work out that Tom wasn't actually supposed to be there, so I had already got a fairly standard greeting out before the bafflingness of the whole situation clicked. I was slightly troubled that he'd managed to work out where I lived, but I guess it's his job to work stuff like that out, so I shouldn't be too concerned.
Thanks everyone for your letters and thoughts. It's very flattering and slightly unnerving to see the effort that people have gone to to convince me that Canberra isn't an empty, lifeless hovel where hope and good times go to die. Which it probably is, but I've never been especially interested in hope and good times.
Tom and I will spend the next few days skiing and talking about ultimate. Hopefully the Kootenays put on some decent snow for his visit. Right not it's sunny and warm. Yawn.
I'll be thinking about where to go and what to do next over the next couple of weeks, so I'll keep you all posted. Thanks again everyone for your letters.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Farewell Dave Pitchford
I've just found out that Dave Pitchford died last Friday.
As one of the leaders of the outdoor ed program at Narrabundah College, Dave was part of the community that got me into the bush and contributed to the life I'm living now. His enthusiasm for the outdoors and his insistence on safe, smart practises and a conscious and deliberate approach to risk has shaped the way I and many of my friends climb, hike, ride and ski. The opportunities he gave young people to experience the bush have and will shape many lives for the better.
I will never forget the time I climbed with him on the Narrabundah wall, and he mistook my terrible climbing after months of training for the moves of a novice with natural talent. If only.
Thanks Dave. Rest in peace.
Dave is survived by his partner and two children.
As one of the leaders of the outdoor ed program at Narrabundah College, Dave was part of the community that got me into the bush and contributed to the life I'm living now. His enthusiasm for the outdoors and his insistence on safe, smart practises and a conscious and deliberate approach to risk has shaped the way I and many of my friends climb, hike, ride and ski. The opportunities he gave young people to experience the bush have and will shape many lives for the better.
I will never forget the time I climbed with him on the Narrabundah wall, and he mistook my terrible climbing after months of training for the moves of a novice with natural talent. If only.
Thanks Dave. Rest in peace.
Dave is survived by his partner and two children.
Friday, February 10, 2012
The wrong kind of sausage festival
Dear readers, I have two pieces of sad news. The first is that I have just broken up with my partner of many years. This is, of course, sad news for me, but it's great news for anyone that wanted to date her and was worried that I'd knife them in some kind of soft, important body part. Potential suitors, your important and unimportant body parts are safe from me.
The second piece of sad news relates to the town of Rossland. You see, adding another single man to this town means the sausage factor here is just that little bit higher. The town is now teetering on a statistical precipice beyond which no place that isn't a gay bar should ever go. If so much as a minivan full of single men should drive down the main street of town, our sausage ratio will be tipped over the edge and the entire town will turn into an enormous cylinder of dubiously nutritional "meat".
The sausage factor that I'm referring to has two forms. The first compares the number of men to the number of women in a region. A high factor means lots of men, and not many women. But often the more telling statistic is a sausage factor among single folk.
Sausage factors that indicate a predominance of men compared to women seem to be a feature of ski resort life. At Broken River, the absence of women was so acute that the unofficial slogan of the ski hill was "Not Gay", and the story of The Time The Guy From Mt Cheeseman Stole Our Woman was still told in vivid detail some weeks after the unfortunate lady was whisked away by the bearded patroller from the ski hill next door.
In Rossland, the pool of people is much larger, but the sausage ratio (especially when limited to single folk) still seems to be stubbornly low. It is not clear from casual observation whether there actually are any single women in Rossland at all. However, casual observation will immediately reveal a plethora of single men. And their beards. Of course, my addition to the pool of single men is of statistical value only. I do not represent any competition for those men looking to leave their current sociological category, either by pairing with hypothetical single women, or (in especially desperate times) with each other.
The second piece of sad news relates to the town of Rossland. You see, adding another single man to this town means the sausage factor here is just that little bit higher. The town is now teetering on a statistical precipice beyond which no place that isn't a gay bar should ever go. If so much as a minivan full of single men should drive down the main street of town, our sausage ratio will be tipped over the edge and the entire town will turn into an enormous cylinder of dubiously nutritional "meat".
The sausage factor that I'm referring to has two forms. The first compares the number of men to the number of women in a region. A high factor means lots of men, and not many women. But often the more telling statistic is a sausage factor among single folk.
Sausage factors that indicate a predominance of men compared to women seem to be a feature of ski resort life. At Broken River, the absence of women was so acute that the unofficial slogan of the ski hill was "Not Gay", and the story of The Time The Guy From Mt Cheeseman Stole Our Woman was still told in vivid detail some weeks after the unfortunate lady was whisked away by the bearded patroller from the ski hill next door.
In Rossland, the pool of people is much larger, but the sausage ratio (especially when limited to single folk) still seems to be stubbornly low. It is not clear from casual observation whether there actually are any single women in Rossland at all. However, casual observation will immediately reveal a plethora of single men. And their beards. Of course, my addition to the pool of single men is of statistical value only. I do not represent any competition for those men looking to leave their current sociological category, either by pairing with hypothetical single women, or (in especially desperate times) with each other.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
French Colonisation
My house is a complex mix of nationalities and languages. Maud is French and speaks French, Spanish and English, Robi is German and Fleur is Dutch, they both speak German, Dutch and English, and I am Australian and I speak English. I would like to take this moment to point out that I resent not being raised bilingual.
Thus far, the common language in the house has been English. And life as an English speaking house has been good. Admittedly, Maud speaks a somewhat unique dialect of English, but on the whole, we all understand each other and when anyone except me wants to talk to someone in private they simply speak in a language that only they understand.
Just like a marginal electorate full of bogans, this simple, homely life is under threat from immigration. But recent immigration has completely changed the dominant language of the house.
Our first immigrant was Maud's father, Serge. Serge is a French extreme skier with worn out knees, which makes him the second coolest thing you can possibly be. Unfortunately for me, Serge speaks no English. Serge's arrival tilted the linguistic balance strongly in favour of the francophones - Fleur speaks a little French, so in politeness we have all tried to speak French.
Speaking French is a good opportunity for me to refresh my limited French. I can ask where the pool is, recite some of the bus stops in Chamonix, and wish people a happy day's skiing. Believe it or not, this has been suprisingly useful.
But it turns out the Serge is just the tip of the iceberg. Today, Maud's sister Marie arrived. And within days we expect the arrival of more francophones from a ski hill north of here. Soon we'll be overrun with French people, and we'll all be forced to eat baguettes, wear berets and enjoy mime.
This mass immigration presents more than just a threat to our language. The new housemates are already displacing the previous inhabitants. I usually sleep in a massive room, so I have vacated that to give our guests some space. I have in turn displaced Maud, taking her nook at the top of the stairs. Maud has ended up sleeping on the couch. There is perhaps some small justice in this outcome.
Originally, I though there would be numerous advantages to being the subject of French cultural imperialism. I was expecting a dramatic increase in croissants, arrogance and extreme skiing. Sadly, none of these has occurred. So far, all we have seen recently is a significant rise in middle aged men walking around the house in underpants.There may be an rise in the rate of fondue, but on the whole it appears that my stereotypes of the French are less accurate than television has led me to believe.
At least no one has tried to take my job, although Serge did offer to help out at work after we gave him the corporate ski pass for a few days. Duurka Derp!
Thus far, the common language in the house has been English. And life as an English speaking house has been good. Admittedly, Maud speaks a somewhat unique dialect of English, but on the whole, we all understand each other and when anyone except me wants to talk to someone in private they simply speak in a language that only they understand.
Just like a marginal electorate full of bogans, this simple, homely life is under threat from immigration. But recent immigration has completely changed the dominant language of the house.
Our first immigrant was Maud's father, Serge. Serge is a French extreme skier with worn out knees, which makes him the second coolest thing you can possibly be. Unfortunately for me, Serge speaks no English. Serge's arrival tilted the linguistic balance strongly in favour of the francophones - Fleur speaks a little French, so in politeness we have all tried to speak French.
Speaking French is a good opportunity for me to refresh my limited French. I can ask where the pool is, recite some of the bus stops in Chamonix, and wish people a happy day's skiing. Believe it or not, this has been suprisingly useful.
But it turns out the Serge is just the tip of the iceberg. Today, Maud's sister Marie arrived. And within days we expect the arrival of more francophones from a ski hill north of here. Soon we'll be overrun with French people, and we'll all be forced to eat baguettes, wear berets and enjoy mime.
This mass immigration presents more than just a threat to our language. The new housemates are already displacing the previous inhabitants. I usually sleep in a massive room, so I have vacated that to give our guests some space. I have in turn displaced Maud, taking her nook at the top of the stairs. Maud has ended up sleeping on the couch. There is perhaps some small justice in this outcome.
Originally, I though there would be numerous advantages to being the subject of French cultural imperialism. I was expecting a dramatic increase in croissants, arrogance and extreme skiing. Sadly, none of these has occurred. So far, all we have seen recently is a significant rise in middle aged men walking around the house in underpants.There may be an rise in the rate of fondue, but on the whole it appears that my stereotypes of the French are less accurate than television has led me to believe.
At least no one has tried to take my job, although Serge did offer to help out at work after we gave him the corporate ski pass for a few days. Duurka Derp!
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