The day I got married my brother Doug was the MC. Part of his speech included the following: it's quite amazing that despite being grossly barraged by teasing and practical jokes Lori still turned out to be a functional member of society.
Barely.
Being the youngest of four children and the only girl had its advantages. I was spoiled. Or by the time I came along my parents were just too tired to notice that I was misbehaving. Or I learned by observing my brothers that if I do "X" then the punishment will be "Z". I would carefully consider their punishment and decide if it was worth it to carry out that action and endure the results.
However, being the youngest of four children and the only girl also had its disadvantages too. The boys had their club of three, and at a young age there was no room for a girl in the club unless I was explicitly invited. Originally I felt that an invite to play with them was an honour, but over time I learned that an invite usually carried with it some sort of teasing or torture or both.
My first memory of experiencing the gang of three was the time they locked me in a bedroom. Rob made sure that I could not escape from the room, Doug flicked the light on and off to create a strobe effect, and Anson was laying on the bed. Anson sat up all the while pretending to be Dracula. At the age of 3 it scared the crap out of me. Mom was in the next room, heard my screams of horror, and came after them with the flyswatter - Mom's weapon of choice she used to keep us all in line. Everyone feared the flyswatter partially from the concept of being hit with something that had bug guts all over it, but more because that thing hurt! I always felt sorry for flies after I was punished with it.
Then there was the time that Anson and Doug called me into my room and asked me to get something out of my closet. I opened the door only to find they had taken a teddy bear, dressed it in clothes, hung it from a noose from my closet rod and jammed an archery arrow into its throat. I'm not sure if I ever told them about the nightmare I had that evening where I dreamed that Dad had hung himself from the shower. It was very traumatic.
Or the time that Rob was laying on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest and told me that he would help me fly by sitting on his feet. I sat on his feet, he pushed his legs out as hard as he could. I was airborne for a split second, but then landed with a massive thud on my knees on the floor. Mom entered the scene, flyswatter in hand.
As time progressed, I grew increasingly wary of anything my brothers described as "a fun thing to do." Around the age of 7 or 8 Rob tied King the dog to my bike, called me over and said
Rob: Hey Lori, get on the bike and King will pull you around. It will be fun!
me: No. It will not be fun. I will get hurt.
Rob: You won't get hurt. All you have to do is sit there, and King will do the work.
me: What if I go too fast?
Rob: If you go too fast just use your breaks to slow down.
me: Are you sure I won't get hurt?
Rob: Try it and see.
I thought about it, and decided that since I had a contingency plan in place for going too fast I should be okay. I sat on the bike, Rob asked me if I was ready, I said Yes and he yelled GO KING GO!
The dog took off, and I was enjoying the ride. I had the contingency plan in place, but wasn't using it because it actually was a fun ride. Right until I started to round the 90 degree bend in the driveway. Knowing nothing about the laws of centrifugal force, I slammed on the breaks half way round the bend, the bike flew into the air, and I landed about 15 feet away in the field on my head. I passed out for a few seconds, came too, and watched the dog still running down the driveway and dragging my bike on the ground. It was not the fun ride I had signed up for.
But it wasn't all bad. My Aunt had sent a card to me for my 7th birthday, but it did not arrive. I did not understand the concept of "snail mail" at that time, and looked for the card in the mailbox throughout the day. That night when I went to bed I was very sad. As I was about to fall asleep I felt something touch my face. I opened my eyes and Doug handed a card to me - I opened it and it was from my Aunt! I went to sleep happy knowing that she had not forgot my birthday.
A day or two later a card arrived in the mail for me. It was from my Aunt. I opened it, looked at my Mom and said "Hey, I got TWO cards from Aunt Joan!" and Mom told me what really happened. She said "Doug could not stand to see you go to bed looking so sad, so he asked me for one of my cards in the card box. He signed her name, addressed it, sealed it, and gave it to you so you would not think that she had forgotten you and so that you could go to bed happy." To that point, it was the nicest thing any of my brothers ever did for me.
A few years later, I was ice skating and got into a fight with the kid who lived next door. The kid hit me in the side of the head, knocked out my earring and I was in pain. I later found out that Doug heard about the fight, went up to the kid and said "If you ever touch my little sister again I will kill you."
Even though they tormented me, they taught me how to defend myself. When I was five years old, they pulled me into a room, taught me how to make a fist properly so that I would not break my thumb when I hit someone, and coached me to learn how to throw a punch. I pitied the guy (who's nickname was Hands) that tried to disrespect me in a bar one night when I was in my early twenties. His face was quite swollen after I got through with him and even though I saw him a few more times at the same bar, he wisely chose to leave me alone.
I was married at the time that Doug turned 40. I was at his birthday party at a bar in Calgary, and got talking to his friend Frank. As the conversation ensued, Frank decided to hit on me.
Frank: I really want to kiss you right now
me: You can't kiss me. I am married.
Frank: It's ok. I don't mind.
me: I mind and I am pretty sure my husband will mind, too.
The conversation went on like this for a few minutes at which point Doug's voice came screaming across the room: FRANK!!!!! QUIT HITTING ON MY LITTLE SISTER!!!!
Doug saved me, or so I thought. Unfortunately Frank was a bit slow on the uptake and continued his pursuit.
Frank: Come home with me tonight.
me: No! I am married!
Frank: Please come home with me.
me: Okay, here's the deal. See that guy there, that's my oldest brother Anson. And that guy there is my brother Doug. If you can convince BOTH of them to let me go home with you, I will go home with you.
I really thought that Frank would get the hint. However, Frank looked at me and said "Doug's a really cool guy! He'll let you go home with me. I'm going to ask him now."
Oh.... my.... God! This guy is dumber than I thought. But I really have to see what Doug has to say. Doug and Anson were standing together talking when Frank interrupted.
Frank: Can your sister come home with me tonight?
Doug (with a look on his face like he has just eaten a raw lemon): NO. DUDE. SHE'S ALREADY MARRIED!
Frank (with look of extreme disappointment on his face): Oh. Ok.
Frank walked away, I looked at Doug and Anson and said "Sorry guys. I tried to tell him that and he just wasn't getting it!"
The next morning Doug, Anson and I were sitting at the table. Everything was pretty silent until Anson piped up and said "So, Doug, did you ever think that you would have to defend your little sister's honour at your 40th birthday?"
A short time after my ex-husband left me, Doug was over at my house. We were talking and I reminded him of the time when I was 10 years old and he put me on a diet because he thought I was getting fat. He set my target weight at 75 pounds! He did not recall doing it, probably because he wasn't the one eating cottage cheese, doing chinups and weighing himself twice a day. He felt bad for what he had done and said to me "I hope we weren't too hard on you when we were kids."
Perhaps for some people it would have been hard. For me, it was character building. I learned when to fight and when to walk away. I learned how to take a joke, and I learned how to play jokes. By growing up with guys around me, I learned how to be one of the guys - a skill that is especially handy when working in an IT department. I became adept at learning things by observing the behaviour of others. I learned that you should never put a lit candle underneath a bed or it will catch fire. I think the biggest lesson of all is that I learned how to forgive.
Now that we are older the four of us get along. Somewhere along the way I changed their name from "gang of three" to "safety net of three" because I know that all I have to do if I am in trouble is pick up the phone and they will be there for me. No matter what.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Happy Family Day Part 2 - The Parents.
Mom is my most important teacher. She taught me how to walk, how to talk, how to pee on the potty, how to read, how to write, how to play my first song on the piano, how to weed the garden, how to clean the house, how to line a cake pan with wax paper, and so on and so forth. As long as I have her I will never stop learning from her.
She spent countless hours waiting for me while I was at piano lessons. She never missed one of my competitions or recitals. I marvel at her patience as I am sure it couldn't have been that much fun for her to watch other kids play piano while she waited for me to claim my 5 minutes of fame onstage. She spent even more countless hours listening to me practice. I'm sure after a while it would get irritating for her to listen to me play the same two bars of music over and over and over again until I got it right.
Mom is my nurse. She was the one who held my hair when I had the flu and needed to throw up. That couldn't have been easy at all! She mended everything from skinned knees to a broken foot to a broken heart.
Mom gave me life and gave me spirit. Mom taught me the meaning of unconditional love. No matter how infuriating I was and no matter what I did wrong, she never turned her back on me. She believed in me and taught me to believe in myself.
My Dad was larger than life - at 6'4" tall and 225 pounds, he was a very big man. It took a lot to make him mad enough to yell at me, but when he did I did not hear it - I actually felt it reverberate in my chest. I think I lipped off to him once. That was enough for me to never do it again.
I inherited my Dad's quirky sense of humour and ability to look at things very differently than most people do. He and I would sit at the table and banter back and forth while Mom sat and shook her head. He also had this habit of stirring his coffee until the spoon was nice and hot, wipe it with a napkin, then touch my arm to see how high I would jump and how much I would complain.
Dad taught me that if you want anything in life you have to work for it. Each of us kids were given our own bicycles and I got mine around the age of 9 or 10. I had a habit of leaving it out in the rain, and not taking care of it as well as I should. It was an old school coaster bike with only one gear. I liked my bike, but when the kid next door showed up with a brand new 10 speed, I decided that I had to have one of those instead.
I asked Dad for a new bike, and he turned me down. I asked again and again and again, and received a "no" each time. After a while Dad got sick of me asking for the new bike so he said to me "I have to work for everything I want, so you have to learn that you must work for everything you want. If you want that bike, you have to do all your chores and do them well. Everything your mother asks you to do, you have to do it and without complaint. When I feel that you have done enough work, I will get the bike for you."
I did dishes, swept floors, weeded gardens, hung laundry, and all kinds of chores for what seemed like forever. Finally one Saturday morning my Dad said to me "I think you have worked hard enough and I am going to take you to Canadian Tire to get you your bike". I was in heaven. I got my reward, and was thinking of all the places my new bike would take me. As we were on the way home, Dad looked at me and said "Oh, by the way, I hope you don't think that this means you can start slacking. If I see you neglecting your chores I am going to take the front wheel off your bike and will keep it until you earn it back." He never did take the front wheel off, despite the fact that I would neglect my chores once in a while.
But the funniest part came years later when I talked to Dad about the fact that I had to earn the bike. His response was "I don't ever remember making you work for the bike." To which I replied "That's because you weren't the one stuck drying dishes every night after supper!"
As I grew older I found ways to be able to do the chores that I didn't mind doing and would try to slink my way around getting out of doing the stuff I didn't want to do. Dad knew this, and would have to find increasingly innovative ways of getting me to do things. One time the ceiling caved in at the bottom of the steps to the basement and the floor was full of a mixture of wood and fiberglass insulation. That Saturday Dad was working on fixing the ceiling and I noticed that he wasn't cleaning up the insulation. I thought to myself "Oh, he's saving that task for me. I'm going to have to find a way out of this one." So I hid in my room as long as I could. Unfortunately to get to the only bathroom in the house I had to go through the kitchen. I figured enough time had passed that the insulation would have been cleaned up and decided I should be safe to emerge from my room. Besides, my bladder was about to explode.
I came out of the bathroom and Dad was sitting drinking a coffee at the table. This is what happened next.
Dad: Hey, while you are walking by the cupboard, would you get a garbage bag out for me?
Me: Ok.
I got the garbage bag out of the cupboard.
Dad: Since you have the garbage bag in your hand, do you mind taking it downstairs for me?
Me: Ok.
At this point I was down the stairs and setting the garbage bag down. Dad opened the door.
Dad: Oh, since you are already down there, why don't you put that insulation in the garbage bag for me.
I would have been more upset about the whole situation, except it was so smooth the way he got me to clean up the insulation. I also draw upon the lessons learned in that situation and apply them at work so that I can convince people to do work for me without them hating me at the same time.
There are so many stories I could tell about my Dad. The memories of going to town with him on a Saturday morning, riding around for hours on the tractor with him, the stories he would tell, and the things he taught me. The way he would marvel at the fact that my three brothers would always gang up on me and yet somehow I would be able to hold my own time and time again. But eventually when things got too rough for me I could always go to Dad and he would protect me from the evil siblings.
She spent countless hours waiting for me while I was at piano lessons. She never missed one of my competitions or recitals. I marvel at her patience as I am sure it couldn't have been that much fun for her to watch other kids play piano while she waited for me to claim my 5 minutes of fame onstage. She spent even more countless hours listening to me practice. I'm sure after a while it would get irritating for her to listen to me play the same two bars of music over and over and over again until I got it right.
Mom is my nurse. She was the one who held my hair when I had the flu and needed to throw up. That couldn't have been easy at all! She mended everything from skinned knees to a broken foot to a broken heart.
Mom gave me life and gave me spirit. Mom taught me the meaning of unconditional love. No matter how infuriating I was and no matter what I did wrong, she never turned her back on me. She believed in me and taught me to believe in myself.
My Dad was larger than life - at 6'4" tall and 225 pounds, he was a very big man. It took a lot to make him mad enough to yell at me, but when he did I did not hear it - I actually felt it reverberate in my chest. I think I lipped off to him once. That was enough for me to never do it again.
I inherited my Dad's quirky sense of humour and ability to look at things very differently than most people do. He and I would sit at the table and banter back and forth while Mom sat and shook her head. He also had this habit of stirring his coffee until the spoon was nice and hot, wipe it with a napkin, then touch my arm to see how high I would jump and how much I would complain.
Dad taught me that if you want anything in life you have to work for it. Each of us kids were given our own bicycles and I got mine around the age of 9 or 10. I had a habit of leaving it out in the rain, and not taking care of it as well as I should. It was an old school coaster bike with only one gear. I liked my bike, but when the kid next door showed up with a brand new 10 speed, I decided that I had to have one of those instead.
I asked Dad for a new bike, and he turned me down. I asked again and again and again, and received a "no" each time. After a while Dad got sick of me asking for the new bike so he said to me "I have to work for everything I want, so you have to learn that you must work for everything you want. If you want that bike, you have to do all your chores and do them well. Everything your mother asks you to do, you have to do it and without complaint. When I feel that you have done enough work, I will get the bike for you."
I did dishes, swept floors, weeded gardens, hung laundry, and all kinds of chores for what seemed like forever. Finally one Saturday morning my Dad said to me "I think you have worked hard enough and I am going to take you to Canadian Tire to get you your bike". I was in heaven. I got my reward, and was thinking of all the places my new bike would take me. As we were on the way home, Dad looked at me and said "Oh, by the way, I hope you don't think that this means you can start slacking. If I see you neglecting your chores I am going to take the front wheel off your bike and will keep it until you earn it back." He never did take the front wheel off, despite the fact that I would neglect my chores once in a while.
But the funniest part came years later when I talked to Dad about the fact that I had to earn the bike. His response was "I don't ever remember making you work for the bike." To which I replied "That's because you weren't the one stuck drying dishes every night after supper!"
As I grew older I found ways to be able to do the chores that I didn't mind doing and would try to slink my way around getting out of doing the stuff I didn't want to do. Dad knew this, and would have to find increasingly innovative ways of getting me to do things. One time the ceiling caved in at the bottom of the steps to the basement and the floor was full of a mixture of wood and fiberglass insulation. That Saturday Dad was working on fixing the ceiling and I noticed that he wasn't cleaning up the insulation. I thought to myself "Oh, he's saving that task for me. I'm going to have to find a way out of this one." So I hid in my room as long as I could. Unfortunately to get to the only bathroom in the house I had to go through the kitchen. I figured enough time had passed that the insulation would have been cleaned up and decided I should be safe to emerge from my room. Besides, my bladder was about to explode.
I came out of the bathroom and Dad was sitting drinking a coffee at the table. This is what happened next.
Dad: Hey, while you are walking by the cupboard, would you get a garbage bag out for me?
Me: Ok.
I got the garbage bag out of the cupboard.
Dad: Since you have the garbage bag in your hand, do you mind taking it downstairs for me?
Me: Ok.
At this point I was down the stairs and setting the garbage bag down. Dad opened the door.
Dad: Oh, since you are already down there, why don't you put that insulation in the garbage bag for me.
I would have been more upset about the whole situation, except it was so smooth the way he got me to clean up the insulation. I also draw upon the lessons learned in that situation and apply them at work so that I can convince people to do work for me without them hating me at the same time.
There are so many stories I could tell about my Dad. The memories of going to town with him on a Saturday morning, riding around for hours on the tractor with him, the stories he would tell, and the things he taught me. The way he would marvel at the fact that my three brothers would always gang up on me and yet somehow I would be able to hold my own time and time again. But eventually when things got too rough for me I could always go to Dad and he would protect me from the evil siblings.
Happy Family Day Part 1 - The Grandparents.
My Grandma B died long before I was born, so I never got to meet her. I don't even really know that much about her. The only story I have ever heard about her was that when she cut bread she would put the loaf under her arm and saw away at it. She would always cut towards her chest, and my Mom would cringe at the thought of Grandma giving herself a mastectomy. After hearing this story, I always had a better understanding of the phrase "It's the greatest thing since sliced bread!"
I don't really know much about my Grandpa B either. We did not visit him very often. I remember one visit when I was three or four years old and I tried to go to the corner to pet his dog Tippy. Grandpa yelled at me. Although he was trying to prevent me from getting bitten, it was probably not one of the best things for him to do considering how timid I actually am. After that day I was always very scared of him and did not talk to him much. I do regret it, since I think he would have been a very interesting man to talk to.
I think it is Grandpa B's genes that have given me my love of music and musical talent. I do remember one time when he was down at our house, and he was sitting in a chair by the piano. I knew he liked music and would sometimes play his fiddle for me so I decided to play the piano for him. He really seemed to enjoy himself, but Dad wasn't enjoying it as much and told me to stop so I did.
Music was the biggest bond that Grandpa and I had. During Christmas of 1983 I was given the greatest gift I have ever been given. Grandpa never learned to read music, he only played by ear. At the age of 87 his memory of the songs was starting to go and people at the nursing home where he lived were complaining about his fiddle playing. He was asked to give up his fiddle. Since I was the grandchild who had learned music the most, he chose me to receive his most precious posession. I can still see the look of sadness and the tears that welled up in his eyes as he asked me if I would like to have his fiddle. In fact, as I write this I have a tear or two in my eyes as well. Once in a while I will pull the fiddle out and scratch out a tune or two on it in honour of him.
My Grandpa R passed away just before my second birthday so I do not have any memories of him either. But I see my Grandpa R every time I look in the mirror, since I look just like him. I even have his bad eyesight, too!
Grandma R was a beautiful lady. Back in October I dedicated a blog in memory of her, but I talked more about her death than her life. Grandma moved from Ireland to Canada in 1925. One night I managed to locate her immigration record in the Library and Archives Canada database. I wish I had been old enough to talk to her about her trip across the ocean to Canada and how she felt when she finally arrived and became a citizen. It could not have been easy for her, but she came here for a better life - one that was free from the war and poverty.
She made a wonderful life for herself, she married my Grandpa and had two children. Her house was always comfortable and full of laughter. She taught me many things, including proper manners and that I must always use them. I remember once that Grandma told me "When serving ones self, a proper lady will never scoop mashed potatoes from the centre of the bowl, always from the side." To this day when taking food out of a bowl to put on my plate, I always scoop from the side of the dish, never from the middle, and I always remember the day I learned that lesson.
One Christmas when I was visiting her, my cousin and I wanted to go up the street to the park to see the nativity scene. The park was beside a bridge that went over the river, and had a pedestrian bridge under it. I was instructed not to go under the bridge, but was not told the real reason why. I later learned that seedy people would hang out on the bridge at night doing whatever it is that seedy people do.
Of course when my cousin and I got to the nativity scene, I looked and could see no reason why I should not go under the bridge. I was part way across when my cousin looked at me and yelled "Mom's coming!" so I turned and started to run. I caught my toe, tripped, fell, and gouged my knee. The worst part was finding out that my cousin was just playing a joke on me, and Mom was no where in site. I got back to the house and Mom wasn't there, so I showed my wound to Grandma. The conversation went like this:
me: Grandma I tripped and fell and hurt myself.
Grandma: Goodness! Where did you do that?
me: At the park.
Grandma: You went under the bridge, didn't you.
me: yes
Grandma: what did your Mom tell you not to do?
me: Go under the bridge.
Grandma: Well, I won't punish you for going under the bridge. God has already punished you enough by making you fall and hurt yourself.
me: ok.
To this day I have the scar on my left knee. It is a reminder that there are always consequences to our actions, and it also reminds me that I should always listen to my Mother. And it reminds me of just how cool my Grandma was.
I don't really know much about my Grandpa B either. We did not visit him very often. I remember one visit when I was three or four years old and I tried to go to the corner to pet his dog Tippy. Grandpa yelled at me. Although he was trying to prevent me from getting bitten, it was probably not one of the best things for him to do considering how timid I actually am. After that day I was always very scared of him and did not talk to him much. I do regret it, since I think he would have been a very interesting man to talk to.
I think it is Grandpa B's genes that have given me my love of music and musical talent. I do remember one time when he was down at our house, and he was sitting in a chair by the piano. I knew he liked music and would sometimes play his fiddle for me so I decided to play the piano for him. He really seemed to enjoy himself, but Dad wasn't enjoying it as much and told me to stop so I did.
Music was the biggest bond that Grandpa and I had. During Christmas of 1983 I was given the greatest gift I have ever been given. Grandpa never learned to read music, he only played by ear. At the age of 87 his memory of the songs was starting to go and people at the nursing home where he lived were complaining about his fiddle playing. He was asked to give up his fiddle. Since I was the grandchild who had learned music the most, he chose me to receive his most precious posession. I can still see the look of sadness and the tears that welled up in his eyes as he asked me if I would like to have his fiddle. In fact, as I write this I have a tear or two in my eyes as well. Once in a while I will pull the fiddle out and scratch out a tune or two on it in honour of him.
My Grandpa R passed away just before my second birthday so I do not have any memories of him either. But I see my Grandpa R every time I look in the mirror, since I look just like him. I even have his bad eyesight, too!
Grandma R was a beautiful lady. Back in October I dedicated a blog in memory of her, but I talked more about her death than her life. Grandma moved from Ireland to Canada in 1925. One night I managed to locate her immigration record in the Library and Archives Canada database. I wish I had been old enough to talk to her about her trip across the ocean to Canada and how she felt when she finally arrived and became a citizen. It could not have been easy for her, but she came here for a better life - one that was free from the war and poverty.
She made a wonderful life for herself, she married my Grandpa and had two children. Her house was always comfortable and full of laughter. She taught me many things, including proper manners and that I must always use them. I remember once that Grandma told me "When serving ones self, a proper lady will never scoop mashed potatoes from the centre of the bowl, always from the side." To this day when taking food out of a bowl to put on my plate, I always scoop from the side of the dish, never from the middle, and I always remember the day I learned that lesson.
One Christmas when I was visiting her, my cousin and I wanted to go up the street to the park to see the nativity scene. The park was beside a bridge that went over the river, and had a pedestrian bridge under it. I was instructed not to go under the bridge, but was not told the real reason why. I later learned that seedy people would hang out on the bridge at night doing whatever it is that seedy people do.
Of course when my cousin and I got to the nativity scene, I looked and could see no reason why I should not go under the bridge. I was part way across when my cousin looked at me and yelled "Mom's coming!" so I turned and started to run. I caught my toe, tripped, fell, and gouged my knee. The worst part was finding out that my cousin was just playing a joke on me, and Mom was no where in site. I got back to the house and Mom wasn't there, so I showed my wound to Grandma. The conversation went like this:
me: Grandma I tripped and fell and hurt myself.
Grandma: Goodness! Where did you do that?
me: At the park.
Grandma: You went under the bridge, didn't you.
me: yes
Grandma: what did your Mom tell you not to do?
me: Go under the bridge.
Grandma: Well, I won't punish you for going under the bridge. God has already punished you enough by making you fall and hurt yourself.
me: ok.
To this day I have the scar on my left knee. It is a reminder that there are always consequences to our actions, and it also reminds me that I should always listen to my Mother. And it reminds me of just how cool my Grandma was.
Happy Family Day!
Although this is the second year that we have had a statutory holiday in the middle of February, I am still not used to having it. My long weekend plans should have included a visit to my blood family, but instead I spent it with members of my urban family. I would like to say that I at least spent most of the day thinking about my family, but the reality is that I spent most of the day sleeping. So in an effort to assuage my guilty feelings about not celebrating my family, I will write a bit about them.
This started out as one big blog entry, but it turns out that my family is larger than I thought and the entry was getting too long. I am going to divide this up into a few sections - The Grandparents, The Parents, The Siblings, The Ones Who Call me Cool Aunt, and if time permits, the extended family.
This started out as one big blog entry, but it turns out that my family is larger than I thought and the entry was getting too long. I am going to divide this up into a few sections - The Grandparents, The Parents, The Siblings, The Ones Who Call me Cool Aunt, and if time permits, the extended family.
Turkey Pot Pie Part Deux
Well, my turkey pot pie took three days to make, but I had no idea it would take me even longer to finish off the story. The rest of the story actually wasn't that exciting. I went to the store to purchase the remaining ingredients, brought them home, and finished up the pie.
There are two things I will do differently next time I make it. The recipe calls for adding frozen vegetables to the pie. Unfortunately Bisquick cooks much faster than frozen vegetables do which meant that although I had a beautiful golden crust on the top of my pie, I also had a patch of cold turkey, vegetables, and soup in the middle. Next time I will thaw the vegetables first before adding them.
I am used to eating Indian, Caribbean, and Thai food so my tastebuds are very adjusted to spicey food. The Turkey Pot Pie recipe had no spices listed in it, so I didn't add any. I have unofficially nicknamed that version of this recipe as "White Guy Pie". Next time I will add spices to the soup so that the pie won't be so bland.
Despite my complaints about the time taken to make the pie, the cold patch in the middle, and the lack of spice, I certainly will make the pie again. When you have all the ingredients, it is very quick and easy to make. Plus I got four nutritious meals out of it.
There are two things I will do differently next time I make it. The recipe calls for adding frozen vegetables to the pie. Unfortunately Bisquick cooks much faster than frozen vegetables do which meant that although I had a beautiful golden crust on the top of my pie, I also had a patch of cold turkey, vegetables, and soup in the middle. Next time I will thaw the vegetables first before adding them.
I am used to eating Indian, Caribbean, and Thai food so my tastebuds are very adjusted to spicey food. The Turkey Pot Pie recipe had no spices listed in it, so I didn't add any. I have unofficially nicknamed that version of this recipe as "White Guy Pie". Next time I will add spices to the soup so that the pie won't be so bland.
Despite my complaints about the time taken to make the pie, the cold patch in the middle, and the lack of spice, I certainly will make the pie again. When you have all the ingredients, it is very quick and easy to make. Plus I got four nutritious meals out of it.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Turkey Pot Pie
I am finally feeling better, and for the most part my energy level has returned to normal. It's a good thing, since my house was becoming quite the mess and I was very tired of eating canned soup to stay alive. So on the weekend I decided to finally make the turkey pot pie that I had been planning to make for a while.
The sauga of the turkey pot pie begins a few Sundays ago when I was reading the back of the Bisquick box while waiting for some biscuits to bake. I found the pot pie recipe, and decided that I would head off to the store that afternoon. With a trusty list of ingredients in hand, I trudged through the snow to purchase the fixens for my pie. However, by the time I got back I didn't have the energy to make it that day.
My intention was to make the pie the next day, but after receiving an invite to Paul's house for supper I decided to wait until Tuesday. But then I invited myself over to Paul's on the Tuesday. After that, I knew that the likelihood of making the pie that week was nil, and since I was not willing to let good turkey breast go to waste I threw it in the freezer for the following weekend.
The following weekend was Paul's birthday, so I decided that the best present I could give him was to velcro myself to his couch for the weekend. Paul disagrees and is still waiting for a good present. In fact, his level of disagreement was so high that he fed me virus laiden chicken puri puri and virus laiden blueberry pancakes.
NB: This explains the two weeks of pain, suffering and general lack of energy that I just endured. I would be more upset, except the chicken puri puri and blueberry pancakes were quite tasty, and Paul was more sick than I was. And to be honest, I have my own house that I really should be spending more time at, so ultimately it is my own fault I got sick.
So on Sunday I was feeling much better and decided it would be a good day to cook the turkey pot pie, so I took the turkey out of the freezer to thaw. My intentions were good, but I wound up spending the day reading a book, and dug out a frozen bag of pasta and stored the turkey in my fridge.
Now that the turkey has been frozen, I had two choices: throw it out or cook it. I feel I am doing a complete disservice to the dead animal by throwing it out, so last night I finally battoned down the hatches and started to cook the pie. I knew going into it that I could not finish cooking the pie in one night, so last night's contribution consisted of eating the left over pasta followed by tossing the turkey into the oven.
Tonight I came home salivating like Pavlov's dogs at the prospect of fresh turkey pot pie. Recall that Sunday I was quite lazy, so the kitchen was a mess. A half hour of cleaning later, I pulled out my trusty knife and cutting board then proceeded to cube the turkey. I judged correctly, and had the requisite 2 cups of cubic meat all measured out.
The next stage consisted of mixing the turkey, vegetables, and a can of creamy chicken soup together for the base. The thought process went like this:
Pie plate - check!
Cubic turkey - check!
Cubic turkey in the pie plate - check!
Vegetables - check!
Can of creamy chicken soup
.
.
.
Can of creamy chicken soup
.
.
.
FRACK! I ate the creamy chicken soup while I was sick.
So in the end I wound up putting the turkey in a Ziploc bag, cleaned my kitchen a second time, and ate an All Bran Bar that I found while rumaging around my cupboard for the chicken soup.
Tomorrow night I will resume the great turkey pot pie adventure by purchasing the chicken soup. And after three days of waiting, this better be one damned good pie!
The sauga of the turkey pot pie begins a few Sundays ago when I was reading the back of the Bisquick box while waiting for some biscuits to bake. I found the pot pie recipe, and decided that I would head off to the store that afternoon. With a trusty list of ingredients in hand, I trudged through the snow to purchase the fixens for my pie. However, by the time I got back I didn't have the energy to make it that day.
My intention was to make the pie the next day, but after receiving an invite to Paul's house for supper I decided to wait until Tuesday. But then I invited myself over to Paul's on the Tuesday. After that, I knew that the likelihood of making the pie that week was nil, and since I was not willing to let good turkey breast go to waste I threw it in the freezer for the following weekend.
The following weekend was Paul's birthday, so I decided that the best present I could give him was to velcro myself to his couch for the weekend. Paul disagrees and is still waiting for a good present. In fact, his level of disagreement was so high that he fed me virus laiden chicken puri puri and virus laiden blueberry pancakes.
NB: This explains the two weeks of pain, suffering and general lack of energy that I just endured. I would be more upset, except the chicken puri puri and blueberry pancakes were quite tasty, and Paul was more sick than I was. And to be honest, I have my own house that I really should be spending more time at, so ultimately it is my own fault I got sick.
So on Sunday I was feeling much better and decided it would be a good day to cook the turkey pot pie, so I took the turkey out of the freezer to thaw. My intentions were good, but I wound up spending the day reading a book, and dug out a frozen bag of pasta and stored the turkey in my fridge.
Now that the turkey has been frozen, I had two choices: throw it out or cook it. I feel I am doing a complete disservice to the dead animal by throwing it out, so last night I finally battoned down the hatches and started to cook the pie. I knew going into it that I could not finish cooking the pie in one night, so last night's contribution consisted of eating the left over pasta followed by tossing the turkey into the oven.
Tonight I came home salivating like Pavlov's dogs at the prospect of fresh turkey pot pie. Recall that Sunday I was quite lazy, so the kitchen was a mess. A half hour of cleaning later, I pulled out my trusty knife and cutting board then proceeded to cube the turkey. I judged correctly, and had the requisite 2 cups of cubic meat all measured out.
The next stage consisted of mixing the turkey, vegetables, and a can of creamy chicken soup together for the base. The thought process went like this:
Pie plate - check!
Cubic turkey - check!
Cubic turkey in the pie plate - check!
Vegetables - check!
Can of creamy chicken soup
.
.
.
Can of creamy chicken soup
.
.
.
FRACK! I ate the creamy chicken soup while I was sick.
So in the end I wound up putting the turkey in a Ziploc bag, cleaned my kitchen a second time, and ate an All Bran Bar that I found while rumaging around my cupboard for the chicken soup.
Tomorrow night I will resume the great turkey pot pie adventure by purchasing the chicken soup. And after three days of waiting, this better be one damned good pie!
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