Autumn Equinox Dinner

I got two books about the science of cooking. I've only just
begun reading them but I decided to put one lesson to good use
for tonight's dinner.  The book says that heating nuts brings
out their flavour so these seeds and nuts were all roasted.

These are cumin and coriander seeds. I roasted them for three
minutes in a dry pan and my place smelt like heaven. Then
I ground them (see below) to get the most fragrant spices
imaginable. What a difference between doing this and using
dried spices!

The spices are for Puy lentil galettes I am making.  I fried onions to which I added the spices and garlic. The mixture is added to the lentils and then basil, mint, lemon juice and Greek yoghurt is added. I make puff pastry shells on which I serve the mixture. (It's certainly healthy, but may not be to everyone's taste! I liked it in the context of the meal. The potato tart is sweetish.

The second dish is a potato tart. It's baked upside down in a cake dish. Thick potato slices are placed into the pan side by side on top of caramelized sugar spread over parchment paper in the bottom of the pan. Fried cherry tomatoes and caramelized onion are stuffed between the potato pieces and then the whole thing is covered in goat cheese and then puff pastry. Once it is baked, it is flipped over for serving.

The third dish is a watercress salad, with ricotta, other fragrant greens and all the roasted seeds you see in the photo above (in the floral bowl). The showy ingredient, for me anyway, are the quail eggs. I've made us three each. Peeling a dozen cooked quail eggs is an exercise in dexterity and patience that I won't be seeking again any time soon.

Dessert was a big hit

Perhaps you can tell from the gloss on the lemon curd: This
curd is so sensually attractive I don't know whether to eat
is or dive in. That gorgeous colour is simply from the lemon
juice, egg yolk and butter.

Scrotal Recall and Feathers

This is my dining room table. My dining room becomes
my studio when I am on a crafting tear. I cut tissue paper
to make the feathers; each feather has a royal blue  front
and either a light blue or purple back. Two colours are
glued over a wire and then the feature "feathers" are
added to each feather (and to the crinoline - see below).

The paper "slip" goes over the crinoline and hosts the
feathers. The yellow is ribbon; I use ribbon for parts of
my paper constructions that require strength. The crinoline
is ribbon and wire I salvaged from a floral wreath.

I cannot recall ever laughing out loud so much as I did watching Lovesick: Scrotal Recall. It’s a Netflix series that was first broadcast on Britain’s Channel Four and — hurray! —it’s been renewed for another season. It’s pee your pants funny and poignant; I love all the characters.

But I wasn’t finished with the dress when the series ended. So I switched to broadcast television and on came Stephen Colbert. He began with his monologue and I had to mute it I was so offended by his jokes about the breakup of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.

I wanted to scream at him: “They’re people you moron! They and their children, friends and families have feelings.” I was absolutely disgusted by this man I once thought was hugely clever and kind.

•

I am really pleased with my peacock dress — REALLY pleased. So I am relieved. But it’s truly only a skirt so far; I have the bodice, hat and shoes to go but I’m enjoying creative confidence.

It amazes me to say it, but with paper constructions I always land on my feet. Not one of the paper costumes, props and wigs failed when I created them for Trudeau, the Felons and Me last year, so I believe the rest of the peacock dress will come together and please me. It is fab-u-lous to be working in colour. All the work in 2015 was in a white/cream palette.

The 2015 pieces had to be constructed for quick changes; they were working costumes. The peacock dress has, at present, no purpose. However, I have plans to make a cardinal dress next and then an American Game Stag.

•

I have friends coming for dinner tomorrow night. It’s the third dinner party I’ve hosted since my meltdown in April.

Pre-meltdown Chris walked the seawall as often as possible — often three or four times a week and once I walked it twice (that’s 20 K), but I have only walked it twice since April. Post-meltdown man isn’t a walker and neither is he a hoster of dinner parties.

So, as I said in yesterday’s post, I had difficulty choosing what to make. Worse: I had no mojo to make dinner. Pre-meltdown man loved the process of choosing menus and preparing the meals more than the actual dinners, but no more.

But yesterday I got a note from one of my guests. It contained this phrase: “Very excited for a magnificent Chris Tyrell (sic) feast!!” The double exclamation marks are hers. I have a reputation.

Read her remark gave me a boost — not of my ego, but of energy. Her kindness and enthusiasm ignited my desire to please and in doing so, enthusiasm for the dinner returned and I am very happy about that.

Dinner Party; Skirt in Final Stage

It’s that day when I have to close the window at night — not completely, but partially — and my long pants move from the unreachable top shelf to the prime access zone in my closet; the shorts moving up. It’s not warm coat weather by any means yet, but autumn’s here.

Monday morning I had to go to Dressew to get some ribbon for the peacock dress. I took the bus there and back but disembarked from both of them prior to arriving at my destination. I just couldn’t take “life” on the bus. I find transit to be incredibly stressful.

I felt fine in Dressew; searching for ribbon, I noticed some long zippers and so I bought a couple and decided to use my first zipper in a paper dress.

I cannot imagine being happier than I am when I sew — I do it all by hand and for miles. And I never have a plan; all I have is a vision of what I want to do. And the longer it takes, the better.

Today, I got the train on the skirt and started feathering. Finally, after all the work of sourcing wire, building the crinoline, roughly half of the feathers I will need plus a structural slip, I’ve started finishing the skirt.

I have friends coming for dinner on Thursday, so I have to convert my studio back into a dining room, but the skirt will look good on the night of the party.

And speaking of the party…  I had a terrible time deciding what to bake, but I’m settled on something appropriate for the Fall Equinox: Caramelized potato tart, with onion, cherry tomatoes and an expensive artisanal goat cheese I found, a variety of sausages from the best deli in Vancouver (buffalo, turkey and chicken from Oyama) and a salad of various greens, quail eggs, an assortment of roasted seeds (including pumpkin!) and caramelized lemon rind. For dessert I’m making a lemon meringue tart because I think Bruce loves them.

Making Lemonade

It was April 9^th when I admitted myself to hospital, unable to speak and in a state of considerable sustained agitation. It was the next day that I was told that a form of temporary mental illness caused by emotional distress. Two months later, the psychiatrist to whom I was assigned, said the emotional distress was PTSD.

Last week, Dr. Shoja told me how often we would see each other for the rest of my life and when she did, I wept with relief to know that it would last that long. I count on that relief every day and never take it, or Dr. Shoja, for granted.

However, the way PTSD feels to me right now has me thinking of my very recent history differently: On April 9^th, I turned my self in. The next day, the charges against me were explained; I was found to be guilty by reason of insanity, my sentence to be served as house arrest. I am assigned a parole officer whom I am to see once a week for a year, once every two weeks for a second year and then bi-annually for the rest of my life.

At least I have a nice cell. And in truth, I can get out. But on the Labour Day weekend, I was caught on the lam (when I collapsed on the seawall). I was restrained (literally), thrown into a paddy wagon (ambulance) and taken back to prison (St. Paul’s).

My parole officer saw me the next day. She advised me to use the ankle bracelet (medications) I’d been given so that I could safely and legally go outdoors. She understands, though, how the bracelet makes me feel like a felon.

So I stay home with my projects and I sneak out for food and other supplies. I don’t have to wear my bracelet to go to and from any appointments with the prison and/or prison officials, I only have to wear it on days that involve doing things with other people.

All this, and I didn’t do the crime. The crime was done to me and I am still feeling victimized by the perpetrators.

I recently saw a poignant portrayal of a victim of rape on television by an accomplished actor. She presented a flawless and moving performance of a role that was particularly well written. I sat motionless, silent and transfixed because she sounded like I feel. She was expressing the frustration, anger and sadness of living with the life sentence that comes with trauma.

A victim of abuse is like the alcoholic who still goes to AAA and still calls himself an alcoholic even though he hasn't had a drop in fifty years.

I will never stop feeling this way. That’s why I obsess over pretty things: Everything is pretty in my cell and there is an abundance of pretty scents available for release: cologne, incense, soaps, candles, sugar on the burners of my stove and vanilla in the oven. I wear pretty clothes and I’ve been making the prettiest things I can all my life.

That’s my compensatory strategy — making lemonade. Thank God for sugar.

Scene of the Crime; Crin-O-Line

Thursday had me choose to do an odd thing. I went back to where I collapsed on the seawall — actually to sit on the bench where the particularly nasty seizure occurred that got me ambulanced and hospitalized.

Saturday year of rain fell. (It was a sad day, too; Edward Albee died.

I had my electric fireplace on to make the place feel cozy and I binge watched American Crime on Netflix.

I finished the very simple crinoline during the week. (I loved making something so retro.) I bought an old frame made to host a wreath and took it apart to get the wire circles I needed; it was a fabulous find. I made the web with ribbon.

While I watched season one of A.C., I started on the peacock “slip.” I got as far as I could but I need green ribbon to finish it. Tonight, while I finish season two, I will make more of the eighty feathers I need.

Last night, Robin came over for drinks and dinner. She was the first person with whom I’d spoken since Wednesday. I am still shocked by my stutter.  

When I was last with Dr. Shoja, we discussed what “better” meant. She keeps saying that I’ll get better and I believe her. But I am wondering if “better,” for me, means merely seizure-free or if it includes not stuttering. It’s a question to ask her next week — or not. Sometimes you don’t want answers; sometimes answers kill hope.

My Complex Recovery Plan

Once a week for the first year, then bi-weekly for the second: That’s my treatment plan with Dr. Shoja. Plus, I am entitled to tune-ups for the rest of my life. I was overcome with relief when she told me, perhaps because the past two sessions with her have been particularly insightful and fulfilling.

Perhaps most interesting was our discussion of the mantra: “You’re going to get better.” The EMTs that have treated me during each seizure crisis and Dr. Shoja say it all the time and I’m always very happy to hear it. But do I believe it? Do I believe them?

I can’t imagine medical professionals being anything but encouraging, but Dr. Shoja truly believes it.

“Don’t you believe it?” she asked me.

“It all depends on how you define better,” I said. “I’ve decided that ‘better’ is not what I seek. I’m seeking remission.”

I prefer the word “remission” because — to me anyway — it means that all symptoms go away and that life returns to normal but the potential for the symptoms to return continues to exist and that makes one prudent about how one leads one’s life.

(Dr. Shoja encouraged me by telling me about a patient, R, who endured symptoms like mine. She, however, could not get out of bed so she was in far, far worse shape than me. She now is thriving.)

At another moment, I said: “I think that my condition has me feeling a deeper sense of happiness prior to anything I experienced before the onset of these severe symptoms.” Her response made me feel very happy and proud of myself.

She was very positive about my resumption of crafting — making my peacock dress. When I told her I was making 80+ feathers and that each one took about fifteen minutes to make and that I love work, she said it was a form of meditation. And although I wouldn’t have used that word, I undertook the project for the peaceful positive contemplative feeling it gives me.

Medication, meditation, crafting (a form of meditation), walking (another form of meditation — especially when done in nature), writing (again), physiotherapy, psychotherapy; all these activities are part of my complex recovery plan.