some of our uni friends who made the trip

My sole contribution was showing up with three trays of black-market baklava (I mean, I think it was on the up and up, but it did give me a delicious thrill to call a restaurant to inquire about baklava, and be told to call back in half an hour for a special price), and posing for some requisite cake-slicing-and-smearing-icing-on-Eric photos.

Sometimes I’m too predictable

It was a fabulous time, and totally cemented my opinion that eloping and partying afterwards was 100% the right decision for me (but as a selfish lover of attending weddings, I do not recommend it for any of my friends).

I love my job, but I miss using my hands the way I did when I was a barista. It was such a particular pleasure to use my body, my senses, to make something worthy of consumption – feeling the grind, the pressure, the heat of the milk; knowing how to flick my wrist just so to coax a leaf out of espresso and milk. It feels good to put myself to use. My body isn’t the most coordinated one around, but I can sometimes manage to get it to do some neat things.

mugs, bowls, candy dish, and a wonky flower pot

Before it started, I assumed that we’d spend the first three to four weeks on technique, then spend another few weeks screwing up, and maybe get a mug out of the whole thing. But my very first class, I managed to get two little mugs off the wheel! My final week, I sat down to the wheel determined to make a human-sized mug, but it somehow happily turned out as a cookie jar (again, a mysteriously small one).

his lid is currently stuck on, but I’m hoping that will change

The class is over now, and I’m desperately hoping that I can find a place to sign up for more in Amman, because I think I could spend the rest of my Saturdays making lopsided mugs and weird candy dishes (seriously, the instructor said “oh no…” when she saw one of them. I did that on purpose!).

Anyways, I’ve always been a big re-reader. I’ve probably read most of my favourite books at least five times. But when we were doing our inventory, I came across a big stack that had been in a box with my childhood picture books and that I hadn’t seen in a while, so dragged those out of storage to read. Eric was a little confused as to why, two months before a trans-Atlantic move, I was unpacking boxes, but I was too busy revelling in my new stash.

I’ve always liked Alex Garland’s stuff, but I’ve read several sneering references to The Beach since I’d last read the book itself – stuff about how it was racist to have a book take place in Thailand with no Thai characters, how it was indicative of Gen X’s self-absorption and general awfulness – that I was a bit hesitant to pick it up, because what if my fond memories of reading it and being burningly jealous of my cousins’ trip to Thailand (no secret beaches visited) were ruined?

But I’m glad I did, because it was probably even better than I remembered, because it quickly became clear to me that the people who wrote those scathing criticisms (actually now that I think about it, at least one of them was in a book I hated) were total idiots and missed the point of the book, which was of course being critical of the relentless pursuit of something cool and exciting and an adventure, and also is a great exploration of groupthink and morality.

And also, I still hate beaches, but it made me really crave some pad see ew.

the acorn at Maverick’s

While it’s true that not a ton of bands pass through Ottawa while on tour, those that do often play at small venues that afford a great view. My favourite is Maverick’s – they’ve got the best acoustics and the least sticky floor.

Zaphod Beeblebrox is another popular choice – I’ll never forget seeing Ted Leo and the Pharmacists there a few years ago.

Mello’s has long been a breakfast institution in Ottawa, but last year some geniuses bought a share and opened a late-night restaurant-within-a-restaurant in the diner. They make amazing cocktails and an always-rotating menu of delicious snacks.

The Byward Market is, unfortunately, filled with lots of shitty pseudo-Irish pubs, but I do enjoy a pint at the Clocktower. They brew their own beer (including pumpkin in the fall) and have a lovely patio.

Elgin St is full of bars and pubs; my favourite is the Manx, a cosy basement full of board games and above-average food and brews.

I am of course cheating and mentioning several restaurants that also serve amazing drinks - Supply and Demand, the Elmdale Tavern, and Hintonburg Public House are some of my favourite local places to sip a microbrew or oyster-laden cocktail. But I’m also incredibly spoiled to have a micro-micro-brewery across the street – Beyond the Pale opened this winter and continually sell out of their delicious beer.

On my list of places to check out before we move are the Union 613 speakeasy (shh!) and the Moon Room on Preston, which serves tapas and cocktails until far past my bedtime.

]]> http://meaghantothemax.wordpress.com/2013/05/01/the-ottawa-guide-part-2-drinking/feed/ 0 meaghan the acorn at Maverick's http://meaghantothemax.wordpress.com/2013/04/27/getting-ready/ http://meaghantothemax.wordpress.com/2013/04/27/getting-ready/#comments Sat, 27 Apr 2013 21:49:10 +0000 meaghan http://meaghantothemax.wordpress.com/?p=1442 ]]> The past few weeks have been a blur of full-time Arabic training, full-time management training with part-time Arabic training, inventory lists, luggage shopping, property manager emailing, and fevered list-making. There have also been blood tests, bike rides, hair cuts, board game parties, long runs, pottery classes, grocery shopping, and dog walks mixed in, and I read The Beautiful Ruins, which was pretty good. The snow has melted, my block shop scarf finally arrived, and we’re moving around the world in a few months.

This is a sort-of apology for not blogging, but I can’t bring myself to feel particularly bad – if this were a hundred years ago (or even ten), I’d be apologizing to a book with a lock on it. So whatever. Here’s a picture of my haircut.

Arabic is incredibly difficult – when I first found out I would be getting a few months of full-time (one now and one after my other full-time training in July), I felt pretty confident that I’d be more or less fluent. Now I feel like I’ll be lucky if I can order a meal or buy a camel hair rug (note to self: look up word for rug).

The problem is that, unlike French or Spanish, the words almost never sound like a word from another language I know, so there’s no deducing or guessing when it comes to the meaning. When we were in Mexico, I felt pretty confident blundering my way through with very limited Spanish, because I could understand about 80% of what people were saying. In Arabic, it’s all or nothing – I either know a word or stare blankly at my teacher, eyebrows hopelessly furrowed.

I’m still enjoying it, especially because there’s no pressure to reach a certain level by the time we go. But I’m also glad that I’m not spending more time in full-time language training, because did I mention it’s difficult?

I.

The sun wakes us early,

even before the alarm set so ambitiously last night

before the party.

As we layer on high-tech,

sweat-wicking running gear, I tell you about my dream – banana doughnuts for two.

II.

We gasp at the chill spring air and head our separate ways.

My mind wanders away as my feet plot a well-known course

River, turn, park, geese.

My body finally back to doing what I tell it with only a minimum of complaint.

III.

At the doughnut shop, out of breath,

serendipity

never-before-seen sunshine yellow

banana doughnuts.

“I’ll take two,” I tell the clerk, and “I dreamt about them” comes out

before I can filter my stream-of-consciousness tendencies.

“Wow,” she smiles, “you should tell your husband about more of your dreams.”

We laugh, but of course I already do.

IV.

I head home, slower (mustn’t jostle the doughnuts)

composing punny text messages all the way -

the holey prophesy has been cream-filled.

After my half marathon, I pretty much stopped running. Part of that was because I went to Haiti, where my only choice for running would have been to run laps around the compound. There were already chickens and lizards doing the same thing, so I chose to take a break. Then, of course, it was cold when I got back.

But it was also partly because I had started to really hate how tired I felt after running.

A few weeks ago, when it finally started to warm up, I went for a run for the first time in 5 months, and was pleasantly surprised to find that I was actually faster than I had been last summer. Every time I go for a run now, I’m going further and faster. And on Thursday night, I set out for a slow jog, and ended up somewhat accidentally accomplishing my goal of running a 5K in under 30 minutes, including a stop for a traffic light.

Now I’m reconsidering my “never again” stance on longer distances.

I was much more surprised when Eric texted me in the afternoon about explosions at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. I always feel so blindsided by this sort of violence ripping through something so celebratory – which I’m sure is exactly the intended effect.

In the end, though, whether Baghdad or Boston, this kind of violence is horrifying and senseless. People want to shop at markets, and run through city streets, and cheer and laugh and generally live their lives. The kind of people who go to such crazy lengths to disrupt our collective humanness defy any kind of understanding.

It would be nice, though, that since our hearts are all in Boston today, they could be in Iraq or Pakistan tomorrow.

photo by the formidably talented Kateryn Silva, obvs

We’ve been married for over six months now, and it’s becoming normal to call each other husband and wife (but I still love partner best). My finger feels weird without my ring rather than with; the thin strip of gold now boasts some new scratches besides all the ones I put there on purpose. Watching friends plan their weddings has convinced us that we made the right decision, and every time I hear this song I smile because it was stuck in my head all that day.

Those cookies were also stuck in my head one day recently when I decided to google them, and it turns out that the recipe had been printed not only in the Blue Bottle Coffee cookbook, but on one of my very favourite recipe blogs less than two weeks before we wed. So I bookmarked them, forgot, remembered, had brunch instead, and finally made them tonight, the smell of New York in October filling our apartment while I sat with my husband and enjoyed being in our tiny family.

I used to think I didn’t like brunch. All those overcooked eggs, cold toast, terrible coffee. It’s at a weird time of day so I’m guaranteed to be either grumpy-starving or not really hungry. And if you just want yogurt, it’s $12.

Then I realized that the problem was just terrible restaurants (I’m looking at you, Cora’s). Brunch at its best is a way to elevate humble breakfast dishes into something dinner worthy, but after you’re pleasantly ever-so-slightly-overfull you have the afternoon to walk or bike it off. It’s a meal to languish over, to eat a full plate of desserts, to drink coffee and mimosas at the same time.

So I decided to throw a brunch party to bring all of those wonderful qualities to our kitchen (err, well, common room of our building). I made what felt like too much food (but wasn’t), Eric mixed a big jug of caesars, and we had twenty-odd lovely people come  over and share a not-quite-breakfast, not-quite-lunch meal with us.