Marg's Pick

 

 I awoke to the sound of rain. It had been raining all night.  No big surprises I suppose, as the rain had been almost non-stop this past June in British Columbia. A cool eleven degree breeze blew in from the open window.  No real reason to leap out of bed, after all it was Marg’s pick today.

   Back in the summer of 79, Jan and her university friend, Marg, had hopped a train from Toronto, heading west.  Visiting friends and family, they played their own version of trains, planes, and automobiles across Canada until they settled briefly in Vancouver. There they were joined by another friend, Wendy, and the threesome headed south to San Francisco to give California a look.

 As often happens when you are young, your pocket book begins to run out sooner than your spirit of adventure. They compensated by staying in “Flea Bag Inns” and subsisting on a diet of cheap cheeseburgers. Marg would frequently complain of having cheeseburger hands, a persistent odour from holding too many of them.

 At summer’s end Jan returned to Ontario to her teaching job. Wendy went back to Edmonton to her job with a TV station. Marg, who by this time was by far the most broke of the three, took a chance and went to Vancouver hoping to land a job. For a while, that job turned out to be a night clerk at a hotel. Enough  for a start that would enable her to eventually she became a community centre manager with the City of Vancouver.

  This past June found us in BC once again. Upon our arrival, we hauled our luggage up the front steps of Marg’s Burnaby condominium knowing that she wouldn’t be home until later. No worries.

We found the stashed key, crossed the threshold and headed for the kitchen. As the note said, there were munchies, a very well stocked wine rack and a fridge well stocked with craft beer. Craft beers are big in B.C., big enough that we had just missed The Vancouver Craft Beer Week, a regular “hopapalooza” with 60 participating breweries.  One look at all of the singles that occupied a complete shelf of Marg’s fridge made me feel that I hadn’t really missed out.

 I knew that if I scrounged around enough I would find a bottle of scotch. However it would be better to wait because Marg and I had a long history of sharing a dram or two.

 Our scotch sharing tradition cemented itself back in 1984 after what had been billed as a fun white water rafting trip down the Thompson River.  It started leisurely enough in the upper stretches that flowed through scenic desert canyons. Things began to change as swollen tributaries entered and brought the Thompson to flood levels.  The rapids became larger, but still fun. The mood began to change as we passed over the tree tops of an island that we were supposed to have stopped on for lunch.

 There were other rafting groups on the river, but most of them were professional enough to have a least one heavily motorized rescue raft plus a few kayaks for back up. We had nothing. We couldn’t just stop, as we were mostly in the middle of nowhere and the canyon walls were straight up.  A group ahead of us had to be helped by rescuers who had made their way down the cliffs. Our guides just decided to go for it.

  The raging water was creating its own whirl pools. Sometimes the water would be flat as if it were lying in wait. We had just gone over a flat section when we began to get drawn back.  We began to spin and slide towards a widening dark hole. The water tipped, forming a funnel and we began to descend. “Hang on, we’ll come up eventually!” yelled the guide and I immediately began to wonder how long “eventually” was.  Just as the front end was starting to be engulfed, the river seemed to lose interest in us and the whole thing began to flatten out. We paddled furiously as the guide rowed. We had just made it to the edge of the whirlpool’s influence when it started again. This time we broke free.

 Somewhere in the rapids of either the Devil’s Kitchen or the Witch’s Cauldron we got broadsided by a rogue wave that had been built up by the high waters and high winds bouncing off the canyon. The raft was pushed up to near perpendicular, causing people to be spilled down onto the people on the downward side or tossed right out into the rapids. When the raft righted itself it was full of water, making it really unstable, and there were people missing. Some of us tried to bail with a couple of buckets (“Bail for your life!” were the guide’s exact words shouted in my ear) while others reached out to those caught in the white water. 

 When the raft had tipped, its metal top frame had briefly separated from its rubber body leaving enough space for the arm of one young girl to slide through, but when the craft righted itself, the frame snapped back in tight, acting like a giant mouse trap. Now she was being dragged, her head just above the water while she was helplessly pinned to the raft. If she didn’t drown she would be bashed to death by the rocks. The guide and I were working together to try to lift up on the frame and down on the raft and slide her broken arm out.  We weren’t having any luck.  Although our guide was an experienced raftsman, he had never been dumped before. At one point I looked over to see the guide standing still holding her wrist with his left hand while holding a large knife in the other. I will forever be left wondering what he was thinking, as at that moment her fiancé, a chiropractor, scrambled over the side of the boat and joined us.  While the guide and I pushed down together on the raft, he was able to free her arm and haul her in, in one motion.

  Marg was the last to break the surface. She had been trapped under the raft.

  By the time all three rafts made it to the landing, everyone was completely wired. The company tried to calm everybody down by bringing down three cases of beer to the shore. Marg would have none of it. We went straight to the nearest hotel and ordered scotch. Then we ordered more scotch.  We’ve shared a scotch each time we’ve gotten together ever since.

  So, by the time our feet hit the floor that rainy morning, in-laws Mary Lou and Bryon, along with Jan and myself, had already completed our “2012 Tour of Vancouver Island’. Jan and I were back at Marg’s, and Mary Lou and Bryon had stayed over in a hotel and had given themselves but one day to see some of Vancouver. There could be no better guide than Marg.

 Over coffee she scrutinized weather reports from online sites and the newspaper and the TV weather channel until she found a somewhat optimistic forecast to plan our day around. A brief in-car tour of the Olympic Village proved to be enough to soak up the rest of the morning’s rain, so we headed off to the Vancouver Aquarium. This place is going to be busy no matter when you go but today was the start of all of the summer day camps and it seems that every darn one of them had booked into the Aquarium to kick off their programmes. It was jammed. I was on a bus in Beijing in rush hour once that was slightly more crowded but that would be it. The 4D movie, the beluga show, the penguin display, the Rainforest room, were all “enjoyed” while we were being pressed on all sides by kids who had just escaped the confines of the classroom for the unbridled noisy freedom of the day camp. Looking at the faces of the young camp leaders I figured that they’d all be full blown alcoholics by the end of the summer.  I started to get to the point where I was willing to pay more to leave than I did to get in when Marg declared that our time allotment here was over.

  Next came a driving tour of the Stanley Park seawall with lots of stops for photo opportunities and “lupper” at Prospect Point – a beautiful setting, and salmon burgers all around.

 Being practical she next included a stop at Everything Wine so that we could all stock up. Like the name indicates, there are lots and lots of choices to be made here and choose away we did.

   The real find of the day turned out to be a trip to Deep Cove. The drive wasn’t far as it is on the east side of North Vancouver but the change in scenery and mood was amazing.

A lot of what makes this place unique is that the town must accommodate the steep slope of the foot of Mount Seymour.  An eclectic mix of housing styles is also designed to incorporate the numerous streams that come raging down the mountain. The water can be found tumbling under anything from dens to car ports. 

The houses that are nearest the shore have driveways that go up to the road at dizzyingly steep grades. I couldn’t imagine having good enough brakes and fast enough reflexes to avoid driving through the garage door and out the other side. An ascent up to the road would require an extra low gear even on a rain or frost free day. If this was Ontario you would be stuck at the bottom of your driveway for 10 months of the year.

  The harbour is a great place for a walk as you will get to do lots of people watching. A large group was having a BBQ.  Two people were getting deliberately overturned into the cold sea water during their kayak lesson while another person blasted by practicing an Olympic kayaking sprinting style.  Several people were mucking about on their sail boats and the Rowing Club was having a gathering.

 The town is an interesting walk in itself and if you are a mountain bike enthusiast you might want to stop in at The Deep Cove Bike Shop which is credited as being the shop responsible for bringing the first mountain style bikes to Vancouver.  Their web site is quite interesting to boot if you are a fan of the sport.  

 All this walking around made Bryon and I hungry for a little snack before dinner so we headed over to Deep Cove Pizza. This is not your usual slab of bland cheap cheeses with the same old toppings. These people use ingredients fresh enough that you can taste the difference and have a good stable of interesting choices like “Patate Con Aglio-Crumbled feta, thinly sliced potatoes, white onions, split garlic roasted to perfection, fresh rosemary and crushed black peppercorns”.

By the time we had finished enjoying our pizza al fresco, the clouds and fog had thinned and the sun was in full retreat. Marg had one last pick. “Let’s go home and start drinking some of that wine we bought today.”  Good choice, Marg. Good choice. 

Panorama photo of Deep Cove courtesy of Bryon Monk

- The Road to Middle Beach

   
A cloudy Chemainus morning found us scrambling along the deck and up the stairs to the main floor. Fran was making breakfast like the longstanding reputation of her B&B was at stake. Bananas and pineapples and strawberries on a skewer set in a long dish of yogurt. Cheese eggs and crispy bacon and toast and jam with orange juice, coffee and tea. Four yums out of four. In fact Fran's breakfasts were so good we started calling good meals "Frantastic"! On the down side both Fran and Robyn who run the business are starting to feel that they are going to wind down the B&B aspect of their lives so all wondered will we ever meet again.
  Packed, loaded, GPS engaged, Jan got behind the wheel and steered us through the rain that had clouds and fog that hung in the trees and almost touched the sea.
 We stopped at Coombs. Seventeen years ago it was small market with a grass roof and a few goats to keep the roof trim. 

Now it is more of a mini mall with a maxi crowd. The rain might have made it the only game in town but we felt jammed in and left in a hurry.

If you have an eye you just might spot the Whiskey River gas station. You have to look for the two big clowns embedded into the side of the building. At one point in time their big bellies would open up and someone would serve you some of the most delicious ice cream that you have ever had.

 At this point they are just memorabilia and are being restored. While we were there a worker bragged about having driven a good distance to repair the red nose on one of clowns( a painted piece of PVC end cap as I recall) I had to take a photo because one of our sons, Dan, hates clowns. As a child he had a huge clown marionette which  hung in the corner of his bedroom overlooking his crib. One morning  Dan awoke to find that the  the clown had fallen down and he couldn't see where it was. He thought it was alive and after him. He has never quite forgiven us.
   If you want to look like an old pro when checking into Middle Beach Lodge it's best to try on a yellow slicker and a pair of rubber boots from the lot on the porch so that you can have your gear slung over your arm as you approach the desk, thereby looking ever so much as someone who is in the know. 

And do it even if it is a sunny day - you're on the west coast where it can be four seasons in four hours. You just sign out your gear when you sign into your room. What could be "slicker"?   

  The lodge has its own private beach on the north side but as there as no real sun and a windy high of only 18 we squelched around looking for strange creatures in  the tide pools.
  The south side offered more in the way of adventure as it hosts the Bella Pacifica Campground. This place has a huge beach and as it was the long Canada Day weekend there was no shortage of campers. As we stumped around the campground in our gear gawking at the assemblages that went  from hillbilly throw togethers to rural palaces, the ladies managed to get a good deal ahead of the men. Perhaps it is a uniquely Canadian skill that lets a young man size up a fine young mate though she be covered head to toe in a yellow sou' wester and knee hugging galoshes, but by the time Bryon and I had caught up to Jan and Mary Lou they had already been chatted up considerably by a young male camper who was part of a large group. Perhaps the cosmetic companies could take note that it's more a good suit of rain gear that can erase 30 years a whole lot faster and cheaper than their products. There may have been more than just haute couture involved with this as the chatting up ended with one of the young man's buddies commenting to him, "Hey you'd better start taking it easy with the beer."
 Once back at our cabin - which was really half of a duplex, we broke out the munchies and vino and headed to the deck. 

One end was occupied by a hot tub but somehow no one ever got around to it. Instead we sucked in the panorama of the ocean and our private beach while savouring some of the Blue Grouse winery products.



The Blue Grouse winery is located in the Cowichan Valley near the town of Duncan which was an easy drive from our B&B in Chemainus. 

As we were the only customers we got to taste our way through all of their wares at a leisurely and informative pace.

 Maybe because it was a slow day we also got the low down on which years were the best and which the ones to avoid due to wet growing conditions. As we looked out on the soggy vines on this weather iffy day she sighed a "This year isn't going to be one of the good ones." The Muller Thurgau, the Ortega, the Pinot Gris and the Siegerrebe were all very good but my heart got stuck on the Black Muscat. It tasted like a mouth full of liquid black current jam. She said that they were the only vineyard in Canada to grow the muscat, a grape that is black, sweet tasting and smells like rose petals. She also said that it was $26 dollars a bottle. My hand reflectively covered my wallet. I was going to resist and had almost made it back to the car before giving in to some sort of internal mantra about life being too short to spend drinking bad wine. 

The Black Muscat paired well with some smoked salmon and our view from the cabin deck. 
  We left that view for a different view of the ocean from the main lodge. Over some local beers and wine we discreetly horded plates of crab cakes (the real kind) and offerings of warm phyllo wrapped brie.
 Supper itself was served buffet style.  Hand line caught salmon (they even supplied the fisherman's name) with tomato chutney and Yukon mashed potatoes along with various salads, breads and eventually desserts and coffee. Great quality and a fair price for what you get.
  Trouble broke out shortly after the log was lit in the fireplace. The downstairs bedroom that Jan and I took had a sort of ensuite attached via a thin wooden locking door. The upstairs bedroom people would have to navigate the stairs at night to get to our "ensuite". 

This made is some sort of community ensuite which I'm not sure really qualifies as an ensuite at all but then again I'm not a real estate expert. What I am sure of was this bathroom was built like a drum. Any sound made in it could be heard probably all the way to your house. Without trying you could hear the sound that a towel makes against a person's skin after a shower. Unfortunately we didn't discover this at the shower phase. It was more to the point that the crackling fire everyone else was seated around enjoying was no match for the bum symphony that I was putting on. It would have been less distracting sound wise to have had chamber pots in the living room. The sisters weren't impressed. Apparently women care more about this sort of thing than men do. The solution was that Bryon and I were banished as a team to the guest washrooms over at the main lodge. It was a bit of an inconvenient hike but we were told that it was worth it.
  The sound problem extended beyond the bathroom. While we were lying in the bed looking up I noticed two things. First of all this place was really well built. The wooden joists were hugely thick and the bare wooden planks they supported were tight. Second if someone above was reading a book you could hear the pages being turned.  For a moment I thought about launching into a thinly disguised pitch that included references to the day's romantic setting, long walks on the beach, good food and fine wine when I was cut off by the sound of another page turning above our heads.   Nothing so good for you after a lovely day than a very quiet night's sleep so they say.

 Ken

"Deckadence" in Nanoose Bay

On the right day a ferry trip from Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo is more than a necessary mode of transportation. It is an eye full of boats, mountains, islands, the distant city of Vancouver all embraced by a sparkling sea. Today was such a day and we took it all in,  right at the front, on the top deck. We pretty much had the place to ourselves as passenger traffic was still light to due high ferry prices and a long string of bad weather days. 
 The west coast had been pounded with rain such that the Fraser River was flooding and its long line of brown outflow could be seen far out  against the blue green ocean.
  Our GPS guided us directly to Nanoose Bay and then down side roads where deer didn't even bother to look up as they munched on people's lawns and gardens. We found Carey, a friend of Jan's from high school, and her spouse Annabel's house at the end of a lane surrounded by forest and fronted by ocean. 

                           A brief  nature walk to a local lake 

was a good excuse to build up an appetite for food and drink on the back deck. 










The deck sits above the tree top level of the huge firs and cedars which climb the steep slope from the shore. I felt my ADHD kick in as my concentration went from fine wine, to elegant cheeses, to massive trees, to the ocean, to passing vessels, and to the conversation that I was trying to follow.

  Supper was prepared by Annabel who used to cook for Fettucine's, an Italian restaurant of note back when it was on Bank Street in Ottawa. Tonight, a masterfully barbecued flank steak with pepper corn sauce paired well with the right wines, was complemented by potatoes and brightly coloured snap beans, whole carrots, and tomatoes. This led way to succulent desserts 

of strawberry rhubarb pie with whipped cream along with (why have to choose?) profiteroles and ice cream. 











The coastal air was fresh and cool  as we settled into bed with Diva, their cat. It's her bed. 

She was there first and had no problem with sleeping between us.












West Coast people seem to know when to get up as opposed to Ontario people who generally set their alarms for sometime in the late middle of the night. So after a none too early start to the day we found ourselves out on the deck with one of Annabel's fresh made lattes and a couple of swiped sections from Carey's Globe and Mail. Now a vacation for me usually involves a " news fast". Normally I am as much an information junkie as the rest of us especially if it involves stock prices, but when on holidays the last thing I need to either start my morning or end my day is reading about the world's terrors and tragedies knowing full well that I can do little to directly affect them.  This fast, this deliberate attempt at not knowing, has become part of any vacation travel. Still, my hand had, by reflex action, snared the Business section.
  We basically sat around the deck with our mouths open like baby robins waiting to be fed until Annabel presented us with breakfast. I've eaten a lot of eggs over my life time but Annabel's version of scrambled eggs means that the whole notion needs renamed. I might over time be able to get the recipe from her but I will need her to do the cooking. They are that good.
  The phone rang, a friend was asking for a bit of dog sitting so Annabel who also had had a dog grooming business a few years back, went and picked up a french poodle named Rosie.  We now had their own dog Dorey, plus Rosie.

 It was time for some serious walkies.
  First we had to tie our shoes. Carey gave us a new "how to" that I still employ. Most of us start with a little right over left and snug it down - kept that. Then we make a bow and hold it with our left hand. Keep that too. Now we go over top and through the loop that you just created. Buzzzt wrong! Try going UNDER the bow and through the loop. Why? Because if you do this properly the bow should lay perfectly at ninety degrees to your foot and apparently/theoretically be less likely to come undone than the normal bow that after a few steps often ends up parallel to your shoes. The first few days I found it difficult to make this work. Now this version is the automatic one. You have officially been challenged. Give it a go.
 At the first stop, Rathtrevor Beach, Carey and Annabel kept the dogs on the extensive boardwalk while Jan and I ran around the huge beach with our arms spread out like we were in some kind of cosmetic or deodorant commercial. 

  We discovered some sort of algae or kelp that shone like sheets of gold in the sun and watched an eagle as it investigated a diminishing tide pool.
   As it had been way too many moments since breakfast we redivided the crew into two cars and headed off in search of lunch. I got to go with Annabel and Rosie.  Annabel has the coolest Mini Cooper ever. Amongst other after market features is a Mini Mouse doll stuffed into the coffee mug holder. De rigueur I`m told. Annabel knew how to drive it and I knew how to hang on.
 The Black Goose started out in 1921 as a building designed by one of Canada's great architects, Samuel Maclure. 

The fact that on a sunny day it  happens to overlook Rathtrevor Beach was also not lost on us. It is a self described English/Scottish pub-styled restaurant and has the menu to match. We sat outside on well cared for picnic style tables and ordered both the English and Scottish Ploughman's lunch along with a pheasant and pistachio pate. The other real find of the Black Goose, Annabel had been holding out on me until the drink order. 

 They have Innis and Gunn on draft! Two pints please! 

After lunch more serious walkies ensued. The next beach was Parksville which was followed by yet another beach boardwalk.

Finally there was some looking around in shops and at The Old School House Art Gallery that Carey's parents had helped to foster in Qualicum Beach. All this of course was just a ruse to fill in time to the next meal.

Supper was incredible - local striped shrimp, Alaska cod with incredible homemade peach salsa, a rice with beets and nasturtium dish, an avocado salad. We didn't even make it to dessert before I humbly asked if they would adopt me. I could tell by the way that the food particles flew out of their noses that this was going to be a hard sell.









One of the real pleasures of cigar smoking is being able to share some quiet time puffing along with someone who knows and appreciates cigars as much or more than you do. Annabel went out of her way to share with me her collection of cigar bands and some of the stories that went with them. She also managed to  reference the magazine Cigar Aficionado a few times in the process. 

  I was impressed, but then she had to choose. I displayed a number of offerings. She went for a Cuban made Montecristo platinum1999 series. Good pick. I settled on a the classic Cuban made Montecristo No4.

We sat out on the deck watching the cruise ships go by as the sky darkened. An espresso was followed by a fine bourbon with just a touch of water. The smoke and the conversation drifted quietly in the night air. Pure "deckadence."

Sorry I Ate the West Coast Part Two (or, How To Make a Man Bag)

I must confess that going to the Tomahawk wasn't my idea. Louis, a good friend and a man often described as a "foodie", sent me an email that in effect said, "Hey, if you are going to Vancouver you've got to check out this restaurant that was on Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives".
Now according to the Urban Dictionary a "foodie" is,
"A person that spends a keen amount of attention and energy on knowing the ingredients of food, the proper preparation of food, and finds great enjoyment in top-notch ingredients and exemplary preparation" Yup that would be him. That would make me just a simple "cookie" and an enthusiastic but uninformed "eatie".
 Louis is also a man who doesn't like things to go to waste. He volunteers at a thrift type store and has a giant shed full of stuff that often gets recycled in creative science projects for kids. He has also just had his 65th birthday.
 So in Louis' honour my wife, Jan, and I present a recipe:

"How to Make a Man Bag"

Ingredients

2 Tomahawk diner placemats

2 Tomahawk diner headbands

1 stapler

25 staples

Method

Staple the sides of the 2 placemats together with 3 staples per side.

Staple the bottoms of the 2 placemats together with 11 staples.

To add handles, staple a headband to each side of the openings at one end.  Use 2 staples per headband end.

Repeat on the other end of the bag opening.

Optional Ingredient

Fold in 1 Tomahawk diner rubber duckie.

Garnish with yellow tissue.

Let set overnight, then serve to your unsuspecting friend.

Sorry, But I Ate the West Coast - Part One - Following the Mouths of the Famous

  Somehow, some people have managed to become famous by eating. I don't mean speed eating or over eating to the point where you become the world's biggest person, just normal eating and telling people how much you like it. As far as I know being able to open your mouth and shove something edible into it and then say "Yum!" isn't on any university curriculum but it should be. Just turn on your TV and there will be some sort of "food channel" where people make a very fine living making things and going yum. There are even shows about people who don't even make their own stuff - they just go around eating other people's stuff and going yum. Sitting at home you can't even smell it yet alone be able to tell if that yum is genuine. I wanted to be the Yum Meister so I decided to follow in the foot steps and the mouths of the famous.
 One of the more popular food programmes is Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives with Guy Fieri on the Food Network. One of the most famous places to eat in North Vancouver is The Tomahawk. It was just a matter of time before the two got together. If you missed the episode you can easily catch up on it on Youtube. If you do, you will get to hear Guy go gaga over Yorkshire pudding, beef dip and gravy. That's fine but you will notice that he is eating in the kitchen with the chef, and that's not the typical dining experience for most people.

 First, you have to get in. They have a parking lot, but not huge. We got the last two spaces. Once inside the door be prepared to wait. A lot. We were told one wait time but it got supersized.  There is a trick to the waiting period that we learned by, well, waiting around. It seems that they seat groups as whole groups so if you ask for a table for six you get to watch while three tables of two get seated before you. One woman in charge of a group who had been waiting for quite a long time before we even got there asked for her group to be split up so that they could get seated. The woman who was in charge of taking your name, handling the check out, selling the souvenirs  and pretending to be interested when the 87th customer in a row mentioned that they had seen the Guy Fieri review,  was adamant that once they had been given the whole group number they were going to be seated as a group. We got in before they did.
 While you are waiting for a server you can spend your time being bedazzled by a homemade museum. It is festooned with everything related to aboriginal culture. Most of it seems to be genuine fine quality artifact and art, some of it seems to be more kitsch than culture,  and there are even a fair number of items that seem to feature racist caricatures that in other establishments would have been removed by the politically correct police some time ago. The latter category may be why you aren't allow to take pictures.  Regulars, I gather, love it and don't want anything changed. Newbies can make up their own minds.
 Now for the food. Mr Fieri had already covered the supper stuff and although it was pushing noon we opted to go for the breakfast menu.  Marg, our Vancouver friend (and guide to this experience), said that there was no choice, I had to have the Yukon.  Straight forward enough but apparently there was an upsell option concerning the type of eggs that I could choose. I find this vexing. If it wasn't for Marg I would have gone through enough consternation just sussing out the main choices, now it seemed that I had to pass some sort of moral ethical test concerning the environmental genesis of my chicken embryo. I think that a regular egg means that mom was kept in a cage and fed some sort of chicken food which may or may not have been good for me. The term free range gives me this picture of the chicken mom scratching in some dirt and eating the occasional grasshopper as well as some sort of chicken feed that may or may not be good for me. Organic means that mom might be in a cage but she gets fed something certified to some standard that it is to some specific degree chemical and pesticide free. Nice to have choices but that's a lot of decision making about something that comes out of a chicken's bum when I haven't even had my coffee yet. 
   My meal consisted of huge amounts of Yukon bacon over fried eggs over toast over a large helping of home fried hash brown potatoes. I'm not really too sure what Yukon bacon is as it looks like regular bacon mated with back bacon, fried to very well done. As my wife, Jan, is not a bacon person, she went for the french toast. Four big slabs and maple syrup. She managed to mumble out a "very good" between forkfuls. I am usually suspicious when I see large quantities of food offered. Often volume means poor quality but luckily that's not the case here. Just good food and lots of it.
 While you are lining up to pay at the counter you can peruse the souvenirs such as they are. If you neglected to wear your colourful cardboard feathered headdress while eating you can pick one up for the next time you need an outfit to wear to work on "Casual Fridays". You might even cheap out and scoop a couple of placemats -they have a cartoon drawing of Canada and say "Keep Smiling", so they can be used for all occasions. If you are into more upscale mementos you could go for the t shirts that say, "KEEP SMILING" or the ever adorable yellow rubber duckie with the painted feather headband that also in block letters announces "KEEP SMILING". Like the eggs, its your choice.
 Well I don't have a nifty car like Guy to drive off in to end the review but if any of his camera crew reads this I'm ready for my line and close up on 1...2....3    "Yum!"  Ken

Pond Elephants

 According to Wikipedia, a white elephant is an idiom for a valuable but burdensome possession of which its owner cannot dispose and whose cost (particularly cost of upkeep) is out of proportion to its usefulness or worth. The term derives from the story that the kings of Siam (now Thailand) were accustomed to make a present of one of these animals to courtiers who had rendered themselves obnoxious, in order to ruin the recipient by the cost of its maintenance. -I couldn't have said it better myself.
 ^{Only  two survived the ice and snow of winter, but only the 49 center made it through the harrows of an all too early spring. By the second week of March we were breaking records on a daily basis. I have a habit of recording the weather in my journal. On March 13 is was a record +16 C whereas the average for that date would have been +5.On the official day of spring (March 20 here) it was 25 degrees as I watched the last of my fancy gold fish succumb to having emerged from its winter's nap too early. You see winter isn't as stressful for fish as you might think. Protected against supercooling winds by a layer of ice (with at least a small air hole in it for gas exchange) they go to the bottom and metabolically shut down. It is the spring that causes them problems. Their immune system is usually at its weakest,while parasites have already emerged.  Suddenly warm temperatures will tempt them to eat but the enzymes needed to digest their food have not kicked into gear. In general large fluctuations in water temperature are a death sentence to most fish. Most fish that is except for the 49 centers. Sometimes they are just called "feeders" and are sold to be torn apart by piranhas and other predatory tropical fish. The are always the cheapest fish in the store and are crowded into large tanks with signs on them saying that you can't "pick" your fish because its not worth the shop keeper`s time. Last fall I insisted on picking one anyway because I liked its unusual colour - red spots on a white background, paid my 49 cents and tossed it into the pond to see how it would fare. By the end of March the temperatures were diving to minus 9 at night and rocketing up to plus 18 the next day only to fall again but the 49 center was still hanging in there as sole occupant of its 800 gallon domain.
  About a month ago a neighbour knocked on our door and wondered if I could help out his friend. It seems that he had these fish which had outgrown their aquarium and wondered if I would take them. When asked what kind of fish they were he answered, "Koi". Well I didn't know anything about koi except that I had heard they could be expensive so being a man who enjoys a bit of thrift I said that we should arrange it for me to have a look at them. It could be the problem was that my neighbour's first language isn't English or it could have been that their original owner was desperate to get rid of them but about an hour later my neighbour arrived back at the door without his friend but with two koi splashing around in a small bucket. Apparently this was a done deal. Not being a koi fancier I didn't know what I was looking at. They were white with black splotches on their backs. They sort of looked like ugly cows but it seems that they were my ugly cows now. They came with a warning that the previous owner thought that they didn't like people and would freak out anytime anyone approached their aquarium. Fine. I did the proper release method into the pond and they immediately went and hid under the rock shelf that hides the pump. And they hid and they hid and they hid. 
 The articles on the net kept going on about how friendly koi are and that they would eat from your hand so after an entire week of not seeing them I began to wonder if they had been scooped up by a raccoon or heron. I reasoned that if they were still there maybe if they had some buddies they would follow the buddies and come out and play where I could see them. If there are 49 center koi I didn't find them. Koi it seems come in all sorts of colours and patterns that all have fancy Japanese names to go with their fancy price tags. I ended up with two gin rin and some sort of butterfly koi so that my free koi now had sixty something dollars worth of play pals. When released into the pond they mulled about in the centre until the cows came out, herded their new buddies up and took them back under the shelf - for another week.
 Since I wasn't too busy not seeing my fish I had time to spare to do some research. It seems that you have to feed koi. This was a bit of a revelation as I had never really bothered to feed my cheap goldfish. They had been very content to eat the algae and pond plants and aquatic insects on their own schedule. So after a pit stop at the pet shop I now had $36 worth of flakes and pellets that I was supposed to throw at them several times a day. I did the whole bit even soaking the stuff first before making my offering. No response. The koi remained hidden while the 49 center raced around shoving everything it could into its mouth.
 Back to the research. Apparently water lilies and koi are not a good mix. The koi root around in the pots looking for worms and make a mess of things. I managed to give away one lily before climbing into the pond and lifting out the two special bushel baskets filled with special aquatic soil and the remaining three lilies. Let's see -three lilies at $35 a piece plus containers and special planting medium. -lets say about $125 worth headed to the dump. On the bright side I found out why the koi had not been eating. Although the top water was at 58 F the rest, let say for example at crotch depth was considerable colder which meant that it was just too cold for them to be eating and much too cold for me to have chosen to wear a bathing suit instead of my insulated chest waders. 
  The water in the pond decided to go cloudy and green so I wasn't about to see my fish even if they ever did come out from under the rock shelf. This is normal at this time of year but it had already been through this cycle and had cleared. Now what? Well it seems that if you have koi you have to have a pond filter. In thirteen years of pond ownership we have never had a filter as goldfish basically don't put out enough poop to bother with. Koi do and you have to clean it up. Something called a pressure filter costs $338.99 after tax. If you need hoses to attach it that will be about two bucks a running foot. You will need lots. 
  Okay, fine now a least all I had to do was install the filter and my problems would be over. According to what I saw in the manual I should be able to do this myself if I just take my time and work carefully. All was looking optimistic until I got to page 3 where it said IMPORTANT-The maximum operating pressure is 0.04 Mps (0.4 Bar or 5.8 PSI) What the heck did that mean? It meant that if my existing pump was too strong it would blow my new fangled filter (with its extra special algae killing ultraviolet light and maybe a decoder ring included) to bits. Problem- I had not installed the original pump nor had I made its acquaintance in over a decade so I had no idea what I was dealing with apart from the general perception that it seemed like it was a pretty strong pump. Back into the water. Thirteen years of slime and rust had erased any sign of a name but oddly there was a sticker on it that looked all but brand new and on it was a model and serial number. Back to the internet.
  You guessed it. I needed a new pump. So tax in some $283.79 later I had a new one. Matches perfectly with that new filter I had recently purchased or so the guy said. All set now. Smooth sailing. Too easy mate.
  Installing the pump was going to involve more than a casual pop into the pond. A quick splash in and a look see wasn't going to cut it. No, for this a proper draining was in order. Ladling it out with a bucket was going to take forever, however for a mere $108.76 plus tax-lets call that $122.90 shall we, plus a 50' length of hose (on sale for 29.99 plus tax) better still to get two lengths in case I wanted to fertilize the front lawn with fish poop water as well.
 Even with the sump pump emptying the pond took some time. I really don't know how big it is, as it is an odd shape and very hard to calculate. Perhaps my water bill will give me a clue.
 Perhaps it would have been wisest to have netted the fish before entering the pond but by the time there was only a foot or so remaining enough stuff had been churned up that they were impossible to see. I had learned by bitter experience that getting into the pool rarely went as hoped. The rocks are covered in a green slime that defies your best attempt at grip. You bum scooch along the edge as best you can  then at some unplanned moment physics takes over and you go on a short but violent rock water slide to the bottom. Getting out involves some sort of humiliating grovelling in scum. Your clothes are in for at least a double washing or a good burning. The solution at least in part is to sacrifice a good long towel or two over the intended path of entry. It seems to provide more grip but don't use anything that you might ever want to see again.
Once in I was of course in danger of stepping on the koi. However by this point I really didn't care. Somewhere along the line I had gone over to the dark side. This was now about me against the project. This was going to be a properly working koi pond whether it had any koi alive in it or not. Maybe if I stood on a few of their little heads it would smarten them up and they'd get a bit more with the programme. Now fully focused I connected the bits and pieces with relative ease.
 Clambering out I now had to refill the pond to the point that the pump could be tested, but not too full in case it didn't work. It sort of did. The old pump took about 1000 watts to run it. The new one takes 150. That's just not going to be the same. The original pump was so powerful that the stream had to be cut into two and a second less visible less attractive fountain head was added to deal with the extra force. The new pump put most of the water to the secondary fountain head and a trickle to the main one.
 Cutting time. The area behind the start of the waterfalls had had 13 years to fill in with bushes, vines, and wayward tree branches . It took four large yardwaste bags worth of cutting to clear the area enough so that I could do what came next.
  Shovel time. Only those who have tried to dig in dry Ontario clay will fully appreciate this but for those who haven't it is much like trying to dig a hole in a sidewalk with a spoon. The old water system would have to be unearthed in the hope of controlling the water flow and a three foot hole would have to be dug to hide most of the filter from the gaze of the neighbours. That took two complete days and $9.65 for something called a ball valve.
  The next day I hooked up the filter with hardly any swearing at all.  I filled the pond, and added the two bottles of  bacteria boost  ($29.99). Two days later the water was crystal clear and if the fish hadn't been hiding you could have seen them.
 Some facts in brief
  Peas- fancy grade sweet petite to be exact are so far the only food that these creatures will touch. A large bag which is twice the size of the official koi food costs $3.79.  They will even briefly come out of there hidie hole to eat it. The 49center loves it too.
 Colours and patterns- If you are going to buy some koi you should probably do a little research first. It turns out that the ones that look like cows (or if you scrunch up your eyes - little blotchy short snouted white elephants) are probably the valuable ones whereas what I picked out only demonstrated how much I didn't know about the subject.
 Size - If you manage to do your job well these characters will just keep on growing no matter what size container you have them in. 
  It may well be that one day I will be standing on your front porch  with a bucket  filled with splashing, colourful fish. Oh don't worry, I`m not going to charge you for them. They`re a gift.  Ken}