Day 152: I Am Leaving Canada

It is too soon. I do not yet know enough about the habits of the Beaver! I did not know they liked apricot Danishes, for example.














Or enjoyed motor travel.













I also had no idea they were so very tiny! You can hold them in the palm of your hand without any trouble at all.

Other than what I have discovered for myself (i.e., made up) with the help of Beaver the Beaver ($1.99 from the Biodome), I have mainly acquired what accurate Beaver Knowledge I have from a pathologist who cuts his own hair.

Him: I think some people think beavers actually live in dams!
Me: What?

Silence. A moose bellows distantly on the horizon. Nothing can be heard except the low murmur of unintelligible French, the clink of teaspoons on coffee cups and the munching of buns.

Him: Do you think Beavers live in dams?

More silence. A distant gunshot is heard. I feel for my passport.

Me: Yes.
Him: (Strokes my arm like I am on Day Release.) Oh dear. They live in huts!
Me: In HUTS? A Beaver HUT? Shut up.
Him: Well, it's a hut in French. Or a Lodge in English.
Me: Oh.

Time passes. We drive from Quebec city to Montreal. We are eating cheese and drinking the wine.

Me: Beaver Hut. Sounds like Pizza Hut. 2 for 1 on Beavers.
Him: Deep pan.
Me: Stuffed crust.
Him: Beaver Margherita.


I don't want to leave the Canada. It has nice pathologists in it, and tiny beavers that can sit in the palm of your hand.

Day 149: I Watch The Barefoot Contessa

There's the film with Humphrey Bogart and Ava Gardner in it and then there's this ridiculously happy lady. She is called "The Barefoot Contessa", and I have been watching her on the Canadian Food Network every morning as I sit in our small but lovely "apartment" in my white fluffy "robe", drinking coffee and wiggling my toes. (The only channels I can find are the Food Network, which is really good, local news programmes - some of them in Dutch - and religious programming. I hasten to add that this has little to do with Canadian television, but rather my inability to a) operate the digital box thing; b) find the patience to scroll through 9.2m channels until I can find the Simpsons.)

But I digress. The Barefoot Contessa is actually called Ina Garten (is she Swedish?). She comes on the telly with a mixing bowl and smiles a lot. She is very pretty and quite fat, but in a nice way, like she's been licking spoons all day. She does recipes without making a fuss and smiles whilst she's doing it. Granted, she talks about "cups" and "confectioners' sugar" and grades of Maple Syrup to mix in her "frosting", but I like her very much. And her splendid straightforwardness and way with goats' cheese and Bundt Cake* merely serve to remind me what a cavalcade of culinary cunts we have parading across our television sets in Blighty.

There is Oliver with his enormous flobbery tongue and anxious wife; there is Ramsay with his characterless wife, strange looking children and hour-long television transmission on every channel every night (even CBBC and The History Channel). There is that barking cretin Gary Rhodes who has the most irritating voice on television today (apart from Jade Goody and her ex-boyfriend Jeff). There is Ainsley Harriot, who is not a cook but a purveyor of innuendo and washing up liquid. There is that freakish ginger dwarf and the man with the test tubes and the name that sounds like something out of Brueghel. There is Nigella who I like quite a lot because she's quite fat and insanely beautiful, but I don't like it when she talks about food. (She's alright writing about it or talking about other stuff mind you.) And of course there's Nigel Slater who, like Nigella, is OK - as long as he doesn't talk about it. Food, that is. (Delia Smith could not, in any way, be described as a cook, so she has no place in this post. She would however have a starring role in a post about pointless cockmonkeys.)

But look at Ina with her flowers! Look at her lovely smiling face. No doubt she says "cilantro" and "baysul", but I'll let her get away with it. In fact I'll let her get away with it to the extent that this very morning - despite temperatures of -12 (which "feel like -20" what with wind chill factors an' all), I am going to go to a "book store", buy one of her books and then go to a kitchen shop and buy a set of measuring cups. In this way I will be able to make North American recipes openly and without hesitation, moving "sticks" of butter around the place and making "cookies" whilst whipping "heavy cream". My cultural conversion will be complete!



* These things are everywhere. They are enormous. I have not actually seen one in a shop yet, but on the Food Network they make them all day, in different ways, with different things in and people talk about "pound cake batter", which sounds a bit painful. They look like they would feed 24, or last a family of 4 for 3 months. I am on the lookout for one today as I will need something to nibble on in the car this evening.

Day 147: I See Sentimental Things Out Of A Window And Am Strangely Pleased By Them, Probably Because They Are In The Snow

Day 146: I Do Not See Beavers

All the way to the Biodome in Montreal on my feet through the snow down a triple carriageway and the Beavers were sleeping! Here is one of them on Beavercam. What you cannot see is the gentle up-and-down of his back, suggesting that he is dreaming of logs. Nor can you hear the gentle rumble of Beaver Snores.























My slight disappointment at not seeing a Real Live Beaver was however shortlived, thanks to some jolly good diagrams on the wall which, once memorised, allowed me to come home and build my very own Dam with the help of my friend Beaver.

Here is Beaver finding a good spot. He is checking that there is food and also water nearby. There is!







And here he is again, gathering branches that will soon become logs. He will make the logs with his own teeth.








You may think that by this point, Beaver would be quite tired but he is not. As you can see, his branches are piling up. Driven by pure adrenaline, Beaver will work long into the night (despite pouring rain and 80mph wind).





Here you can see Beaver checking the height of the doorway is about right. It is!







Here is Beaver in his finished dam. He is tired and a bit fuzzy now, but very happy. Goodnight Beaver! Good work, old chap!

Day 145: I Try And Have A Conversation

I can speak French. French like a French twelve year old can speak French. Not much of an accent, but enough to know that I Am Not French, if you are French.

In Montreal they speak French. And also English. But mainly French. Signs are in French (and English), but mainly in French. The French they speak is definitely French, but I don't understand much of it. Yesterday I had a conversation that went like this (in French):

Me: Could I have a carnet of tickets please?
Man: Unintelligible, eleven dollars, unintelligible, carnet, unintelligible, very unintelligible thank you
Me: I'm very sorry, could you speak a little more slowly, my French isn't very good.
Man: But you ARE French.
Me: No I'm not.
Man: Yes you are!
Me: No I'm not, I'm English.
Man: But you speak French with a French accent!
Me: Well yes, but not very well.
Man: But your French is very, very good!
Me: Not really. I am having a lot of trouble understanding the accent here. I am truly Desolated.
Man (shaking head, passing Metro tickets under the glass): Your accent is of la France profonde. This is bizarre.
Me (slightly deflated): I know. Sorry. Where do I put my ticket?
Man:Unintelligible, hole, unintelligible, unintelligible, very unintelligible, NO, THERE, CAN'T YOU SEE?
Me: I'm sorry, I don't really understand.
Man (exasperated): BUT YOU CAN SPEAK FRENCH!

Repeat to fade.

I am listening to the radio a lot.