In my old life, a typical weekend would involve work. Baking. Watching Euro-movies on my laptop in the background. Lather, rinse, repeat.

In my new life this weekend, there was work… there was A LOT of baking. There was watching Euro-movies on my laptop in the background. AND THEN… there was a baptism?

One of these things is not like the others, I KNOW, but do you remember this?

When I arrived in Calgary at the end of October, the little bean had grown to this:

And now, she’s a WHOLE KID! In honour of her jettisoning her original sin this weekend, by mom’s request, I baked a vanilla cake with lemon curd and vanilla bean frosting that read, “Yay yay, Sia’s baptised today”, and then 12 cupcakes with a lemon centre and 12 plain vanilla—all with a baby foot on them. I did it because Sia’s a baby (and has feet), but the more religious amongst us preferred to see something divine in the decoration. I was told not to ask, lest the conversation devolve into politics. (!!)

ANYWAY: for my new best friend, Sia, I spent a ton of hours in my new kitchen (which I haven’t learned to love yet)—but I will do anything for my best friend. She’s that awesome, at just 5 months old…

and it’s her party, so she can pick at the fondant if she wants to… (ick, baby! Please don’t eat it!)

I *love* this kid. Funniest, most easy-going bébé I’ve ever seen. Currently the best person I know.

So I guess my life is kinda the same, but long live the differences!

So I spent New Year’s in my old stomping grounds. And I *loved* it! It was confusing—I was so socially unhappy there, but I had a career. I was respected, I had authority, I had value.

In Calgary, I have a social life. I have a job. I’m still respected (so much sometimes that I don’t understand where it comes from!), but my life here isn’t revolving around a clearly defined career. I don’t think I mentioned it, but I’m doing legal research (etc) at a small personal injury firm. I LOVE IT. And sometimes, I’m doing legal work, too… sure, some days are brutal when I have painful, tedious tasks to fulfill, but a lot of the time I get to be like my old self: I read a lot, I analyse, I write it up, I present it to the lawyers, and they say, “wow.” Which is very affirming as I go through this flux, but… then I remember that it’s just that they’ve never been exposed to my kind of skill set at my kind of level… and I hate that that sounds WAY UP MYSELF, so let me qualify that by saying that I have about 5 more years’ of schooling than the average lawyer, and I spent a LOT of time refining the particular wow-inducing skill set—I don’t have the legal background or knowledge (my first day I was told, “I want you to write this brief”. I said, “absolutely. What’s a brief?”) , but you want research? You want it written up? Game, set and match.

Returning to my past life (and knowing I didn’t have to stay) was a bit magical. Everywhere I went, I was greated with bear hugs and open arms. I slept in a cottage, surrounded by snow and huge trees. I stoked my own fire every night, (see exhibit A, at right—I MADE THAT!! And shortly after taking this shot I learned that there’s a fine line between “well-stoked fire” and “sweat lodge”) and restarted it, freezing, in the mornings. That part was like my childhood dreams come true: I have ALWAYS loved having space for just me.

This might sound crazy and pedagogical, but I learn best by modelling: show me how, and then I can rock it. That goes double for… LIFE. I’m FASCINATED by seeing how other people do things differently, and totally inspired (or disgusted, if I’m being honest!) by people’s habits. A positive exmaple: my old Norwegian roommate in Prince George, May Kristin. She embodied traits that I wanted to see in myself so much that I wish she had stayed longer, so I could have learned more from her. On the negative, well, who doesn’t know handfuls of cautionary tales?

I mention this because it was SO COOL to see how Jacqueline and her family live. Her kids are home schooled. They live free and wild, governed by curiosity, not rules and structure. When I met Jacqueline, her then-8-year old daughter had taken an interest in Medieval times, and had built a smithy in the back of the house (up above there), where she was forging Medieval-style weapons (out of wood, in fairness…)—all for educational purposes. In PG, I bought my eggs from Jacqueline, because her family have chickens, roosters and rabbits—for consumption purposes. At their house, I’ve had rabbit stew and coq au vin (made with the annoying coq who was driving all the hens mad, and thus met THE AXE) at their house. It’s more gourmet than it sounds, really, especially when Jacqueline’s daughter (the former “blacksmith”, now 13 years old and a phenomenal mixologist SHE DOESN’T DRINK, THOUGH), tends the bar and produces artful concoctions.

All of this to say, it was a New Year’s like no other.

We walked the huskies in the clear cut nearby, nicknamed “Siberia” by Jacqueline’s daughters for reasons you can see at right: a touch desolate? But in a GOOD way! And on our walk, we found a spine.

A moose spine.

Left behind by some hunters who, apparently, didn’t need it anymore.

You just don’t see that every day…

It also wasn’t the only animal carnage we found. On the side of the road there was a moose carcass, skinned and less the head and feet, wrapped in a tarp.

It got extensive news coverage, which will help you to understand when I say that the place I used to live was like being on the moon: THIS WAS BIG, FOLKS. I especially enjoyed the comments devolving into moose humour, i.e., “in the US they’d call this a moose-da-meaner”, and “did the RCMP put in a Moosing persons report?” (until chastised with, “you moosen’t joke about such things”…)

But lest you think I’m just trying to scare and disgust you with images of northern life, I actually just wanted to say that New Year’s included more than appies and Absinthe. There was also an outstanding spread that made me celebrate Jaqueline’s family’s Austrian heritage: I’ve lived in Germany. I’ve visited Austria.

I had never before had schnitzel until this NYE.

And it was *awesome*. Even *awesomer* the next day, cold, for breakfast. Don’t judge me until you’ve tried it.

There was rotkohl and root vegetable puree, smashed potatoes and cucumber salad…

It was all new to me: from the vorspiel, walking in “Siberia”, to schnitzel for dinner, to the nachspiel: I have long known that Prince Georgians blow shit up to commemorate every holiday—and for once, instead of sitting in my house thinking I was being shot at, I was part of the action. And lo: my NYE in photos:

PS: know how everyone apologises for iPhone photos? ALL OF THESE WERE iPHONE. And I’m not sorry.

I like pepper.

Yep: I lived in the north for 4 years, but… I never really LIVED the north. And out of that unknown came one of my best NYE’s ever.

Spill! What was your best NYE ever… and why?

Yesterday, I spent 3 hours at the gym, all of it working out. I went slowly, admittedly, because through crossed wires and SP traffic, Carol was SO late that it was funny, and I became seriously dehydrated. Dear Brazilian Standard Time, I will NOT miss you.

How to replenish from a calorie spend-a-thon? I had 4 egg whites with basil (before bequeathing my ever-bountiful basil plant to Marcella), and then Carol and I went out for Açaí. [SIDEBAR: SERIOUSLY, basil plant, SERIOUSLY. In Canada, I can hardly keep you alive / I consume you and then you're gone, but in Brazil, I plucked you clean yesterday, watered you, and then you ALREADY had new growth the next day?!? Maybe I *have* a green thumb, it just needs a more fertile climate?]

I had had Açaí powdered before—I liked the taste well enough, but suspected that something was lost in the processing. (Wikipedia states that scientific studies agree with that).

In Brazil, where the Açaí palm grows, the berry (which looks just like a blueberry) is harvested in the north, the pulp is mulched out and then frozen for shipment, and you can then either buy the pulp in ice cream tubs at an Açaí bar anywhere in the country, or you can eat it in. And in Rio and other beach places, it’s just sold on the beach.

Marcella says that in the north they eat it savoury, with dried shrimp in it. Now that I’ve tasted it (and my shellfish allergy notwithstanding), I can only say, “GROSS”.

In the south, it comes in a bowl. You can get “crazy small”, which is about 1/4 cup, “small”, which is about 1 cup, and then “large”, which is disgusting. And about 2 cups’ worth. Possibly those are not the ACTUAL Brazilian words for the sizes. Possibly.

Small was as good as I was gonna get, and after that, because the menu had about 17 varieties of Açaí, I let Carol guide me. Out of the myriad of toppings and presentations, she advised me to start “small” (as if I needed THAT clue!), and then, “to me, it’s not Açaí if there’s no granola.”

So I got granola.

And because I’ve developed a taste for condensed milk, I got that, too—all on the side so I could try it pure, first. Carol also got bananas on hers, and though I tried to photograph my own bowl, my camera just couldn’t handle photographing the amorphous purple blob… so I took a phot of Carol attacking hers, instead. I think the fact that she had bananas on top made hers somehow more focus-able.

Everybody, purple sludge. Purple sludge, everybody.

I would describe the Açaí itself as sweet, strongly-flavoured, like a hybrid of blueberry and something else that I can’t put my finger on. Kind of perfume-y really; basically a HUGELY calorie dense smoothie. With the granola on top, it gave it a more pleasing texture—a little crunch was perfect. And the condensed milk made it like a dessert—sweet and creamy. It was really good, I won’t lie—almost makes it worth it that the Voldemort gods have pummeled me with 4,000 Voldemorts in the last month, most of which have been medicine-related, many of which have been about Açaí as a superfood. WELL, Voldemort, the real deal IS amazing, though maybe nor worth 3,000 comments in 1 month.

I couldn’t eat all of mine—once my toppings were gone, I got a bit tired of the taste, but we saw some people from our gym come in, order the large bowls, mow down and leave, so it definitely has some purchase in the idea of it being a health-food. They treat it like it’s a meal replacement, and as a recovery food… to me, it would be a sweet treat, but for Brazilians, that’s when they’d really go for frozen yogurt (or so it came from several horses’ mouths). To me, I think that Açaí fits all those categories: meal replacement, recovery food, sweet treat. Yum.

And MAN, does it ever make my sad, dried, powdered version seem just as inferior as it was.

With 48 hours left in Brazil, I’m glad I can check one more thing off my “kinda would like to do” list, though I fear I will NOT be learning crack caipirinha skills. With Marcella leaving for New York this evening—I think my future might be home-made Caipi-free. Somehow, I shall endure.

I have a funny post about interpersonal relationships and missing boats (figuratively speaking) for you tomorrow, partly in honour of Sophia’s recent post, partly in honour of the fact that I’m an idiot. I love my life. However, I don’t know that I’ll have internet at my final destination, so you might just have to give me until repatriation.

Y’all come back now (all two readers!), ya hear?

Have you had Açaí? What form was it in, and did you like it?

Truth: I *love* to give gifts… but only the RIGHT gifts. Christmas and birthdays stress me out because I don’t *want* to just give for the sake of giving, I want it to be something that SCREAMS someone’s name, not something that they say “thanks!” to, and then forget about for a couple of months.

This is a tricky business when it comes to souvenirs. To me, the whole concept of a souvenir is that, the word means “remember”. HOW is someone who WASN’T THERE going to remember?! Or, is it a way of saying that you were remembering the person when you travelled, so please have this over-priced, mass-produced, stereotypical part of Country X’s cultural mosaic? Heh.

It’s a pickle, I know.

So I approach it like I would Christmas/Birthday shopping—if something jumps out and grabs me, I grab *it*. And from that, for myself, I picked up a scarf in Lima.

Chocolate—good Brazilian stuff (holy expensive) and “I-just-need-to-use-my-Soles-in-Duty-Free” Peruvian stuff.

SensorExcel razors—unavailable in Canada for at least 3 years, I *had* been using my razor from so many years ago I can’t even tell you… and now, I have four new ones.

Thanks to Peruvian duty free, I’m coming home with some Pisco to make Pisco Sours (still wrapped in its duty-free goodness—SO unphotogenic!), and a super-cheap bit of Bobbi Brown make-up, bought on the plane—what a coup! A bit of eyeliner and freshly brushed teeth are my “I’m going out” go-to’s, and this was really a bargain. Also: the short travel brush applicator is really necessary for short-sighted kids NOT to poke their own eyes out. Tried, tested, and true.

And then there are the gifts…

Brasilía has this thing about its architecture; one of the most renowned architects, Athos Bulcão, whose work is in all major cities of Brazil and some other South American locales, sells some paraphernalia with his designs. I’ve been drinking espresso out of Marcella’s Athos Bulcão cups every day, so I got myself a few… and some mugs to give away:

I also bought some “hers and hers” Havaíanas, because, well, OBVIOUSLY! (“Havaíanas” is Portuguese for “Hawaiians”, didja know? Makes it amusing that the footwear is so iconically Brazilian, eh?) I like my shoes with a lot of sole: flip flop wedges are JUST right.

And then I’m also going shopping on Friday to pick up some last gifts that I’ve had in mind for awhile… and I’ve omitted the gifts intended for the couple of people I know who *actually* read my blog.

What’s been really unexpected is that people have given ME gifts!

From Marcella, some coasters of black-and-white, vintage Rio photos, and also a Quechuan bracelet, bought in Cusco—on the same night that we were altitude drunk, and she was buying her own. I said, “we’re bracelet buddies!” and more laughter ensued…

But maybe the most AMAZING thing of all started last weekend and has continued into this week. Last Saturday, through the fog of my cold, I was invited to a barbecue at Carol’s place, with some of the gym community… in my honour! How fun! I was really not that well and failed to take a single photo (WHAT is my PROBLEM?!?), but it was lovely to be there. At the end of the evening, Carol’s father gave me a nice bottle of cachaça from the northeast, where he’s from. He had made me a caipirinha earlier, and now told me “this is NOT for caipirinhas. It’s for sipping.” Why did I deserve such a thing? Because THAT is Brazilian hospitality—once he knew I liked scotch and would drink cachaça straight, I was clearly the right recipient: I would appreciate it.

Well, as if that weren’t the sweetest thing ever… a barbecue, a parting gift… it became TWO parting gifts! Yesterday, at the gym, Carol told me, “my dad got you something.” Because man cannot survive on straight cachaça alone, he bought me a caipirinha mortar and pestle. Not in a breakable material (had he HEARD about my swathe of destruction in Marcella’s kitchen?!?), but something that would travel and wear well:

I’m a lucky kid. I’m a lucky kid who now has to pack…

Tell me: what’s your gift-giving philosophy?