And then somehow I turned thirty-one

I got back to Victoria on Monday, after a week and a half that I can only describe as being bittersweet, after a week and a half during which time I constantly told people that I needed to "play things by ear." (Read: "I have decided not to make plans in advance, other than with my brother.")  It's impossible to describe such a trip as being "good," when you consider the circumstances, but I was glad to be home, glad to be with my family, and glad to have the family that I have. 

I spent a week sleeping in my childhood bedroom, which gave the week an extra surreal quality: I was sleeping there on my own (Chris having flown back after the weekend), in my room of twenty-three years. In that room, there were small remnants of my years there: the colour of the walls, one picture, one shelf, snowflake stickers on the window.  However, everything else in the room was from my Grandmother's years there, and more so from my sister's current occupation of the room.  It's like when the five of us (my parents, my two siblings and I) sat together in my parents' living room: it was familiar, and I could not escape all the evidence of what all has changed (and the reason why we were all together). 

Now I'm back in Victoria, trying to adjust back to my routine here, but also very aware of the fact that we fly back to Regina in a week, with all of my missed work looming over me.  And, in the midst of all of this, my birthday was yesterday.  I'm thirty-one now; I feel like I just got used to being thirty.  I really liked being thirty.  "Thirty-one" sounds strange to me.  And I usually make a big deal about my birthday; I invest a lot of emotion and expectations into the day.  This year, I could only handle small things.  Before I left Regina, I invited a couple friends and all their wee daughters over to my parents' house, to share ice cream cake with me.  (Having four kids -- all of whom call me "Auntie" -- blow out my candles was fun.)  Yesterday, I met two friends downtown in the afternoon; we had tea and went Christmas shopping at my favourite little stores.  My all-time favourite storekeeper hugged me five times and gave me a birthday present.  Then, my cousin Ky and I bussed to a restaurant, where we met Chris and a couple more friends for supper.

Hm. Now that I wrote that out, it sounds like I still made a big deal about my birthday.  It was all thrown together at the last minute ("The only day that's available for shopping is Thursday. Oh, that's Maryanne's birthday? Let's go for tea!" "You know, your birthday is on Thursday.  Shouldn't we at least go out for supper?") but I loved it more that way.  I've done the big-party thing, and that was a nice thing for other years. 

So, yeah. Thirty-one. Thiiiiiirty-one. Not too bad.  And it gave me an excuse to have a nice, relaxing day with friends.

Unexpectely Homeward Bound

Chris and I are packing up, and tomorrow morning we're flying to Saskatchewan for an unplanned trip home. Normally, I'd be thrilled about the fact that I'm getting a week and a half back home, in addition to the two weeks we'll have at Christmas. But this is a trip that none of us wanted us to have to take: we're heading home for the funeral of my little brother's beautiful, funny, wonderful wife.

This is pretty closely connected to why there's been silence at this here blog lately.  Well, for the first while I was just wrapped up in research and writing, in restructuring some dissertation plans and all that.  But then we found out that my sister-in-law was sick, and out of respect to the more private members of my families, I kept all that off the blog. But it was all I could really think about, and so it was easier just to maintain radio silence here.

And then suddenly she was gone, and we hardly had any time to prepare ourselves for the idea. But tomorrow, I get on an airplane, and for a week and a half I'll be able to make myself useful to my family. I'm still trying to prepare myself emotionally for being home, and for how much more real this is going to become for me. But it'll be better for me to be able to help, instead of wandering around aimlessly here, bursting into tears while holding the soup bowls she gave me for Christmas a few years ago. 

So, we'll see whether I keep up any blogging while I'm home.  But I thought, in the spirit of the holiday that our American friends are celebrating today, that I'd mention a few reasons why I'm thankful today.  I'm thankful for my amazing friends, who have been overwhelming me with their love and very concrete support over the past few days.  I'm thankful for airplanes, unlimited phone plans, and computers that make the distance between here and home seem to be not as great.  I'm thankful that I have a Christopher who takes care of me every day, and has even managed to make me laugh a few times this week.  I'm thankful for my amazing family.  And I thankful that one beautiful girl came into our lives and changed us, even though she left us decades too soon.

A little inspiration

Today, my block had a big yard sale (a yearly event organized by our Block Watch Association, intended to help us get to know our neighbours), and in our classic style, Chris and I made a profit of -$3.75.  Our landlady, Joyce, already knew this was going to happen.  When we got outside this morning, she shouted across the yard, "I'll keep an eye on Chris! He always spends more than he makes at these things. Then you just have more junk to sell next year."

He was behaving himself remarkably well this year (meanwhile, I was trying to unload whatever I could at 25 or 50 cents apiece).  While I was getting to pack up the rest of our stuff and get it ready to haul to the thrift store, Chris came over and said, "I need to consult with you about something I found. It only costs $5, but it's big."  I may have rolled my eyes a little, because you have no idea how many pieces of archaic technology and how many semi-broken telescopes he has brought into our home.  I should have noticed how proud of himself he looked.

Our next-door neighbour had offered him their 1926 electric Singer cabinet sewing machine for $5.  (Which works!)  Both of our moms have Singer cabinet sewing machines, although both of theirs are treadle-style.  It's surprising how many women in my family have Singer sewing machines as side tables.  It feels like home, having one in my home.  It even smells like home.

It turns out that the only place in our apartment where it fits is next to my (new!) desk. I'm leaving it open for now, because what better inspiration for writing about working women in the late 1920s than this view:    

I'm seriously thirty

This was a text message exchange between Ky and me this morning:

Ky: "I keep singing inner city pressure, but saying dragons instead of pressure."
Me: "If I could draw, I'd draw a cartoon of Inner-City Dragons for you."
Ky: "Try"
Me (seriously two hours later): "As soon as I get the scanner driver installed, I'll email you some Inner-City Dragons. They'll amaze your face off."

I'm thirty. 

My first course evaluations

I stopped by the department office and got my course evaluations (from the course I taught in June), and it's pretty much what I expected: mostly positive, with some constructive criticism and a couple (but only a couple) of very negative reviews.  In the comments section, most of the criticism will be easily rectified by making each day's lecture's organization more explicit (pretty much all I'll actually change is that I'll make a single slide that shows the roadmap for where we're going that day), and also by faking confidence.  I learned how to handle questions that I didn't know by the end of the course, by when you're only teaching for three weeks, they remember the moments where you looked like a deer in headlights a little too well.

The percentage breakdown of the survey they filled out shows that the majority of my students rated me favorably, which is encouraging.  My highest scores were regarding my availability to help and provide feedback, and the respect that I gave to students and their ideas.  And by "highest" I mean "the majority of students rated me as 'excellent' on both counts, and the one student who was mad at me even conceded that I was 'adequate.'"  I'm really happy about both of those, because I worked really hard on being available to help, and on creating a respectful space within the classroom, and it's gratifying that they noticed.  With everything else, it was in the middling-to-good range, which I know is an okay place to start.  (The lowest ranking was regarding my clarity in explaining things, and that will be rectified by making small tweaks that I've been learning.  Hooray for teaching workshops!)

I had a small handful of really negative comments, but they're all a mixed bag.  Like, one student thinks that I don't make any sense in my lecturing, and another one thinks that the grading system was harsh but my lectures were "very effective [and] well put together."  I had one absolutely negative comment (likely the same student who gave me consistently low rankings, and likely the same student who was glaring at me on the last day of class): one student outright stated that I wasn't qualified to teach the course because I'm a specialist in an earlier period, but she/he was mostly was mad that they had to memorize IDs.  (It was a pretty heated comment: he/she ended off that comment with the statement "This is not an education," because apparently the whole course was based in memorization?)  I find that comment interesting, partly because other students specified that the IDs helped to guide them in their studies, and also because on an absolute basis, the short answer part of the exams (which is where the identification part came in) constituted a small part of the final grade, and put a lot of emphasis on evaluating significance rather than on regurgitating details. 

What can I make of that?  For one thing, it would have been interesting to get feedback after they'd gotten back their essays and after they'd written the final (with a three-week course, by necessity the essay is due right before the last class).  After the final, a lot of students expressed relief at the fact that I really didn't ask them anything unexpected on the final, and found the IDs part to be easier than they expected. 

So, on the one hand, I can be relieved that the majority of students had a favourable impression of the course, and then I can learn from the helpful comments.  They all reflect things that I've been already working on improving, and so I'm glad that I'm on the right track.  I'm a little amused by how some of the comments contradict each other (I'm both organized and disorganized?  I'm both a passionate lecturer and uncomfortable in front of students?  I should use slides both more and less?), but that's what you get from a diverse group.  I'm learning how to reach out to different kinds of learners, and I'll be a lot less terrified when I teach my next course, and so the unevenness in evaluations should level out in the future.

Now, all I can do is put these away, attend teaching workshops when I can, and hope that these evaluations were positive enough to help me get further teaching work.  And focus on finishing this dissertation.

Moments in the kitchen

I'm back in Victoria, back in the land of moderate temperatures and occasionally remembering I live by the ocean. I'm wearing long pants but no socks, and actually wore a light jacket this morning.  Classic late summer in Victoria.

It's so good being home after being away for seven weeks.  The fact that I'm in my own home and that I'm away from the high temperatures means that I feel like cooking and baking all the time.  It's not that I didn't have access to a kitchen while I was away: on the contrary, I even made this on my last week staying with the in-laws:

(The little-sister-in-law's wedding also played a major role in my being a little too busy to blog for the last part of our SK trip.)

But I didn't realise how much I had been homesick for my own kitchen until I made my porridge here on Sunday morning, and was all "Hello, My Own Measuring Cups! I missed you so much!"  And so, between the cooling weather, the overwhelming joy about being reunited with my own utensils and appliances, and my need to work through some challenges with my current chapter, I've been finding myself retreating to the kitchen.

I've also been thinking about what I love so much about preparing food.  I got reflecting on it again this afternoon, as I started making some polenta for our supper.  And I started making an incomplete list of my favourite moments in cooking and baking (in no particular order):
1. That instant, when making polenta, when the cornmeal I'm whisking in the boiling water suddenly thickens, and instead of having a loose mixture of cornmeal and water, I have this gloopy cornmealy mush that's sputtering everywhere.  (This is also one of the more exciting parts of my cooking process.)
2. The moment when sugar becomes caramel, and I have to pay close attention to the colour of it, so that it gets to be a satisfying dark colour but doesn't get burnt.
2a) The satisfying way in which caramel bubbles up and hisses when you add butter and cream to it, when making caramel sauce. 
3. (2b?) Turning a crème caramel out on a platter, and discovering that the caramel really did turn to liquid while the egg mixture hardened into a custard.  Simultaneously! In the same pan! Science!
4. Lifting off the lid of the heavy dutch oven and finding that a once-tough piece of meat has turned into something tender and wonderful, like pulled pork.

Those sorts of moments (along with that one when you open the oven and and see the golden tops of baked bread or pies) are what drive me to the kitchen, they're what get me finding excuses to make caramel sauce (admittedly more than my love of consuming caramel sauce): these physical and chemical transformations that, even when I understand the science behind them, seem like magic. I really still haven't lost my sense of wonder in the kitchen.  (Okay, one more moment like that: when I first try something that I have made, and discover that it actually tastes like food!  I still can't believe that's possible.)

I need a little more of a sense of wonder in my day.  Because there's not a lot of wonder or magic in the process of trying to get the words in my head to cooperate with the words on the computer screen, or in trying to make some sense of this current chapter.

You know, I used to have a sense of wonder about history and about writing.  Maybe it's time to reconnect with that.

(And now I'll stop rambling and eat one of those cookies that I made today.  Chris sure isn't complaining about the time I spent in the kitchen today.)

Doing my best imitation of a Victorian invalid

So, I think that the WWII course took everything out of me.  After that whole "I was so tired after giving the final that I was pretty much sleepwalking outside, and ended up with a scraped nose and a concussion" episode, I finished all the marking, packed, drove to Saskatchewan, attended a church camp, and promptly caught the Cold That Ate Vancouver Island.  Two and a half weeks later, I'm finally getting better.  Well, I had been getting better, and then had an allergic reaction to a cat, and spent a few days where I hardly could get out of bed.  So, that was an adventure.  There wasn't much to blog, since my thoughts were mostly occupied with such thoughts as "Naps after taking Benadryl are particularly strange naps," and "It is convenient that my in-laws possess a fainting couch, because I really am doing my best imitation of a Victorian invalid this week.  Sometimes I'm worried that this cold is just in my head and is an excuse to sit around on a chaise lounge and read Sherlock Holmes mysteries,* but then I try to move around and start coughing like I have consumption."

But today I'm starting to feel better.  I even felt well enough to tease the in-laws' cat (without actually touching her, since that would cause an allergic reaction), which is how Chris knew I was feeling better.  Maybe tomorrow I'll even leave the house, and start visiting people in town.  You know, since I'm IN SASKATCHEWAN and all. 

***********

In other news, I'm trying out Google+ now, and am still figuring out what I think about that.  If you're trying it out too, you can find me using the gmail address on the sidebar. 


* You know, it is a surreal experience reading the entirety of the Sherlock Holmes stories in the course of a few weeks.  You start noticing funny things, like how apparently everyone's response to traumatic experiences is to suffer from "brain-fever"?  What is a brain-fever?  Dramatic things happen in Prague, secret societies happen in the United States, murder is apparently okay if a lady's honour was at stake, mysterious wives come from South America, and Empire and racism are everywhere (unsurprisingly).  Also, I have trouble not picturing Holmes and Watson as Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman, but I picture Mycroft Holmes as Stephen Fry, even though the new Sherlock Holmes movie isn't even out yet.  But I digress.