This movie may have six years of dust resting on it, but it's one that keeps haunting my thoughts about stories and all they should be.
This version of Robin Hood starts out as a more realistic telling, complete with gray morality and human characters. Richard the Lionhearted is corrupt and power-hungry rather than gloriously noble. Robin is a soldier deserting the army rather than the usual green-clad superman chortling at his enemies. Maid Marian is pragmatic and opinionated rather than a helpless and bauble-eyed damsel in distress.
The grey-shaded characters are softened by sweeping British scenery, amusing sexual tension in Robin and Marian's faux marriage, as well as humorous moments that make the middle ages accessible to modern viewers. One example of this is when Little John and the merry men go to the village party and dance with the locals, drink hearty, and do a little carousing. When they meet Marian the following morning, she grins and asks them if they had an "epic night," to which they hurrah in affirmation of that fact. It is just one of many moments when the medieval world leaps from the screen and seems to belong in our own. Those people could be people we know, having a good time on the weekend at the local bar.
The single moment that first engulfed me in the world of the film was early on, the scene in which the real Robin of Locksley is dying on the forest floor and Robin Hood is listening to his last request. There's a camera shot of Hood from the view of Locksley, and the trees can be seen above him, rustling. The sound of the wind in the trees is dubbed into the film, giving the scene a sensation of realism and of heralding Hood's destiny as it is handed to him by Locksley. It was that epic moment that officially submerged me in the reality set forth by the film makers. I handed over my imagination, ready to experience this version of Robin Hood's world.
The road from there included a desperately intense bluff made to Prince John, the introduction of Maid Marian and her father, the wild party in the village, and Robin recalling repressed memories of his father. There's also tough-as-nails Marian killing in self-defense, timing the stabbing of her would-be rapist just so. The last "worth-it" moment in the film is Prince John declaring that it's his first battle. He declares that he'll lead the charge, saying so in his childish voice before galloping off to the scene of the fight. The battle itself marks the beginning of disappointing divergences from the reality and the character which the filmmakers spent so much time creating.
It was such a marked change that I wondered if they switched writers or directors for the battle scene.
Problems:
1. Marian, who never witnessed her father's murder or met his murderer, somehow gallops onto the battle scene chaos and instantly recognizes the culprit and pursues him for revenge.
2. Marian, who has been wise and pragmatic until now, gallops her fully armored self straight into the ocean, falls off her horse, and begins to drown.
3. Robin Hood, who should be busy trying to not get killed, somehow notices her fall and fights his way to where she is spluttering.
4. Once Marian is rescued, the realism of the story completely falls away and takes a leap into Fairy Tale. Instead of getting out of the water, getting to safety, and helping their comrades, they sit in the water and have a sloppy make-out session.
These examples all take place in the span of about 10 minutes and manage to completely destroy the reality the filmmakers had built.
Epic rescues and romantic scenes mid-battle work fine in films like "Pirates of the Carribean," which operate in a world that is consistently unreal. However, when the filmmakers set up the world of the film as realistic and then wait until the third act to depart into fantasy, they only undermine the effectiveness of their tale and break their unwritten promise to the viewer.
The makers of 2010 Robin Hood made this exact mistake. They set up an epic tale tamed by realism, delivered it for the first two-thirds, and then took the easy way out through Fairy Tale Hollywood gimmicks. As it stands, they poked so many holes in their story that its only practical use now is for rinsing vegetables.
Monday, August 29, 2016
Sunday, August 28, 2016
Episode 6: Freak-Out Points
for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)
Our self-appointed chairperson to all things, Ms. All-Star, bypassed me purposely the other day in order to get around the system and get what she wanted in spite of no one else getting it. The details aren't important, but I took a few moments in the kitchen explaining to a coworker (lets call him SuperCalm) that she purposely went to him because she knew she'd get away with it. !!!!!!!!!
It wasn't really a big deal, but any sized situation involving her becomes a small battle for me. She should not get special treatment just because she does a professional job of raking people over the coals.
Anyway, after I'd finished "freaking out," I felt a bit sheepish. "I'm not mad at you, SuperCalm, I'm just mad at her. I...maybe freak out unreasonably whenever she's involved."
Later, we came up with the idea of "Freak Out Points," and how I'd used mine up for the day. They work like PTO.
If you don't use 'em, you lose 'em. They don't roll over from year to year.
Me, I like to use a few Freak Out Points (FOP) every day, saving a few so I have surplus for those days when I do double shifts.
Pretty sure that SuperCalm has rarely used his FOP, but he may have come close to using them this afternoon.
The time: right after serving noon meal.
The place: the kitchen prep counter.
The antagonist: DRAGON LADY, a fellow employee who works in the Special Care Unit.
The situation: a lack of communication from our boss, who is on vacation until Sunday.
So, as I'm washing the lids before heading out for a 15 minute lunch break, I'm unnerved by the sound of enormous wings flapping their way into the kitchen. I turn to see Dragon Lady, smoke and fire trailing from her nostrils, the sound of her footsteps reverberating throughout the building. Dishes on the counter start rattling. The water in the goblets on the dining tables ripples violently. Small creatures in the meadows nearby quiver and hide their beady eyes under their paws.
I mentally cover my face in horror, hoping the wall down the kitchen's center will protect me from her sight and therefore redirect her wrath elsewhere.
It works! But alas, Reader (another coworker) must intercept her and her buckets of rage.
I remain outside the conversation, staying busy with dishes, but overhearing little snippets.
"The way it was told to me was..."
"Nooo. Nooo, nooo, nooo."
"I thought her birthday was on the 28th."
"Yes, but she wants the ice cream on the 27th. I spoke with Manager before she went on vacation." The bite in her voice drips in poison.
SuperCalm steps in, speaking neutrally: "Well, what would you like us to do about it?" He's taking another breath to offer a grocery-store run but never gets a chance.
"BACK OFF, I'M JUST ASKING," says Dragon Lady, at which point SuperCalm steps away and says nothing more. We share glances across the kitchen counter. Dang, lady. "Back off"? Really? And this is a conversation about ice cream and birthdays? Calm the heck down, Ms. Reptilian Dragon Fire Woman!
Even I don't spend Freak Out Points on stuff like that.
After the Dragon Lady has stomped away and the field mice come out from hiding, I turn to SuperCalm. "Ready to spend your Freak Out Points? 'Cause I would be."
But he didn't freak out. He did talk it out over dinner, while we all enjoyed his Cuban Sandwiches (sooo goooood!). He's probably the most emotionally self-controlled of us all. An example, really.
When it was time to leave, Reader and SuperCalm were wishing me good luck for the weekend. I said a grim "thanks," as I'm usually a wreck by the end of a 13.5 hour day. "I've saved up some Freak Out Points for it," I said, to which we all laughed. It's nice we can at least joke about the things that drive us nuts, and store up imaginary "points" for surviving it, too.
Our self-appointed chairperson to all things, Ms. All-Star, bypassed me purposely the other day in order to get around the system and get what she wanted in spite of no one else getting it. The details aren't important, but I took a few moments in the kitchen explaining to a coworker (lets call him SuperCalm) that she purposely went to him because she knew she'd get away with it. !!!!!!!!!
It wasn't really a big deal, but any sized situation involving her becomes a small battle for me. She should not get special treatment just because she does a professional job of raking people over the coals.
Anyway, after I'd finished "freaking out," I felt a bit sheepish. "I'm not mad at you, SuperCalm, I'm just mad at her. I...maybe freak out unreasonably whenever she's involved."
Later, we came up with the idea of "Freak Out Points," and how I'd used mine up for the day. They work like PTO.
If you don't use 'em, you lose 'em. They don't roll over from year to year.
Me, I like to use a few Freak Out Points (FOP) every day, saving a few so I have surplus for those days when I do double shifts.
Pretty sure that SuperCalm has rarely used his FOP, but he may have come close to using them this afternoon.
The time: right after serving noon meal.
The place: the kitchen prep counter.
The antagonist: DRAGON LADY, a fellow employee who works in the Special Care Unit.
The situation: a lack of communication from our boss, who is on vacation until Sunday.
So, as I'm washing the lids before heading out for a 15 minute lunch break, I'm unnerved by the sound of enormous wings flapping their way into the kitchen. I turn to see Dragon Lady, smoke and fire trailing from her nostrils, the sound of her footsteps reverberating throughout the building. Dishes on the counter start rattling. The water in the goblets on the dining tables ripples violently. Small creatures in the meadows nearby quiver and hide their beady eyes under their paws.
I mentally cover my face in horror, hoping the wall down the kitchen's center will protect me from her sight and therefore redirect her wrath elsewhere.
It works! But alas, Reader (another coworker) must intercept her and her buckets of rage.
I remain outside the conversation, staying busy with dishes, but overhearing little snippets.
"The way it was told to me was..."
"Nooo. Nooo, nooo, nooo."
"I thought her birthday was on the 28th."
"Yes, but she wants the ice cream on the 27th. I spoke with Manager before she went on vacation." The bite in her voice drips in poison.
SuperCalm steps in, speaking neutrally: "Well, what would you like us to do about it?" He's taking another breath to offer a grocery-store run but never gets a chance.
"BACK OFF, I'M JUST ASKING," says Dragon Lady, at which point SuperCalm steps away and says nothing more. We share glances across the kitchen counter. Dang, lady. "Back off"? Really? And this is a conversation about ice cream and birthdays? Calm the heck down, Ms. Reptilian Dragon Fire Woman!
Even I don't spend Freak Out Points on stuff like that.
After the Dragon Lady has stomped away and the field mice come out from hiding, I turn to SuperCalm. "Ready to spend your Freak Out Points? 'Cause I would be."
But he didn't freak out. He did talk it out over dinner, while we all enjoyed his Cuban Sandwiches (sooo goooood!). He's probably the most emotionally self-controlled of us all. An example, really.
When it was time to leave, Reader and SuperCalm were wishing me good luck for the weekend. I said a grim "thanks," as I'm usually a wreck by the end of a 13.5 hour day. "I've saved up some Freak Out Points for it," I said, to which we all laughed. It's nice we can at least joke about the things that drive us nuts, and store up imaginary "points" for surviving it, too.
Prairie Town Jogging
The crunch of gravel or asphalt underfoot and the sweep of grass swaying in the breeze. Sumac and blazing star lend their color to the green of Minnesota summer.
Wild grapvines cover the roadside ditch in translucent bright green color.
Blazing star rises out of the grass in plumes of bright lilac.
A grove of poplars sway, their leaves rustling and shimmering.
Shade and sun mingle on a Minnesota summer afternoon.
Saturday, August 27, 2016
Episode 5: The Harem
for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)
Mr. Placemats, as mentioned in an earlier episode, is moving away. He's going back to his house, newly vacated by the previous renter. At breakfast the other day, he was announcing this to the people at his table.
"Oh, where are you moving?"
"Well, to my house," he replied in the most condescending tone imaginable.
Then they told him they would miss him. After he's been so rude?
Then they began asking what he would do about cleaning and cooking and laundry and all the things that are currently done for him by staff.
"I tell ya what, honey, I'm a Big Boy."
"Big Boy" had only minutes earlier asked me to fetch his breakfast for him, though he is fully mobile and was only seated three feet from the breakfast bar.
Later, when a coworker and I stopped for lunch, he came and sat near us to whine about his junk mail.
"My wife died three years ago," he confided, "and they still send me junk mail in her name."
That's sad. I felt a twinge of compassion. Poor guy lost his wife.
Then he told us that his house has three spare bedrooms.
"So I just need to call around and start a harem."
A harem? Like, a group of women to see to his needs? Gag me. What would his wife say? Maybe nothing. She must have been an angel to tolerate his crap.
"They'll cook and clean for me," he declares, in that slurry voice that makes him sound perpetually drunk.
My feminist ire gets up just enough to embolden me. "So what do they get out of the deal?"
"Do you want me to tell you?" he grins.
"No, I don't really want to know," I say, repressing my shudders of disgust until he's gone.
There's not enough money in the world to buy him even one woman with that little self-respect, much less three.
Mr. Placemats, as mentioned in an earlier episode, is moving away. He's going back to his house, newly vacated by the previous renter. At breakfast the other day, he was announcing this to the people at his table.
"Oh, where are you moving?"
"Well, to my house," he replied in the most condescending tone imaginable.
Then they told him they would miss him. After he's been so rude?
Then they began asking what he would do about cleaning and cooking and laundry and all the things that are currently done for him by staff.
"I tell ya what, honey, I'm a Big Boy."
"Big Boy" had only minutes earlier asked me to fetch his breakfast for him, though he is fully mobile and was only seated three feet from the breakfast bar.
Later, when a coworker and I stopped for lunch, he came and sat near us to whine about his junk mail.
"My wife died three years ago," he confided, "and they still send me junk mail in her name."
That's sad. I felt a twinge of compassion. Poor guy lost his wife.
Then he told us that his house has three spare bedrooms.
"So I just need to call around and start a harem."
A harem? Like, a group of women to see to his needs? Gag me. What would his wife say? Maybe nothing. She must have been an angel to tolerate his crap.
"They'll cook and clean for me," he declares, in that slurry voice that makes him sound perpetually drunk.
My feminist ire gets up just enough to embolden me. "So what do they get out of the deal?"
"Do you want me to tell you?" he grins.
"No, I don't really want to know," I say, repressing my shudders of disgust until he's gone.
There's not enough money in the world to buy him even one woman with that little self-respect, much less three.
Friday, August 26, 2016
Episode 4: Cat Therapy
for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)
It's still dark out when I punch in the entry code at the Memory Care unit. As usual, I've arrived with a cart full of clean dishes and random supplies and ice for the water dispenser. I'm putting away cups when I hear meowing behind me. The unit has had a cat now for a few months, and when it sees the kitchen light on, it comes pattering in, meowing and stretching, rubbing against a chair, begging for affection.
One potential symptom of dementia is paranoia. People get so they think their care providers and children and even spouses are wishing them the worst or waiting for them to die, etc. In a case like that, a person might find they can at least trust an animal if they can't trust people. I suppose that is one specific reason they've chosen to have a cat in Memory Care, outside of the obvious reasons of getting those people to interact with their world and to find healing in the innocent physical contact that happens between owner and pet.
When she comes into the kitchen begging for attention, I can't help but oblige. I meow back until I'm finished putting things away and then give her a good scratch around the ears. Then she flops on her back and stretches, waiting for a pat on the belly and a massage around the jaw. I spend several minutes forgetting that I'm at work, just playing with the cat, listening to her purring. Then I wash my hands and head back the way I came. Sometimes she'll sit with her tail curled around herself and watch me curiously as I leave.
I'm not usually in that unit much longer than it takes to drop off supplies or pick up dishes, so I don't know how much the residents make use of the feline's company, but it certainly is doing me some good. There's something to be said for a little Cat Therapy! It's not a bad way to start the day.
It's still dark out when I punch in the entry code at the Memory Care unit. As usual, I've arrived with a cart full of clean dishes and random supplies and ice for the water dispenser. I'm putting away cups when I hear meowing behind me. The unit has had a cat now for a few months, and when it sees the kitchen light on, it comes pattering in, meowing and stretching, rubbing against a chair, begging for affection.
One potential symptom of dementia is paranoia. People get so they think their care providers and children and even spouses are wishing them the worst or waiting for them to die, etc. In a case like that, a person might find they can at least trust an animal if they can't trust people. I suppose that is one specific reason they've chosen to have a cat in Memory Care, outside of the obvious reasons of getting those people to interact with their world and to find healing in the innocent physical contact that happens between owner and pet.
When she comes into the kitchen begging for attention, I can't help but oblige. I meow back until I'm finished putting things away and then give her a good scratch around the ears. Then she flops on her back and stretches, waiting for a pat on the belly and a massage around the jaw. I spend several minutes forgetting that I'm at work, just playing with the cat, listening to her purring. Then I wash my hands and head back the way I came. Sometimes she'll sit with her tail curled around herself and watch me curiously as I leave.
I'm not usually in that unit much longer than it takes to drop off supplies or pick up dishes, so I don't know how much the residents make use of the feline's company, but it certainly is doing me some good. There's something to be said for a little Cat Therapy! It's not a bad way to start the day.
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Episode 3: Exit Mr. Placemats
for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)
Once upon a time at work, we would set out paper placemats at breakfast. On each placemat we would set a paper napkin and our sturdy metal silverware. After each resident ate, the papers would get thrown away. The papers served almost no purpose so it always seemed like such a waste. In the last year, as the budget has been cinched tighter and tighter, our manager decided to begin setting breakfast with a cloth napkin and the metal silverware. No more placemats.
No one seemed to miss them, except one particular gentleman, whose outrage at their disappearance was his topic of conversation for weeks afterward. He would lay out his cloth napkin flat and use it like a placemat. He would even bring in his own paper napkin to compensate for the loss of the cloth napkin's use. One day, several weeks into the change, he made a point of loudly conversing about his method of "coping with the loss of the placemats," stating that without a placemat the silverware is simply too loud when set on the wooden table. Finally, he restated the whole thing directly to me.
"See here, I lay out my napkin flat to use as a placemat," said Mr. Placemats. "Those silverware are just too loud against the table otherwise."
Doing my best to remain professional, I responded with the most blank face I could muster. "That's very inventive of you," I said, managing to be truthful and polite.
"No," was his response as I continued working, clearing the places near him. "It's called making do with what you have."
"Isn't that what inventive means?" I asked, to which he looked a bit dumbfounded.
"Well...I suppose," was all he said before falling silent for once.
Mr. Placemats is probably the most polite name I can give him, as the obsession over placemats is not the only drama in which he stars.
He has loudly proclaimed in the dining room that the French Fries are "horrible...soggy...HORSE SHIT."
He has reamed cleaning staff for throwing out rotten, moldy food from his refrigerator. "I was gonna eat that..."
He has complained about my cooking one day and then approached me the next to say with a glowing face that I always do "such a fine job. You've really outdone yourself today."
He throws his used pads on the floor (not the garbage can) of his apartment as a gift to cleaning staff.
He has made inappropriate comments about the underaged kitchen aides:
"I don't suppose they could take their break on my lap..?"
"No. Then we'd have a problem."
If he makes a demand and meets with any resistance, he begins to manufacture poisonous combinations of insults and cursing, splurting them loudly and repeatedly at the person who has dared draw any kind of line in the sand.
Needless to say, "Mr. Placemats" is not a favorite of staff.
Just yesterday as I was clearing a table, he approached it and said, "Well...she took my napkin...my nice, clean napkin."
I had no patience for this, admittedly. "Oh...life is hard. I'll get you another one."
He then had to wait 60 entire seconds for me to take away the dirty things, bring back a new napkin and silverware, and wipe down the otherwise dirty table. If waiting 60 seconds is your biggest problem, your life is pretty darn good. Just saying.
When I get back to the table, he continues lecturing. "Couldn't you tell by me coming in and getting breakfast and laying out my napkin that I was going to sit there??"
No, honestly I wasn't paying attention to you. I was helping the people who need it and cleaning off this dirty table.
Newsflash: you are not the center of mine or any other universe.
Then today he does a total 180 and approaches me after breakfast, smiling. "My dear," he begins, "I won't be seeing you after awhile."
"Oh? Why is that?"
"Well, I'm going away."
"Oh, like on vacation?"
"No, honey...I'm moving away. This Saturday." Then he explained the details of his move and how he may have to come back to our facility to "say hello" to us. And to me. Really? Lay it on a little thicker, man.
Again, doing my best to be both honest and polite, I say not "we'll miss you," but rather, "good for you."
His response? A glowing smile and a "Thank you, dear."
That man is a puzzle. A coworker of mine told me today that he just does and says what he does to get a reaction. He feeds on the power trip of knowing he's gotten under someone's skin. He's one of those people that other people need protection from. He's one that I have walled away from myself with my blank looks and vague politeness and by letting his words, good and bad, go in one ear and out the other.
So exits Mr. Placemats from our little corner of the working world.
His absence will be felt by every last one of us.
It'll also be followed by champagne.
Once upon a time at work, we would set out paper placemats at breakfast. On each placemat we would set a paper napkin and our sturdy metal silverware. After each resident ate, the papers would get thrown away. The papers served almost no purpose so it always seemed like such a waste. In the last year, as the budget has been cinched tighter and tighter, our manager decided to begin setting breakfast with a cloth napkin and the metal silverware. No more placemats.
No one seemed to miss them, except one particular gentleman, whose outrage at their disappearance was his topic of conversation for weeks afterward. He would lay out his cloth napkin flat and use it like a placemat. He would even bring in his own paper napkin to compensate for the loss of the cloth napkin's use. One day, several weeks into the change, he made a point of loudly conversing about his method of "coping with the loss of the placemats," stating that without a placemat the silverware is simply too loud when set on the wooden table. Finally, he restated the whole thing directly to me.
"See here, I lay out my napkin flat to use as a placemat," said Mr. Placemats. "Those silverware are just too loud against the table otherwise."
Doing my best to remain professional, I responded with the most blank face I could muster. "That's very inventive of you," I said, managing to be truthful and polite.
"No," was his response as I continued working, clearing the places near him. "It's called making do with what you have."
"Isn't that what inventive means?" I asked, to which he looked a bit dumbfounded.
"Well...I suppose," was all he said before falling silent for once.
Mr. Placemats is probably the most polite name I can give him, as the obsession over placemats is not the only drama in which he stars.
He has loudly proclaimed in the dining room that the French Fries are "horrible...soggy...HORSE SHIT."
He has reamed cleaning staff for throwing out rotten, moldy food from his refrigerator. "I was gonna eat that..."
He has complained about my cooking one day and then approached me the next to say with a glowing face that I always do "such a fine job. You've really outdone yourself today."
He throws his used pads on the floor (not the garbage can) of his apartment as a gift to cleaning staff.
He has made inappropriate comments about the underaged kitchen aides:
"I don't suppose they could take their break on my lap..?"
"No. Then we'd have a problem."
If he makes a demand and meets with any resistance, he begins to manufacture poisonous combinations of insults and cursing, splurting them loudly and repeatedly at the person who has dared draw any kind of line in the sand.
Needless to say, "Mr. Placemats" is not a favorite of staff.
Just yesterday as I was clearing a table, he approached it and said, "Well...she took my napkin...my nice, clean napkin."
I had no patience for this, admittedly. "Oh...life is hard. I'll get you another one."
He then had to wait 60 entire seconds for me to take away the dirty things, bring back a new napkin and silverware, and wipe down the otherwise dirty table. If waiting 60 seconds is your biggest problem, your life is pretty darn good. Just saying.
When I get back to the table, he continues lecturing. "Couldn't you tell by me coming in and getting breakfast and laying out my napkin that I was going to sit there??"
No, honestly I wasn't paying attention to you. I was helping the people who need it and cleaning off this dirty table.
Newsflash: you are not the center of mine or any other universe.
Then today he does a total 180 and approaches me after breakfast, smiling. "My dear," he begins, "I won't be seeing you after awhile."
"Oh? Why is that?"
"Well, I'm going away."
"Oh, like on vacation?"
"No, honey...I'm moving away. This Saturday." Then he explained the details of his move and how he may have to come back to our facility to "say hello" to us. And to me. Really? Lay it on a little thicker, man.
Again, doing my best to be both honest and polite, I say not "we'll miss you," but rather, "good for you."
His response? A glowing smile and a "Thank you, dear."
That man is a puzzle. A coworker of mine told me today that he just does and says what he does to get a reaction. He feeds on the power trip of knowing he's gotten under someone's skin. He's one of those people that other people need protection from. He's one that I have walled away from myself with my blank looks and vague politeness and by letting his words, good and bad, go in one ear and out the other.
So exits Mr. Placemats from our little corner of the working world.
His absence will be felt by every last one of us.
It'll also be followed by champagne.
Saturday, August 20, 2016
Episode 2: The Little Things
for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)
"Another day, another dollar," was a phrase much-spoken by a former coworker. She'd be tying on her apron, singing to herself, preparing for eight hours of mind-numbing dishwashing. Nearly any conversation with her would veer toward this general relinquishing of herself to the necessity of work. Another day. Another day. Another day.
Now I find myself saying the same thing to coworkers.
"Hey, how are you?"
"Eh, good. Another day."
And then my mind leaps to another similar phrase. "Different day, same old crap."
This is where my mind was the other morning at breakfast, doing all the usual things.
Setting up the dining room. Clearing tables. Serving this one gal her usual. Ad libbing some sign language to the resident who forgot her hearing aids. All the usual things.
I'm wiping down a table when a voice breaks into my thoughts. "Haben ich frohlich tag," says the voice. I look up to see Mr. Toast (so named because he LOVES toast, of all things). He's paused by the table, smiling faintly, waiting for a response with a twinkly Santa expression on his face. Speaking in German is sort-of a running joke between us. I've seen him try to start that joke with others, and they never would run with it, which is totally their choice. Foreign languages were some of my favorite classes in school, so I have joined in heartily.
So far, I've learned that Mr. Toast grew up in a tiny Minnesota village where he spoke three languages: German at home, German and Czech with the neighbor kids, and English in school. I've also learned that for all he doesn't remember, Mr. Toast can recite The Jabberwocky by Lewis Carrol without fault. Then there's the bits of German he still remembers. For example, "Haben ich frohlich tag" means "Have a good day."
Long story short, Mr. Toast is wishing me well, smiling and waiting. I smile back.
"Danke," I say, thanking him, wishing I knew more German. "Danke schoen."
That's our whole conversation, just seven words, but it sends him hobbling out of the dining room with a smile on his face, and that makes me smile, too.
It's just one of those little things. A kind word here or there, a sarcastic one-liner by another staff member, or finding that someone saved me a piece of yesterday's German Chocolate Brownie and labeled the plastic wrap with my name. Chocolatey sugar, for me? Yeah, that's all it takes. Little things...moments that abolish the idea of Just Another Day. Little moments that make the day.
"Another day, another dollar," was a phrase much-spoken by a former coworker. She'd be tying on her apron, singing to herself, preparing for eight hours of mind-numbing dishwashing. Nearly any conversation with her would veer toward this general relinquishing of herself to the necessity of work. Another day. Another day. Another day.
Now I find myself saying the same thing to coworkers.
"Hey, how are you?"
"Eh, good. Another day."
And then my mind leaps to another similar phrase. "Different day, same old crap."
This is where my mind was the other morning at breakfast, doing all the usual things.
Setting up the dining room. Clearing tables. Serving this one gal her usual. Ad libbing some sign language to the resident who forgot her hearing aids. All the usual things.
I'm wiping down a table when a voice breaks into my thoughts. "Haben ich frohlich tag," says the voice. I look up to see Mr. Toast (so named because he LOVES toast, of all things). He's paused by the table, smiling faintly, waiting for a response with a twinkly Santa expression on his face. Speaking in German is sort-of a running joke between us. I've seen him try to start that joke with others, and they never would run with it, which is totally their choice. Foreign languages were some of my favorite classes in school, so I have joined in heartily.
So far, I've learned that Mr. Toast grew up in a tiny Minnesota village where he spoke three languages: German at home, German and Czech with the neighbor kids, and English in school. I've also learned that for all he doesn't remember, Mr. Toast can recite The Jabberwocky by Lewis Carrol without fault. Then there's the bits of German he still remembers. For example, "Haben ich frohlich tag" means "Have a good day."
Long story short, Mr. Toast is wishing me well, smiling and waiting. I smile back.
"Danke," I say, thanking him, wishing I knew more German. "Danke schoen."
That's our whole conversation, just seven words, but it sends him hobbling out of the dining room with a smile on his face, and that makes me smile, too.
It's just one of those little things. A kind word here or there, a sarcastic one-liner by another staff member, or finding that someone saved me a piece of yesterday's German Chocolate Brownie and labeled the plastic wrap with my name. Chocolatey sugar, for me? Yeah, that's all it takes. Little things...moments that abolish the idea of Just Another Day. Little moments that make the day.
The view above is from a small wilderness hidden in Redwood County, Minnesota. You could easily miss it, driving along quiet highway 19 as cornfields and bean fields flash past. There's trees only wherever there's a farm site or a creek and the prairie rolls out in all directions. You cross a river, blink a few times through the town of Redwood Falls, and continue on into more farms and fields.
What you don't know is that you've missed a little piece of the wild: hidden beyond the little houses is the largest municipal park in Minnesota, Alexander Ramsey Park, nicknamed "Little Yellowstone."
If you're headed through the area and looking to enjoy some beauties of nature, this is the place to stop, and there's several ways to enjoy it.
Take a look
If you're short on time, make sure you at least stop by the overlook of Ramsey Falls. Waterfalls are an unusual site in rolling farm country, and the falls are mesmerizing to watch. Don't want to take a long walk? That's fine. There's vehicle access to a parking lot right near the overlook.
Take a walk
There's pathways that wind through the park, crossing the river at several points and offering views of riverside cliffs, rushing water, and all kinds of native plants. For people with kids, there are a few playgrounds within the park. There's also a zoo that features farm animals like goats and chickens, as well as animals native to Minnesota prairies, including buffalo, elk, and prairie dogs.
Have a seat
First, there's benches throughout the park as well as shelters with picnic tables, all perfect for eating or chatting while admiring nature. What I highly recommend is bringing a folding chair and setting it in the shallow creek that flows away from the falls. While the Redwood River is too swift flowing and deep for this, the creek is a perfect spot to set up a chair and enjoy the cool water on your feet while reading a book or watching dragon flies zooming about.
Camp out
If you want to stay a little while, the park features electric and "rustic" (non-electric) campsites with full bathroom facilities nearby, all at reasonable rates. The whole place is so close to town that if your campfire cooking goes awry, you always have the options of some local restaurants.
Follow a bunny trail
What I mean is, follow a deer trail. This I recommend with a caution that once you do this, you're on your own on uneven and sometimes steep or narrow trails. However, if your joints and fitness level are up to this, you're in for some fantastic scenery, wildlife, and nature. I personally find it thrilling to see the ground fall away steeply from the trail to either side or to army crawl up to a cliff edge or stumble upon riverside cactus nestled in the rocks (yes, cactus in Minnesota!).
Take a dip
Like the last suggestion, this one is at-your-own-risk. It is a park, so don't expect lifeguards or warning signs. However, as long as you use common sense, this can be a fun way to spend a hot, muggy Minnesota summer day. The river is too fast and deep for this, so keep your swimming limited to Ramsey Creek. Some good places to get wet: at the head of Ramsey Falls when the water is low and slow, or further upstream when the water is high and fast. There's a path that crosses the creek near these spots, so it's very easy to access. It's cool to think about how the water rushing past will join the Redwood River, then the Minnesota River, then the Mississippi, and ultimately the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean.
Do you know of any hidden wildernesses or best kept secrets of Minnesota? I'd love to hear about them in the comments and have the opportunity to explore them myself.
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| Ramsey Falls is quite the view (though here it's blocked by our arms!) |
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| This could be your spot in Ramsey Creek |
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| This hidden beach is on my picnic bucket list |
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| Steep terrain leading down to the river |
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| Riverside rocks: a great place to look for Prickly Pear Cactus |
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| A cactus close-up |
#GreaterMinnesota #camping #parks
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Best Eats of Montreal
To my mind, vacation means seeing the sights, taking in the scenery, and feasting on local eats. Naturally, when we took a weeklong vacation to Montreal, one of my initial goals was to scour blogs for advice on the best food to be had in the city. In composing our list of must-eats, we tried to strike a balance between affordability and amazing food. This is pretty standard for us, as that money tree has not yet sprang up in our backyard.
Between yelp reviews and Pinterest searching for eat-happy blog postings, here is the list of restaurants we chose to visit:
Resto du Village. Located just off famous St Catherine Street in The Village, this 24-hour café serves all the classic eats of a Canadian diner. There’s Paté Chinois (Shepherd’s Pie), for one. Of course they also serve poutine, the unofficial national food of Canada. In all my searches, nearly every food blog mentioned that poutine is a must-eat when visiting the great white north. We obeyed this advice, ordering a classic poutine (fries, brown gravy, and unbreaded cheese curds) and an “all dressed” version, which was basically the classic but with every imaginable meat and vegetable sprinkled on top. We devoured the works with zeal and left full and happy. Poutine is great fuel for all the walking involved in exploring the city. Cost pre-tip: 23 CAD.
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| Resto du Village |
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| Mountains of poutine |
Tim Hortons. This we chose because it’s an icon of Canadian food. It is to Canada what Dunkin Donuts or Krispy Kreme is to the USA. We ordered a half dozen donuts and tried to make them last most of the week. By “tried,” I mean they were devoured within 24 hours of purchasing. Half dozen donuts: 6 CAD.
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| Schwartz's Montreal smoked sandwich and cherry soda. |
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| Hoegaarden beer |
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| Lobster tails on a bed of greens |
The Green Spot. This is called “G-Spot” by locals, for whom this restaurant apparently hits THE spot. The interior has a North-American diner feel, with red vinyl cushioned booths and a wooden bar with stools. We got poutine, which we had fallen in love with by this point, and enjoyed the casual atmosphere while downing the beautiful fries with luscious deep brown gravy and melty curds. I got a poutine called “Avalanche,” which had big strips of bacon laying on top the epic heap of fries. Hubby got the “Italienne,” which was fries with pasta sauce in place of the gravy, along with pepperoni. It was good, but he wished he’d gotten one with the classic gravy. Our server was very helpful – she even got us the 4:00 beer special about 15 minutes before it began, for which Hubby was impressed. He likes beer, what can I say? Cost pre-tip: 29 CAD.
Jardin Nelson. We sat out front with a view of Place Jacques Cartier, the pedestrian tourist market that runs through the center of Old Montreal. It was chilly outside, but the heaters on the patio kept everything at a comfortable temperature. Then there was the glorious mushroom crepe, which was heaven itself. Granted, I’m a mushroom lover, so anything that involves those fungi caramelized in butter makes me feel like I’ve just been smooched. Note that while the salmon platter is good, it is not recommended to anyone with a hearty appetite. They had good beer and hard cider, too. If we went back, I’d go to the courtyard in the back and sit for hours listening to the live music and drinking my way through a pitcher or two of sangria. Only downside to enjoying this region of Montreal is the tourist pricing. Cost pre-tip: 69 CAD.
Corneli’s. This classy Italian restaurant is located in the heart of Little Italy. We arrived at 2 pm, so it was quiet and we got a seat by the window and attentive service. We each enjoyed a glass of wine, complementary focaccia bread with peppers and oil, and shared an excellent pizza canadienne It was affordable enough that the bill was reasonable, but the interior was so classy that my hubby even ate his pizza with a fork. Cost pre-tip: 39 CAD.
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| Focaccia bread and peppers in oil |
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| The view of Boulevard Saint-Laurent in Little Italy |
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| Pizza Canadienne |
Chipotle et Jalapeño. We had intended to go to O’Thym’s in The Village(which features BYOB), but it was packed, so we wandered around the corner and discovered this little place. The Aztec soup was a great starter. Hubby had some Mexican beer and quesadillas, and I got lost in the flavors of a chicken mole enchilada. The atmosphere is relaxed and it appears they sell Hispanic groceries there as well, if you’re looking for authentic ingredients. Probably the most impressive part was the waiter speaking French at one table, Spanish at another, and English at yet another. He switched so easily between the three that we were astounded. The interior is all-white, with white walls, chairs, and tables. There’s occasional splashes of color from art on the walls and from the wall of Hispanic groceries. Between the excellent food, uncluttered atmosphere, and friendly service, we highly recommend the experience. Cost pre-tip: 38 CAD.
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| Chicken mole enchilada |
Saturday, August 13, 2016
Episode 1: Out for blood
for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)
Today's work story involves one main character: I’ll call her All-Star because she is the self-appointed chairperson of everything she thinks is wrong with our facility. Yesterday she was out for blood because of some redundancy in the menu. By out for blood, I mean she came to the kitchen door with a sharp knife and a bucket and used her most chastising tone to demand from me a gallon of my own personal supply of human blood. Ok, not really, but metaphorically, yes. She wanted my blood.
Anyway, before I get to that, some background may be needed. We’ve been running a new 16-week menu for a while now and there are hordes of problems with it, all the fault of our food supplier who wrote the menu in the first place. One problem is that items are being repeated several times within one week. What elderly Minnesota farming community doesn’t want the southern favorite of okra five times in one week? Clue: yeah, none. Then there’s the problem of fancy names no one comprehends, the seafood and fish five times per week, the disregard of food standards, double vegetables, skipping the starch that is required, and having four weeks of chocolatey desserts followed by four weeks of fruit desserts. Needless to say, we are constantly hearing complaints and reassuring residents that on our next rotation of the menu we will have this fixed.
This is where All-Star comes in. We had served “Spanish Omelet” at breakfast, which in bulk means tomato and onion in a slab of egg, very like an egg bake. Then for noon we had Frittata (another “fancy name” that no one understands), which is basically an egg bake. So…the ridiculous menu had me serve everyone veggie egg bake for both breakfast and noon meal. They turned out nicely, beautiful veggies in golden egg with a buttery edge. I thought it was good for what it was. However, it was redundant. Nothing I can do about that until the next rotation! Enter All-Star, wheeling her walker up to the kitchen door to ask me “what happened with the menu today?” She’s on the Food Committee, so she already knows why the menu is flawed. She just wants to watch me squirm. I explain as matter-of-factly as possible what the situation was and that it’s something we will fix on the next rotation. “Very sorry…” as I walk away to do the numerous piles of dishes. I start telling my manager what message All-Star had lovingly brought me when the other kitchen door opened. All-Star apparently had more to say.
“Oh, hey All-Star, I was just telling Manager what you told me…” I say, approaching the door. I study her searching look. “Or did you need something else…?”
“Well,” she stammers. “They’re just…very upset. They’re very upset about the menu today.”
Didn’t I just explain? I make what the menu tells me to make. When there’s a menu error, we discover it day-of and fix it for next time.
“There’s nothing I can do about it now. It’s good to know what the residents are thinking, thank you. We’ll fix it for next time.”
She answers me with stares. She stares the hobgoblin witchery stare that seems to be searching my skin for weak points where she can begin peeling it off with her fingernails. I do my best to stare back. I can smell her lust for my blood. I wish suddenly to run to the spice shelf and douse myself in garlic powder. Maybe she’d follow me, teeth bared, eyes wide with thirst, a hiss escaping her pale white lips.
“Get back!” I’d cry, and pray that the butter knife in my hand contains some silver. A silver dagger, a silver bullet…the only way to combat the undead.
But as it turns out, she’s only standing at the kitchen door, calmly staring death into me.
Finally I break the silence: “I’m sorry; if I had a time machine I could fix it.” And I close the door.
What more could I say? Nothing. What more could I give? Blood. Buckets of my blood and an apology on my knees.
But it’s not gonna happen. I’ve lived to fight another day. Until next time…All-Star.
P.S. I feel compelled to mention that this whole story falls under the category of "First World Problems," in which people who get three square meals a day complain that two of them were almost the same thing. Seriously.
Today's work story involves one main character: I’ll call her All-Star because she is the self-appointed chairperson of everything she thinks is wrong with our facility. Yesterday she was out for blood because of some redundancy in the menu. By out for blood, I mean she came to the kitchen door with a sharp knife and a bucket and used her most chastising tone to demand from me a gallon of my own personal supply of human blood. Ok, not really, but metaphorically, yes. She wanted my blood.
Anyway, before I get to that, some background may be needed. We’ve been running a new 16-week menu for a while now and there are hordes of problems with it, all the fault of our food supplier who wrote the menu in the first place. One problem is that items are being repeated several times within one week. What elderly Minnesota farming community doesn’t want the southern favorite of okra five times in one week? Clue: yeah, none. Then there’s the problem of fancy names no one comprehends, the seafood and fish five times per week, the disregard of food standards, double vegetables, skipping the starch that is required, and having four weeks of chocolatey desserts followed by four weeks of fruit desserts. Needless to say, we are constantly hearing complaints and reassuring residents that on our next rotation of the menu we will have this fixed.
This is where All-Star comes in. We had served “Spanish Omelet” at breakfast, which in bulk means tomato and onion in a slab of egg, very like an egg bake. Then for noon we had Frittata (another “fancy name” that no one understands), which is basically an egg bake. So…the ridiculous menu had me serve everyone veggie egg bake for both breakfast and noon meal. They turned out nicely, beautiful veggies in golden egg with a buttery edge. I thought it was good for what it was. However, it was redundant. Nothing I can do about that until the next rotation! Enter All-Star, wheeling her walker up to the kitchen door to ask me “what happened with the menu today?” She’s on the Food Committee, so she already knows why the menu is flawed. She just wants to watch me squirm. I explain as matter-of-factly as possible what the situation was and that it’s something we will fix on the next rotation. “Very sorry…” as I walk away to do the numerous piles of dishes. I start telling my manager what message All-Star had lovingly brought me when the other kitchen door opened. All-Star apparently had more to say.
“Oh, hey All-Star, I was just telling Manager what you told me…” I say, approaching the door. I study her searching look. “Or did you need something else…?”
“Well,” she stammers. “They’re just…very upset. They’re very upset about the menu today.”
Didn’t I just explain? I make what the menu tells me to make. When there’s a menu error, we discover it day-of and fix it for next time.
“There’s nothing I can do about it now. It’s good to know what the residents are thinking, thank you. We’ll fix it for next time.”
She answers me with stares. She stares the hobgoblin witchery stare that seems to be searching my skin for weak points where she can begin peeling it off with her fingernails. I do my best to stare back. I can smell her lust for my blood. I wish suddenly to run to the spice shelf and douse myself in garlic powder. Maybe she’d follow me, teeth bared, eyes wide with thirst, a hiss escaping her pale white lips.
“Get back!” I’d cry, and pray that the butter knife in my hand contains some silver. A silver dagger, a silver bullet…the only way to combat the undead.
But as it turns out, she’s only standing at the kitchen door, calmly staring death into me.
Finally I break the silence: “I’m sorry; if I had a time machine I could fix it.” And I close the door.
What more could I say? Nothing. What more could I give? Blood. Buckets of my blood and an apology on my knees.
But it’s not gonna happen. I’ve lived to fight another day. Until next time…All-Star.
P.S. I feel compelled to mention that this whole story falls under the category of "First World Problems," in which people who get three square meals a day complain that two of them were almost the same thing. Seriously.
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