Friday, December 18, 2009

Lobster for the family

Dateline: Whitehorse, Yukon.

Oh, I felt like such an expert, smug from having eaten lobster twice inside of two weeks and from having received hands-on, finger-lickin' good, "how to eat lobster" training from my friends Bob and Sue on the eve of my departure for Whitehorse.  Naturally, as a true-blue (brand-new) Bay-of-Fundy-er, I brought home lobster for the family... and passed on everything I've learned so far.

They enjoyed the lobster alright, but the real pleasure was mine, watching them dive right in and seeing the pleasure on their faces.  (And no, the champagne I was drinking -- recommended by Bob and Sue as the beverage of choice to accompany lobster -- had nothing to do with it!)

Lobsters aplenty...


According to Bob, newspaper is de rigeur because eating lobster is such a messy business if you're serious about it.  Also, it's best to remove the elastics from the claws before cooking the lobsters, because they can impart a rubbery taste to the meat.  That can be done by holding the lobster by its body and using a sharp knife; the claws stay safely out of reach of your hand.  (These lobsters were purchased pre-cooked.)

Lined up and ready to eat...


Daughters dig in... or, seestahs doing it for themselves...


Get that thing away from me!


No, really, it won't bite you...


Heaven, I'm in heaven...


Mmmmm...



Love those happy smiling faces!



Dibs on those scraps, muttahf***er!
(See what I mean about the mess?  Good thing we used the newspaper!)



Post-prandial contentment...



Thanks, Cath.  Oh, you're so-o-o-o welcome!

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

The snail went over the mountain

This is a photographic post I've been meaning to make for days, another (brief) series of photos from the beach, taken a few weeks ago. Now, with the winter storm raging outside, seems like a good time to revisit that golden afternoon.

The snail approaches Everest:


Beginning the ascent:


Summiting:


Aren't those colours amazing?  (I hope your monitor will capture them...)

Winter Storm

Winter came suddenly over the past weekend. It has been glorious here through November, but on Saturday the temperatures slid into the minuses and there was a snowfall during the night. Yesterday was sunny again, but today, after a beautiful sunrise, clouds moved in, the wind picked up and late in the afternoon it began to snow.

The headlines in the online Globe and Mail this evening say "Snow hammers East, West faces deep freeze" and "Eastern U.S. hit by blast of winter", so I guess we're merely the next locale in the path of this particular storm... but it's my first Maritime blizzard and I'm agog. My house is snug; I had no idea the wind was blowing that hard until I stepped outside... into an enveloping roar, the howling wind combined with the crashing of waves on the beach. In truth, about five hours into this storm not much snow has accumulated and it's a balmy zero degrees outside, so it's hardly threatening weather, but it feels absolutely... totally... wild.

Clearly Maritimers are very business-like about this sort of thing. Earlier this evening, the radio promised extra newscasts into the evening to keep us posted on the storm. Lists of event cancellations were broadcast and full listings were to be posted on the Internet. The plows have been out on the main roads... Spit spot; it's just another blizzard.

I'm glad the locals know what they're doing. Me, I'm sitting here listening to the driven snow needling against the windows and watching the lights dim and flicker. And thinking about the forecast which promises us +7 degrees tomorrow!

Sunday, December 6, 2009

The fog horn

My new house is located a kilometre or so from the lighthouse at Quaco Head. "Head" is new geographic terminology for me; I've heard it, but have never seen a head before this one. Dictionary.com defines head as "a projecting point of a coast, esp. when high, as a cape, headland, or promontory". Okay, that describes Quaco Head pretty accurately. And explains why a lighthouse is warranted.

You can't see the lighthouse from my house... but you can hear the fog horn.  Last night, for the second time since I've been here, I awoke to its sounding.  I know fog horns from movies, descriptions in books or other artificial settings, never previously having lived where they were needed.  I think of them as having a deep bass bellow:  w-a-a-a-a-a-w-w.  But I'm guessing that modern technology has superseded the fog horn and replaced it with the fog signal, because this one's note is decidedly tenor, if not alto.  And the edges of the sound are crisp; no wallowing.

The sound is muffled, which makes sense of course, because the signal only sounds when the weather is inclement enough to obscure the lighthouse light.  In this case, as I discovered upon waking this morning, the weather in question was snow.

A number of seconds elapse between signals, just long enough for me to drift back to sleep only to be awakened by the next one.  I listened for a while.  I must have read somewhere a description of a fog horn's sound as "mournful", but this signal is confident and commanding: "listen up, you out there on the Bay, and steer clear of these rocks".  I found it comforting to know that if there were any lobster fishermen out on the water, hearing the signal they would be safe.  Lulled its repetitious tones and the warmth of my bed, I fell back into a deep, delicious sleep.

Here's what my backyard looks like in snow:

Friday, December 4, 2009

Lobster initiation... or, murder she wrote...

It's lobster season here.  The Bay of Fundy... which some say produces the best lobster in the world.  Fresh... from the ocean to the boat to me, within hours.  First, the innocuous pot in the fridge, where the victim is confined:


The wet newspaper shroud...  who would think to look beneath?


The victim; isn't he (I think it was a he...) beautiful?


A desperate attempt to escape...  But let's keep this in perspective: apparently Jacques Cousteau wouldn't eat lobster because he regarded them as bottom-feeding insects...


The crime scene...


Butter and garlic, accessories after the fact...


Wine: witness?  or accomplice...?


VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED!  Note: appropriate and heartfelt prayers were whispered.


Wine, your fingerprints were all over the crime scene...


Recovering the body...


The autopsy...


Aha!  Just as I thought!  Further investigation is required....


The mystery deepens...


Like a true child of children of the Great Depression, she saves the best for the last:


The incriminating evidence...  (Wine, is that you again!??)


I admit... a lobster died in the production of this post.  The producer is deeply grateful to that lobster for its sustaining gift of life... and delicate flavour.  (Apologies to CSI -- Crime Scene.)  The producer also hopes she'll be able to sleep tonight.