Sunday Birthday

It's a birthday. It's so long since last year. Last year's birthday was the best. At least it was since my childhood when Mom had all the kids over for a 'space cadet' birthday. Lots of aluminum foil at that birthday. Last year's was people and dance and a wonderful revelation of belonging.
Now today there's people wishing me happy birthday. Lots of Facebook friends. Not just Facebook friends, friends on facebook as well. How Facebook has kept us connected in this 'penpal' kind of way. There's even dogs of friends I know well thanks to Facebook
And today, I made it to church. Actually in time for a marvellous sermon by Mother Jessica Schaap on Isaiah. I've been thinking about Isaiah recently, wanting to study Hebrew too.
I'm sitting here in the shade. It's a sunny day and I'm due to be walking. I've driven to a meeting in the West End with the Miata top down. God is great. There's so much to be grateful for. Sunshine warms the soul. I'm thinking of Brother Lawrence. Everyone I've seen for days has been talking about living in the day, being in the moment, practicing the presence of God, just for today, now.
My future is so often still soiled by worries and my past pops into my present in thoughts of old resentment my like lingering bad songs of adolescence. I push them out. Heard a fellow tell me was forever shouting at his mind to shut up. I've turned mine off with meditation for periods at a time over many years of practice. Now I laugh to think of Gilbert and his solution to all problems, "Let's go for a walk". Hard to stew when you're doing something.
This is good. I love best to sit at coffeeshops outdoors and type whatever comes to mind. Observing all thye folk in a mixture of winter and summer clothes. Gilbert's checking out the little dogs in spring frocks right now.
There's all these hair styles here. Some long, some very short but some immensely 'big'. I like the colour in the dress. The drab blacks of winter are giving way to some bright greens, blues and yellows. Jackets are open and people are showing off blouses and shirts. I imagine them wearing soiled tshirts all winter but now that their coats are going to be open they've taken to wearing appropriately underwear to go with the outerwear.
I'm convinced many of the jeans I'm seeing on too terribly effete forms were pre torn. I can't imagine this one young man doing anything that might tear his jeans. My predjudice for thin and young, for all I know, the fellow is an extreme sport athlete sauntering down the sunshine streets between competitive events. I hate the judgementalness of the observer. I like the observer but the observers sarcasm is largely misplaced. I remembered today getting together with some colleagues and all they did was talk about the others in disparaging ways. I was once there with them and am glad I don't hang out with that set anymore. Decades ago but something reminded me of that time. Yuppie days.
A doctor or orderly just walked by in scrubs. No jacket. Probably a doctor. There's a hospital a block away and if he's on staff there he's probably skipped out for seconds to get a coffee no time to find a jacket. There's a fellow in shorts.
I meant to buy some dress pants today. I've worn out a couple of pairs. I think it's Gilbert scratching the fabric which then looks ill after laundry. Of course I should be dry cleaning these even if they say they can be washed. I liked the alternative look and thought I'd like to get some today.
My birthday present to myself isn't due to arrive until April, a new fast inflatable tender for the boat which will allow me to get out fishing more and get about once the boat is at anchor. I'm thinking more about the need to get the prop fixed and the autopilot solved. Missing getting out weekends.
I'm not so keen on sailing but just moving the boat to the islands for a weekend at anchor. I love being at anchor. I love the vacation home experience even off Bowen. I feel I've got so far from the maddening city when I 've even jsut anchored off Spanish Banks. With my fast tender I'll be able to scoot into Granville market for provisions too.
There's a lady on a scooter giving out dog treats. I've taken a couple but then the paranoia sets in that people might be poisoning dogs. That's Vancouver or just big city thinking, or television induced paranoia. I guess I'll continue to pray for those who said all men were rapists and child molesters. I've spent years overcoming the fear of strangers trying to believe that Jesus comes anonymously.
She's here having a coffee and is so pleasant. Putney sounding accent. Reminds me of the time in south London. I've been enjoying Anne's writing of Scotland and Marrakech. My latest self pity jag is all those taking early retirement and me thinking I'll work to the grave and here I'd had this thought I'd work hard young and sometime old I'd be rewarded by easier work and kudos but now all those 'easier' jobs are political. And the truth is, I 'm very happy with all I have in my life these day. The work is a blessing. I'm grateful for the chance to serve and it's only a problem when I let my mind step out of the day and paint a self pity future.
It's a collective thing to. All the ecologists are doomsaying. The planet is dying. It's like they're street evangelists screaming 'repent, repent, the wrath of god is upon you'. They insist they are secular but their religion is just a different form. I'm always too aware of the process. The kneeling and the idols and the big chiefs. I must have always been a court jester. I've only admiration for the real leaders. God uses all but I'm just glad to have this sunny day.
Now we've had a Starbucks coffee sitting outside. Wow. Isn't that amazing. March 3 and it's a glorious day in this incredibly grand city of Vancouver. There's sea air. People are everywhere smiling and walking. There's a girl singing and playing guitar. Sweet voice. Reminds me of the song where the singer, a woman I believe wanted to throw in a harmony to the street musician. I like the lilt of her voice popping in and out of traffic sounds.
Time to go. Gilbert's been very patient with me. These are such wonderful moments for me. Outside, really winter in Canada, and here there's sunshine and I'm at a coffeeshop, babbling into my journal, Gilbert visitting with passing little dogs, people watching galore.
A young guy just walked by with a fox tail key chain and nose peircing. His girfriend in shades, both wearing winter sweaters. Lots of sneekers. Chinese woman walking with stroller. Lots of different bags and purses. Girl with pink hair and white blouse. A belair blue and white vintage car drove by styling.
Time to go, Right Gilbert. Lets get out in the car with the top down and think we're as close to motorcycling as we can be today.







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Venison Jerky

My venison marinade has olive oil, molasses, honey, garlic, onion, soy sauce, tobasca, basil, oregano, salt, lots of pepper and then some and love. I whisk it up like an alchemical brew and measure portions of other stuff that I add as I get inspired. The cat flies about the kitchen on her little broom, shrilly screeching, "eye of neut, eye of neut". But I never put eye of neut in my venison marinade and she knows that.

I cut up slices of venison ensuring only the best meat in the same 1/8 to 1/4 inch strips. I put the meat in the marinade and then covering the large bowl with saran wrap place it in the vegetable space of the refrigerator.

Overnight and the whole next day this experience happened in my fridge while I first slept and then spent the day at work. In the evening I rushed home to fire up the Big Chief electric smoker on my high rise deck in West End Vancouver. I filled the chip pan with alder then laid out each morsel of meat on the rack above. I plugged in that Big Chief and smoke and aroma began to happen almost instantly. I was barbecuing venison steaks meanwhile.

Multi cultural West End Vancouver began to experience a Canadian culinary sensual extravaganza. Aboriginal people's noses went up instantly as they began to search the city for the source of the feast of the Creator. Scots, Russians, Europeans, Northern Chinese, Africans, and all the others whose fathers had hunted deer and raised their children on the succulent experience of smoked meat salivated en mass.

Meanwhile my neighbour above me not one to appreciate the aroma of alder and venison smoke pointed a garden hose down at my deck and tried to flood me out. At first I thought it was raining but when I went out to get my steaks sure enough there was the garden hose nozzle conspicuously aimed over the side of the above deck. Poor aim. The smoking process continued overnight with very little smoke but the richest aroma. I added more alder a half dozen times and the garden hose shut off after an hour or so of token resistance. Her DNA will never be the same and she has given up vegetarianism and applied for a hunting license on line.

This morning I again had a taste of heaven. Unbelievable! But again the battle began. I want to share the experience. I want to watch another human's lips smack and eyes roll back in venison jerky rapture but I don't want to share my hoard. I know it's downright sinful and I should give it all to the church to save me from pride of possession. It's all I can do to resist devouring the whole bowl.

Meanwhile I wouldn't be surprised if my neighbour approached me offering sex for venison. It wouldn't be the first time. My aboriginal friends get that all the time when they smoke up salmon. I'd refuse of course. Its a sacred not secular experience.