The Pear Tree Blog

I bought the Lassy Mogs for my mum. I bought them because they have a perfectly quirky name and I knew she would love them based on that fact alone.

You see, she simply adores these British biscuits called Jammy Dodgers (“gooey, stretchy jam SPLODGED between two shortcake biscuits,” the box explains in the most unappetizing vocabulary possible). To be perfectly honest, they’re not my thing. I like neither the biscuits nor the rubbery splodgy jam between them, and I suspect that what my mum finds so appetizing about them is more the name than anything else. It’s a name she likes to say – partly because of it’s, umm, quirkiness and partly because they’re from England and so most people around here haven’t heard of them – which makes them so much fun to talk about. “Hmm,” she’ll say, “I could really go for a Jammy Dodger.” Or, “Care for a Jammy Dodger?” or, her favourite, “What? You haven’t heard of Jammy Dodgers??”

Now I could see if she developed a thing for Tangy Twiglets. While their name isn’t quite as idiosyncratic, they’re at least palatable – unlike their predecessor, Original Twiglets, which are basically stick pretzels with Marmite on them (did you see the Mr. Bean where he ran out and put the Marmite on real sticks?) Tangy Twiglets are coated in heavenly Worcestershire sauce. They crunch. They tang. What more could a person want? The fun-to-say name is pure bonus.

But this is about the Lassy Mogs.

I was shopping, not long ago, in The Real Canadian Superstore, when my eyes fell on this package of biscuits. For the record, I’m not generally fond of store-bought biscuits (Hobnobs and Fox’s Ginger Creams and Lemon Creams being the exception) and never even look at them when I’m passing down the aisle. But somehow, this time, the name jumped out at me. Lassy Mogs. Say it once to yourself.

The package describes them as soft fruit and nut cookies, made with butter, dates, raisins, molasses, pecans and a blend of spices. What a lark, I thought, what a plunge – - for my mum, I mean, NOT ME! So I bought them.

Now the irony: I meant to take them to her the next night, when I visited for tea. I forgot. I saw them sitting on my counter the next day and thought about taking them to her then, but got busy. Then I decided I’d better sample one first, to make sure they were an appropriate enough gift (not too hard, crunchy, stale, nasty – not that she’d object, she loves the Jammy Dodgers after all). It wasn’t hard, or crunchy. It was moist, spicy and totally tasty! So I had another. And another. Before I knew it, four of them had disappeared. I am now a certifiable Lassy Mogs fan. I even like the name!

Further investigation reveals that the Lassy Mog hails from Atlantic Canada, and is a classic, home-baked treat. The “charming” (according to President’s Choice) name is derived from the local dialect for the region’s widely used sweetener, molasses (“lassy”) and small, low-rising cake (“mog”).

It just goes to show that, yes, once again, you can’t judge a biscuit by its moniker. Well, except in one case – a Jammy Dodger is still one to dodge They’re available in Kelowna at Little Britain on Enterprise Way and at the Sunshine Market on Lakeshore Drive, if you don’t believe me. But I recommend you go straight for the Lassy Mogs. You’ll thank me for it, I know.

My mouth is a red, flaming, festering mess. It burns when I brush my teeth. Yet I. Can’t. Stop. Eating cinnamon candy hearts.

I’ve been binging. Again. It’s a weakness I have. Okay, a full-on addiction – one that happens every February when they bring out those infernal tokens of love.

It started a few years ago, this addiction to the Valentines Day Red Demon. I sit in front of my computer, writing, popping back three, four, five at a time. La brûlure, c’est magnifique.

After a day or so of this, however, my mouth gets kind of tender – tongue, cheeks, roof, gums. My blood sugar level must soar through the roof, making me grateful they’re not available all year round.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not a hot food connoisseur. Sure, I like a little wasabi sauce with my sushi, and I can take a medium heat when it comes to spicy foods, but I don’t like to push it to a point of endurance.

Cinnamon hearts are a different story. They’re sweet, and not actually that hot when eaten in moderation. The problem is, like a crack addict, I can’t seem to eat them in moderation. Each one offers a hit that needs to be repeated until, before I know it, the lining of my mouth looks like it was ripped apart by a cougar.

It’s madness, I know, but what can you do?

Well, I know one thing I can do, and I had planned to do it this year: Don’t take the first one.

My intentions were good. I wasn’t even looking when I passed the big vats in the V-Day aisle that greets you first thing when you walk into the grocery store. Okay, perhaps I glimpsed, because I knew they were there. But that’s as close as I was coming to them this year.

Until. . .

I was at an office for an interview last week, chatting with the receptionist whilst waiting for my interview subject to arrive. There, on the counter, was a bowl full of the evil little things. “Look away!” I told my self, “Look away!” I did not succumb. Not even when I had to return later that day to take a picture (of the woman I had interviewed, NOT the candy hearts). But the second time was too much for me. And something overcame me. Something I could not control.

The Precious. We wants it. We needs it.

I got in the car and started heading home… past the first possible turn-off to my neighbourhood… and the second… and the third. The car was leading me. Driving me. To the grocery store. To the V-Day aisle. To the cinnamon hearts. To bliss.

I grabbed a bag and headed through the checkout. I suspect my hands were shaking. “I need it man, I NEED it,” I wanted to tell the clerk, my supplier. I headed to the car, lovingly cradling my drug of choice, then ripped into the plastic with animalistic abandon upon getting inside. My eyes shot wildly from side to side as I plunged my greedy fingers into the cache of cold, smooth hearts. I smelled them, deeply, before opening my mouth.

I started with one. Oooooooh! It was so good! It tasted like . . . another. Mmmmm, yeah, baby, hit me one more time!

And now, here I am, with open sores. It hurts to eat real food. But still, the cinnamon hearts go down.

I’m popping them back now, as I write – although I’ve limited myself to two at a time because last night when I tried to eat my husband’s pineapple-laced stir-fry my ulcerated mouth didn’t take it well. It’s been stripped, you see, of all its natural buffers. But yet, here I am again today, like a dog to its vomit, like a junkie to his drug. It could rot the teeth out of my mouth. I could become a diabetic. But still . . . “just two more,” I rationalize. “Okay, maybe three.”

Fortunately, said husband happens to care about me enough to seize what remains of the bag of goodness and ration me out a handful (or two) to do me. Like my safe injection site.

Ah, love is sweet. And spicy. Love is cinnamon.

There’s nothing like a New Year or a birthday to get a person in a reflective mood. As luck would have it, my birthday comes shortly after the New Year begins so I get a big portion of my reflecting out of the way all in one month.

They say a lady never tells her age. So in keeping with proper decorum I won’t actually say how old I’ve turned – but I am currently looking back on being 38, and how the experience compared to my rather high ideal.

You see, several years ago, back when I was still somewhat of a newbie to the 30s, a friend of mine who is a number of years older than me told me that 38 was the ultimate age for a woman. She had certainly found this to be true, and she was backed up by a friend of hers who insisted that, yes, it really is The age to be.

The theory goes that when a woman is 38 she has all the advantages of youth – good looks, health, energy and attractive physique – but also has a larger stockpile of wisdom, experience, savvy and stability. It is the year, my friend promised, when everything comes together for a woman and she is at her finest.

It is with this claim that I travelled through my 30s, always anticipating, ever wondering, forever hopeful.

Looking back at the last year, though, I’m not so sure this was the case for me. As luck would have it, I ushered in my birthday three months pregnant, so my body was not exactly what I’d describe as the most attractive physique I’ve ever had, say what you will about the beauty of a child-bearing body and that certain glow. Having a c-section meant a longer recovery and so there goes the vibrancy and energy of youth. And lets not talk about the sleep deprivation and what that does to the spirit.

As for the wise and savvy side of the equation, in addition from suffering – what are they called? – pregnant moments? Where your brain shuts down and you forget common, everyday words, streams of thought and important tasks? – I have never in my life felt as unwise as I have trying to nurture a creative and energy-packed two-year-old.

So while I love the idea of an “ultimate” year, where everything just comes together for you and goes off without a hitch, I don’t think 38 was it. At least not for me.

Which leads me to wonder, have I already had my ultimate age? Is there an ultimate age?? I’ve always been a tad, shall we say immature – perhaps 40 will be my 38? Please let me know, though, if you’ve found yours – and what you think it is.

In the meantime, I shall hold out fond hopes for age … you know … the one that comes after 38.

While we’re big fans of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, blog giveaways definitely rank among our favourite things as well. And when the giveaway is of roses? Well, it seldom gets much better than that.

We at The Pear Tree have been watching the Flea Market Style blog with great interest since last summer. The magazine is slated to debut next month, and we can hardly wait. From the sneak previews and teasers that have been posted it promises to be a beautiful and inspiring magazine.

Which brings us back to the giveaway. It’s not ours, this time. To help build the excitement of the impending launch, Flea Market Style is giving away 10 signed and numbered prints featuring a vase full of roses. The picture will appear in a story in the magazine. Visit their post to learn more.

Ahhh, café.

I feel it percolate my spirit as I perch in front of my computer screen, green cup firmly in hand. My eyes close as I take a sip, and a smile passes, unexpectedly, across my face.

Mellow, warm, inviting, the aroma of freshly brewed joe is one that’s been pretty foreign to my abode these last, oh, 14 or so months. Ever since I knew I was pregnant with Baby No. 2. And it’s been hard – oh, so hard. When I was pregnant with my son, it was easy. I simply had no desire for coffee. Or tea, hot chocolate, chai … but the last time around I wanted it – ooooh I wanted it. And, since delivering back in August, I’ve occasionally indulged myself in a cup – although I’m trying to not make it a habit while I’m still nursing.

Today is one of those rare days, though, that I have given in to temptation. A day where I just really needed some liquid inspiration.

I should stress that I’m not actually physically addicted to coffee. I can down several cups at a time with nary a jitter to be found. And I can drink the stuff every day for a year and stop cold turkey without ever experiencing a headache. No, my addiction is mental – or maybe more emotional. It’s the culture of coffee that hooks me. Good coffee, it goes without saying. Fresh brewed, from the bean, warm, rich, aromatic. It stimulates good conversations. It pairs with chocolate, vanilla and desserts of all manner and make. It accessorizes rainy days, snow days and sunshine. It gets the creative juices flowing.

So, at a loss for what to write, but wanting to write something, I scooped a heap of decaf Verona into my brushed metal Cuisinart coffee maker and brewed myself a cup.

It didn’t take long for the smell to fill the house, giving it a mellow, coffee shop aura.

Then, five gladsome beeps later, it was ready. Just hearing the coffee poured into my cup, gurgling joyfully all the way up, made me want to weep with the pleasure of it.

It appeals to all of my senses – sight (is there a more comforting colour than mocha?), sound, smell and taste (obviously), and even touch as I clutch the warm cup in my hands.

And now I sit and slurp, and words again flow easily out of my fingers and onto the screen. The coffee has worked its magic and I again have something to write about.

The plan, today, was to go out for lunch with my mother and two kids. We have a number of favourite lunch spots – informal-yet-quaint or stylish soup and sandwich spots that boast fresh food with a reasonable price tag.

I love eating out, and snatch hold of the opportunity to do so whenever it comes up. I love eating food that’s prepared for me (I can cook, but admit that I don’t actually like to), and enjoy trying new things that I might not think of on my own. And I relish being in an atmosphere with lots of people to watch, the buzz of conversation around me, wonderful aromas and the warm, often eclectic atmosphere that most of my favourite hangouts are imbued with.

But today, I felt funny. Funny about eating out. Funny about going about in my happy, carefree existence while people in Haiti struggle with such enormous loss – loss of loved ones, loss of homes, loss of any sense of security they may have had, which, given their tumultuous history, probably wasn’t very high to begin with.

Today I felt funny about paying extra for someone to make me and my party a wrap or panini that I could technically make at home, while that money could actually benefit someone in need. So I decided to forgo lunch out and give the money to an organization that will help to do some good, instead.

It’s not a lot – $20, by my estimate. But if others do the same – even $5 or $10, a missed latte here or there – the number will be multiplied. I don’t say we ought to deny ourselves forever because there’s always someone in need (if you can, you’re a better person than I), but every now and then it just seems right.

Here is a list of links to organizations in Canada that was printed in The Daily Courier today. I’ll probably choose one of them…

- Canadian Red Cross (hoping to raise at least $2 million): click on the link, or call toll free 1-800-418-1111 or visit any Red Cross office.

- Humanitarian Coalition (consists of CARE Canada, Oxfam Canada, Oxfam-Quebec and Save the Children Canada).

- Plan Canada

- Salvation Army: or call 1-800-725-2769. Bell Mobility customers can make $10 donations by texting the word “haiti” to 45678. Donations can be mailed to Army Territorial Headquarters, Canada and Bermuda, 2 Overlea Blvd., Toronto, ON M4H 1P4. Donations can also be dropped off at local Salvation Army units. Specify “Haiti Earthquake Disaster Relief Fund.”

- Doctors Without Borders

- Unicef Canada

- United Jewish Appeal of Greater Toronto: or call 416-631-5705

- World Vision Canada

What will you do with your lunch money?

There is another resolution that I really ought to make but didn’t bother listing with the others because I know I’ll probably break it before the month is up. I need to stop buying books. Seriously. And no, not in an attempt to reach out to my Neanderthal roots. Quite the contrary.

You see, I have a problem. My name is Lori-Anne and I am a book-a-holic. I love buying books. So much so, in fact, that in recent years I’ve bought and bought and bought without ever finding the time to read my purchases.

Last year, I decided to sit down and actually start to read what I have accumulated – starting with Ulysses (James Joyce), which I purchased in a fit of ambition in The Book Shop in Penticton a few years ago (still haven’t cracked the spine on that one). The plan was to then have a go at The English (Jeremy Paxman), The Skystone (Jack Whyte) and the old Canadian classic, Who Has Seen the Wind (W.O Mitchell).

Mark me 0/4. I have read, though – The Cat in the Hat (Dr. Seuss), The Tale of Peter Rabbit (Beatrix Potter), Winnie-the-Pooh (A.A. Milne) and, oh, my son’s current favourite, Where the Wild Things Are (Maurice Sendak). And others, of course – so many other good, children’s, books.

As for my own collection, it sits in stacks and stacks, all over my house. Stacks and shelves and boxes of books – too many of them still unread. It’s shameful, really.

But there’s something about bookstores that makes me desire more books. Maybe it’s the tall towers – sometimes arranged maze-like, full of knowledge (or at least ideas) and adventure. Each package of bound-together pages is a door into another life or a world that the reader can inhabit. Sometimes it’s almost overwhelming.

I’ve tried, in my purchasing habits, to stick to a theme – classics, Can Lit, music, art – and then I come across a crazy gem such as A Last Diary, by W.N.P. Barbellion. I don’t know who he is but the first words I read hooked me: “March 21st, 1918. – Misery is protean in its shapes, for all are indescribable. I am tongue-tied. Folk come and see me and conclude it’s not so bad after all – just as civilians tour the front and suppose they have seen war on account of a soldier with a broken head or an arm in a sling. Others are getting used to me, though I am not getting used to myself,” he begins. So I buy it, even though it doesn’t fit into any theme.

I still haven’t read beyond that, of course.

If I had more time, I’d read all the time. I know people who read on the train or the bus, on their breaks or after work. I’m not going to break down my schedule for you, but it seems there’s always something else to fill that spot. So I buy, rationalizing in some crazy way that to own is as good as to read, and if my shelves are well stocked and my room nicely furnished with interesting books, I will be a better person for it.

I’m still not convinced that’s altogether far-fetched – a room full of literature and music and art is still richer than one devoid of such treasures, even if they are just aesthetic. Why do you think book stores are so tantalizing?

Someday I’d like to open my own secondhand book shop (with an adjoining tea room), and just be surrounded by great books – novels, diaries, history books, art anthologies, travel journals, the list goes on. And then, oh yes, I might even have a chance to sit down and read, between customers.

Until then, I might just keep on buying, pointlessly. At least until I find a more productive hobby.

I’ve long been a sucker for writing New Year’s resolutions. I’m not saying that I’m always 100 per cent faithful to the list I compose each year (I’m not). But there’s something about the process of reflecting on one’s life at the end of the year, analyzing what works and what could use some tweaking, that’s actually affirming. Okay, and – if we’re being honest – I really like writing lists.

This year, after considerable thought, I’ve settled on five resolutions (any more than that and I know my ambition is greater than my will to succeed). Here, in no particular order, they are:

1. Start to journal again. There was a time – about 15 solid years, in fact – that I was a faithful journaler. I started keeping a notebook back when I began attending university in England, chronicling my years there, my travels, aspirations, philosophies of life and general goings on. I kept at it when I returned home, when I taught English in Korea for 20 months and when I established my career as a freelance journalist and photographer. Sadly, it was when my son was born, two-and-a-half years ago, that I stopped altogether. I blame tiredness, too-full schedules and, well, maybe a little bit of procrastination. But I’ve been thinking recently about how much I’m missing, how many precious and vital details of this early period of motherhood that I will eventually forget. And, as a writer, I know I owe it to myself to capture this. Blogs are good, but you don’t (or at least I don’t) write with the candor that I do when it’s only for me.

2. Wake up earlier. In an attempt to eke out the very last winks of sleep, it’s rare for me to rise before my son does. These days, that’s usually between 7-7:30 a.m. But if I could just force myself up even half an hour earlier it would give me that little bit of extra time to journal, exercise or read my Bible (last year’s resolution, which never made it past January or Genesis).

3. Print pictures and put them in albums. Since I switched to digital, more than five years ago, I have printed off almost nothing. Hundreds and hundreds of pictures await sorting and printing and organizing in attractive albums and picture frames. Before getting married, four years ago, I picked up a couple of beautiful, leather bound albums for engagement pictures and wedding shots. They still sit, empty, while our pictures remain on disk. The task is becoming increasingly overwhelming now that there are not one, but two children in the mix and the stockpile grows by leaps and bounds. I WILL get this done this year.

4. Put things back in their place as soon as I am done with them. I am horrible – notorious, even – for placing things on the kitchen island or my desk or the table by the front door “just for a minute” that lasts a week or two. I hate it, yet I continue. But not this year.

5. Find one moment of exquisite beauty everyday. Some time ago I heard an interview with Margaret Trudeau on CBC Radio, and she talked about how, even when life is difficult, everyone should try and find one moment of exquisite beauty everyday, and how sometimes that’s what gets you through. I don’t know if it’s possible everyday, but both exquisiteness and beauty are in the eye of the beholder and so I’m going to open up my eyes and my senses and see what happens.

So there they are. Like any list of resolutions, I hope these changes will help to make my life better – healthier and happier – by following through with them. But I also hope that, as a result, it will be richer, more beautiful and more blessed than it already is. Onward and upward to 2010!

P.S. If you haven’t visited the Pear Tree main page already this week, please do so and leave a comment to be eligible for our first giveaway.

I’ve been a cat person for as long as I can remember. When I married a dyed in the wool dog person, he accepted the resident cat and even made an effort to connect with her (although he was mostly left bewildered by the inner-tickings of the feline species). He’s a bigger person than I might have been, I blush to admit.

And then I had a son, who seems so obviously to have inherited his father’s dog-loving tendencies. So much so, that I’ve been thinking since last summer that this is a boy who needs his own dog.

For those of you who don’t know me or my disdain for animals that jump on, sniff and lick people, I must stress how big this is of me to put myself aside and think of the wants (not even needs!) of another person in this particular situation. It’s huge!

After months of contemplating, researching different breeds of dogs and feeling sorry for the cat, who is up to here with being chased and squealed at and having things thrown for her to fetch (which she will NOT condescend to do), I told my husband that maybe we could get a dog for our son next summer, for his birthday. But only if it’s one of three easy-on-the-eyes breeds: a miniature American Eskimo, a Cairn Terrier or a West Highland Terrier.

Just days – DAYS – after that conversation, I got a phone call from my sister, telling me that a woman in a nearby town had a litter of Westies for sale, ready in time for Christmas. So, two days before Christmas we met up with the lady to pick up our new little girl, Maisy, to present to our son on Christmas Day. (We also picked up a little boy pup, Snowy, for my nephew from his mom).

And I’m going to admit that, while I’m still not a dog fan, I am totally in love with this tiny, quirky little ball of fluff! It didn’t take her long at all to ingrain herself into the heart and soul of the family, and we are (and I am) looking forward adventures to come – not to mention the incentive to go for a walk every day.

We were blessed this year with lots of presents, from family and friends. But there’s nothing like the gift of a little life to make the occasion extra special. I know a certain little boy who thinks so, anyway. The jury’s still out on what the cat thinks.

I’m not OCD, I swear I’m not, but since having children I’ve been washing my hands a lot. Some of it is because of an increased concern about germs and spreading them to new immune systems. But while I admit I’ve vamped things up since the H1N1 pandemic, a lot of the washing has more to do with my thoughtlessness than hygienic thoughtfulness.

For example, a common scenario is as follows: I change my son. Naturally, I wash my hands right after. But then I think, while I’m in the washroom anyway, I might as well use the facilities. Another hand wash. Then I change the baby’s nappy, which requires, yes, yet another hand wash. I’ve now washed my hands three times in the space of about seven minutes. Add to that baths to give and dishes to wash and meals to clean up for. And now that I’m toilet training my son the number of times my hands are lathered up in a given day has multiplied enormously. It’s a wonder I get anything else done.

While this is little more than an amusing anecdote during the balmy summer months, come late September, when the weather makes a turn for the colder, my hands really start to suffer. Remember that lotion commercial (I can’t remember the brand) that featured a crocodile as the dry hand mascot? Yeah, that’s me. Except my knuckles are red. Dry and red.

To help counteract the effects, I’ve amassed quite the collection of hand creams. I have bottles stationed all through the house – the bathroom, my desk, the front door, the kitchen and the powder room. They’re all different brands, and seem to do well while they’re on … however, it’s a constant battle and if I’m not reapplying every time I wash my hands my inner reptile rears it’s ugly head.

Here is my current line-up, in no particular order:

Green Tea Ginger by Pureliving. I have a deep-seeded adversity to lotions that don’t soak into your skin right away, leaving you feeling slimed until the next time you wash your hands. This one – and all of the ones featured – soak in quickly and leave the skin feeling soft and silky. The fragrance is subtle and light. I got this one at The Water Garden on Ellis Street in Kelowna, after spending about 15 minutes exploring the lotion section. Yes, I’m a bit picky.

I was given Japanese Cherry Blossom Shimmer lotion by Bath & Body Works by a friend of mine last summer, and I recommend it as a light lotion, for summer – although I’ve been using it in these winter months, as well. While it’s not as thick and doesn’t leave your hands feeling quite as supple, it soaks right into thirsty skin and gives it what it needs. The scent is light, and a bit stronger than the Pureliving. I have yet to notice any shimmer on my skin after applying, however.

Clinique Happy makes me happy. It’s a little heavier but – again – soaks in quickly and completely within a minute. I’m wearing it now, as I type, since its home is my desk. It’s also the one I often choose to apply before going out because the bright, fun fragrance is fairly strong and can stand in for perfume.

The Thymes Sweetleaf Baby was actually a purchase I made for my daughter shortly after she was born because Thymes is, in my opinion, The Best lotion. Not too thick, not to thin. Quick absorption. Wonderful scents that aren’t too strong (not nearly as strong as the Clinique Happy). This one, purchased at La Bonne Vie on Pandosy Street in Kelowna’s Mission, has a very soft scent, being for babies and all, and my little girl loves to be massaged all over with it. I try to resist sneaking some for myself from time to time, but self-control isn’t always my forte.

I save my Clinique Water Therapy Moisture Glove Hand Cream for when I want to pull out the big guns. This stuff is so thick and rich my hands feel like velvet after I use it. I only use it at night, before I go to bed, so that it has hours of uninterrupted time to nurture my skin. When I wake up in the morning the deep, dry crevices on my hands are nearly non-existent (at my age, nearly is as good as it gets). But then the process starts again – washing, drying, freezing, and slathering on of the goods.

It’s not easy being an old hand – but at least there are a few perks.