Sardine Induced Madness

3 Cans of Sardines for $2.00!



Who am I to resist a bargain, particularly of a food which I am attempting to learn to love for no particular reason other than to force myself outside of my circle of comfort. (Although, it is also as much about getting up to long distance high-jinx with my lemonadescent friend!)

It has been a number of weeks now since I began this quest, consuming an average 1 can a week of the greasy bait.

I started with an oven toasted sandwich of sardines, tomato, cheese and basil leaves. Closing my eyes as I raised the sango to my mouth, I told myself, "This won't taste like fish! This won't taste like fish!" Munch, munch, munch. "Was that a spinal chord?" I shudder as I feel a slight crunch in my mouth. Swallow. Glass of water.

I tried making Sardine dip (ewgh!), a mushy mix of sardines, ketchup, pumpkin and mushrooms. By mashing it up with the vegetables, I found it much easier to look at because it was no longer body like. The first mouthful. Hey, this ain't so bad. A couple of more mouthfuls...Oh, it does taste quite fishy. Suddenly, involuntary reflexes start kicking in. Swallow. Two Glasses of Water. No more dip, thank you!

By this stage I was forced to admit the situation was starting to get desperate. It is time to go back to the basic rules of food...

THE GOLDEN FOOD RULE: Almost everything tastes better with lots of melted cheese.

Using this as a guidleine, I decided that my next sardine experience would be to mix them in with Macaroni Cheese and bake the mix in the oven. When I opened the oven door 15 minutes later, a waft of fishy aroma met my nostrils. Oh dear, what am I doing?

With each bite of the Cheesy Sardine Mac, I closed my eyes, pretending there were no traces of sardines on my fork. Of all the sardine dishes that I have made so far, this was the first I managed to eat a full portion of. However, adding the fish was an easy way to ruin a classic comfort dish.

So at this point in the escapade, I ponder why I am subjecting myself to the regular queesiness of eating the fish. I mean, should I ever find myself stranded off the New Brunswick coast on a raft of broken bits of ship, I want to be sure that I will be able to stomach these marine morsels that I am told are abundant in those waters.

But given that I don't plan on being near the Atlantic Ocean in the near future, let alone on it, perhaps I need to search deeper for a reason to persist on this gastronomic jaunt.

It has occurred to me, on more than one occasion as I eat the sardines, that I have almost made the transition to vegetarianism throughout this year, but in some wacky act of rebellion, I am consuming something which I do not enjoy, when I could be eating some meaty thing that I love.

The thing is, that there is quite a short list of foods that I dislike immensely, in fact it probably comes down to fish, red bean paste and offal that I strongly oppose. WHY OH WHY DID I NOT CHOOSE TO LEARN TO LIKE RED BEAN PASTE?

There are now 3 cans of sardines in my larder. I will persist with my Sardine escapade until NYD 2006. If I can not manage to enjoy the fish by then, I shall resign myself to defeat by a headless small fish. Shudder!

There's a sardine lurking in my fridge...

Sardines make me dry reach.

Opening a can, the oily fish stench almost overwhelms me.

I lever one out with a fork, silvery skin shimmering in the light.
My fork trembles slightly as I raise the fish from the can. The resultant wriggling makes the fish appear alive and my stomach turns in knots.

The fish suddenly breaks apart, one part slipping onto the bench with the remainder hanging onto my fork.

My eyes open wide. Hanging from the flesh on my fork is a spinal cord. THE FISH STILL HAS BONES!

I shudder.

I can not eat this now. I don't know if I will ever be able to eat it, so I place the remaining sardines in a bowl, cover it and place it in the fridge.

I can't stop thinking about it. It is the same feeling as when a giant hairy spider flees into a crevice out of your reach. You know it is there. You know you will have to face it again soon, but you wish that it would just go away. Until the issue is resolved, the thought of it will linger in your mind.

...and so the Sardine lingers.

The iron gates loomed large before me.
I walked towards them from the roadway, pausing for a moment to take in the expanse of them. Corroding, green in color, I wondered if they were built intent of keeping people out of the cemetery, or on keeping whatever may lay in there inside.

I took several moments.
A moment to survey the entrance and what lays beyond. I took in the massive brick wall holding up the gates. The words Springvale Necropolis plastered on the wall like military medals on an old soldier.
I took a moment to honour the dead that lay beyond the gates. A moment to contemplate what I was about to do. A moment to consider if there would be any karma fallout.
Finally, I took a moment to tie up a loose shoelace.

I started to walk, wandering through the gates, passing by the empty guardhouse, continuing on a path down to a small lake. A serene place for mourners.

I broke into a jog. I continued through some parkland, then across a lawn cemetery. I pictured myself in an episode of Buffy and broke into a run, dodging monster hands breaking out of their graves to grasp at my ankles. A small rush of adrenalin as I continued my jaunt through the protestant section, with simple grave headstones, practical as ever and then on into the roman catholic segment where massive statues of angels, saints and family crypts stand revelling in the glory of death.

Not content with a mere wild run through the christian factions, (clearly, in the afterlife we continue to segregate ourselves into our various religious identities), I worked my way through the section for followers of Judaism, Islam and then into a melting pot of Asian beliefs.

At this point I was headed off at the pass, by a security guard, arms folded and standing looking at me, like the principal at the end of a school corridor as the rowdy kids run riot.

"Are ya right there mate?" said the guard, dressed in a yellow shirt, with muscled arms and a bit of attitude.
"Yeah, I'm okay, just taking a jog," I replied off-handedly.
"Well, you might wanna take a jog somewhere else, MATE. Don't want to upset the mourners."
I looked around. I could only see a couple of people around and I admit, I had purposely avoided anyone else who might be taking a quiet moment with the remains of their love one, but I figured this wasn't a time to argue, and besides it did feel kind of wrong to be running about in such a solemn place.

"No worries, mate. Didn't mean to upset anyone," I looked at him a little sheepishly.

"It's not a park, mate. It's a cemetery."

Eyes downcast, and feeling like a very naughty boy, I kind of shrugged my shoulders, "I know, I won't do it again."

" 's alright mate. Have a good day."

Walking towards the nearest gate, I was filled with feelings of a mix of shame, embarrassment and just a small touch of thrill.

...

It's been six months since I started this experiment with my friend. I started writing it almost immediately after finishing the task.

The way a cemetery makes you feel is weird. It's a place of quiet, of melancholy. Taking a run does feel wrong. It's as if by running you are thumbing your nose at the value of life. Of the lives that people have lived.

It's a reflection of my everyday life, where I hear on the news about people dying in poverty, in floods, in famine, in wars and of AIDS, cancer and other life-thieving disease. It's so easy to just run by and not pay attention to the countless thousands who pass on to the next world every single day. So many of which could be avoided if people like me paid some attention instead of following our own selfish motivations, closing out the view of the people lying by the side of the path.

Every life is worth something.


I don't plan to end up in a cemetery, but in the end I guess it might not be completely my desicison. I don't want a stone, although I admire those that have them. I hope someone cares enough to take my ashes somewhere beautiful, where there is water. Take me to an ocean, a stream or a lake. Cast me to the wind and water.

The next time I go to a cemetery, I won't be running. I'll be taking the time to stop, read the names on the headstones, and consider who that person may have been, and maybe still is, albeit in a different "body". I'll consider those who I have known, who are no longer here and feel blessed for the gift that is life.

adventures in smiling at strangers (part three)

I smiled at an androgynous Sri Lankan woman in her early thirties today.

Wearing a pale blue tuque, and reading a novel (outside the building where I work) on my lunch break, we made eye contact as she came and sat down at the edge of the fountain next to me.

The smile she gave me was saying, "Okay if I sit here?".
My response smile, "Sure, it's nice here right now! I'm happy to share this space with you, nameless friend!"

As I continued to read, I became increasingly aware that I was still being smiled at.
I tried to ignore it, but I could feel the energy of the smile hitting me against the side of my face.

I continued to read the same paragraph of my novel over and over, not even aware of what the words were saying, but just being aware of the energy washing over me, under the direction of the woman's smile.

Using my peripheral vision, I stole a glance at the woman. She was unwrapping her lunch, but still she had this smile on her face, and her eyes seemed transfixed on me.

Turning my head toward her, I made eye contact again, but only for the briefest moment before she quickly darted her eyes away, but only her eyes. Her face was still pointed in my direction, still smiling, as her eyes looked out across the street.

I returned to the same sentence in my book and re-read it a few times, but my mind would not take in the words. I was too distracted. I could only be ever more aware of the strangeness of this smiling woman.
I didn't think she was amused. I didn't think she was giving any particular emotional response except that she was happy, smiling like some dishevelled backpacker who had found enlightenment on a 3 month trek in Tibet.

As she continued to eat her Steamroller wrap, I noticed that her smile dropped for a moment as she brought her food closer for inspection. Momentarily, she picked at something in her food, took a moment to classify the foreign object and then cast it aside with a flick of her hand, along with her look of concern. No sooner had her problem been solved than the smile swept back over her face.

We both sat there.
I, with book. Her, with lunch and smile.

As she wrapped up the final third of her Steamroller, she stood up at which time we made eye contact again. She lingered for a moment, her smile growing into a grin as I looked her in the eye once more. Then, without a word said, she turned about and walked away.

As I felt the warmth of her smile's energies drift away, I sighed with the same small enlightened smile on my own face and returned to my book and re-read the paragraph I had read more than ten times over without consequence,

"Martinis in hand, sitting on the balcony once more, the women took in the view of the bay in the fading sunlight. "Maeve, honey. You've got to go back there and get him! Give it everything you've got! You know what they say, Smile -- it's the second best thing you can do with your lips!""

adventures in smiling at strangers (part two)

I smiled at an extremely thin woman in her 30's this afternnon.

I was riding the elevator from the 20th floor. She hitched a ride with me from the 17th.

I smiled in shock as she wisped her emaciated frame into the elevator, trying to hide a slight gasp.

She smiled back, as though to say, "It's okay, I know I'm too thin. Now, I've had the decency to acknowledge it, so please look away and mind your own business."

I obliged.

adventures in smiling at strangers (part one)

I smiled at a middle-aged man on the crowded skytrain this morning.

The smile I used was a simple smile that I intended to communicate a feeling of identification, "Squeezy enough for ya?"

He smiled back as though he knew what I was saying "I know, tell me about it, freaking sardines in a can, Man!"

But then suddenly his smile dropped. Why?

Was it because he realized he was communicating non-verbally with a stranger and that's not done here in Vancouver?

Was it because I'm a guy? And he thought that maybe I was up for a bit of wink-wink, nudge-nudge, how's ya father, boom-chicka bow-wow? Ummm....NO, actually! Not even at 7:30am on a crowded Skytrain.

Was it because he looked into my eyes? Looked into the window to my soul, and he saw something he didn't like. Was my smile the thing that caught his attention, but did my eyes reveal something that made him uncomfortable? Did he see something about me that I can't see?

How do I feel when someone smiles at me?

In a cafe or a bar, I might find instant joy, smiling back flirtatiously, or otherwise with a look that says, "Thank you for your feedback. We appreciate you taking the time to smile, but currently we have no positions available for you. We'll keep your smile on file, for at least a while, but you need not smile again. We'll smile at you if any opportunities arise."

On a train or bus, my reaction might be completely varied. "I see your smile, but I am not acknowledging it, because although I may be basing my judgement completely on face value, you look like you could be a freak, and God forbid you should talk to me." Other times, I might react completely the opposite, smiling back and hoping that the opportunity for conversation begins.

[Pause]

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6....

Counting is easy in the low numbers....

67, 68, 69, 70....

see it's easy....

110, 111, 112, 113, 113, 113....

damn...got distracted by a noise upstairs...where was I?

111, 112, 113, 114, 115...

what was that noise anyways? Such a loud clang and a bit of a laugh. Wonder if it was the cute guy? What was he doing? I remember the other day when...

OMG...I forgot what I was doing...okay that's it, I'm going out for a walk.

(Counting my steps as I walk) 245, 246, 247, 248, 249, 250...

now I've got my groove on....

436, 437, 438, 439, 440, 431, 432, 433, 434...

didn't I already count the 430's? man...

497, 498, 499, 500....thank God I'm half way there...

(Aside) My attention span is so short, especially when it comes to repetitive activity such as counting. I was almost defeated by the challenge to count to 1000 in a single sitting...I tried several times, getting to less than 200 before being distracted by things that are no more important...

687, 688, 689, 690, 691...

Meditating is far easier. Closing my eyes, sitting under a tree in the park, focussing...

836, 837, 838, 839, 840...yawn....

keep it going bucko, step it up, you're almost there...

891, 892, 893, 894, 895...

just over 100 to go, oh PRAISE THE LORD!!!

967, 968, 969, 970, 971...

oh yeah, who's your daddy now 1000?

997, 998, 999, 1000!

Give it up for me, people! I did it!

Some observations....

ONE THOUSAND is a crazy, huge number. I hope I never have to count to 1000 again, let alone something greater (watch me slink away at the thought of counting to 10,000 or 100,000!)

Getting to 1000 is fraught with obstacles. Just counting it is difficult, let alone to try and save 1000 dollars or walk 1000 miles. Even 100 is seemingly larger when you count it out loud, focussing only on the numbers.

Like watching the minutes tick by to the end of my working day, counting to 1000 was a painful experience, seeming to take forever, when the reality is, that it took only about 20 minutes.

I am a person with issues of stamina, focus and drive...I should count to 1000 regularly for my own self development...but I won't!