fromthemouthofmoi

The biggest reason that I can think of is that Hollandaise Sauce requires strict timing. I recently invited eight people for a sit down formal Thanksgiving dinner which was to have commenced at 6PM. At 6.15PM I called the one person not present to ask if they were on their way and was informed that they would arrive in half an hour. Fifteen minutes before their expected arrival I began to separate eggs and melt butter. This delinquent guest, after 45 minutes, had still failed to show. When he did finally show I did the best I could and just served food. Some of my guests, who knew what I had intended to prepare, asked me about the sauce and I had to come up with an answer that differed from: We are not having it because this asshole guest arrived late and ruined it. Later I asked myself what Mexican's cook for guests. I mean do they make anything that requires timing? Or is everything good cold or hot or is everything suitable for the microwave, an appliance I do not own? Mexic

I hold many secrets of those that I love and for those that I could care less about. I hold these secrets because half of them I have forgotten and the other half, I know, that should I reveal them in anger or flippancy, it will be me that stands alone looking ill-bred. Merida is run amok and rampant with Gringos that love to gossip. I always expect this behaviour from people who stand before hallway lockers, dialing combination numbers, while acne wreaks havoc upon their faces. I am never expecting this faux forte from people who are my age. Plainly spoken, I feel devastation when I witness gossip. When I am asked to participate by answering a question or when I find myself overhearing it, I can feel the blood rush to my face with anger. I knew my mother was a hypocrite when I sat in the kitchen of her Vancouver apartment and overheard her bad-mouth another woman, from the living room, with what was gossip. I felt so inflamed that I jumped from my seat and asked her how she coul

You can not be given the name Moira, grow up never meeting another one, and not think of Ireland. Whenever I meet people from Ireland or Scotland I am cheerfully told that this is a common name over there. Over there. Not here. I have one of the most Celtic names a person could have: Moira Kirstin Boyd and to my knowledge I am not of Celtic descent. I am going to begin with the etymology of 'Moira'. I want to do this to illustrate how pervasive its meaning is in our culture. I also do it for those that are reading this that approach me with a half-assed history lesson on the meaning of my name thinking I didn't know, after 53 years, what the meaning of my very own name means. 'Moira' means 'fate'. The collective term for Moira is Moirae and The Moirae (sometimes written Moirai), were three sisters in Greek mythology that determined the fate of a life spent on earth. These sisters were Klotho, (the spinner), Lakhesis (portioner of lots), and Atropos (she

I hate to go on about toilets but in Thailand, except for western style hotels, you might be in for a surprise. Style wise they are actually pretty neat but for utilitarian usage I found them to be a nightmare and not because of how they looked but because of what is required to use them. You need balance,  Olympic speed skater thigh muscles and a friend nearby to haul you out if you tip over. I have never been one of those women that seems to always go to the bathroom when her girlfriends need to, but while visiting Thailand I drug everyone to the toilet with me when the urge came. The bucket of water is usually filled with fresh water and used to flush away whatever has been put into it. You can flush the paper unlike Merida, but that is really the last of your worries here. I used to wonder why I seemed to frequently see Asians squatting while milling about. Like on a cigarette break or waiting for something they are more often than Westerners seen squatting. I was already a

As an American of African descent I am all about things being created equal and I am always on the lookout for people and places that see me as a human being rather than a colour. Just like you, I like being treated well and looked directly in the eye. I enjoy the feeling that comes with transactions that leave racism and class out of the picture. I love not feeling like an outsider. I like feeling a part of the world I live in and I like the feeling I get when I am given common decency, not because I asked or demanded it, but because it is a given. I don't get that in America. In America I have to fight for it on a daily basis and in reality I am tired of wrangling for it. Plum Tired. Most racism today one would need a machine of some sort to detect, but it is there nonetheless. It is there for a split second when I ask for directions and the person I ask momentarily flinches in recoil not sure if I am really about to mug them. It is there when I overhear people talking negatively

Traveling anywhere for the first time is often exciting and right after my father died in November 2010 my brother invited me to go to Merida, Mexico in the Yucatan. It was my first time to Mexico and I was most certainly full of anticipation. I really can't say that I had any particular notion or fantasy about Mexico other than as a child my mother often purchased for me, from the East Village in New York City, Mexican blouses that I adored. So if I associated Mexico with anything it was embroidery and colourful things. We landed in Cancun and rented a car and almost immediately began our 4 hour drive west to Merida. Our group consisted of my aunt Charlotte, my father's sister, my sister in-law Elaine and her husband, my brother, Stephen. The road to Merida from Cancun is a rather boring one with nothing that I am able to recall other than stop points along the way by officials just making sure all is well with travelers. My personality is such that unless I have a direc

Over Christmas I decided to drive 'home' to Prince Edward Island . I'd spent many years of my youth there and my best friend Freda and her family still reside on the Island. I began out of Buffalo and immediately crossed over The Peace Bridge, heading for Toronto, to spend the night with some official Canuck friends, Theresa and Barry. This leg of the trip I can do with my eyes closed. My car is a 1996 Toyota Corolla with 211 thousand miles on it. I have good simpatico with this car and felt sure that it had one more long trip in its engine and I was not wrong. It took me there and back safely. At present its spleen is on the driveway outside my home but that car purrs when it is used for the long haul. After leaving Toronto I headed for Old Quebec via Montreal. For some 30 years I have been in written correspondence with Sister Georgina Doiron, a retired sister, whose father lived in our community of South Rustico (now known as Cymbria) when I was a wee one. She and I b