Using Beauty for a Purpose

WONDER Woman: Nazanin Afshin-Jam

When God gives you great gifts, he also gives you great opportunities to use them.

This is especially evident in the life of Nazanin Afshin-Jam.

An international human rights activist, singer/songwriter, actor, former Miss World Canada, President and co-founder of the Stop Child Executions organization, Nazanin was born in Iran in 1979, the same year that the Shāh Pahlavi was exiled and the Ayatollah Khomeini came into power. At the time, Nazanin’s father was manager of the Sheraton Hotel in Tehran. In 1981, he was sentenced to death simply for conducting business as usual at the hotel, which was contrary to the Ayatollah’s oppressive theocratic and anti-Western regime.

Providentially, however, the man sent to carry out her father’s sentence got involved in a car accident, which bought her mother enough time to get her father out of the country and safely to Spain. Nazanin and her mother were able to join him shortly thereafter, and eventually the family settled in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada.

Even as a child, Nazanin says she never took freedom for granted. From an early age she also possessed a deep empathy for other people’s pain.

Once, after volunteering at a soup kitchen, Nazanin says she cried herself to sleep, overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness, unable to understand why some of the people in her affluent neighbourhood had four cars while others didn’t even have enough to eat.

It was in high school, Nazanin says, when she started to see that individuals can make a real difference. She formed a global issues club at her school, and went on to study International Relations and Political Science at the University of British Columbia, and later at the Sciences Po in Paris and at the International Study Center Herstmonceux Castle in England.

After graduation Nazanin worked as a Red Cross Global Youth Educator on the landmine crisis and children affected by war. However, she soon decided that she wanted to reach more than one “pocket of people” at a time. Observing that celebrities and sports stars wield more influence than politicians in today’s world, she decided it was time to “get a title” for herself.

The Miss World competition, whose motto is precisely “Beauty with a purpose”, seemed the most logical place for her to get recognized.

“At first, I resisted the idea of becoming part of the whole beauty pageant culture,” Nazanin admits. “But then I realized that beauty doesn’t have to be a dirty word. It is one of God’s blessings that can be used to advance humanity.” She also points out that the Miss World competition is not about finding the most beautiful woman, but the most well-rounded.

Nazanin won the title of Miss Canada in 2003 and went on to compete for the Miss World title in Sanya, China. She finished second after Miss Ireland, Rosanna Davison.

Winning second place in the Miss World competition gave Nazanin the platform she had been seeking to start promoting global issues. She traveled to various trouble spots around the world, helping victims of the tsunami in India and Sri Lanka, raising funds for the earthquake victims of Bam, and supporting fistula patients in Ethiopia, just to name a few.

Another of Nazanin’s gifts is a talent for singing and songwriting. “Music has no borders,” she says. "So I started setting some of my poems to music."

While recording her debut album, Nazanin learned of a seventeen year old Iranian girl, also named Nazanin, who had been sentenced to death by hanging for killing a man in self-defense. Nazanin immediately started lobbying to save this girl’s life. A petition of more than three hundred thousand signatures led the United Nations to put pressure on the Iranian government to grant a stay of execution. Nazanin Fatehi was eventually exhonerated of murder charges and was released on January 31, 2007.

While working to save her namesake, Nazanin discovered that no organization yet existed to lobby against child executions, a practice contrary to international law but still done in a handful of countries. This led her to found Stop Child Executions, which lobbies world governments to put pressure on those countries where minors can still be sentenced and put to death.

“Activism can come in many different forms,” Afshin-Jam says. “You don’t have to be a politician or a hippie to change the world and work for peace.”

We should also be careful to avoid stereotypes and not let other people’s opinions or actions dictate our own behaviour, she says. As an example, she brings up the recent controversy over the provocative Miss USA photos. “Those photos were the idea of (owner) Donald Trump,” Nazanin says. “They profit nobody but him.

“What you wear should be a reflection of what’s inside. It shouldn’t be anybody’s choice but yours.”

When asked about her biggest challenges and fears, and how she overcomes them, Nazanin says, “My biggest challenge has been people telling me I couldn’t. What helps me overcome this is the encouragement and love of my family, especially my mother.” She urges all mothers to support their daughters and foster their talents. “As for overcoming fear, I just think of the courage of the people being oppressed in Iran. If I don’t stand up, the person next to me won’t stand up.” She says this thought spurs her to take action instead of giving in to a defeatist attitude.

Nazanin has this advice for educators who want to help students become aware of world issues: “Help them make connections with young people in other countries. Use technology: the internet, social media, Skype, you name it. Make cross cultural exchange part of the curriculum.”

A young girl asks Nazanin wistfully, “When you were younger, did you know you were going to do all these things?”

This is Nazanin’s reply to her and to young women everywhere: “I honestly didn’t know I was going to be Miss Canada, travel around the world and form a group called Stop Child Executions. After volunteering at that soup kitchen, I just knew I wanted to help people for the rest of my life. But I have strong faith in God and pray a lot for guidance. I believe that he has guided me all along. So if you have a dream, make it a goal. I think that when you are doing something you are passionate about, you are always led to the next step.”




Using Beauty for a Purpose




Taking stock

This past winter I came down with my annual cold. It was bad enough to keep me at home for a day or two, but not so deadly as to keep me in bed. This is the worst kind of illness, because instead of being able to pass the day in a state of unconsciousness, I soon found myself bored out of my mind.

That is - until I had a brilliant idea. I would take a kitchen inventory, so that once and for all I would know the exact contents of our fridge, pantry, and the mini-general store in the basement.

In order for you to fully understand the necessity of such an inventory, you would have to come to our home and see these three areas yourself. Everyone who has seen them so far have had the same reaction: "Wow. That's a lot of food for two people."

My roommate and I have one of those ideal relationships. She's quiet, and I'm happy to do the talking. She's neat as a pin, while I'm - well, I'm working on it. But when it comes to certain important things, we are exactly the same. For example, we would both rather shop for pretty dishes than for clothes. And we both enjoy good food.

So, when I moved in with her a couple of years ago, I brought a dowry of sorts: enough tableware and a batterie de cuisine to prepare dinner for a dozen people, if and when we were so inclined; and enough groceries to set up shop. Miraculously, she made space for it all in her already well-stocked kitchen. The overflow went into the basement storage.

However, after two years it was time to get organized. I hadn't taken the time to fully acquaint myself with what we already had, so I would buy things like cinnamon sticks or sesame seeds only to find some tucked away on one of the kitchen shelves. If I had a list of everything, I reasoned, I could keep a copy of the list on my Blackberry as a handy reference for those times I found myself at the market wondering what to make for dinner, and whether or not we already had any bay leaves, soba noodles, or dried mushrooms.

So I rolled up my sleeves and went to work. I have to say that this was one of the most rewarding things I have ever done. And oh boy, was it a lot of fun. I got so many ideas for future meals just by taking stock of all the different ingredients we have on hand, ready to be used.

So if you're curious to know what Maria has in her kitchen, click here. 


Taking stock




Book Review: Three Cups of Tea

Three Cups of Tea
By Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin

Lost in the mountains of northern Pakistan, Greg Mortenson somehow found his way to a tiny Pakistani village where he was able to heal and recover his strength. One day he noticed the village “school” – a ring of children sitting on bare ground, in the open, winter mountain air. Moved by compassion for the villagers and by gratitude for their help, Mortenson promised to come back to build them a school.

The ensuing story is about Mortenson’s heroic struggle to overcome public indifference as well as his own personal limitations and difficulties in order to follow through on his promise to his Pakistani friends and raise enough funds to purchase building supplies. It is also about the generosity of many different people from all walks of life, from Wisconsin schoolchildren who donated $623.40 in pennies, to an anonymous donor who attended one of Mortenson’s presentations and contributed thousands.

Two years after leaving Pakistan, Mortenson was able to return with the money he had raised – only to find out that before building a school, he would first have to build a bridge for easier access to the village. Accordingly, the Braldu Bridge was completed in 1995, and the next year, Korphe School opened its doors.

Since then, “Mortenson has established or significantly supports 131 schools in rural and often volatile regions of Pakistan and Afghanistan, which provide education to over 58,000 children, including 44,000 girls, where few education opportunities existed before.”

Operating on the philosophy that change in a society begins with its women, Mortenson’s schools focus mainly on educating girls. Many of the schools’ alumnae have gone on to become professionals and respected members and leaders of their communities.

What started out as a gesture of gratitude has become a full-blown “mission to promote peace…one school at a time.”

The book’s title refers to the Pakistani custom of hospitality: it takes three cups of tea to pass from stranger, to friend, to family. Mortenson’s dealings with the people he is trying to help have not always been easy, to say the least. But he has proven that many obstacles and even dangers can be overcome by honesty, trustworthiness, the willingness to understand other cultures, and a sincere desire to serve. 


Book Review: Three Cups of Tea




A stellar spring dessert

A recipe for no-bake cheesecake came through my Twitter feed this week. I hardly ever make cheesecake because every recipe I've come across seems to be so complicated and expensive. This particular recipe, however, is nice and small, calling for only one 250-gram block of cream cheese and yielding 4 individual-sized cheesecakes.

You will need a hand-mixer to whip the cream cheese and cream. The whipped cream adds lightness to the mixture, and a dash of lemon juice adds a bright note. Once properly chilled, the resulting cheesecake is sweet-tart, with a full, rich bite.

The original recipe suggested blueberries for the topping, but you can use any fruit you like. I thought I'd use strawberries. I was at my friendly neighbourhood Asian market and actually had a container of strawberries in my hand when I spotted this beauty: the star fruit.

Not only is this fruit good-looking and exotic, it is also rich in vitamin C, fiber, antioxidants and flavonoids. Eat it (minus the cheesecake) if you want to lose weight. Or eat it with the cheesecake but with a little less guilt, because each whole fruit contains only 30 calories.

If you want an extra shot of sweetness, glaze the star fruit slices with a little sugar syrup, or drizzle the tops of the cheesecakes with honey or balsamic vinegar syrup before serving.

As for the crust, I added ground-up macadamia nuts and wildflower honey to the usual graham cracker crumbs, to make this an extra-special dessert from top to bottom. (You could also use almonds or hazelnuts.)

For the crust:

1/2 cup graham cracker crumbs
1/4 cup ground nuts
1/4 cup melted butter
2 tablespoons honey

Mix in a small bowl with a fork until evenly moist and sticky. Press evenly into the bottoms of four small, clear dessert cups.

For the cheesecake:

1 250-g block of cream cheese
1/4 cup white sugar
1 tbsp lemon juice

Whip together until smooth, then fold in:
1/2 cup heavy cream, whipped

Scoop the cream cheese mixture into the dessert cups, pressing down lightly to ensure there are no air pockets.

Chill for at least 3 hours or overnight.

Decorate tops with slices of star fruit (or your fruit of choice) before serving.




A stellar spring dessert




Serendipity

Serendipity: the faculty of making fortunate discoveries by accident. I planned to take a long walk yesterday after work, completely forgetting I had made plans to meet a friend for dinner. (Luckily she caught up with me!) After dinner, it was still light, so I decided to go for a walk anyway. I passed the Vancouver Art Gallery, the fountain was on, and the sun was hitting it at the most amazing angle. If I had walked by any earlier, it wouldn't have been so spectacular. Serendipity. Gotta love it. 


Serendipity




Tales out of school

Michael Cook, editor of Mercatornet.com, tells this story about learning grammar under his Year 8 teacher, Sister Margaret Louise.

"She was an elderly lady with a big heart, a ferocious temper and a passion for grammar. We knew our way around past and present participles, subjunctive and indicative moods and split infinitives. We had to. There was hell to pay if we didn’t."

Boy does this story ever bring back memories of my own school days. We too had an English teacher - I'll call her Miz E - who terrorized us. She used to pick out words in sentences in our textbooks, then randomly call on us students to name the parts of speech the words belonged to.

One word was "port" - as in, any port in a storm. My luckless classmate, when called upon, answered that it was a verb. Miz E fixed her with the steely-eyed glare that invariably made us feel like butterflies being pinned to cork.

"A verb? Tell me, how do you port? Come up here in front and show us how to port."

If you have ever found yourself torn between laughter and horror, you will know how my class felt that day.

As we grew older and less awestruck by Miz E, we got used to her, and she in turn got used to our foibles. By the time we graduated we were good buddies. I think we won her heart one March 15th, when we remembered that it was the Ides of March - years after we had studied Julius Caesar with her in freshman English Lit.

And I will never forget learning how to diagram sentences in her Composition class - the sheer pleasure of laying bare the beautiful bones of language, and knowing that each part has a name and a purpose, and works with the other parts to give meaning to the whole. I think the lessons we learn at school go far beyond what we expect or realize. 


Tales out of school




My mother's hands

In honour of Mother’s Day (coming up this Sunday!) this month’s story is about the most Wonderful Woman in my life and yours: Mom.

~~~

Before they moved to Montreal two years ago, my parents spent their last night in Vancouver in a hotel. I shared one of the double beds with my mother. I’d been coughing badly that week, and it always seemed to get worse at night. I remember my mother stroking and patting my back as I lay there coughing. Eventually I fell asleep with her hand in mine.

My mother’s hands are part of my earliest and dearest memories.

I remember lying together in her bed on hot sticky afternoons, the room made cool by the tangled jasmine vines screening her bedroom window, and her hands turning the pages of story books as she read aloud.

I remember watching, fascinated, as she put on her make-up in the morning. Afterwards she would brush my hair and do my pigtails. Once, my father suggested that I learn how to do my own hair, to save time in the morning. We both ignored him and went on contentedly watching each other in the mirror as she made a perfectly straight part in my hair and fastened the pigtails with hair elastics that had shiny pink balls on them. This was our special ritual and we weren’t about to give it up.

Another ritual was giving me my Vitamin C. She would take a tablet of ascorbic acid, fold it into a napkin, and crush it with a table knife. Then she’d scoop the white powder into a spoon with some water and put it in my mouth.

I remember her hands tying my shoelaces…typing letters and marking papers…covering my schoolbooks with plastic…wrapping gifts…crocheting doilies…arranging our pictures in photo albums and punching out labels with her little Dymo machine…sewing my party dresses…putting make-up on my face for the first time…changing diapers on my siblings, bathing them and giving them their bottles…baking bread and stirring soup…digging out weeds and planting roses…replacing light bulbs, unclogging sinks, and painting walls…constantly occupied in the countless acts of loving service that mothers all over the world perform day after day, often without being asked, or thanked, or praised.

My mother doesn’t think her hands are very pretty. But she has used them well, and while they are not exactly the soft white hands of a lady of leisure, they are the hands that raised me, and they are the hands that hold me together. I think that next to her heart, her hands are the most beautiful part of her. 


My mother's hands




Tourist foodie in my hometown

Lately I've been rediscovering the Public Market on Granville Island.


I don't know what comes to your mind when you hear the words "public market". I think of Saturday mornings with my mother at our local palengke, an open-air market with stalls after stalls of fresh fruit and vegetables, dried fish and sacks of dried corn and rice, meat and fish being butchered and dressed right before your eyes. I remember one time, a man strolled up behind me with an entire slaughtered pig across his shoulders. Definitely not a place for the faint of heart or weak of stomach.

In contrast, the Market at Granville Island seems a pretty tame affair at first. I remember visiting it for the first time, and being astonished at how clean it all was.

It's an indoor market with an outdoor feel. Here are mounds of fruit and veggies, jewel-bright; gourmet butchers; bakers and patisseries. It's definitely a feast for the eyes, and offers artisan goods and ready to eat food in addition to grocery items.

It's open year-round, and winter and spring are great times to visit it, before it gets taken over by summer crowds.

Enjoy a bowl of hot, flavourful soup from the Stock Market - or hearty oatmeal, if you are there for breakfast. Lee's Donuts are freshly made every day in the traditional, time-honoured (read: deep-fried) manner.

While my friend and I were having dinner there yesterday, we were intrigued by a couple of people walking by with tall, white bowls covered by a dome of puffy pastry. What could be in those bowls? Soup? Stew? Chicken pot pie?

We'll have to make it a point to find out, next time we go. 


Tourist foodie in my hometown




Fried chicken livers - perfect warm weather appy

The recipe for fried chicken livers came through my Twitter feed this week from Saveur magazine. After drooling for days, I decided to make it as an appy for Sunday lunch. It was absolutely worth pulling out the deep fryer for. Here's the tweaked recipe, with my notes:

*To make self-rising flour, just mix together 1 cup all-purpose flour, 1 1/4 tsp baking powder, 1/8 tsp salt.

* If you don't have any buttermilk on hand, make your own with a cup of milk and 1 tablespoon of vinegar or lemon juice. Mix and let stand for five minutes.

*The recipe calls for 2 cups of self-rising flour, but I just used 1 cup and it was more than enough.

*Enjoy with a glass of ice-cold beer. We had it today with Stella Artois.

Ingredients:

Enough canola oil to safely fill your deep fryer
1 lb. chicken livers
1 cup buttermilk
2 cups self-rising flour
salt and pepper
1 tsp poultry seasoning - I used a chicken rub mix from Anatol's, my favourite little spice store in Montreal
Hot sauce, for dipping (I experimented with a combination of Bulldog and Louisiana Hot Sauce and found that was quite good, too.)

Prepare the livers: trim off the fatty, stringy bits and rinse them (the livers, not the bits) in cold water.
Set your deep fryer to the "chicken" setting (340 - 350 degrees).
While oil is heating, soak the livers in buttermilk for 5 minutes.
Combine flour, salt, pepper, and poultry seasoning in a small baking dish.
Fish each liver out of the buttermilk - use a fork to keep your fingers clean - and lay them in the flour mixture.
Use another fork, gently toss the livers until coated lightly with flour.
Shake off the excess flour and place in the deep fryer basket.
Fry the livers in batches of 5-6, until they are golden brown, about 3–4 minutes. Let the excess oil blot off on a paper-towel lined plate.
Serve with hot sauce. 


Fried chicken livers - perfect warm weather appy




When your teeth break, swallow them

We do what two people do to get to know each other. Share meals, laughter, opinions, advice. Trade stories that reveal ourselves, layer by layer. And apply questions like a pick-axe to ice: carefully chipping away to reveal the depths below, while trying not to cause any irreparable cracks.

When we have lunch, we always go to the same food court, where there is a Chinese take-out counter of which my new friend, Ying*, approves. She ought to know; she's Chinese. Not Hong Kong Chinese either, but what I privately consider “real” Chinese, mainland Chinese (perhaps being grossly unfair to offshore Chinese, but there it is). She's a relative newcomer to Canada, having arrived here almost six years ago, upon her marriage to a Canadian, with whom she now works as a secretary.

Today, before we tuck into our lunches, we do something we haven't done before. Instead of just politely inquiring how each other's food is, we share it. She offers me a spicy chicken wing; I give her some choice pieces of garlic pork. She piles onto my plate some of the mushrooms she loves.

Perhaps it's an indication that we've reached a new level of ease and familiarity with each other; a sign that we can put away our pick-axes and just let the ice melt. After all, although Ying was raised in the cold northern province of Heilongjiang, very close to the Siberian border, nothing about her betrays even a hint of such frigid origins. Her skin has a warm golden tinge; her expression is open and smiling. Laughter is never too far from the surface. Soon, were not just sharing food; we're sharing confidences.

She tells me about the high school courses she's taking. They're reading The Taming of the Shrew in English 12 and she has the role of Petruchio in the end-of-term class dramatization. Normally when she talks about her courses she's enthusiastic, but noticeably not so this time. “I guess I'm just a bit discouraged right now,” she says. “I work so hard but it's so difficult. And I need to take college-level courses if I want to qualify for what I really want to do: teach Mandarin Chinese.”

Last term, she studied Biology 12. “So interesting! I never studied that in school.” Ying grew up during the Chinese Cultural Revolution, when traditional education and normal work and family life gave way to such practices as performing a “dance of loyalty” to Chairman Mao every evening before dinner, and being taken out of school to work alongside farmers and be “re-educated.”

“School was closed many days during the winters,” Ying recalls. “They would say there was not enough coal and wood to burn for warmth. But later on I realized they just didn’t pay much attention to education, to the students. We did a lot of hard farming work in the summers; in the winters we picked up frozen manure on the roads and lanes with an axe.”

Curious, I ask her if, picking up manure along the road, she found herself missing school; if she ever thought about the future and dreamed, as children do, of what she would do when she grew up.

“I didn’t plan anything, to be honest. I didn’t think much about my future at all. I simply accepted what it was. No, I didn’t miss school. There was a saying from the central government: the more knowledge you have, the more counter-revolutionary you are. People knew that knowledge got them into big troubles. Many intellectual people were put into prison or tortured to death.”

Understandably, a university education was not her first choice when the Cultural Revolution ended and schools re-opened.

“Everyone had to take exams to get ‘permanent jobs’,” Ying explains. “This was part of the new Open Policy. A permanent job came with benefits and security. I wanted to get a permanent job in a factory, so I took the exams along with all my friends.”

Many of Ying’s friends passed the exam, but she didn’t. “I was very disappointed.” There was nothing left for her to do but take the university entrance exam. She took the English exam, as a kind of short cut, because she knew there was no way she could be accepted as a science student. “I didn’t learn any math and chemistry in high school because of the poor state of the educational system. It was much easier to be a language student.

“I remember the dialogue we had at the first English class,” she says with a laugh. “Are you Wang Da-gang? No, I am not, I am Li Ming.”

When Ying graduated, she was assigned to teach English at the Engineering College in the city of Harbin. It was there, through friends, that she met her first husband. “I think I married him just because he was a man,” Ying says with devastating frankness, and such a comical face that we both start laughing, loud and long.

“Growing up, I didn’t feel loved by my parents,” she continues after a while, with the same frankness but with a much more sober face. “Especially by my mother.”

Wasn’t that the way of all Chinese parents? “No,” she replies. “Many Chinese parents are openly affectionate with their children. I had a friend who came home late one winter night, and her mother got up to get her a basin of hot water to warm and wash her feet. I remember thinking, my mother would never have done that for me. So I was very susceptible to anyone who showed me a little bit of kindness.” A pause, then she grins. “And also because he was a man. But –” Ying quickly points out “ - he did not prove to be very manly later on.”

The marriage lasted six years and gave Ying a child, her daughter. Through it all, she continued teaching. And then one day, a Canadian businessman named Peter* came to her university to give a presentation on stock market regulations. Ying assisted him as a translator.

“He was there for two weeks. After he left, we kept in touch by letters, emails, telephone calls.” Within a very short time, he proposed, and Ying accepted.

“We were supposed to get married in Vancouver, but I got refused when I applied for a visitor’s visa. We had to marry in Harbin, where I was a registered citizen.”

And so Ying and her fifteen-year-old daughter crossed the ocean to start a new life. “There are challenges everywhere. New family…” Peter, a widower, has five children of his own: four boys, working and in university, and a girl, a few years younger than Ying’s daughter. “Then there’s the language barrier. And old friends and family too far away.”

Ying’s eyes fill. She recently travelled back to China to nurse one of her sisters who had terminal cancer. Her sister has since died. “I’m sorry. I still get so emotional.” She wipes the tears away and continues. “What do I miss most?” she echoes my question. The twinkle in her eye returns. “Shopping. I love shopping. Somehow it’s not the same here in Canada.”

Later, she turns serious again. “I get homesick when I need emotional support – not from my husband, not from family – but from friends.” She talks about the challenges of raising a blended family, about her feelings of displacement, about nights when she dreams she has fallen into a dark chasm full of nameless fears.

I ask her about a Chinese expression I’ve read about, which translates into “eating bitterness.” She thinks about it, then says, “Where I come from, we have a similar expression. Similar, but different. We say, if your teeth break, swallow them.” For some reason we find this irresistibly funny, and again we start laughing.

As we leave the restaurant, Ying chatters about the trip to China she and Peter are planning to take in a couple of weeks. “It will be busy. I have to visit my late sister’s children, and repay some debts to my sister’s friends – they took care of her when she was sick last year. Then we need to get some suits made for Peter.”

Last but not least, “I want to show Peter this place called Mirror Lake; it’s very beautiful,” she says. Her dimples flash. “And I want to go shopping.”

*Names and some details have been changed to protect privacy 


When your teeth break, swallow them




The words not spoken

We all have a long list of things we wish we'd never said. I must confess I never gave the flip side much thought before, but I'm starting to realize that my list of things I wish I did say is equally long.

What got me thinking about the things I wish I did take the time or muster the courage to say? I read about this website that was started up quite recently by a young woman named Jackie Hooper. It's called The Things You Would Have Said, and Vancouver Sun writer Shelly Fralic calls it "a dignified website" that offers people "a chance to say the things they always meant to say, to loved ones and to strangers."

I've read some of the posted letters. They contain words of love, appreciation, gratitude, kindness, apology. Some of them are poignant, even painfully sad. Yet I find the whole idea strangely and wonderfully inspiring. There is a lesson to be learned from every letter, every story of regret and lost chances on Hooper's website.

Perhaps there is nothing much we can do about the past, and there's no controlling the future...but we can make the present moment count. And if that means getting a chance to say the right words to someone who needs to hear them, then by all means let's seize it with both hands. 


The words not spoken




Asian Pesto

I've been on an Asian food kick for the past few weeks - maybe because I've been working on a feature article about a woman who grew up during the Cultural Revolution, and we've had several lunch meetings at her favourite Chinese restaurant. Anyway. I've just polished off the last of a jar of (homemade) ginger and onion sauce. With apologies to my Italian brother-in-law, I call it Asian Pesto. It's delicious, versatile, good for your throat and sinuses - and it's so easy to prepare, it doesn't need a demo.

All you need is a piece of ginger about as big as your palm, a bunch of green onions, and 1/2 - 3/4 cup of peanut oil.

Peel the ginger. Tip: use the edge of a spoon to scrape off the ginger's thin brown skin and get around all the knobby bits. For easier handling, hold the spoon where the bowl meets the stem. Grate the peeled ginger finely. Slice the green onions thinly. Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed sauce pan. When the oil is hot, dump in the prepared ginger and onion, give it a good stir, and take it off the heat. Allow it to cool before placing it in a clean jar.

Asian Pesto keeps for up to a month in the fridge. Serve it as a dipping sauce for roast and steamed chicken, fish, pork, or tofu. You can also use it to flavour steamed white rice or noodles.




Asian Pesto




We are what we eat

Many of us are very, very picky about the food we eat: whether it’s the way our breakfast eggs are prepared, what brand of coffee we use, or where and how our fruits and vegetables are grown. When it comes to our meals, we always want the best-quality ingredients, and rightly so.

So why are we so indiscriminate when it comes to the stuff we feed to our intellect?

Too often we read books and watch movies that are, at best, a waste of time, and at worst, do very real damage to our minds and hearts. Too many times in the past, I’ve finished a story or show with a bad taste in my mouth, and sometimes with a soul-ache that takes a long time to heal.

I think part of the problem is that intellectual junk food is often disguised as the good stuff. The Da Vinci Code (so I’ve heard) is a breathless page-turner. The hit TV show Glee seems to be no better than a soap opera; the reason why the suds go down easy is because they’re sugar-coated with great music. “Even the ones that realize the themes aren’t the best are under the assumption that they are not impacted by these ideals and it’s just the music they are tuning in for,” Tiger Print’s Katie Hinderer observes about this show.

We need to be very careful about the ideas we ingest. Bad ideas are as sticky as tar, are never fully digestible, and are all the more dangerous because their effects are much more subtle than a stomach-ache or food poisoning.

And when in doubt, consult an expert you can trust. As with everything in life, it’s always the best policy.

Click here for Katie Hinderer’s full comment on Glee.
To look up books and movies, go to http://www.almudi.org/.

And for some good ideas, check out Hot Topics, Food for Thought, and The Daily Watch, above. 


We are what we eat




TRENDS helps girls become great role models

There is a sad lack of good role models for teens in today’s world – or is there? An upcoming conference featuring former Miss Canada Nazanin Afshin-Jam aims to show young women that they still exist.

The Vancouver chapter of Teens Reacting Effectively aNd Discovering Style (TRENDS) is organizing a conference entitled “Beauty with a Purpose”. The conference aims to showcase the need for true inner and outer beauty in our world today. The keynote speaker will be Nazanin Afshin-Jam, an international human rights activist, singer/songwriter, actor, former Miss World Canada, President and co-founder of "Stop Child Executions" – and role model par excellence.

The conference takes place at the Richmond campus of Kwantlen Polytechnic University, May 13, 2010, at 7pm.

For more information on TRENDS, please visit www.trendsfashion.ca. 


TRENDS helps girls become great role models




Lost - and found

Have you ever come face-to-face, quite unexpectedly, with your younger self? I did, a few days ago. A friend of mine emailed a photo she found of a group of us, taken circa 1992, during a picnic in Tagaytay. Some of us are sitting, others leaning, on a fence. We're laughing and windblown. And maybe because I haven't seen most of these friends since circa 1992, I suddenly found myself with tears in my eyes.

When I left the Philippines for Canada, the internet was still a brand-new phenomenon, and long-distance dialling an unaffordable luxury. Very few people I knew had email. My friends and I tried to keep in touch the old-fashioned way, but predictably, our correspondence died out after a couple of years.

And so we lost each other. In the intervening years, we all grew up, moved on, made new friends. A few of us have found each other again. But in my mind, we all stayed seventeen, trapped in amber, as it were. This is perhaps a rather unsavoury simile, until you remember that amber is precious, fragrant, and often holds something tiny and perfect in its heart.

Thanks to the new social media, this story has a happy ending. Sending this photo out into cyberspace acted a little bit like a lure at the end of a fishing line. A tentative nibble from me on Facebook, and I recovered a friend I thought I had lost for good.

Finding her couldn't have come at a better time. Because right now, for the first time in my adult life, I'm finding out what it means to be on my own. Often it seems like there is a whole new me that I need to get to know. And sometimes there are no better people than old friends to help you figure out who you are...because chances are, they've held on to some part of you - maybe even the best part - that all this time you thought you'd lost along with them. 


Lost - and found




A match made in heaven

Food and books have always been an irresistible combination for me. Ever since I was a little girl, my favourite stories involved food. Just ask my mother how many times she was asked to read aloud Chicken Little, the title character relentlessly pursued by Mr. Fox as the main ingredient for his evening meal, stewed hen with dumplings. (I must admit that I was on Mr. Fox's side in this particular conflict.) There was also Tina, who had a Magic Pot that churned out quantities of porridge until you uttered the magic words to made it stop. And The Big Pancake, which a poor widow woman made out of her very last bit of flour and butter and eggs, and which promptly leaped out of the skillet and rolled out the door to avoid being eaten.

It was a good thing that Reading Aloud was always followed by Merienda. By the time the poor widow's seven sons, after a merry chase through town and countryside, finally caught the Big Pancake and devoured it, I was more than ready for some eats myself.

One of my most memorable Christmas presents was the entire set of Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Little House in the Big Woods is positively enchanting, with its detailed descriptions of sugaring-off, pig-killing, and cheese-making. However, my favourite book in the series, hands down, is Farmer Boy. For years I was convinced that to be a farmer was the best job on earth, because after a hard day's work you could come home to a groaning, candlelit table, and the lovely sight of your mother coming out of the kitchen bearing a platter of sizzling ham.

(I went to dig up my tattered copy of Farmer Boy for a sample bill of fare to reproduce here, only to discover that one of my girls' club members has checked it out of our small lending library. This is a bit like going to the refrigerator and finding out that someone else got there before you and has eaten the tidbit you were looking forward to eating. I salute her choice of book. I hope that right now her stomach is growling.)

There was also good eating in The Good Earth - in between bouts of drought and famine, that is - and in The Joy Luck Club, Amy Tan's debut novel about four women who forget life's miseries by having regular get-togethers involving food and mahjong. On her New Orleans honeymoon, Scarlett in Gone With the Wind gorges herself on "Gumboes and shrimp Creole, doves in wine and oysters in crumbly patties full of creamy sauce, mushrooms and sweetbreads and turkey livers, fish baked cunningly in oiled paper and limes." And who could forget The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, in which unlikely friendships were forged around a feast of roast pig...?

...Pardon me, but now my stomach is growling. Time for a midnight merienda! 


A match made in heaven




Easter eggs

We didn't have an Easter egg hunt this year, because the youngest member of the Vancouver branch of my family is now sixteen and rather too old to look under bushes for gifts supposedly left by a rabbit that can somehow lay eggs. So this year, all our Easter eggs were to be found in the dessert.

And to make said dessert, I got to use The Heirloom: my grandmother's llanera, i.e. the pan for making leche flan.



The Heirloom is a queen among llaneras: a round eight-inch stainless steel pan, with snaps to hold the lid in place while the flan steams away inside the pressure cooker, and a chain handle to lift the whole thing out when it's done.

I think it gives me so much satisfaction because it's perfectly designed and constructed for its sole purpose. Not to mention the fact that it fulfills that purpose so well, turning out a beautiful leche flan every time.

In my family, the perfect leche flan must satisfy the following criteria:

1) The caramel topping must be a rich, dark gold, with a slightly bitter taste.

2) The flan must be smooth and creamy; light golden yellow in colour; and not too firm, but slightly wobbly.

3) There must be enough syrup to drip down the sides and form a pool of around the flan.

I'm not going to claim that I can make the perfect flan. But I think I'm getting there. In the meantime, I'm enjoying the journey.





Easter eggs




Promises, promises

Educator and family expert James Stenson has this advice for parents. As early as possible, teach children to say the following:

Please;

Thank you;

I'm sorry;

I give you my word.

The last item may well give you pause, as it did me the first time I heard Mr. Stenson say this. I give you my word? Can we really expect a child to make and keep a promise? And what real value is there in a child's promise?

The value, I realize now, is something that's in potency. It comes to fruition in the promises that child will make when he is older. I will be home at the time agreed upon. I will bring the car back in one piece. I will show up to work every day and do the best job I can. I will love, honour, and cherish you, all the days of my life.

Sadly, the value of a promise is never fully appreciated until that promise is broken. This has never been made more painfully clear than nowadays, as we hear all kinds of horrific cases of children being harmed by the very people pledged to protect them. The statistics are staggering. I'm not just talking about priests here: the most common abusers are family members. There are also teachers, coaches - just about any person who has authority and custody over a child is in a position to abuse that authority.

And yet, no matter how frail and flawed we all are, so capable of breaking even the most mundane of commitments, we cannot do without promises - because we cannot live without trust. Precisely because we are frail and flawed, the promises we make to each other cause us to try harder, to overcome our weaknesses, to prove ourselves worthy to hold in our hands the heart of another human being.

Some promises are harder to keep than others. Some might even seem impossible, so why bother making them at all? Why, indeed? Human promises have no value, nor even any sense - unless we believe there is one Person above all others who does keep all His promises - and gives us the strength to keep ours. In the end, ironic as it may seem, the key to keeping a promise is learning not to trust in ourselves, but in Him. 


Promises, promises




Holy feasting

Feasts mean food. This week is no different. It's Passover for the Jewish people, the Easter Triduum for Christians. It's a time for bitter herbs and unleavened bread, for fasting and abstinence. But it's also a time for joy, celebration, and thanksgiving to a bounteous God for a plenitude of grace.

Check out the National Post's Food Quarterly (link at right) for Easter and Passover recipes, and for an interesting commentary on the menagerie of chocolate animals that seem to have displaced the Easter bunny.

Also, below is the recipe for my Good Friday dish: Steamed Salmon and Tofu with Garlic. I got it from a newspaper clipping which I've since lost. God bless the chef who shared it! Have a blessed Holy Week!





Holy feasting




Join our girls' club, see the world

In the movie, The Prize-Winner of Defiance, Ohio, Julianne Moore plays a mother who supports her family of ten by entering all the contests she can find. In one contest, she wins a shopping spree at the local supermarket. Amazingly, instead of stocking up on practical things like chicken legs and canned tuna, she goes for more exotic items like olives and caviar. Even more amazingly, upon arriving home with the loot, she seats the entire family around the kitchen table and proceeds to open every single can, bottle, and jar. She encourages them to try everything, and tells them about the country where each item comes from. Not only does she treat her children to a feast, she widens their horizons, and teaches them to dream, to aspire for a better life.

It was a brilliant move by this wise and courageous mother; one I am now trying to emulate by making "World Travels" this year's theme for my girls' club. Every month since last fall, we've been travelling to a different country. We learn about its geography, history, and culture, and make a native dish or handicraft. Whenever possible, I try to ask someone from that country to come and take us there.

Fabrics from Peru

Edith from Mexico brought her lovely swirly skirts and taught us how to dance. Our Japanese friends Kiyomi and Naoko demonstrated how to wear a kimono and make sushi. Anna, who does volunteer work with Ka'ren refugees from Myanmar, showed us photos of the camps where displaced Ka'ren have to live until they are relocated to other countries. With Vanessa we went to Macchu Picchu and made jewellery from Peruvian beads. This month, we went on a whirlwind tour of ancient Rome, the Renaissance, and modern Italy. Then we made pizza. And we realized that there is something universally appealing about mixing, kneading, and rolling out dough - and getting flour on your nose.

Before setting off on each trip, we spread out a world map to locate the country to which we are travelling. Today, one of the girls brought a globe to replace the map, which was getting crumpled and torn. When you plug the globe in, it lights up. I think it's particularly apt for our club to have a globe that lights up. Hopefully, travelling and learning together will shine a light that never goes out.




Join our girls' club, see the world




Are you feeling tired, stressed and run-down?

Here's a piece of good advice someone once gave me: get rid of the little stressors. We all have them - little things that we simply put up with because they seem so small and silly, they're not worth the trouble. Or maybe we think we just don't have the time to deal with them. And yet, once we take a few minutes to actually make that tiny change, what a huge difference it makes!

A friend of mine replaced a coin purse that kept popping open and spilling her change. Another friend changed her office chair. I myself stopped wearing contact lenses - they irritated my eyes, especially at the end of the day, and caused frequent headaches. Got myself a trendy pair of glasses. And I've been headache-free for weeks. (That's just literally speaking, of course.)

Look around you. Maybe you just need to find a more comfortable pair of shoes. (Honestly, sometimes I look at some women's faces, then down at their feet, and I think, "Well, no wonder she's so grumpy.") Maybe you need to move a piece of furniture you keep banging your hip against. Maybe you need to sharpen your kitchen knives so food prep will be easier. Maybe you should spend those last (or first) few minutes in bed praying or meditating instead of worrying. Maybe you and your spouse need to get your own separate tubes of toothpaste that each of you can squeeze wherever you want. It really could be that simple and that easy.

I'm not saying that the secret to happiness is a stress-free life. But I think it makes sound sense to fix the things we can fix, so we can clear our heads and save our time and energy for life's bigger challenges. 


Are you feeling tired, stressed and run-down?




Easiest Weekend Brunch Ever!

I love it when I can put something delicious together so effortlessly, using ingredients readily on hand. In celebration of the first weekend of spring, here's a nice, fresh, light, easy breakfast or brunch.




1 piece of bread, preferably brioche
Cream cheese
1 egg, lightly beaten
1 sprig of green onion or chive, scissored into bits
Smoked or barbecued salmon, flaked
Little bit of butter
Salt and pepper to taste

Toast the bread and spread with cream cheese.
Melt the butter in a skillet. Add the green onion and cook until just soft.
Add the salmon and egg, salt and pepper, mix and let set, then flip over to cook the other side.
Slide out of the pan and onto the prepared toast.
Serve with fruit and coffee.

Adjust proportions according to number of people. 


Easiest Weekend Brunch Ever!




Happy St. Patrick's Day!

In honour of one of the world's most beloved saints, here is a recipe from County Mayo, Ireland. Although calcannon is more of a traditional Halloween dish, I like to make it for St. Paddy's Day, in order to have something green without resorting to food colouring. (No, I am not a fan of green beer.) Also, look under links for some more Irish recipes from Nigella Lawson.

Colcannon

1 medium-sized cabbage (about as big as a baby's head)
3-4 medium potatoes (about as big as your fist)
2 leeks, both green and white parts, chopped
1 cup milk or cream
salt and pepper to taste
1 pinch ground nutmeg
1/2 cup butter


In a large saucepan, boil cabbage until tender; remove and chop or blend well. Set aside and keep warm. Boil potatoes until tender. Remove from heat and drain. Simmer the leeks in the milk or cream until they are soft.

Season and mash potatoes well. Stir in cooked leeks and milk. Blend in the cabbage and heat until the mixture is pale green and nicely fluffy. Make a well in the center and pour in the melted butter. Mix well.






Happy St. Patrick's Day!




A miracle for Anya

The world is full of courageous moms and dads trying to give their children the best life they can. It's a tough enough job when the kids are normal and healthy...imagine how much harder it is when a child is born with challenges like Baby Anya's.

Click on the link (at right) to learn more about this darling girl and how you can help her and her family. Thanks in advance for helping to spread the word! 


A miracle for Anya




A good book is a good friend

When there are no humans around, a good book makes an excellent substitute companion. It accompanies you in your solitude, tells you stories, makes you laugh and cry, gives you good ideas, advice, and inspiration, and surprises you with little gifts. The following is one such surprise I received. It's a little prayer I found - in a cookbook! - which sums up pretty neatly what I'm trying to do here at Maria's Dinner Table.

An Ancient Country Prayer
(found in the kitchen of Glastonbury Abbey)

Give me a good digestion, Lord,
and also something to digest.
Give me a healthy body, Lord,
with sense to keep it at its best.
Give me a healthy mind, O Lord,
to keep the good and pure in sight,
which seeing wrong is not appalled
but finds a way to set it right.

Give me a mind that is not bored,
that does not whimper, whine, or sigh.
Don't let me worry over-much
about that fussy thing called "I".
Give me a sense of humour, Lord,
give me the grace to see a joke,
to get some happiness from life
and pass it on to other folk.
~ 


A good book is a good friend




What Sam said

If there could be an Academy award for Most Inspiring Movie Scene of All Time, I would give it to that one at the climax of The Return of the King, when Frodo collapses in utter exhaustion, saying he can't possibly go on carrying the terrible burden of the Ring. To which his faithful companion Sam says emphatically, "I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you." And then Sam hoists his failing friend onto his back and carries him the last few steps so that Frodo can complete his mission.

Frodo and Sam may be fictional characters, living in a fantasy world, belonging to a race that doesn't even exist. But their example of true friendship is one that we human beings can and should emulate and actualize in our own lives.

Certainly, Sam's words to Frodo are words that each one of us has had many opportunities to repeat to our own loved ones. "I can't carry your burden for you. I can't feel the pain that your physical disease, emotional anguish, or spiritual sickness is causing you. I can't suffer for you. But I can suffer with you."

If you haven't had your chance to say this to anyone yet, just wait for it - it will come.

And then you'll discover, to your great surprise, that burdens borne with love become blessings. Maybe they feel no lighter, but you find yourself carrying the weight of them gladly. And what a difference gladness makes - to ourselves, and to the people we are helping. 


What Sam said




Tribute to a quiet hero

A few weeks ago, on January 11, a woman in the Netherlands died as quietly as she had lived.

If you have ever read Anne Frank's Diary, perhaps the name Miep Gies will ring a bell. She was one of the group of trusted employees who helped Otto Frank, his family and some friends hide in the attic of their office building during the Nazi occupation of Holland. For two years, Miep acted as their lifeline to the outside world, bringing food, clothing, news, and other important necessities of life, such as friendship, laughter, and hope.

When the hiding place was discovered and its occupants arrested in August 1944, Miep rescued the pages of Anne's diary from the floor of the attic where they had been scattered, and bundled them away into a drawer, not knowing if they would ever again see the light of day.

A year later, after receiving the news that Anne and her sister Margot had died at Bergen Belsen, Miep placed the rescued pages into Otto Frank's hands.

The rest, as they say, is history.

A lesser known work is Anne Frank Remembered, Miep's own account of the "Secret Annex," published decades later, in 1987. I remember reading it with admiration and respect. What Miep, her husband Jan, and the others did to help the Franks took unimaginable courage on a daily basis, and yet to her it was simply what had to be done.

"My story," she wrote in the prologue, "is a story of very ordinary people during extraordinarily terrible times. Times the like of which I hope with all my heart will never, never come again. It is for all of us ordinary people all over the world to see to it that they do not."

In the midst of all the glory-grabbing, inanity and pettiness that seem to prevail these days, Miep's story is a shining example of what it means to be a quiet hero. 


Tribute to a quiet hero




Flower power

It's easier to believe in the phenomenon of the small, daily miracle in the spring time. These crocuses have burst into bloom - a whole month early - thanks to the warm weather we've been having. Jacqueline Heriteau writes this about the unique power flowers have to lift the heart and the spirit:

"It was flowers that got me through bleak times. At the age of twelve, I would sneak out to the park after Mama fell asleep to steal lilacs and roses for her. I knew exactly what I was doing; I was foraging for one of life's essentials. This was in the late 1930's, the Depression years. We were alone in Canada and broke. Keeping up Mama's joie de vivre was as crucial to survival as having air to breathe. Holding flowers, so mysterious in their indomitable unfolding, their fragility and freshness, revived her. Arranging them in a vase saved from happier days in Paris lifted the world for Mama and brought out the sun.

"I've come to believe that flowers are a covenant, closer to hand and more tangible than rainbows. Along with family and food, flowers are true substance, the smile of the hidden force that governs all life. Beauty feeds a basic hunger. Joy makes us whole. Everything else is icing on the cake - what you go through to get to the heart of being." 


Flower power




Farewell, Olympics

What an unforgettable and amazing seventeen days. I got to hear and tell the faith story of a former Olympian. I got to see so many edifying examples of fortitude, courage, and sporting spirit.

I got to play tourist in my own town and see it through the eyes of the world. I got to witness history being made, from that first gold ever won on Canadian soil, to that last one which had this entire country on its feet and screaming. I got to sing the national anthem in unison with all my fellow countrymen from coast to coast and beyond.

I got to make a million memories.

But tonight I'm thinking of the Canadian consul who, thirty years ago, offered my grandfather a visitor's visa so he could "see how he liked it." It's because of that consul I'm here right now in this great country, in this great city, savouring this great moment.

Thank you, Mr. Consul, whoever and wherever you are. Thank you to my grandpa for being brave enough to cross the ocean and start a new life in a new land. And thank you, Canada. I've never been happier or prouder to call you home. 


Farewell, Olympics




The fourth B

You’ve likely heard of the classic trio of desirable qualities in a prospective partner: beauty, brains, and bankbook. To this I would add a fourth “B”: backbone. Because a person could be drop-dead gorgeous, or smart as a whip, or rich as Croesus, or even all three at once. But if you want dependability, initiative, staying power, you’ll need to find someone, or be someone, who has that fourth B.

Everything else is just gravy.

So what exactly is backbone? How about starting with what it’s not? Backbone is not the same as stubbornness, or pride. It’s not about being right all the time, excelling in everything you do, or being some kind of superhero.

Literally speaking, the backbone is your spine…something that helps you stand erect. So having backbone means, primarily, getting to your feet when you need to. Like when the alarm clock rings (instead of hitting snooze and rolling over for another five, ten, twenty minutes of sleep). Or when someone needs a helping hand. Or up from the table when you've had enough to eat. Or out the door when you find yourself in a bad situation. Or whenever you stumble, fall, or fail.

It means having fortitude and integrity: showing up when you say you will, doing what you say you’ll do. It means honouring your promises and following through on your commitments.

It means having wisdom and courage: making decisions based on the understanding that every action has consequences, and accepting those consequences once you have acted. It means not just knowing the right thing, but also doing the right thing, even when you run the risk of being laughed at, criticized, ostracized, or fired. It means defending people who can’t defend themselves.

Backbone is what makes any kind of relationship work, whether it’s a business partnership, a friendship, a marriage, or a family. Without it, we’re all just a bunch of marshmallows.

We can’t all transform ourselves into supermodels, geniuses, or millionaires. But it’s never too late for any of us to grow a backbone. 


The fourth B




The answer to so many questions

The Olympic motto is "Citius, Altius, Fortius (Swifter, Higher, Stronger)." Three words that capture perfectly the tenacity and transcendence of the human spirit. It seems that we all have an innate sense that we were born to soar, to go further and higher than we can see and reach.

No wonder, then, the frustration of our everyday encounters with our own limitations. Often, our cherished visions don't match reality. We struggle to achieve perfection and come up short. We give something our best shot, and still it's not enough. We try to find reasons why, and quickly realize that there are many things that we just can't know, explain, or fix.

In moments like these, it may help to remember something that a wise man once said: we understand more deeply through love than through knowledge. So many mysteries, so many incomprehensible, heartbreaking things, suddenly become simple and easy when we try to grasp them with our hearts instead of with our minds.

Our earth-bound bodies may not be able to touch the stars. Our limited minds may not be able to contain all there is to know. But we do have the ability to do one thing with no limits: we all have an infinite capacity to love. 


The answer to so many questions




I am a proud Canadian

No doubt about it - it's a wonderful time to be in Vancouver right now. Even if I don't get to see any of the athletic events live, I still consider myself very blessed, to be able to be here in this city - my own backyard, as it were - and be a part of this great tradition we call the Olympics.

The city has a very special look and feel. Familiar landmarks have been transformed into pavilions and exhibits. Granville Street, after years of being torn up all along its downtown length, has now been re-sewn into a magical broad way of lanterns and light. Apartment balconies and office and store windows have blossomed with Canadian flags, and everywhere on the street are splashes of red, as people proudly sport Canada shirts, hats, scarves, and those famous mittens.

And of course there are those people from other nations...groups wearing the same jackets (maybe they're athletes?!) or waving the flag of their own country. They comment on how beautiful Vancouver is, and I say, yes it is, and yes - I live here!

For me, the thrill of the Olympics is not just about the athletic competition - it's about all these people from all over the globe coming to my city, my home. It makes me feel that the world is not such a big place, that distances are not as great as they seem.

This was brought home to me as I watched the Opening Ceremonies on television, with my cel phone to my ear as my parents watched it in Montreal. At one point during O Canada, there was a shot of our troops in Afghanistan standing and singing along, as we were in our own living rooms - as countless other Canadians undoubtedly were in their own homes across the country.

Later, we all paused for a moment of silence, remembering the Georgian athlete who died on our mountain that day. He was the same age as my brother. Rest in peace, Nodar.

It's one of those rare moments in the history of mankind when it's possible to believe that all men are brothers, when fraternity and unity are not just abstract concepts, but tangible realities. More than the triumphs, more than the memories, this is what I hope we will all carry home from these games.




I am a proud Canadian




In honour of the first born

Consider that the family is the cell, the basic unit of society, and usually it's the first-born girl who's helping to hold it all together.

In Filipino families especially, the Big Sister ("Ate" is the proper honorific) is second in command when it comes to household management and child care. She's expected to give a good example and make all the younger ones toe the line. In exchange for these awesome responsibilities, the Ate wields power and commands respect - sometimes even fear. (My younger brothers still flinch when I make any sudden moves in their direction.) At the same time, I also enjoy the pleasure and the privilege of being my siblings' confidante, counselor, and – now that we’re all adults – their friend.

I think there should be a First Born Girls Appreciation Day, don't you?

I'm reading a book called The First Born Advantage by Dr. Kevin Leman, who has done extensive studies as to how our birth order affects our lives and personalities. Dr. Leman has such a great appreciation for the strengths and abilities of the firstborn child, yet also has great insights about our potential weaknesses. I like his encouraging, positive tone, and practical suggestions as to how we first-borns can change some of our attitudes and habits in order to be even stronger and happier.

In the book he also features a group called the First Born Girls Social Club, an interesting and vibrant group of first born women "dedicated to discovering, sharing and celebrating the unique contribution that first born girls make to the world!" Sounds like fun - I think I just might join!

"People refer to us as bossy, but we are number one on speed dial if someone is in crisis or wants a project done to tight specifications. We know how to take charge and move through work. We know what to say and do to solve the problem. It comes naturally to us. It's what we've been primed to do since day one. The firstborn's slogan is: 'I'll take care of that for you.'...

"Responded to voices in the womb. Walked at 6 months. Spoke in complete sentences before age 1....Inspiration for three photo albums by age 8....

"You are pretty, smart, talented, and wise beyond your years.

"You love and are loved. You do everything and you do it well.

"If this is your history, then you are a firstborn girl."

~ Laura Carter, founder of the First Born Girls Social Club 


In honour of the first born




Remembered roses

Valentine's Day is approaching, with all the attendant symbols...Cupids, hearts, and bouquets. Perhaps this is why lately I find myself thinking about roses.

There are three roses that stand out in my memory: one was given to me to say thank you, one to say sorry, one to say Happy Birthday. All three were pink, because pink ones are my favourite and the givers knew this. All three came with no tender sentiments or declarations of devotion, but with great affection and respect.

A friend of mine, a father of daughters, observes with some worry that boys nowadays don't seem to know how to treat girls properly. I would venture to say that perhaps part of the problem is that some girls don't demand or even expect better behaviour from their male friends.

I count myself blessed that all the men in my life, from my grandfathers down, knew how to treat women right. I grew up knowing I deserved to be treated like a lady, with affection and with respect, and gravitated naturally towards boys - and later, men - who understood this.

It's a lesson that needs almost no words, because it's most powerfully imparted by a father's tangible love for his wife, and his combined gentleness and strength in his dealings with his children.

I wish all girls could be so lucky, and sadly know that a lot of them aren't, so I have only this advice to give. Girls, please don't be fooled by the counterfeit that modern society calls love. And don't think that you need to debase yourself in order to be esteemed.

And during this amorous time of year, when people tend to get a little carried away, remember that romance is like a lightning flash - intense, but pretty short-lived. True love lasts a lifetime, and can even be stronger than death. Until you find a love like that, you'll want and need real friends to stand by you. And if you never find love here on earth, you'll still have those friends. Just because friendship isn't passionate doesn't mean it's any less strong, or any less real.

In the end, I won't be remembering dozens of red roses...just three pink ones. 


Remembered roses




My conversation with an Olympic athlete

I will never cease to be amazed by the wonders of modern technology, which has put me in contact with so many friends, both old and new. I connected with Katya Antaniuk via research on the internet, then email, and finally a conversation on Skype. She is an amazing woman with an incredible story.

---------

Imagine a place covered with snow for eight months of the year, and you’ll have the Russia of Katya Antaniuk’s childhood. “I was five years old when I first put on skis,” she says. “At ten, I started to train in cross-country skiing.”

She became a member of the regional team and participated in various competitions, at the local and then at the national level. After high school she was offered the chance to either join the Russian national ski team, or to study elsewhere. Antaniuk opted to go to university in Belarus, and joined the national team there.

It was about this time, when life was going very well for her and she thought she didn’t need anything else, that Antaniuk had her first encounter with the Bible.

“I visited another skier, and saw that she had a Bible. Coming from a Communist background, I had never seen one before. We were taught in school that the Bible contained only myths. She offered to lend it me. I was skeptical, so I said no.”

After about a year, she started to train with the same girl. “I visited her at Christmas, and she invited me to church. I was surprised to find that there were more than just old ladies…there were all kinds of people. Men, women, children. Young people. And they didn’t look crazy. They looked normal.”

She agreed to attend a Bible study. “It was very strange at first to hear all this talk about Jesus. There were many people, and I was straining to hear the pastor. The next time, I came early. I listened, and I started to realize that the Bible is not something out of this world. It’s a story about people who existed here on earth, and about a God who is real.

“It was so touching to me, this new discovery. I started to read the Bible and other books. I had no chance to go to church – the team was travelling all the time – so it was just me and the Bible, and God leading me. My life, my priorities started to change. I started to see the world from a different perspective.”

The Bible opened her not only to God, but also to history, archaeology, and other cultures and languages. “When you are in sports, you need to stay so focused on one area, with no time to explore other things,” she notes. “Reading the Bible inspired me to learn and study more.” In addition to her degree in physical education, Antaniuk did a major in English and a minor in religion at a theological seminary. Later she completed a Master of Arts in theology at a Christian college in England.

A special moment for Antaniuk during the 2002 Nagano Olympics was encountering the world of sports ministry. For her, it was another first.

“I didn’t know that sports chaplains existed. Some teams, like the Americans, even bring their own chaplains," she says, noting that the care of a ‘spiritual coach’ is just as important and necessary as that of a medical doctor or physical trainer. "For the first time I saw that it was possible to combine my athletic abilities with my faith.”

When the Olympics came to Turin in 2006, Antaniuk was there as a sports chaplain. 2010 will find her in Vancouver, not to compete, but to minister and counsel as she did in Turin, as part of a multilingual pastoral team at the service of all the athletes.

Being a sports chaplain is an experience Antaniuk says she finds very rewarding and fulfilling. “I can help the other athletes because I understand them, I can speak their language, and I know the pressures and difficulties they are going through, so I can share their worries. I help them to trust, and to pray.

“And when things are going well, success can open another door to have a conversation with athletes,” she notes. “I congratulate them, tell them I’m happy for them, that I prayed for them.”

One other thing Antaniuk will be praying for during this Olympiad is the weather. “I visited in Vancouver three years ago, and it rained all the time!” she says with a laugh. A nice balance of sun and snow? Amen to that.

(This story ran in the February 1, 2010 issue of the BC Catholic.) 


My conversation with an Olympic athlete




The Original "Fear Factor"

I wrote this a few years ago, so some of my readers might already be familiar with it. Let it be noted that I'm posting it here at the request of my mom, who has such a great sense of humour that she enjoys a good laugh even if the joke is on her.

***

A few weeks ago I read that putting iodine and alcohol on cuts and scrapes is a home remedy that doesn't actually work. In fact, these substances can be quite caustic on raw, broken skin and nerves, and therefore shouldn't be used on wounds at all.

This major scientific discovery has come a few years too late for me. My mother used both alcohol and iodine in equal and copious amounts on my four siblings and me in our time. But I couldn't resist showing the article to my mother, who sniffed and said, "So? You're still alive, aren't you?"

I thought back to the time when I was four years old, playing in the backyard while my pet rooster Charlie pecked busily nearby. Despite repeated warnings from my nanny, I tried to get Charlie to eat grain from my hand. Now I know that roosters can be quite aggressive – another discovery that came too late. But you have to understand: Charlie was my pet. I had watched him grow from a fluffy yellow ball of feathers to a handsome young rooster. We had always had an amicable relationship. So I was totally unprepared for the hissing, angry beast that suddenly flew into my face, clawing and scratching.

I don't remember the actual attack. I do remember my nanny shrieking curses at Charlie and my mother scolding and dragging me into the house. I had my eyes shut tight, a reflex which had probably saved them, but which also prevented me from seeing my mother brandishing the iodine until I felt her dousing my face with it. I don't think I started crying until then. At one point I finally opened my eyes and saw myself in the mirror. My face was covered with blood and iodine.

I thought I was going to die.

So, in response to Mom's question: yes, I'm still alive. So are all my brothers and sisters, but it's a miracle we've lived to tell the tale of our childhood. We all learned how to treat our own cuts and scrapes fairly early in life, how to clean up our own blood quickly and quietly, without fussing, crying, or getting squeamish. We knew that at the first whiff of blood, Mom would appear, vampire-like, with either the dreaded green bottle (alcohol) or the dreaded brown bottle (iodine). What Mom didn't know wouldn't hurt her, and more important, it wouldn't hurt us. That is, unless we died of gangrene or blood poisoning. But we figured that if infection resulting from our inept first-aid measures didn't kill us, the pain from Mom's vigorous scrubbing of the wound with her favourite antiseptics would, and we all agreed that blood poisoning was the easier way to go.

Sometimes when I'm at the pharmacy I find myself looking wistfully at all the fancy first-aid products that have been invented. Kids these days definitely have it easy. The no-sting antiseptics, soothing ointments and multi-coloured bandages that are available today seem to come with the moms to match. You know the type. "Come on honey, take this itty-bitty pill for Mommy," they coax.

My mother would stand over you and say just two words. "SWALLOW IT." And you would. You wouldn't dare gag, either.

She took the same no-nonsense approach when it came to toothpaste. Now that I'm an adult, I rather like the sharp, stinging sensation of minty-fresh toothpaste in my mouth, but it's not so pleasant when you're a kid. Candy-flavoured toothpaste had been invented by then, but my mother saw no reason to buy two kinds of toothpaste. In this situation, one word sufficed. "BRUSH."

And brush we did.

The truth is, my childhood was the original "Fear Factor." The only difference was that there was no prize money waiting at the end. If there were, I'd be a millionaire by now, because there were challenges to be met at every turn.

Take dinner for example – for most people, a nice, relaxing meal. But if you've ever had a Filipino friend, chances are you know that we eat some pretty weird food. Most foods that I disliked as a child I've actually grown to enjoy, but to a little kid, Filipino dishes can be intimidating, to say the least. (You try choking down blood stew, or whole fish with all the bones still in it, or squid cooked in its own ink.)

But even more intimidating was – you guessed it – my mother, looking at you across the table. She didn't have to say a word in this case, but you knew what she was thinking. "EAT IT OR ELSE."

Did I eat it? You bet I did.

Just like the contestants on Fear Factor, I also had to deal with gross and slimy animals - and I'm no longer talking about the ones that sometimes ended up on my dinner plate. I'm talking about toads. Live toads. I hate them and they are one thing I have not learned to like. Behind our house was a grassy field where toads abounded. At night they came hopping out onto our street – you could see entire families of them in the pools of light from the street lamps. I never went outside at night –except when we were coming home late from a party or from my grandmother's, and I was the one who had to get out of the car to open the gate so my dad could drive in. I felt faint and sick every time I did it. If I hadn't been so scared and disgusted I'd have noticed that the horrible creatures hopped away from and not towards me as I approached. Anyway, my biggest fear – that one would hop onto me – never did materialize. Still, I would rather have gotten out of the car to face a pride of lions than those toads.

I may not have won any prize money for facing up to these challenges, but I have realized a few things that will probably go a longer way than any amount of riches.

First, what doesn't kill you does indeed make you strong. My mom learned her mothering techniques from her mother, and they are the strongest women I know. I don't know if I'm as strong as they are, but I do know that if I have to do something difficult, all I have to do is imagine my mom saying "DO IT" – and I take a deep breath and go for it.

Second, my mom's love may be tough at times, but it is real. If she is hard on me it's only because she loves me and believes in me. I'm sure this is true for all mothers. So the next time your mom pushes you, don't fight her, because chances are she is pushing you in the right direction.

Third, I've learned that all things eventually come full circle. Mom cut her hand while working in the garden the other day, and she asked me to help her clean it up. I went for the no-sting antiseptic – yes, this is what we use now. It lives in the medicine cabinet right beside the bottle of alcohol. Although she hardly uses alcohol anymore, I guess Mom thinks her household wouldn't be complete without it.

I couldn't resist saying, "I'll get the alcohol."

Mom said, "No! This….isn't a wound for alcohol."

I raised an eyebrow. "What exactly is the kind of wound for alcohol?"

She smirked. "Your wounds."

Today we're changing her dressings, and I say to her, "You know, if I were really evil, I'd have replaced this no-sting stuff with alcohol."

"You wouldn't," she says, pretending to be horrified. She's right, I wouldn't, no matter how sweet the revenge would be.

Then I start grinning. At least I can enjoy the idea for a while.




The Original "Fear Factor"