Month: August 2012

The (sinister?) mystery of the two Langley bears

Lest you think there’s no news worth reporting in Langley, today’s local paper carried a letter to the editor describing the disappearance and return of two teddy bears.

What the hell does it mean? I wondered. Which bears does the writer mean?

Seriously, I wondered if my friend Scarybear had been getting into someone’s garbage again. A picnic bear like Scary has just as much trouble staying away from old watermelon rinds as I do keeping away from the empties. Had this writer spotted some foraging grizzlies? I wondered? And felt affection for them? Could you feel affection for Scary?

And what next? Would someone be writing to the editor about spotting a diminutive, mangy light tan bear rooting through the beer cans outside their house? It could happen…especially since my mum finished the gin.

Turns out the letter’s subjects are more similar to Scary and me than I’d imagined. A couple of years ago Gayle Brown noticed a teddy bear sitting on a stump by a North Langley ravine, which was joined soon after by a second bear, along with an umbrella to protect them from the elements. She enjoyed driving past these whimsically positioned bears, imagining them to be picnicking—although if my parents stuck me outside for two years with, say, Scary, and no TV and no booze, I might call it abandonment.

Gayle seems to be a well-meaning person who, in fairness, believes the outdoors to be a fitting ursine setting. Apparently these bears are tough mothers too:

“…they always looked the same—no moss or mould—just cuddled together in the rain and snow and sunshine… Last week, I noticed only the umbrella was there. What happened to the bears? Where did they go? Maybe they went to a teddy bears’ picnic in the woods.”

I would freaking hope somebody adopted them so they could catch up on Breaking Bad while pounding a six-pack. We “teddy” bears don’t fare so well outside. Like Gayle, I wondered what had happened to them. Had they been abducted? Interrogated? Imprisoned? Did someone make them rub lotion on themselves? OMG!

Holy crap, is “spa” some sort of euphemism for “washing machine”? Only the bears know for sure. I’m going to visit them this week and give them some beer.

THE WOLFTRAP VIOGNIER CHENIN BLANC GRENACHE BLANC (2011)—Another one Dad missed out on

My mother and I made twin (fraternal, not identical) realizations this week.

Hers: When we buy gin we drink it all. We mustn’t buy gin.

Mine: When we buy gin we drink it all. We must buy in bulk. We must get more samples. We must take our gin consumption to the next level.

These complementary insights aside, it was a good week for drinking. We moved house, which involved a lot of beer, and my dad went on another golf-tourney-calling-itself-a-business trip, which always means white wine. You see, my fellow inebriates, my dad isn’t a fan of white wine, so whenever he goes away, we buy it. For several reasons:

We deserve it. We are doing all bedtimes, all meals, all playdates, all the time. We need it.

We are afraid. We don’t know yet if Fluffy left his paranormal squatter at the old townhouse or if he moved with us. And since this house, being older, naturally goes bump in the night, we won’t know for a while if Fluffy is still haunted. So we need something at night to take the edge off while Dad’s away.

My dad is useless about white wine. He doesn’t get it at all. So we break it out when he leaves town.

This time we chose THE WOLFTRAP VIOGNIER CHENIN BLANC GRENACHE BLANC (2011). We hadn’t been disappointed by this much-lauded South African winery before, and we had $15 bucks (and not much else) left over after paying the movers, which amounted to a hell yes.

The only downside to drinking white wine are the tall glasses. I have to stand on my toes to get any—you’ll have to believe me because my mum wouldn’t take a picture (she said I was a narcissist). Although we have a set of Reidel stemless red wine glasses, we’ve resisted buying their white counterparts—because why would you want to get your sweaty paws all over your lovely chilled glass? Whether the glass shape makes a perceptible difference…I defer to The Dogs of Beer.

After a long day of unpacking (one of us) and observing the unpacking (the one without thumbs), THE WOLFTRAP was exactly the wine we needed. French oak-matured, this intriguing blend features 57% Viognier, 32% Chenin Blanc, and 11% Grenache Blanc. It wafts scented pear and grapefruit peel with ripe peaches behind—all items bears crave and would root through someone’s garbage for. But unlike my friend Scarybear’s Ideal Lunch, these aromas are zesty and fresh, with satisfying follow-through on the palate. The mouthfeel is generous and layered, almost buttery yet zingy with hints of vanilla and hazelnut, lingering much longer than I had any business expecting.

This intriguing white blend is a find for under $15—well worth having again, even if my dad’s home, which he is now. Did I mention he won a bike at his company’s golf tournament? Not bad, Dad! But he forgot to wear sunblock, so now he looks like a lobster.

Why August is the best month to be a “freegan”

No doubt about it, August is the best month to practice freeganism. Sure, any time of year you can help yourself to the odd morsel of unlucky roadside raccoon (extra points if you bag-and-barbecue the one that clawed its way through our neighbor’s swimming pool). But even better than already-dead varmints are yummy blackberries.

Not even hard-drinking bears who eschew solid food can resist blackberries. The way they burst forth every August with their ravishing aroma…free for the taking for anyone willing to piss off a few spiders—ahhhhhh!

My cheap-ass mother swears things taste better when they’re free, and she might be right about blackberries, if not raccoons.

The berries are calling out to be taken. Today the kids put up with a whole 15 minutes of picking before crying boredom, which gave us (as it happened) half a liquor-store shopping bag of the wondrous little fruits. What shall we do with them, my fellow inebriates?

Citrus Blackberry Collins

We need citrus vodka and blackberry liqueur for this concoction. Odds my parents will do it? 4,143:1 against

Blackberry Crush

Once again, this calls for vodka. Odds? 853:1 against

Blackberry Cocktail

Photo: Jim Franco
Styling: Scott Martin

This calls for gin, which we have, although my mum is causing it to disappear. Even if there is any left by the time we get mixing, the recipe’s weirder ingredients (cucumber with mint) may freak my unadventurous parents out. Odds? 548:1 against

Blackberry Caipirinha

A long time ago a liquor representative emailed a tantalizing invitation to taste Cachaca, one of this recipe’s main ingredients. By all means, send it, I said, but alas, it’s not simple to send booze to Canada, and the hooch never materialized. Odds? Sigh.

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Screw it. My mum can make muffins or whatever the hell she wants to throw those blackberries into, and I’ll have a gin & tonic (before she takes it all).