Candy Corn part 2: Electric Boogaloo

This is the second part of a totally doomed 2-part post. Check out Part 1!

Why you should never write a blog post about making candy corn

I swear, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I thought it just wasn’t a very popular thing to do. After all, only a certain type of person even eat candy corn, much less is inclined to make it. And of that tiny sliver of humanity, I imagined yet fewer consider writing about it.

I had no idea writing part 1 of a 2-part blog post about making your own candy corn could kill your blog for almost a year.

I’m blaming the post itself, and not my pre-existing inconsistent blogging habit, even though that has been well demonstrated here. As I like to say in professional correspondence: LOLOLOL.

 Candy corn is OVER.

I’m not saying I’ll never try to make my own candy corn ever again, but I am saying that I haven’t attempted it since last documenting it. I’m not denying the fun times I had with it; I had plenty. But I’ve spent the past almost-year having other kinds of fun.

Other kinds of fun?

A large grey tabby cat touching noses with a small Siamese cat.
Max and Hershey are friends. Max and Hersey are distracting.

I’m torn between wanting to spend all my free time making candy, the undeniable draw of the outdoors, and how much I love sleeping. In the past year, I’ve nursed my bicycle back to road-readiness and learned to swim, and Scott and I have welcomed both a canoe and a second cat into our lives. For the most part, candy-making has taken a backseat to canoeing adventures in Burrard Inlet, riding my bike to the pool, or just staying in bed all day watching Max and Hersey wrestle.

I think these are all good decisions. I’ll get into more detail about all of these fabulous decisions, but first: closure.

Candy corn can’t hurt me anymore.

Food Stuff Life

Broken Mixer Heartbreak

When something lovely and infinitely useful enters your life, it winds tough roots around the very foundation of your existence. Especially if it involves your favourite way to spend almost every waking minute of your time.

That’s how I felt about our Kitchenaid stand mixer as soon as it arrived. It was beautiful, shiny and faultless. It was heavy like a monster and strong like bunny legs. Who knew these things could break at all?

But it did break; suddenly, and mysteriously, and thankfully while under warranty. Thanks to Kitchenaid’s crackerjack customer service policies, a new one is on the way, and I’ll only be mixerless for a week.

Talk about a crappy week.

I’m near the end of it, and I’m thankful for that. Am I thankful that I spent one of those days sick in bed? I have mixed feelings about it, and of course that pun isn’t intentional. This is serious business and I am sad. I’ve learned a few things:

  • Bread machines can mix dough, too! They have a cycle for it and everything. I’ve known this, but I’ve never believed it. I mean, it also has a “Jam” cycle, and that has to be a lie, right?
  • This pie pastry recipe, which is fantastic despite the fact that the word “whisk” has an h in it, is just as fantastic made with a handheld pastry blender. It just takes a whole lot longer.
  • Shredding chicken with forks makes me angry now that I know there’s an easier way.
  • I almost had to buy brown sugar instead of making it. Hey, did you know the shocking story about how brown sugar is made? Here, let me ruin your life too:
  • When I have a lot of ideas I could carry out that don’t even require the use of a mixer, all I want to do is make cookies.
  • I miss that mixer so much.

For now, the broken mixer sits in its prime spot on the counter. I’ll take a picture of old and new together in case I need to make false claims of being a frivolous rich person in the future (I won’t). And then I’ll have something to do with my hands again.

Update: the shiny new mixer arrived the day after this posted, and of course I took the photo. I am whole again.

The difference is one mixes better.
The difference is one mixes better.

A year in a floating home

Max on the deck, as seen from above
Even the cat loves living on the water!

Now that March is past us, it’s been over a year since my boyfriend and I moved into our floating home. Since then, I haven’t gone a day without spontaneously declaring my love for our little Serenity out loud.

Being by the water is incredibly relaxing. I spent my entire summer on the deck, looking over the edge and into the water. I learned about jellyfish, and discovered that herons hang out in trees fairly often, and I even locked eyes with an otter or two. A cormorant almost bumped into my face once (clumsy cormorant). Living in a floating home really does put you closer to wildlife.
But it’s not just what lives in the water; it’s the water itself. It’s that silly feeling you get at high tide in the rain when you can’t help but think that the ocean is filling up. The rippling reflections that project the familiar movement of water onto the ceiling and walls, even when the blinds are drawn. The gentle movement of the house that only draws attention to itself during high winds or in the nearby passing of very big ships. It’s peaceful, and quiet, and it softens the edges of our lives.
Aside from that, it’s just life in a house. Our house. And I would only trade it for a million dollars if I could turn around and use some of that money to buy the house (and some sweet bathroom renovations) right back.

Twenty Thirteen

I can sum up last year easily:

We bought a house. It floats on the ocean and makes my life good.

That takes care of most of it.


Mysteries of the unknown, again

I’m moving in 15 days and I’m a little worried about how not anxious I am about it.

Arrangements have been made: we have a fantastic moving company lined up, as well as reusable moving boxes that will be delivered next week and picked up at the new place two weeks thereafter. I’ve got time booked off from work, and just enough bath bombs to last the duration of my stay at the old apartment. Although the big work has yet to be done, we’re pretty well sorted.

The packing and the cleaning have to wait, but I still feel like I should be doing something to prepare. There’s also the fact that I know very little about living in a floating home. That’s part of the appeal, of course! I’ve longed to be closer to the water all my life, and soon I’ll be as close to it as I can reasonably get. Oceanfront, my ass! Ocean on!

I longed to live in the city for most of my childhood; I think that’s a natural result of being transplanted from the Lower Mainland (if you’re not from around here, that roughly translates to “Vancouver”) to the middle of the woods at the age of nine. Suffice it to say, the roots didn’t take, and I obsessed over getting back to Vancouver, and 10 years ago I finally did it for real. And now, the concept of trading the hundreds (or thousands; I have no brain for spatial mathematics) of eclectic neighbours for a marina where there are exactly four other households while being a mere bridge crossing away from me beloved East Van is all manner of attractive. I can’t figure out what the catch will be. There’s got to be one, and I can’t think of one, and all my googling has come up with nothing.

Will there be big weird spiders that can talk? Or maybe all floating houses are secretly haunted by angry mermaids? I won’t know for an entire fortnight.