#1 – Learn how to Ski

So many lessons all tucked into one little task. Something about procrastination – I slid into the second last class on the very last day of ski season. Something about independence – planning to do things with friends is often a chore akin to rounding up cats, I ended up doing this one solo. And perhaps something about what my mother often warned us of when we were little – “keep that up and your face will freeze that way”.

Oh so bravely, read: with sheer terror, I ventured up to Snow Valley Ski Resort in Barrie, and lemminged my way along with the masses of people who appeared to know exactly what they were doing.  I ended up in a room full of boots – generally something that would make me grin wildly, but instead left me scratching my head.  After a bit of trial and error I learned I take a size 639 ski boot, with fancy buckles and hidden torture devices designed to squeeze my calf muscled into submission.  I scored some skis and poles and wandered outside.

The baffled look on my face gave me away immediately. A nice man took pity on me and guided me through my list of silly questions. “How do you tell the difference between left and right?” “How do I put these things on?” “where do you keep the paramedics?”  He got me all buckled in, put a sticker on my jacket that declared in ski-code something that I think meant “STEER CLEAR FROM HER, SHE HAS NO IDEA”. 

Turns out, Robert was being paid to take pity on me, he was my ski instructor.  My class was of 15 other procrastinators, the vast majority of them were 4 years old, and whipping along on their skis with grace and style in no time. The adults in my group had the disadvantage of fear, and an awareness of gravity.   After a few demonstrations, followed by me flailing about, we were ready for the bunny hill. The teeniest of slopes – you had to squint and turn your head to actually see that it was a hill… but I totally conquered that bunny hill.

I was feeling all accomplished and proud of myself when I heard the terrible words “Ok, now we’re ready for a bigger hill. We’re going on the Dora Run!” (Aptly named for the wooden cut-outs of Dora, Shrek and friends placed along the hill ready to jump out in front of you at the most inconvenient of moments.)   Not only did they expect that I would willingly strap planks to my feet and fling myself down the hill, they also figured I would do so with control, and the ability to both steer and stop. They were oh so optimistic.

On my last descent, I was blazing down past Dora, I’m almost certain I heard her scream in terror as my pole bashed her head on my way by.  Take that, Dora!  I didn’t look back.

And it’s true, what my mother said. As I drove off in the bug all impressed with myself, I realized my face had in fact frozen… into a rather giddy smile.  

#30 Take a cooking class

There she goes again... rambling on and on about Africa

I can’t help it.  I thought that by now my heart would have settled down a bit and got into the routine of suburban life in Canada. However my heart remains firmly affixed in Africa. My closest friends know that when I finally keel over, it will be their duty to pack my heart in a little box, climb up a big hill in Tanzania and bury it there where it belongs.  

When I signed up for my cooking class, it was of course an African cooking class.  While hiking through the Usambara  Mountains, my chef friend Stuart would whip up these incredible meals that would make my tongue dance with joy. But it was merely tomatoes, onions, and rice, how could it possible be so tasty? I needed to solve this little mystery.

I tried to be discreet. I tried to just sit back and learn, and enjoy the experience. But within 20 minutes of class, it snuck out of me. “well, when I was in Africa…” (or more precisely, “when I was in a bar in Africa…’) But it’s the chef’s fault. She asked if anyone had ever tried African cooking. The room was silent. I didn't want her to feel awkward, I was only being polite.  It only happened a couple of times, despite my tremendous restraint.

She showed us a few tricks, cooked us a tasty meal.  Scotch bonnet chicken, jollop rice, and gingered plantains.  It was delicious, and even better, something I figure I’d be able to pull off without completely destroying my kitchen.  After class I lingered while we chatted Africa,  I told her my stories of nuns serving beer while I was taught a few dirty words in Swahili, about mystery meat that hung in the window at the bar for days collecting flies (which is frankly why such vast quantities of alcohol were consumed, to disinfect anything else that landed in your stomach),  and generally gushing about my experience there.

I swear, my intent was to learn about African cooking, not to rave about the places I have visited. But like the fine red dust on the roads in the Usambaras, getting into every last nook and cranny, Africa will forever be stuck to me.