2015 May 24: Flags In

It's Memorial Day weekend back in the United States, so to commemorate in a small way I created a Sri Lankan inspired traditional American meal. It's nothing compared to the backyard BBQs, camp outs, and picnics back home, but this year, for reasons that follow, I wanted to do a little something even though we are not in the States.

First, I made plain rice. We never know who is going to show up to visit, so I always make a lot of food on Sundays, and rice is quick and easy and filling.

Next, instead of potato salad or baked potatoes, I made the potatoes that we all love, the ones that I bake in the oven with onion and garlic and turmeric and which are always a hit with visitors and even with the readers of our blog who have tried them.

Instead of devilled eggs, I just made boiled eggs. There are two reasons for this. First, mayo goes bad quickly in the heat, so leaving the mayo out of a dish is a prudent thing to do. Second, I suck at peeling eggs. My friend Champika told me to add salt to the water and the eggs will peel perfectly. It works for her.... but my peeled boiled eggs continue to look like someone used power tools on them! I shouldn't be surprised - thirty years later my family still loves to tease me about the time I burned the boiled eggs. 

Finally, I made coleslaw. Steve doesn't like coleslaw - he will eat it if I make it, but he doesn't like it. But me? I love coleslaw. I think it runs in the family. I remember when my brother was younger - he may have been in Grade 3 - and he would ask mom to make coleslaw every night. He could not get enough.

I put a Sri Lankan twist on today's version, however. Here is the recipe:

Put the following into a large bowl:

• 1/2 a shredded purple cabbage
• 1/2 a shredded green cabbage
• 1 very thinly sliced purple onion
• 2 very large grated carrots

In another bowl, mix together:

• 2/3 cup mayonnaise
• 1/4 cup of your favourite white, cider, or white wine vinegar (I used coconut vinegar)
• 1/4 cup white sugar
• 1 teaspoon of salt
• 1 teaspoon of curry powder

Taste and add more salt or curry powder if needed - it will vary depending on the type of vinegar.
Pour over vegetables and mix well.

A friend from church and her twelve year old son came to visit after church, so we shared our simple meal with them. They both loved the coleslaw, and I have to admit that it was pretty good. And hey, if a twelve year old boy likes it, it can't be half bad!

But I digress....

The summer between Grade 11 and Grade 12 I was blessed to have won a speech contest. It was sponsored by the International Order of Oddfellows and Rebekahs, and the grand prize was a bus tour with two hundred seventy other youth from across North America of Ottawa and thirteen states, and four days at the United Nations. The program still exists, and I would highly recommend it. You can learn about the Pilgrimage for Youth by clicking here.

One of the places that we visited was Arlington National Cemetery. I remember walking though the acres and acres of clean white crosses and being overwhelmed by the sense of loss and sacrifice that was represented there. It was truly one of the most memorable experiences of the trip for me. Little did I know about my own connection to this place.

Courtesy http://www.redrosestudio.com/Arlin%20Natl%20Cem.html

On this Memorial Day weekend, I would like to pay tribute to a family member that I learned about recently from my father and his cousin Marjorie Hodgson, who lives in Vermont. In addition to being an avid genealogist, Marjorie continues to paint even though she is now, for all intents and purposes, blind. Normally I reserve such sentiments as those that follow for Canada's Remembrance Day, as can be read about here, but it is fitting that I tell this person's story today.

Sarah Maude Pittman was born December 21, 1896, in Hickman's Harbour, Trinity Bay, Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada, to John and Mary "Polly" (nee Blundell) Pittman. She was the third of seven children, and was my father's mother's sister...my great aunt. Maude, as she was known, served in World War I, and somehow made it to the United States where she married Albert Blundon. She and Albert made their home in Somerville, Massachusetts. In August 1927, at age 30, she died while giving birth to their first child, and the babe died just two months later. She was buried in Arlington National Cemetery.

When I saw photos of American soldiers planting flags on each of the four hundred thousand graves in Arlington National Cemetery this past week in their annual Flags In day, I could not help but think that I am so grateful that someone has been remembering this lost member of our family every year. With her emigration to another country, her dying so young, her husband now long gone, her only child passing so soon after her own death, there is no family nearby to lovingly tend her resting place, to remember her as they pass by, or even to simply clear her grave every now and then as those of us who regularly visit cemeteries do just because a grave needs some attention or because the surname is familiar. For eighty eight years her grave has been tended with care and her service during WWI commemorated by groundskeepers and soldiers and perhaps a passing tourist or family members of others buried nearby.

Courtesy http://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/flags-arlington-prepares-memorial-day-n363051

Whether one agrees with war or not, whether one supports war or not, it is important to remember that some of us, our brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, cousins and friends, are willing to put their lives on the line for us and for their country. Please honour them, and my great aunt Maude, by taking a moment to watch this touching short video.

Fried Dough Odyssey

Growing up, my brother and I loved when mom made homemade bread. If we were lucky, she would save us a little bit of the dough so we could flatten it out between our hands, then fry it in some butter in a pan on the stove. Maybe add a little rhubarb jam or molasses afterwards. Toutons, we called them. So yummy!

Courtesy https://billandpaulinesexcellentadventures.wordpress.com/2012/03/04/dining-dangerously-corner-brook-carnival-cuisine/

Sometimes when we went camping as a family, or when we went camping with the Girl Guides or the Boy Scouts, we would wrap the dough around sticks and roast it over the fire. Smoky mouthwatering goodness, straight from the hot coals to our eager maws.

Courtesy https://erinsdckitchen.wordpress.com/2012/07/23/dough-boys-or-the-dessert-to-end-all-desserts/

These days, mom doesn't make bread in the old bread bowl, but she and dad do use a breadmaker. No stovetop toutons, though. But she does make an incredible onion pudding:

Norma's Onion Pudding
1 cup flour
2 tbsp butter
1/3 cup milk
2 tbsp baking powder
1 medium onion grated
salt
a bit of sugar

Mix flour butter, baking powder, salt and sugar together. Add onion and milk to make a soft dough. Grease pan, cover and boil over water or bake in oven at 350 degrees for 30 minutes. Try centre to check that it is done.

Courtesy http://stuffedatthegills.blogspot.com/2014/12/steamed-onion-pudding.html
This one is steamed, but we like it baked better.

In 1998 my daughter Amber and I moved to Pond Inlet, Nunavut. There we fell in love with bannock. We eagerly waited for special occasions at the school, like Inuit Games Day, where one of the stations that the children rotated through was the refreshment tent. It served hot deep fried bannock, fresh out of the cooking oil. Amber and the other children would gobble it down as fast as it could be made. There was nothing quite like fresh bannock cooked outside and eaten outside.

Courtesy http://ronwassink.blogspot.com/2010/10/deep-fried-bannock.html

I lost my recipe years ago in an unfortunate moving incident. I had a bag that was filled with all my old recipes, some of them irreplaceable as the people who had shared them with me had passed on. My then-husband, thinking he was being helpful, saw the bag sitting in the kitchen and threw it in the dumpster near our townhouse. Before I realized the bag was missing, the dumpster had been emptied. Bye bye recipes.

I recently sent out a plea to my friends in Pond, hoping to replace my bannock recipes.

"For frying, 2 cups of flour, 1tsp baking powder. And salt if you want and 1 cup water mix it up," said Donna Pitseolak-Kublu, who got the recipe from Morty Pitseolak, who was the post-mistress in Pond when we lived there. Get some cooking oil good and hot and drop in pieces of the dough and fry until done. I asked Donna, "And what about the one that you bake? The recipe's almost the same, I think, but maybe has a little sugar in it? and oil?" This is the way that Rebecca Qitsualik, the elder who taught me Inuktitut, made hers. She was an unusual woman, the only Inuit elder at the time who was trilingual in Inuktitut, Innuinaqtung, and English. (Her favourite food was Philadelphia cream cheese, because it tasted just like the baby seal stomach that her parents used to feed her as a child. Think about that the next time you eat a bagel!) Donna replied, "I don't put sugar in mine. I find it too sweet. I remember my late mother Seanna used to use flour, baking powder , salt and little bit of oil and water and she wouldn't use any measuring cup." 

Courtesy of http://shay.la/poached-eggs-smoked-pork-bannock-cage-free/

Incidentally, Donna's mother made my kamiks - traditional boots made from caribou leg skin with the fur attached and an inlaid chevron design of alternating black and white seal fur. They were stunningly beautiful. She also made matching kamiks for the guy I was with at the time, but his had the fur reversed - the main part of the boot was made from sealskin and the design from caribou. She explained that these were wedding kamiks - the man's used a sea animal and a little bit of land animal, while the woman's used a land animal and a little bit of sea animal. This way, the family would always be provided for, because the man would not insult the sea creatures while out on the ice, and the woman would not insult the sea creatures back home on the land.

But, back to the fried dough....

Naomi Tigullaraq, my friend and former teaching colleague at Ulaakjuk School, told me, " I never measure mine, when I'm making one, might give you the wrong measurement. Flour, water, baking powder, lard or oil, and pinch of salt if you want to add some, and some people used milk instead of water."

And my former student Nina Kautaq said, "We just dump everything together."

This reminds of the old Newfoundland cookbook my mother has, which lists the ingredients, and that's it. No step-by-step instructions, no oven temperature, no bake time. Those were things you were expected to know already!

In 2002 I went to China. There we had salted youtiao, long strips of fried dough, with our morning breakfast congee, or rice porridge. In the late afternoon, we might sometimes have a similar dish called tanggao, but shorter and dipped into sugar. Either way, they were yummy. 

"Chinese fried bread". Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons - http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Chinese_fried_bread.jpg#mediaviewer/File:Chinese_fried_bread.jpg

In 2007, I moved to a Dene community in the Northwest Territories. Again, bannock was heavy on the menu at any cultural or school event. Sometimes they deep-fried it, but just as often they pan-fried it, like Newfoundland toutons.

3 cups flour
1 tsp salt
2 tbsp baking powder
1/3 cup oil
1 1/2 cups water

Mix the dry ingredients together in a bowl. Mix the wet ingredients together in a measuring cup. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients, and mix together until it forms a ball. Knead on a floured surface until it is no longer sticky, adding a little more flour if necessary. Divide into two or three pieces, depending on the size of your frying pan. Flatten each piece to about 1 inch thickness. Fry in a greased pan on medium heat for about fifteen minutes each side. Serve with jam. 

Courtesy https://mrsmelva.wordpress.com/2010/05/15/our-trip-to-the-rapids/

In 2012 I moved to a Cree community in Manitoba. The Cree people love their bannock! And for good reason - fried or baked, smeared with butter and jam that drips down your face...it doesn't get better than this! 

Elanor and a boy in her grade three class enjoying some fresh bannock.

The remains of the bannock station at cultural days after a class had passed through.

We were invited for supper at a the home of a friend from church a couple of Sundays ago. Well, not exactly their home. Her mother-in-law's home, because it was close to where we lived and they didn't want us to get lost going to their own home, which is apparently in some little village some distance from here.

While Steve has been in typical Sri Lankan homes before, it was my first time. We walked down the long lane through the small Tamil neighbourhood near the beach in Negombo. The front yard was immaculately swept - a chore performed every morning by the woman of the house - and the front door was surrounded by a large beautiful jasmine bush. We entered the small home and sat chatting with our friend for a while. As we chatted, she formed the dough that her mother-in-law had made into flat little rounds, and began frying them. They were delicious.

Then her mother-in-law came home, removed those from the table, and replaced them with ones that she herself had made! Only the best for guests - and while our friend's dough was great, her mother-in-law's was incredible. (It reminded me of my own bread-making experiences with my daughter, Amber. We could follow the exact same recipe, but her bread always tasted better than mine.)

So, now I have eaten the lightest, thinnest fried dough I have ever had. Crispy on the outside, with pockets of warm soft dough inside in some places, bubbles of air in others.


I had four.

Maybe five.

Or six.

Plus the two I had already eaten that were made by our friend.

Now I have to get that recipe!

2015 March 21: Buffalo Curds and Walrus Meat

I've eaten a lot things I never thought I would eat.

In Pond Inlet I ate raw seal, raw frozen char, caribou jerky, narwhal, beluga, polar bear and aged walrus. To make aged walrus, catch your walrus at the floe edge in April. Butcher it and cut it into football sized pieces. Wrap the pieces of meat in the skin and tie it shut with the intestines after squeezing out all the offal. Bury the whole thing under a big pile of rocks so that animals can't get to it. Go back to get it in October. Eat frozen.

I didn't actually want to eat aged walrus, but when you are at a community feast and one of the oldest elders in the community offers you some, it would be very rude to turn it down. Besides, he looked like he was thoroughly enjoying himself, slicing off bite sized pieces as fast as he could and just wolfing them down, smiling and nodding his head and smacking his lips. How bad could it be, right? So, when he looked at me, sliced some off the hunk in front of him, and held it out to me on the tip of his knife, and said in halting English, "You want?", I couldn't say no. After watching me swallow it practically whole, the elder held his side as he laughed so hard that tears flowed freely down his face. With a smile, he leaned towards me and said, "You want more?" "No thanks," I replied, which sent him into further gales of laughter, and which led to him telling everyone that I had tried it, and which then led to everyone else offering me little bits of everything else that was being eaten. Hence, the seal (looks like beef, tastes like fish), char (dip it into soy sauce and it ain't half bad), caribou jerky (pretty good actually), and polar bear (looks like pork, but don't eat the liver). I passed on the seal eyeball and caribou fly larvae, though.

Amber didn't care much for some of the food in Pond, but one thing she loved was char. I could not feed that girl enough of this fish that is similar to salmon in colour and taste. I took her two best friends - Heather and Amina - and her to a feast one evening, and I could not cut up the char fast enough for the three of them! Two other ladies nearby and a man next to me starting tossing the three girls char as well. They could not get enough! Word soon got around just how much she loved char, and rarely more than a few days went by without someone knocking on my door with fresh frozen char for Amber.

Another evening, my parents had come to visit from Newfoundland. When Heather and Amber learned that we were having char for supper, they ran around the house yelling, "Yay! We're having char!" in English and Inuktitut. With supper ready, I called the girls down from the bedrooms, and they eagerly ran to the table, then stopped dead in their tracks. "What's that?" they asked, as they surveyed the gorgeously baked char with lemon and onions. "It's char," I replied. And both girls ran sobbing back to the bedroom because "You ruined it! You cooked it!"

And when Amber and I moved to Ontario, there was a seafood restaurant that she loved to visit because they served char. The first time we went there, they asked how she would like it cooked. "Raw and frozen," she replied. You have never seen such a strange face made by a waiter. "Is she serious?" he asked me in disbelief. "Oh, yes," I said, "She is quite serious." Every worker in the restaurant - and not a few patrons - hovered nearby to watch her eat her raw frozen fish with absolute gusto.

When I went to China with a group of teachers as part of a course at Brock University, we ate as a group. We sat around a large round table, and the hotel restaurant just brought us about twenty or more different dishes every day. Most people tried to figure out just what each dish was before eating it, but after the first few meals, I quickly learned that you don't ask, you just eat. Chicken stomach tastes like oyster mushrooms, but chewier. Duck tongues were pretty good except you have to be careful of the bone. Chicken feet are rather rubbery, but it's the way that you eat them that can be a little off-putting: hold the claw between thumb and first finger, put the foot in your mouth, and use your teeth to strip the bone as you pull it out. I almost ate scorpions, but was put off of the idea by the girl next to me saying, "It's pretty good except the legs are stuck in my teeth."

One day I found a real treat on the table - deep-fried caplin! I took the whole dish and finished them all myself. It was such a treat to get something directly from home.

In St. Pierre I had horse steak. Enough said.

Now that I am vegetarian, I eat lots of things that I never ate before, but none so exotic as my previous meat-filled adventures. Here in Sri Lanka I am trying all sorts of fruit and vegetables that are new to me.

And buffalo curds.

When Elanor and I went on a church ladies trip a few weeks ago, one of the men who came along asked me if I had tried buffalo curds yet. I had not. For more than five minutes he extolled the virtues of buffalo curds and honey, telling me how wonderful it is and how healthy it is.

When I say buffalo I mean water buffalo.

To make buffalo curd, first milk your water buffalo. Then, bring the milk to a boil and simmer for ten minutes. Remove from heat, cover and let cool. When cool, add a little plain pure yogurt, yogurt starter, or a little leftover from a previous batch. Put into clay pots, cover and let sit for ten hours. Eat soon, or refrigerate. To eat, add a little honey or brown sugar or jaggery or palm syrup or molasses.

Buffalo curd is sold in supermarkets and road side stands throughout Sri Lanka. When buying it, buy it early in the day if it is not refrigerated, and make sure it is white, not yellow. Yellow is old; white is fresh. But, if it is not in a clay pot, it is not considered real buffalo curd! 

Courtesy http://www.seriouseats.com/2014/09/what-is-sri-lankan-food-like-cuisine-guide-international-travel-curry-string-hoppers-coconut-sambal.html

You can make a reasonable facsimile by using pure unflavoured Greek yogurt, instead. Don't use the North Americanized versions of yogurt, though - most of them have been tainted with gelatin, sugars, flavours and colours. Astro makes a Balkan style yogurt that would also work. It's even better if you drain off any liquid from the top so that the yogurt is a little thicker - buffalo milk has twice the fat content of cow milk. Or, if you are really ambitious, you could substitute sheep milk and make it yourself from scratch!

Like I said, I have eaten many things I never thought I would eat. Homemade water buffalo curds is one of those things that never even crossed my mind!

But, boy, it sure was yummy!

2015 March 4: Torment. Or...the Absolutely Wretched Supper

Can we say melodramatic???

Elanor is currently gulping down 1/2 cup of water or more with every bite of her supper while frantically waving her hand in front of her mouth.

"Why are you doing that?," I asked.

"It's so spicy!," was the reply.

"Elanor, there's nothing spicy in the food."

"Huh?"

"There. is. nothing. spicy. in. the. food."

"Well, it's spicy to me!"

"These are the same beets with coconut milk that you've been eating all week, and the same eggplants you've been eating all week, except I added some bbq sauce to them."

"Well the bbq sauce is spicy!"

"No. You watched me make it - ketchup, brown sugar, a splash of vinegar. Nothing spicy."

"Well it's Sri Lankan food and Sri Lankan food is spicy."

"Yes, but this Sri Lankan food was made by a Canadian. It's not spicy."

She puts one little drop of coconut sauce on her tongue and gulps her water again.

Rolling my eyes, I go into the bedroom where the AC is running, having finished my own absolutely delicious supper already.

Now she is making gagging noises by the sink...... When does hubby get back from his conference in India? sigh

The door opens. In peeks the girl. "Yes, Mama?"

"Yes, what?"

"Did you call me?"

"Nope. Did you finish your beets?"

"No," with a loud sigh. "Seriously, they're making me wheezy. Seriously."

Wheezy? I don't think that's the word she is looking for, but I let it slide.

She goes into the bathroom, makes all sorts of moaning noises, and when I don't respond, she goes out the other bathroom door and back to her absolutely wretched supper.

You would think I was trying to poison her.

She didn't have any complaints about lunch. We decided to go for a walk through the nearby alley down to Beach Road, along there until we found somewhere to get some lunch, then back through the alleys and side roads at the other end of the street until we got back home again.

Her lunch was one banana pancake and a chocolate milkshake. The milkshake was gone in 18 seconds. The banana pancake turned out to be basically Bananas Foster, but with the banana wrapped up in a crepe. Or I should say crepes. "One banana pancake" turned out to be two super-sized crepes, two whole bananas, and two huge scoops of ice cream!

Chatting with Steve via Skype. With a wink he tells me to stop tormenting the poor girl. Tormenting??? I ADDED SUGAR to her food and she is acting like I gave her Thai peppers to suck on!

She comes into the bedroom and sits on the floor, plate in hand. The beets have been choked down. The eggplant has disappeared, presumably in her stomach and not mashed into the kitchen drain. All that's left is onions in bbq sauce, which she appears to be mashing before dropping them into her mouth with the fork, like a baby bird being fed by an automated crane.

More water.

More sighs.

I ask if she would like to hear today's blog.

"Sure!"

I read it to her.

"Anything you would like to say?," I ask.

"I said the food was sour."

"That, too," I reply. "Are you finished your food?"

"I only have onions left."

"Onions are food."

More sighs. "I guess that means I'll have to drink an entire bottle of water then!"

"I guess so."

"Humpfh."

Supper started at 5:40. It's now 7:16. She's still not done.

Me? I thought it tasted great.

2015 February 13-17: New Kid on the (Asian) Toilet

(Posted with permission from Elanor.)

We have been in Sri Lanka for four days now. Steve lived here for nine months while he learned about a Tamil dialect spoken by the fishermen in Negombo, so he is doing just fine. I lived in Beijing for a summer while teaching English as a Second Language as part of a course and practicum work through Brock University and Beijing Normal University, so I, too, am doing just fine.

Elanor, however, is having some culture shock.

During church she was positive everyone was laughing at her, when in reality, many of the children were just excited because they had never had a white friend before. Resulting lesson? People laugh for different reasons - don't assume people are laughing at you!

During breakfast on day two she had a meltdown over the butter she was trying to spread on her toast, because it was cut into pieces that looked like cheese, which she almost ate before we stopped her. Resulting lesson? Food looks different here, so don't assume you know what it is!

During some beach time on day three when her dad was trying to arrange a future boat trip for us with some of the Tamil speaking fishermen, she found herself in the middle of buying several saris, four large carved shells, and a model boat from some beach vendors who did not speak very much English before I could get Steve's attention and have him intervene. Resulting lesson? When someone offers you something, they are probably trying to sell it to you, so just say, "Talk to my dad"!

During our time in Colombo on day four (today), we found ourselves surrounded by tuk tuk drivers on several occasions. It wasn't until we got back to Negombo that I figured out what was going on - every time Elanor saw one waving, she waved back, so she was hailing every tuk tuk we passed. Resulting lesson? Just shake your hand from side to side and say 'No thanks' or 'Shopping now'.

But the worst episode happened at a restaurant bathroom.

Bathrooms are different here in Asia. Back home, there's the tub or shower, the sink and the toilet, maybe a urinal if you are in a men's room. You sit down, do your business, use toilet paper to wipe yourself, wash your hands, and leave.

In larger centres here that attract a lot of tourists, it can often be the same. Our hotel, for example, has a Western three piece bathroom.

It also has a spray nozzle attached to the wall, like a miniature shower head.

Just like in France, where the use of bidets are common, Asian countries use water to clean oneself after going potty. In larger areas, toilet paper is often provided as well. But in more rural or poorer areas? There is no paper. Just a spray nozzle. Or a bucket of water and a dipper.

We had explained this to Elanor. Steve had explained how people go to the 'water closet' here. I had asked her if she understood. "Ye-e-e-esss," was the reply. But when faced with the reality of an outdoor toilet in a small room in the backyard of a restaurant in Chilaw, it was a different story altogether.

After the long bus ride to see the temple yesterday, the time spent at the temple, and the bird watching...it was time for everyone to go. Steve went first to check it out and give us the 'WC situation report' and came back with thumbs up - there was, indeed, a Western toilet. Elanor and I went to the backyard of the restaurant, where she went first while I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

"Are you okay in there?" I called.

"Uh...yeah," came the reply.

And I waited some more.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Uh...no," was the answer.

Then the door opened, and out came Elanor, soaking wet from the waist down, red-faced, and almost in tears.

"What happened?" I exclaimed.

"There was no toilet paper so I was trying to clean myself!" she responded. I sent her into the restaurant, and entered the little room myself.

There was water everywhere. E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E.

We finished our lunch and headed back to Negombo. When we got back to the hotel and while her dad was napping, I took her into the bathroom, had her sit on the toilet while wearing her clothes and pretend she was doing her business, and then demonstrated exactly how one uses water when there is no toilet paper.

"Ohhhh!" she said. "I thought you had to do it standing up!" I reiterated that no, you spray while you are sitting down and showed her again.

"But how do you not get your pants wet?" she asked.

"Well, you aim into the toilet before turning it on."

"Ohhhhhh. Well that explains how I got water all over the place."

"You turned it on before you were aiming?"

"Yeah, and the water went all over the floor and the walls and the ceiling. And my pants."

If you are Jewish, now would be an appropriate time to say "Oy vey".

Resulting lesson? Elanor says, "If you are going to take your kids to Asia, make sure you show them how to use the bathroom before you go!" And I say, "Carry toilet paper with you. And have your kids carry toilet paper, too."

But, it could have been worse.... At least it wasn't a squat toilet.

Celebrities

Ever wonder what it feels like to be a celebrity? Today, we found out just what that feels like!

The former Negombo chapel where Steve attended - 12 members the first time he went there in 2000.

Fourteen years ago while studying a dialect of Tamil spoken by the Catholic fishermen of Negombo, Steve attended church here with a very small group of people. He came to love them and they loved him back. Many of them are still friends with him these many years later. And so, today, he anxiously returned to church with these never-forgotten friends, with Elanor and me in tow.

The new Negombo chapel, completed in 2010 - currently housing between 500 and 600 members.

And what a reception it was! There were hugs, there were kisses, there were handshakes, there were pats on the back, there were tears, there were smiles, as word spread throughout the building that Bonta had returned and people came running to greet him. He was given a king's welcome by these wonderful people that he holds so dear.

As the wife of their great friend, I was also warmly welcomed and greeted with the traditional pressing of cheeks, enveloping hugs from the women, and hearty handshakes from the men. One of the men very enthusiastically told me, "You deserve many congratulations for being Steve's wife!" And as I sat in my Sunday School class, I could hear a growing murmur that eventually stopped the lesson until it died down again, as pointing fingers and head nods and whispers of "Bonta's wife! Bonta's wife!" announced my presence to everyone in the room. The excited outpouring of mutual esteem between Steve and his old friends and their families and even the people he had never met but who had heard of him from the others was honestly like nothing I have witnessed before.

I attended Sunday School in Sinhalese, with some explanations of the discussions being provided in English. But, one of my talents is being able to understand, even if only in small and simple ways, what others are saying when they speak in other languages, and this experience was no different. Between the anglicized words found in Sinhala, the scripture references, the study guide, and the brief explanations of what others were saying, I had no trouble following the gist of the lesson after just a few minutes, and then helped an older woman visiting Sri Lanka from Finland to follow the gist of the lesson as well. She, by her own admission, does not speak English very well, but between the sections I was pointing out to her in my English language scriptures, the very simple summaries of what the teacher said, and some pantomime, she was also able to follow the lesson. She and her husband came here to meet a girl whose schooling they have sponsored since she was young. This young woman is about to graduate from university in Europe, and they came to celebrate this tremendous accomplishment with her.

Elanor experienced some culture shock as the day passed by. We told her that we were guests in this country, and that as guests, we needed to make sure that we respect the language, culture, and customs of the people here. Part of this includes her attending her Sunday School (Primary) classes in Sinhala, not English. We want her to learn some Sinhalese while we are here. She is a little anxious about that, but I explained to her that we believe she can do it. After all, her step-sister Amber learned Inuktitut when she and I lived among the Inuit for two years in northern Canada, and there is no reason why she can't do the same here in Sri Lanka.

After church we were treated to lunch by one of Steve's closest friends here at a roadside open air restaurant usually frequented by locals found not far from the chapel. Served family style and all-you-can-eat, we feasted on basmati rice, curried manioc, onion pickle, jackfruit mash, thin noodles with carrots, a grilled mackerel-like fish with spiced gravy, barbecue chicken, and tiny dried fish with coconut shreds. Total cost? 1108 Sri Lankan rupees - about $8.65 total for all four of us.

Sri Lanka is, in many respects, a third-world country. There is a lot of garbage everywhere you look. Mangy dogs roam free. Street vendors and small sidewalk boutiques line every available space in some places. We paid less than a dollar for the same adaptor we could have bought at Walmart back home for $12. Our hotel costs about $35 per night. Yesterday our tuktuk driver spent close to an hour taking us to downtown Negombo so we could buy adaptors, fruit, and anti-histamines for Elanor, and it cost us 600 rupees - $4.70. A beggar came into our church today looking for 10 rupees - 7 cents - to buy rice.

But don't let any of the above fool you. These people are generous and kind and good-hearted. They are modest, well-kept, and dress well - skirts and blouses or dresses or traditional attire for the women, dress shirts and slacks or wraps and well-shined shoes for the men. Even the few locals that we have seen wearing our typical Western leisure clothing look nothing like Westerners do in Western clothing - nothing is dirty, frayed, offensive, immodest, baggy. At the beach last night there were throngs and throngs of people of all ages enjoying the sand, the ocean, the beachside Valentine's Day concert / political rally, with nary a bikini in sight. The only immodestly dressed people we saw were two European men wearing speedos, one American woman wearing a one piece swimsuit that would be considered completely modest back home, and two fisherman who stripped to their underwear and dove into the warm waves to clean away the results of their day's labours before they headed home.

And their spirit is unquenchable. We met a woman at church today with the brightest smile, the most loving eyes, the most welcoming words...and yet her story is one that would have broken most people. She was originally from the south of Sri Lanka, but came to Negombo after the 2004 tsunami as a refugee. For three months she looked for her youngest son, who had been washed out to sea by those terrible waves. For three months this mother never gave up hope. And when she finally began to despair of ever seeing her son again, she found some church members here in Negombo who told her to keep having faith and helped her to look for him. And, beyond all miracles, she found him. She had been a devout Buddhist her entire life, but became a member of our church after experiencing the love and care and compassion and help of the members here. In her words, "For everyone around the world, tsunamis are terrible problems. But for me, our tsunami was a blessing, a wonderful blessing in my life, because it brought me here, where I could be with these good people." A man whom Steve has known for a long time here grew up as the son of the leader of another church here in Sri Lanka. He had been granted a full scholarship to study medicine at one of the best medical schools in India, but gave it all up to be here with these members.

As I heard life story after life story - all told with cheerful faces with no regrets - it struck me that while we were given the royal treatment, these people were the real celebrities. Celebrities inspire awe and humility in us, a desire to want what they have and to be like them. If I can learn to be half as joyful, half as hopeful, half as optimistic as these good people, I will consider myself to be very blessed indeed.

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A few more sights from today....

No idea what kind of tree this flower grows on, but each flower lasts for only one day before it falls to the ground with a loud whump that is audible from our balcony three stories above!

  Yellow billed babbler

Cattle egrets

Sixty-Four Degrees

To pick up where we left off last time....

We got our Suburban fixed (well, sort of - Dad reports today that it's not running again), got everything packed, and headed for St. John's for the night on Wednesday. The two little dogs knew something was up, as they both refused to leave my side during the trip. The snow started coming on as we finished up some last minute items. And the baleful look of my Shih-Poo as Mom and Dad pulled away from the hotel broke my heart. They drove our truck back to their place in a wintry blast all the way to Whitbourne, where it suddenly turned into a beautiful evening for a drive. Poor little Essie (my first dog, named Essex after my first new car, a Dodge SX) cried all Thursday because he missed his momma.

With yet another snowstorm forecast for Thursday morning, we were relieved to see clear skies when we awoke at 5 am to go to the airport. As we walked into the lobby a scant thirty minutes later, the heavens opened and we were in whiteout conditions. By the time we got to the airport, just five minutes later, all incoming flights had been cancelled, and our flight was scheduled to be the last one to leave.

And leave we did! Although, admittedly, it was more than a little disconcerting to be in 70 km / hour winds, with snow whipping everywhere at -31 C, and snowplows clearing the runway in front of the plane as we took off!

With all of the opposition we had faced while getting ready for this adventure, it was no surprise to be given this one last kick as we left for warmer climes.

In the meantime, my husband (who claims to be an introvert and anti-social) happily spent an hour at the gate chatting with former Newfoundland and Labrador Premier Beaton Tulk about politics, books, the oil industry, finance, Kevin King's back country cabin, Mr. Tulk's 76 year old house that he and his wife bought and restored in Musgravetown, and my first-cousin-once-removed Eli who is a good friend of his and whom Steve spent a day this past summer helping to put up a fence around a cemetery where many of my ancestors are buried - part of yet another cemetery restoration project envisioned by my great-uncle Sim who is celebrating his 91st birthday today! Our many hours long stop-over in Newark also saw my husband happily chatting away with the guys at the pizza stand in the airport food court - in Spanish, Sinhala, and Tamil.

The flight from Newark to Mumbai was an uneventful but long fourteen hours. It was rather strange in some ways, because we left on Thursday, but were flying east, so we had an extremely short day and landed in Mumbai shortly before midnight on Friday. It did give one pause for thought as we flew over Afghanistan, grateful to be flying at over 30 000 feet. But the sunset high in the air over Pakistan was truly spectacular - there is no word to describe the colour of where the saffron and cobalt of a Middle Eastern sunset meet as the sun is just sinking below the horizon. And one doesn't often hear this about airline food...but it was incredible. Curried chickpea wraps for snacking, some sort of crunchy grain salad and cauliflower curry for supper, mini samosas with sweet chutney and curried sago for breakfast.

The airport in Mumbai was incredible - the terminal has been completely renovated and now doubles as one of the pre-eminent museums in India, with 3 kms of exhibits! And, unlike American, Canadian, and other Western airports, photography is encouraged. With ancient and modern arts and crafts, frescoes, and archeological displays, it is truly breathtaking.

While wandering around and exploring all there was to see, I happened to stroll down a side hall in search of 'the facilities'. As I passed by a huge open double-door leading to a florescent sterile tube shaped corridor that apparently runs around the entire outside perimeter of the shopping, duty-free, and display area, I caught a glimpse of a large man with Asian features being held and forcibly removed of his jacket and backpack by three security officers. Needless to say, I did not stick around to see how this ended.

A couple of hours later we were on the final leg of our journey - Mumbai to Colombo - where again, the airline food was delicious - a spiced pancake with a vegetable korma and fruit salad (the one thing I did not like was a piece of fruit found in the fruit salad which tasted the way I imagine socks that have been worn for far too long in old hiking boots would taste), and Moong Dal for snacking. (This treat reminded me of a student I once taught who was supposed to be autistic and had been placed in my hard-to-serve regional autistic program. While trying to find some way to reach him, I visited him and his family at their home, where I discovered that he was a very different person at home than at school. While he obviously did have some intellectual delay, he could communicate just fine with his family, showed all sorts of social skills that he did not display at school, and did not have many of the repetitive behaviours that were his hallmark while in the classroom. After speaking at length with his huge extended family, I determined that the boy could not speak or understand English, but spoke Urdu at a child's level, and that Dal was his favourite food. I started bringing Dal to school to share with him whenever he became agitated, and miraculously, many of his autistic behaviours disappeared, and he was later moved to a program that better fit his needs as an ESL learner with intellectual delay, rather than an autistic program.)

At 5 am we landed, and quickly made our way through customs and immigration, found our driver (named Walleterad), and marveled at the beauty of a Sri Lankan early morning in 33 degree weather.

Of course, there was a mix-up at the hotel where we were supposed to be staying (are you surprised? given the nature of our trip to this point, we certainly weren't!) and our reservation had been lost. The owner of the hotel was very apologetic, especially after he learned that I am Canadian. He lived in Calgary for several years and loves Canada, but it was too cold for him although his wife loves it! First they lived in England, but it was too expensive, then Arizona where he loved the weather but it was a terrible place to raise children, then on to Calgary which was great for his children and he even considered buying some farmland, before deciding to move back to Sri Lanka, "the most beautiful and best place in the world!"

Fortunately, however, his son and daughter-in-law or daughter and son-in-law (it was a little confusing to follow) own a hotel across the street from his establishment, and Steve quickly arranged for us to stay there.

And so, here we are - from a North Atlantic blizzard to Sri Lankan humidity. And only 64 degrees change in the temperature!