Kimberly Manky's Open Salon Blog

The Rhodes Airport (and the Meavage)

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 14:04:27 -0400

We arrived at the Rhodes airport (RHO) at 10pm. It seemed nice enough: bright, expansive, plenty of room for a flash mob. But there was no flash mob, just a queue for Tor Air that heaved with hundreds of angry passengers. Our flight back to London was delayed by two hours. It would depart at 2am rather than midnight.

Rhys and I made our way through to security, which wasn’t exactly ‘secure’. It consisted of three elderly Greek men leaned against a metal detector, their uniforms unbuttoned to their navels which exposed their ample meavage (men’s cleavage). I wondered if their leering passed for an X-ray machine.

We walked down a long hallway that opened on to a concourse. I was excited. I love airports. I love them so much that I got married in one (YVR, August 3, 2006). I love the atmosphere, the excitement, the movement. I love buying gum and magazines. I love pretending I can afford a Louis Vuitton purse. I love free samples of alcohol. I love paying too much for a sandwich. I love it all!

But this was Rhodes airport, and there was nothing on the other side. Nothing. It was like being a really good Christian your whole life and finding out there is no heaven: disappointing.

Okay, ‘nothing’ is not entirely accurate. There was a little something. One shop, duty-free. And usually I enjoy a good duty-free shop but this was a duty-free shop in Rhodes airport, which means something completely different. They had perfume, cigarettes, ouzo, six-packs of canned soda, and stuffed animals wearing t-shirts that said ‘Rhodes’. That was all.

Rhys pulled me from the shop, insisting that we must have missed a bar where we could pass the next four hours. As we walked down the concourse once more, there was an announcement: ‘Flight 77 to London Gatwick delayed to 7am.’ I gasped for breath, quickly doing the math in my head. Nine hours. Nine!

I wondered what I had done in my life to deserve this. Was it calling the police about my father’s illegal music downloads? Was it stealing my sister’s fiancé Theo the night before her wedding? Was it taking my mother’s wedding ring and pawning it to pay for this trip? I wasn’t sure.

Rhys and I would be spending the next nine hours of our lives in the Rhodes airport, and I wasn’t sure if our marriage could sustain it. We returned to the duty-free, hoping to find a bottle of ouzo big enough. I lugged the bottle toward the cashier, but something caught my eye: tzatziki. If you are not familiar with the dip made from strained yogurt, cucumbers, garlic, salt, olive oil, lemon juice and parsley; let me tell you something: get familiar. It is one tasty condiment.

Then Rhys made a noise that sounded a little like an angry baby tiger. He called to me, waving a box in the air. ‘Breadsticks!’ We were set. If nothing else, we now had access to tzatziki, breadsticks and a six-pack of 7up. We were fine. We were going to make it to make it.

One tub of tzatziki, two litres of ouzo, three crossword puzzles, four attempts to get some shut-eye, five high-fives, six trips to the airport bathroom, seven games of Settlers of Catan, eight conversations with strangers about the flight being delayed, and nine hours later- we boarded the retro plane and said good-bye to the Rhodes airport. It was a slice.

The Leather Pants

Mon, 2 Apr 2012 14:04:20 -0400

My parent’s house is in the middle of nowhere, 17 kilometers from the nearest town in the middle of nowhere – nowhere being a small town in Northern British Columbia with a higher than the National average cancer diagnoses for its residents, and three pulp mills to prove it.

Every Christmas, my dad puts up thousands of lights on the house: on every post, beam, eave, window frame, and around the garage door. Their electricity bill skyrockets for the month of December ($364.69 in 2008), but he thinks it’s worth it.

He’s sentimental about the holidays, and he isn’t the only one. Our entire family (dad, Stan; mom, Linda; sister, Michelle, and me, Kim) is very sentimental and it isn’t just one thing, it’s everything: the Baby J (Jesus), the Spekuloos (a Dutch cookie made with ginger and almonds), the Christmas tree (with an electrified angel on top), the music (Boney M’s ‘Mary’s Boy Child’), and the smoked turkey (regular turkeys are put to shame). It’s everything.

My sister and I always return home for the holidays, bearing gifts and revelations from the city (‘Global warming is real’ and ‘Pork is the other white meat’). My mom greets us at the door with a long hug (14-19 seconds) and a wide smile rimmed with mauve lipstick.

My dad plugs in the Christmas tree and declares, ‘Christmas time is here.’ Occasionally, (but only very occasionally) there would be ‘difficulties’ upon our return. There would be an argument or disagreement or some other ‘ment’ that would cause tension and tears.

Last Christmas was one of those.

‘O, come let us adore him.’

My sister and I sat on my mom’s bed as she pulled my dad’s Christmas present from the back of her closet. She had got him a Leatherman tool (an all-purpose tool for the very handy man) and my sister was about to wrap it, scotch tape at the ready.

‘What’s that?’ I pointed past my mom to the closet contents that were mostly beige and neutral. There was a glimmer.

‘What?’ My mom pointed at a few blouses but I shook my head.

My mom pulled a hanger from the closet, and on it hung a pair of black leather pants. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘Your dad bought them for me.’

My sister and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. ‘You can’t be serious,’ we were in unison this time. My mom unbuttoned her jeans, let them fall to the floor and reached for the hanger. She pulled the leather pants up over her calves, but they held fast at her thighs. ‘They don’t fit, mom.’

‘They do.’ My mom didn’t sound convinced. She struggled and then flopped down on the bed. She looked like a fish out of water, flipping and flopping as she pulled the leather pants up over her hips and fastened them.

‘Can you even stand?’ My sister poked my mom in the thigh. Her finger left an imprint on the leather.

‘Yes.’ My mom pulled herself over to the side of the bed, let one leg drop and forced herself upright. ‘So there.’

‘O, come let us adore him.’

We were heading out to a Christmas eve carol service at church. My dad stood at the door jingling his keys, my sister was checking her lip gloss in the hall mirror, and I was standing at my mom’s bedroom door watching her scour the closet.

‘Let’s go Linda. It’s ten to seven,’ my dad called up the stairs, knowing full well that it took 15 minutes to get to church and we would most certainly be late.

‘Just a minute,’ she replied as she pushed the clothes from side to side, the metal hangers screeching on the metal bar. She pulled several pairs of pants from the bar and threw them on the bed. ‘I can’t find them.’

‘Can’t find what?’ I said, but I knew.

‘My leather pants. They were here.’ My mom got down on her hands and knees and reached to the back of the closet.

‘Just wear something else,’ I suggested knowing that the leather pants were folded neatly in a Safeway (Canadian grocery chain) bag in my mom’s rolling suitcase, down in the basement storage room.

‘Your dad wanted me to wear them.’ My mom stood there, staring into the closet, hands on hips.

‘Linda!’ my dad called, louder this time. He meant business. He hated being late.

‘I’m looking for my leather pants.’ As my mom uttered those six to seven words (depending on whether you count I’m as two words, ‘I’ and ‘am’ or one word, ‘I’m'), she caught my gaze. ‘Where are they?’

‘What?’ I sank down the stairs and moved closer to my sister. There is strength in numbers. ‘I don’t have them.’

‘Where are they?’ My mom stood at the top of the stairs wearing a white sweater and a pair of Spanx (a body shaping undergarment). She descended the stairs slowly, pointing at my sister and I. I had never understood why pointing was rude but right then – without any words or explanation – I knew. ‘Where are they?’

‘Gone.’ As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t. My dad’s head snapped in our direction.

‘Where are the pants?’ I had never seen my mom look this angry, ever.

‘Where are the pants?’ Dad moved toward the three of us. My sister and I were backed up against the wall, our family portrait hung just above our heads depicting the very best of times, thirteen years previous: my mom with no sag, my dad with a full head of hair, my sister with straight teeth, and me with an enthusiastic smile. All before time took it’s toll.

Dad repeated himself, ‘Where are the pants?’ I could tell he meant business.

‘We’ve hidden them,’ I said.

‘We?’ My sister jumped ship. I knew she would.

‘Where are the pants?’ My mom said as she yanked her Spanx up.

‘I’m not giving them back. They’re ridiculous, and you’re nearly sixty.’ I pushed past my sister and moved toward the kitchen. My dad looked at his watch and I saw his face flush red. He really hated being late.

‘Give the pants to your mom,’ as he said this he marched toward me. ‘Or, Christmas is cancelled!’

‘O, come let us adore him.’

We stood there for at least three full minutes. My dad staring at me, my mom inching closer, my sister listening to her voice mail.

‘Give me the pants, Kim.’ My mom put her pointer finger up in my grill and then repeated herself, as if I hadn’t heard her: ‘Give me the pants, Kim.’

My sister chimed in, ‘Give her the pants, Kim.’ I shook my head no.

My dad kicked off his shoes, walked over to the Christmas tree and began removing the ornaments.

‘What are you doing dad?’ I called, but he wasn’t listening. He unplugged the lights on the tree and pulled off the electrified angel topper. It was at this point my sister started crying.

‘Fine!’ I said, but it really wasn’t. I ran downstairs to the basement storage room, unzipped the suitcase, pulled open the Safeway bag and there they were: stiff, inky black, and smelling of the William’s Lake stampede.

I marched back up the stairs reluctantly and handed the pants to my mother, who slipped them on over her Spanx then and there.

I noticed my dad had placed the electrified angel back on top of the tree and was standing at the door again with his shoes on, ready to go.

Christmas was back on.

‘Christ the Lord.’

The Pie

Mon, 26 Mar 2012 05:03:38 -0400

The pie is certainly an underrated food item. The fact that it is comprised of delicious, flaky, buttery pastry and contains either sweet and savoury fillings should secure its place in regional cuisine the world over, yet it seems that only the Brits have really embraced this baked treat and continue to celebrate its versatility.

As early as 9500 BC (that’s Before Christ, to you unbelievers) Egyptians were making good use of the ‘pie’ format, wrapping oats, wheat and barley around honey. However, the Greeks were thought to have invented pie pastry as we know it today, making a paste of flour and water and adding fat. In fact (well, according to Wikipedia), Apicius, the first known cookbook (courtesy of the Greeks) contains recipes featuring pie cases.

Pies quickly became a staple of the European diet, as they were easy to cook on an open fire and convenient to take along when you are conquering other countries (as well as pillaging, etc). And with all that conquering came regional variations, with pasties, pot pies, fruit pies and pastries becoming popular the world over.

Savoury pies are definitely a staple of the British diet, with fish pie, meat pie, steak and ale pie, pork pie, quiche, pasties and cottage pie being particular favourites.

As a dessert (or pudding to you Brits, though that makes little to no sense as there is rarely any ‘pudding’ involved) there are many variations: fruit pies (raspberry, apple, blueberry), cream pies (key lime, banana, custard), vegetable pies (sweet potato, pumpkin), and nut pies (pecan). Pies are best served with a cream (iced or not, you decide).

And when you divide the circumference of a pie by the diameter of a pie, you get get another very satisfying sort of pi… 3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510…

The Sausage

Mon, 12 Mar 2012 05:03:19 -0400

I am a vegetarian. For the most part anyway. Like most vegetarians (or so I’m told), I really enjoy eating pork products (bacon, spareribs, chops and pork tenderloin with an apple sage stuffing) and especially, sausage.

When I booked a surprise trip to Bavaria for my husband’s birthday, I knew that we were going to the good food capital – Munich – and that sausage would most definitely be on the menu.

I had been a self-congratulatory and iron-deficient vegetarian for the last six years but I, like most vegetarians (or so I’m told), was tempted by the smell of hot dog carts. Sometimes, I would arrange to meet people on a specific corner (Hoxton and Purcell, for instance) and I would arrive extra early just to take in a whiff or two of those heavenly aromas.

As we boarded our Lufthansa flight from Heathrow to Flughafen München, my mouth began to water. It had been a long time, a very long time. I knew the waiting was almost over. I was headed to the land of bratwurst, milzwurst, bierwurst, gelbwurst, stockwurst, wollwurst, weisswurst and all number of other wursts.

When I booked the trip I knew I was going to eat some meat. You know what they say, ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do.’ I am sure this applies to Bavaria. It is only polite to do as the Bavarians do. This includes: speaking German, playing the accordion, wearing lederhosen, drinking beer to excess and eating sausage to excess. I was happy to do it, as I wanted to fully immerse myself in their cultural heritage.

We went straight from Flughafen München to Hofbräukeller on the east side of Munich in Bogenhausen. We ordered a Hofbräu Dunkel straight away and we poured over the menu. I ordered wursts, sauerkraut, and a basket of bread. I, like most vegetarians (or so I’m told), inhaled that sausage like it was going out of style. It was dee-lish!

The entire trip to Munich was a whirlwind of dancing to Oom-pa-pa polka music, climbing the Alps, visiting fairytale castles, swigging the local brew, devouring the local fare and standing in awe of the beautiful Rococo architecture.

We did not want to return home. We wanted to stay in Munich and live in a fairytale land where we had all the time in the world, there were biking beer gardens, the pretzels were aplenty, and I wasn’t a vegetarian anymore.

Alas, reality called. And our tickets were non-refundable. We hesitantly made our way to the airport, purchased our many mementos and souvenirs (including postcards of Bayerische Schlösserverwaltung, cuckoo clock magnets, and a mini keg of Lowenbraü Original), and boarded our flight home. I had the vegetarian meal.

I don’t know what Heaven will be like, but I’m guessing there will be sausage and I’m hoping it will be a lot like München.

The Avocado

Sat, 3 Mar 2012 07:03:12 -0500

‘You don’t like avocados.’

‘Oh.’ And I believed her, because she told me. All the time.

My mother gently placed a small, ripe avocado in the shopping cart and steered it through the small produce section of our local Safeway. The year was 1987.

‘How about some apples?’ Apples were on sale for 49 cents a pound (Canada had switched to the metric system in the late 1970s, however, many resisted).

‘I don’t like apples.’ The apples we got in our local grocery store were always soft and mealy (I never had a really good apple until 2002, but that’s a different story, for another time).

‘Bananas?’

‘I don’t like bananas.’ I always hated the texture of bananas, and those phloem bundles (stringy bits) always made me gag.

‘Oranges?’

‘No.’ I didn’t like oranges either. I didn’t like many kinds of fruit or vegetables. I was a hardy, sturdy, thick (read: chubby) young girl from Northern British Columbia that grew up without concern for nutrition labels, antioxidants, or preservatives. We ate Kraft dinner from a box, Idaho scalloped potatoes from a sachet, Chef Boyardee pasta from a tin, and Mr. Noodles from a packet.

In those days, we simply did not have the choice. From field to table was around 3,000 kilometers, with most fruit and vegetables shipped from Mexico, Florida and California. The further north the trucks had to drive, the more expensive the fruit and vegetables would be. My mother would opt for whatever was in good supply, and whatever was on sale.

I always went along on our family’s weekly shop and occasionally, there would be a few small avocados on display. My mother would always pick one up, smile and place it gently in our cart.

I looked at the avocado in our shopping cart. ‘The avocado isn’t on sale, mom.’ It wasn’t: they never were. I was always concerned about money (but that’s a different story, for another time).

‘It’s okay. It’s my treat.’ My mother covered it up with a packet of Mr. Noodles. Hoping (I think) that I would forget all about it.

‘Can I try it?’ I was curious. What eight year-old isn’t?

‘But you don’t like avocados.’

‘Oh.’ And I believed her. For twenty-two years I believed her.

Then one day (in 2001), I was out grocery shopping and I saw avocados, on sale. At first I told myself, ‘I don’t like avocados’. But I couldn’t remember what they tasted like, and I couldn’t remember what I didn’t like about them. And they were on sale. So I bought one. I took it home, sliced it up and topped it with a little olive oil, salt and lemon juice.

It was delicious.

I immediately phoned my mother. ‘The jig is up.’ I asked her how many other delicious foods her and my father had been keeping from me, by telling me that I didn’t like it.

‘54.’

‘54?’ The number seemed a bit high. But then she got listing them, and I realized that she was actually low-balling her estimate.

‘Olives, lobster, chocolate, caviar, potatoes dauphinoise, shark’s fin soup, honey, foie gras, edible gold leaf, chorizo, hummus, ice cream…’

‘You said I was lactose intolerant!’

I have now tried all of the foods my parents told me I ‘didn’t like’. And (though I hate to admit it), they were right about some of them: Lobster is a bottom-feeding parasite, for example.

But when I think about avocados and their black pebbled skin, their pear-shaped, fleshy body and their abundance of monounsaturated fats, potassium, B vitamins, E vitamins, K vitamins, aliphatic acetogenins and fiber content, it stings.

Sure, I feel upset about being lied to by my mother for 22 years, but I feel even more upset about not eating avocados for 22 years.