D. Barsotti & J.A. James

Social media is not the cause of duck face but it certainly has encouraged it and it is one of the reasons I cannot bear to scroll through Facebook and Instagram anymore. The moment the human race was able to take selfies, it was evident the acceptable facial expression, the new image of beauty, was the duck face — head tilted ever so slightly, lips pursed together causing cheeks to suck in, eyes vapidly staring into the lens of the phone’s camera.

And almost everyone did it and for some reason, no one thought it was unnatural or stupid looking. Now, if you are twelve through sixteen….even through eighteen, sure — you’re young, you’re goofy and posting silly, social media faces is really your domain but after thirty, and definitely beyond forty and fifty, it’s just asinine.

“the unfortunate thing is, in their heart of hearts, people know this but they continue to post and expose themselves to the judgement”

But, “friends” click like and heart and comment with all kinds of uplifting and cutesy decorative emojis, saying how someone is “just beautiful” or “simply gorgeous” and then, in minutes, tell or text others what they really think of a person’s duck face and or body. Their true thoughts are usually unkind and often horrific. The unfortunate thing is, in their heart of hearts, people know this but they continue to post and expose themselves to the judgement because society’s approval has become as vital as air, water and nourishment.

Social media encourages those who could afford it, to take duck face to the next level. The level of permanent duck face which evolves into a disaster of unnaturally tight skin around the eyes and mouth, skeletal noses, perma-surprised eyebrows and swollen lips that make what was once a duck’s bill, a fish mouth. Man, if animals could capitalize on human beings’ need to look like them, they would financially dominate the world.

“We are not meant to stay in the incompleteness of being young“

There are some people I know (and some I used to know) who barely resemble their original selves. Skin pulled tautly over bone, I’m never sure if they are smiling, scared or eternally surprised. Social media fuels this need to be impressive, be the most beautiful and the most popular and it has prevented many of us from seeing just how lovely we are, inside and out. Many humans do not recognize how valuable they are. Many of us are more concerned with our outward appearance and have forgotten about the essence of who we are and how much more we can become as we get older. I truly believe one must take care of oneself. Eating good food, exercising, moisturizing and caring for our skin with good clean natural products; caring for our hair, our teeth and nails is vital to being healthy…but caring for our minds and self-esteem is just as important. Being able to cry, be angry and to laugh without feeling like our face will snap is a wonderful and natural thing. We are intended to age, to grow more experienced and wiser. We are not meant to stay in the incompleteness of being young. It’s not natural and let’s call a spade a spade…it’s freaking weird to see an old person with a face that looks like it is ironed onto their skull. Some humans are beginning to look like walking corpses — face all pulled back, filled in and oddly “perfect” while the body is aged. What is the appeal of looking like twenty when your forty old mind has so much more it can offer if it were less occupied with trying to perpetually look young. Many in the fashion industry are embracing all body types, natural attributes and individual quirkiness to reflect reality. The effort is there but it is such an uphill battle to show people that imperfection is actually …perfection! Skin is not supposed to be flawless. Whatever happened to the saying, “every flaw is a fashion?”

Ironically, it was my vain mother who taught me that I was enough and encouraged me to love myself and own all of me — every bump, every chip, every blemish. I know my mother, even at eighty-two has many things about her face and her body that she has never liked but her words of encouragement juxtaposed with the many times I have watched her be self-dissatisfied, enabled me to accept myself. I love and accept my crooked row of bottom teeth, the big cleft on my chin and the, blue-black birthmark on the left side of my face, close to my ear that is the size of my fingerprint. I lived with constant commentary about it looking like a stain, a sideburn, dripping hair dye, or a black olive on my face but I never hated it and never intentionally tried to cover it up — ever — because it was unique to me. I love the freckles under my eyes and across my nose. I love my thick, dark eyebrows people would relentlessly tease me about. I cherish my bouncy and often unruly, greying curls. I adore my skin tone, dark eyes, small boobs and very present ass that was a favourite topic of conversation among some of my aunts. I love my strong thighs and calves that show my athleticism even at fifty-four and I embrace my stretch marked belly that housed my much wanted and adored two, ten-pound-baby-boys I delivered into this world. I have scars from three kidney surgeries that saved my life and a five inch scar on my right elbow that is the conclusion of a snowboarding run gone horribly wrong. Perhaps I am not as attractive as I was in my teens or twenties but I feel and believe that I am exquisitely, interestingly, splendidly, confidently, intelligently, gracefully, sublimely and elegantly fifty four. I mean, I continue to get my husband’s attention from across a crowded room and in our bed. To me, all I am externally is imperfectly beautiful and I am on a perpetual journey to improve my internal flaws. As I grew older, I have made it a point to separate and discard what I deem frivolous, inconsequential and unneeded in my life. It has been my mission to be nicer, kinder, more patient, more tolerant and more accepting of others and it is imperative I remain informed and continue to learn and improve my mind.

The physical signs of aging, much like scars, are the badges of honour we earn living life. It does not matter what people think of us and it matters less when their true thoughts are masked by fake comments about us online. In order for young people to develop self-esteem, self-worth, and an acceptance and joyful anticipation of ageing, older people have to lead the way. Ageing isn’t a bad thing. When you get older and your children leave home, you get back the gift of time. Time to rediscover yourself, try new things, see new places, meet new people, grow things, cook new thigs, play new sports and learn a couple new languages. There is time to read more, create more, make more of a difference to our endangered planet and pass on what we know to those who will inherit and inhabit her when we are gone.

“You are enough”

And while I understand that for some, when artificial, cosmetic enhancement is started, it cannot or is difficult to stop, I urge those of you who have not succumbed to this ritual to try something simple — Look at your face, your hair and your naked body and smile. Really look at this amazing vessel that houses the essence of who you are. You are enough and if you want to strive for more, if what you see looks unhealthy, or not as fit as it could be, heal it and take care of the vessel in a healthy and safe manner. Cherish your body. Feed your soul. Enhance your mind. True friends, and I mean real people, don’t care about what your vessel looks like but rather care what you think, what you have to say and what you do. There is nothing wrong with looking lovely, stylish or wearing something that makes you feel good but you don’t have to go to painful extremes and you don’t need blue thumbs up, smiley faces or hearts. Unpurse your lips, turn off the filter and smile, really smile from within and show the world just how beautiful you are … because you are and truth be told, you always have been.

How one comes to live on Nowhere Island.

When I look at my face, I see the plight of the indigenous Carib tribe, who, along with the Arawak, struggled to survive five centuries of European conquest and ravage. When I look at my face, I see Africans violently plucked from their home, brought to toil on the stolen land in heat the white man couldn’t bear. When I look at my face, I see my maternal grandfather and his brothers — teenagers, sailing from China to the Caribbean islands to escape communism, with no money and little knowledge of English. When I look at my face, I see my paternal, Italian great grandfather, living and dying by his work — his family crafting and building the churches and courthouses still standing in the Caribbean today. When I look at my face, I see his cousins who left the Azores for the plantations, as post-abolition labourers. When I look at my face, I see hard working people coming together to create a new life and home for themselves, sacrificing everything for their families and the generations that followed.

When I look at my face, I remember stories of how my grandparents met and how their love transcended social and racial boundaries of their time. When I look at my face, I am reminded of the greed of the powerful white man, who had no problem crossing those social and racial lines he created, taking what he wanted at the expense of an innocent baby, born much fairer than her sisters and sent away to hide the shame of what he had done. When I look at my face, I see the baby, now a young woman, brought back to the island to work. I see the scar on her forehead, the tell-tale symbol of occasional beatings by the black man betrayed — her fair skin, hair, and eyes a constant reminder of what that white man had stolen from him.

It is the judgement and discrimination from all races that cast mixed folks like me onto Nowhere Island, where one is of every race yet accepted by none.

When I look at my face, I see my history. I see the love, joy, struggle, pain, sadness, loss, and sacrifice it took to create this lineage. When I look at my face, I reflect on what set the tone for my adult life as a mixed-race Caribbean woman living in North America and I am reminded why we can’t live as one world, one people. You see, when I look at my face, I acknowledge the racism I have experienced from various ethnic groups living in North America. The racism I have faced from White people has been hurtful, especially when they feign ignorance, but when you are mixed like me, the pain is deeper and more disappointing coming from other ethnicities because you don’t expect or understand a racist sting from another minority. It is the judgement and discrimination from all races that cast mixed folks like me onto Nowhere Island, where one is of every race yet accepted by none.

When I look at my face, I remember my first day of University in upstate New York, waiting on the bus to campus when someone asked, “What are you anyway?” and when I responded with “I’m human…you?” it didn’t embarrass as intended, but encouraged more insensitive questions. “No, I mean, like…are you White or Black or Latina?” Nothing like the need for clarification to make the situation worse. “Yes, and more,” was my terse reply because I saw no reason to choose to be something I am not and so it was concluded by both black and white students that “she a Oreo”.

… in North America, it is apparent that you must be one race or another, so that it is easier for people to know what box to put you in.

Look at my face. Is it my responsibility to explain to anyone why I look the way I do? In the Caribbean we learn about the world in geography, history and social studies classes, yet many North Americans are comparatively ethnocentric when it comes to understanding who and what comprises the world in which they live. And while I am fine with inquisitiveness, I am better with polite curiosity about where I am from and what it was like to live there. Look at my face. Is it my responsibility to teach geography or anthropology to random strangers intrigued or off-put by my different appearance? Why is it my responsibility to define myself to anyone? I was not raised to be one race or another but to embrace all the culture, cuisine and traditions that were passed down to me by the many ethnicities that created the essence of who I am. But in North America, it is apparent that you must be one race or another, so that it is easier for people to know what box to put you in. Well, the box I check on the census form is OTHER because it’s the only option that applies to me. They might as well call it NOWHERE or NOTHING because that’s how that box on the form makes you feel in society. Look at my face. Can you understand it isn’t my responsibility to make anything easier for anyone, since I am the immigrant, trying to embrace a new culture and adapt to a new way of life? And for anyone thinking that I should have gone back to where I came from, know I would have if I could.

When I look at my face, I remember how refreshing it was to make friends with others who looked like me and had similar experiences. It was equally refreshing to find a few North Americans worldly or sensible enough to know the Caribbean was not in Africa or India.

They knew, as in every country, people in the Caribbean do not spend the day aimlessly walking about in beachwear and flip flops. When I look at my face, I remember the frustration and boredom of sitting through unfortunate instances when some vapid, underexposed soul would be flabbergasted by my Oh-my-God- neat-accent and would try to get me to say words like boat, classes and answer to hear how oh-my-God-totally-wicked I sounded. I look at my face, and I remember how little I thought of every White and Black North American who thought I was entertained by their absolutely shit impersonation of my NOT Jamaican accent by the way, when they said, “Yeah Mon, Bob Marley! De ganja irie!” To some North Americans, every Caribbean island is Jamaica and in their shallow minds, the only thing the Caribbean gave to the world is reggae and weed. Some people (in many cases white people) can be quite trite, and they refuse to try and understand how their “innocent” comments come off as insulting.

I know that some of the teasing and bullying my children have endured in school and in sports occurred when I showed up at their events and they waved and called me Mom, tainting their presumed whiteness.

When I look at my face, I remember how saddened I would become when the racism hurled at me came from minority ethnic groups. I replay the insults like movie scenes in my head because those were the times I was made to feel tainted. I remember the two Latino guys in a Miami club who decided it was okay to call me coño when they realized by my schoolgirl Spanish, that I wasn’t one of them. I remember my first Black American friends ending our friendship when I didn’t want to pledge a Black sorority even when I told them I wasn’t interested in pledging any sorority! I look at my face and I remember the Asian woman at my teller’s counter growing furious, when, at her request, I explained my jade jewellery was my connection to my maternal grandfather. I remember her calling me hak gwai under her breath and her consequent embarrassment when I told her what she’d said, gave me the right to not serve her at my counter since to her, I was too dark-skinned to don articles of my Chinese heritage. I look at my face and shake my head at some North Amerian East Indians I have met who aren’t too comfortable that I know as much as I do about their festivals, culture and cuisine, saying that East Indian culture in the Caribbean is not as rich or pure as true East Indian culture. I beg to differ. When I look at my face, I chuckle when North American Italians vehemently deny that my surname is mine and not my husband’s because I don’t look like them. I look at my face and I see that I am my father’s daughter. His name is my name, and it is the name I will take to my grave because I am proud of my Italian ancestors’ Caribbean architecture.

I look at my face and I know that some of the teasing and bullying my children have endured in school and in sports occurred when I showed up at their events and they waved and called me Mom, tainting their presumed whiteness. I look at my face and I am saddened that even in a time when we stand up and fight for our human right to matter, I have women of colour judgementally commenting, “she upgrade” when I pass by with my husband and children. Upgrade from what? From whom? Is that how little some women of colour regard men of colour? Regard themselves? You can’t help who you love. I have no restrictions when it comes to the package love comes in and as far as I’m concerned, a sexy, attractive man comes in every colour. I never saw myself as someone who would marry but I married a man who loves me and our sons and treats us with dignity and respect. He is ever present; always supportive. We see no colour when we look at each other in our family — only love and I will never apologize for loving my man who embraces my culture and everything that makes me, me.

I look at my face and I shake my head when I think of my most recent encounter with the hate of racial discrimination. I discovered a group of Caribbean parents of children with autism who were on a news program to attract members. They wanted people who spoke the dialect and who applied the tools of our upbringing and culture to enhance our autistic children. I reached out on social media and in one day I was accepted and rejected by the group. It seemed that one member trolled me on social media, saw the profile photo of our family and decided we were not Black enough. I regard myself as having a nationality rather than an ethnicity and when I saw them on television, I didn’t see them as Black but as fellow West Indians who had that Caribbean twang, just like me. The Caribbean is comprised of numerous ethnicities. My roots are there, and I know everything about my culture, and like them, I too raised our son differently from other North American families affected by autism. For ten years, I ran a charity for autistic persons in his name, that continues to financially help many families affected by the condition and no one is turned away. With twenty-one years of raising my son under my belt, I could have been an asset to the group, and would have also benefitted from their experiences.

In rejecting someone for their appearance, we miss out on the good they can bring to our lives.

I look at my face and that of my son’s and I am angry to have been treated in such a manner. I was particularly enraged when the organizer of the group insinuated that even with his very curly hair and light brown skin, my autistic twenty-one-year-old was paler than the other autistic persons in their group, and that I should try and join a South East Asian group or start my own.

Tell me, how does a woman with a face like mine start a group for only mixed-race families affected by autism? Would I be able to tell someone in not so many words they were not able to join because they were too light or too dark? I would be ripped to shreds and shamed for doing what they had done to me. I look at my face and I realize that so many who stand up against racial profiling, have no problem profiling a mixed person like me. In rejecting someone for their appearance, we miss out on the good they can bring to our lives.

When I look at my face, I remember leaving the US somewhat bruised by the prejudice I had experienced, wondering what to expect as I drifted on a sea of isolation further north to Nowhere Island. Back in 1988, Canadians in the major cities were more exposed to people of different ethnic backgrounds and while I felt more comfortable living there, I was acutely aware that racism ran deep under a cloak of Canadian politeness. I look at my face and remember how tough it was to be cast onto Nowhere Island. I look at my face and I know how uncomfortable and lonely it is to not really belong. Over the years, I made friends and acquaintances and I was outgoing when I wanted to be, but I never compromised who I was and so I never really fit in to North American society. Visiting my home over the thirty-four years of living abroad, I found myself on Nowhere Island there too. Things had changed drastically in many ways while the things that needed to change, stayed the same or had gotten worse. Never loving the idea of living abroad and not able to leave for numerous reasons, I learned how to find my groove on Nowhere Island. When I look at my face and reflect on the whole-lot-of-life I have lived between my twenties and now, I am grateful I stayed true to myself. When I look at my face, I know and love who I am. I am a mixed-race Caribbean woman, living in North America, raising North American children to have an awareness of the world while loving and embracing who they are. My husband and I have raised them to be kind, generous, respectful, non-judgemental, and loving human beings because they are our gifts to the world albeit one which still does not readily accept them.

When I look at my face, and I think of my disposition at this age, I realize that I might not be able to change the world, but I don’t have to subscribe to its bullshit double standards and hypocrisy. I am comfortable with myself and I have the courage to counteract racism, sexism and injustice with strength and dignity. I choose to surround myself with a handful of people who share my values. I don’t need popularity. I don’t need to fit in or be cool because I already am all of that for myself. I adhere to the priciples of a dear, admired friend in my homeland. She demands to be treated with the respect and dignity she readily gives to others and she will not form an opinion of anyone based on the colour of their skin. This is her living truth and she is the example I look to when injustice and racism blinds me with anger.

I look at my face and today I happily see it reflected more often in media. The media has blindly and rudely starved society of diverse representation for too long. I like that people are demanding to be seen, heard, respected, and not judged. I am happy that people are not going away quietly, because neither am I. We all must stand up for our rights and dignity, yet while I applaud anti-racist movements, I see that our society is one with irony abound. We are racist but we still want bits and pieces of the very people we hate– non-White people dyeing their hair blond, White people plumping their lips with collagen, or baking in the sun and at tanning salons to get brown. Curly haired people straightening their hair and straight-haired people curling theirs… Is anyone truly satisfied with themselves? While one can argue that we all have a right to express ourselves, a part of me sees people of all races trying to change the things they dislike about themselves because somewhere along the lineage, someone pointed out that aspects of their physical features were not good enough.

In his excellent article, The White People in the Comments, (pub. in Level, Medium) Steve QJ says “Misguided anti-racism already makes genuine anti-racism look ridiculous”. He says that “the enemy of anti-racism is racism”. Think about that for a minute. If you are fighting for your rights, is it wise to assume that eveyrace but yours is against you? Should you cast off a person’s support because of the colour of their skin? Revisit the history of the Underground Railroad. Enslaved people trying to escape to freedom did not refuse the help of the abolitionists, some of whom were White. We must be mindful that messages we deliver of anti-racism must not be fuelled by the racism that might be burried deep in our souls. Steve QJ makes this point when he refers to the present-day absurdity of the uproar of the press and social media with regards to the translation of Amanda Gorman’s poem The Hill We Climb. Ms. Gorman chose International Booker Prize winner, Marieke Lucas Rijneveld for the translation into Dutch, however when some Netizens and reporters felt that Rijneveld was not “unapologetically Black and female” like Gorman, they felt it would be better to withdraw from the project than be embroiled in an unnecessarily difficult situation. I look at my face and I recognize that though we may raise our fist in protest, equality will never be achieved if we fail to take a moment to look around at the different faces surrounding us, supporting the quest for solidarity. Racism will not end if we hold grudges. Racism will not end if we cannot forgive. It will not end if we judge or hate. We must forgive those who hurt us so we can heal and when we are healed, we can cure others by our example. To end racism, we need to shed the racism within ourselves.

I look at my face and at fifty-four, I am still living on Nowhere Island, descended from many races, belonging to none and watching humanity react to itself and I realize I only have control over my own actions. I have always been in the OTHER box and even as society claims to change, I always will be. And I while I still don’t belong anywhere, I fit perfectly into my mold, living my truth in my beautiful, brown skin with my crazy combination hair. In his piece, Steve QJ asks, “What does a world without this ridiculous prejudice look like?” I don’t have the answer, but I would like to think it looks like my face, your face, and every face. He wonders “how do we get there as quickly and painlessly as possible?” and again, I am not sure we can, but maybe we can start by helping and getting to know each other. Maybe we can stop ridiculing and judging each other and making ignorant assumptions about a person who doesn’t look like us. Maybe we can start by mindfully choosing our words so as not to be insulting. Maybe we can get there by freeing ourselves of the racism within us and raise the next generation of humans with the positive qualities so vital for humanity. Maybe we can end this ridiculous prejudice by utilizing the power of love to eradicate the weakness and fear that is hate. We must accept we can agree with someone who doesn’t look or sound like us and should we disagree, we must not assume it’s because of race. Humans do not like change, and we are a species that tends toward making things more complex than they need to be, so I am not quite sure we can live in a world free of prejudice.

A world without racism starts with simple acts of love, kindness and acceptance and as Steve QJ so brilliantly and simply states, “If we are ever going to live in a world where we stop judging each other by the colour of our skin, WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO STOP JUDGING EACH OTHER BY THE COLOUR OF OUR SKIN”. The solution to worldwide racism is a simple one. Racism is learned. Being racist is a choice and I believe if each of us chooses to eradicate racist thoughts, actions and vocabulary from our lives, dare I say, it can end.

I was reading a post by Kate Bittman called Here’s the Dish to Cook When You *Really * Don’t Want to Cook, which was a wonderfully warm piece about a simple treat her dad used to make her called the Egg in the Hole. It was toast with a just-runny-enough egg embedded into it and it looked tasty and comforting. I liked the post and I commented to her that it was nice to see someone have such a fond childhood memory of a simple treat that satisfied not just the belly but the soul. I told her it reminded me about how my husband, boys and I feel about his mother’s comfort treat, Bacon Bunnies. So, Kate messaged me back and asked, “What are Bacon Bunnies?” and so, I figured I’d post this to answer her question.

Bacon Bunnies are the bacon, cheese, toast version to her Egg in the Hole. It was a simple breakfast snack my mother-in-law would make her kids. My husband made them for me when we were dating and as soon as our boys could eat solid food, he made it for them and it has maintained its status as a James family favourite breakfast/brunch snack. First of all Bacon Bunnies don’t look like bunnies at all. If you ask why they are called Bacon Bunnies you will get the answer, “Cause that’s what they’re called. They’re Bacon Bunnies. They are cute,”. Fair enough. You don’t have to have a reason for everything. Some things just …are.

Bacon Bunnies are the simplest of the simple when it comes to ingredients and preparation. You need a few slices of bread, each cut into 3 strips, a strip of your favourite cheese on each strip and a strip of cooked bacon. The bacon should be cooked just enough that they would crisp up in the oven but not burn. It takes about 10 minutes in the oven…maybe? and that’s it.

The baking sheets are brought out of the oven and the smell of bacon wafts through the house prompting the thunderous hooves of man-children who make their way to the kitchen to devour them in what seems like seconds. We went from making maybe making two baking sheets of bunnies to making four sheets (depending on how many man-children are at home) which is pretty much a loaf of bread, otherwise there would be none left for my husband and me.

Bacon Bunnies are certainly not a healthy snack but it is a happy snack. There is some nutritional value to them if you really analyze the ingredients, but it’s no quinoa salad nor is it supposed to be. So, here’s to all the Bacon Bunnies and Egg’s in the Hole or whatever makes you smile when you reflect happily on your childhood! They may not be the most nourishing combinations but they certainly nourish the soul! They are simply little traditions that taste great that make you happy. And as I see it, the world could do with a lot more happy.

TOM……

THANK YOU….

FOR BEING MY TRUE FRIEND…..

MARRIAGE CANNOT EXIST WITHOUT FRIENDSHIP……

Photo by Stephen Attong

Photo by Stephen Attong

FRIENDSHIP GROWS DEEP ROOTS AND LOVE BLOOMS AS DOES TRUST, FAITH AND JOY. AND WITH YOU THERE IS SO MUCH JOY…..

SO MUCH LAUGHTER…..

SO MUCH NONSENSE, WEIRDNESS AND LUNACY ALL THE TIME….

….. ALL THE TIME…

THANKS FOR KEEPING INSIDE JOKES ALIVE ….

FOR ALWAYS PRETENDING TO BE A SHARK OR SOME RANDOM SEA CREATURE WHEN WE ARE IN A POOL…

AND FOR TRYING TO STEAL YOUR SONS’ THUNDER (medals…team gear…you really need to get on your own team)

IN SPITE OF THE INSANITY, WHAT AN HONOUR IT IS TO SPEND MY DAYS AND NIGHTS WITH YOU….

FROM DAWN ….

TO DUSK….

ANYTIME…..ANYWHERE….ANYHOW…..

THANK YOU FOR CREATING THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING WITH ME…..

WE MADE THIS ONE……

AND THIS OTHER ONE…..

AND THEY ARE PERFECTLY OURS…..(even though they were really, really, big)

WE MADE NICE ONES, DIDN’T WE?… THEY ARE WELL MANNERED, GOOD, KIND AND GENEROUS YOUNG MEN…. WHO PUSH THE ENVELOPE AND DO NOT SLIP AWAY QUIETLY WHEN THEY SEE THAT THINGS ARE NOT RIGHT. THEY STAND UP FOR WHAT THEY BELIEVE .

THANK YOU FOR COOKING WITH ME….

AND FOR BAKING BECAUSE I WONT….(I’m not a baker)

THANK YOU FOR THE TECH AND THE MUSIC….OH, THE MUSIC…FLIPPIN FANTASTIC!

THEY ARE HOME COMFORTS THAT MEAN SO MUCH TO BOTH OF US.

THANK YOU FOR GOING ON THIS PARTICULAR JOURNEY….

FOR TRUSTING MY JUDGEMENT ALONG THE WAY – TRUSTING ME TO TAKE CARE OF THE MAJORITY OF IT, WHILE YOU WORKED. THANK YOU FOR MAKING IT SO EASY TO TRUST AND BELIEVE IN YOU WHEN YOU SAID IT WAS GOING TO BE ALRIGHT.

THANK YOU FOR STAYING ON THE JOURNEY ….

AND ….

SEEING IT THROUGH!

IT DID TURN OUT ALRIGHT…

(to quote Fall Out Boy…yes, I said Fall Out Boy)…. YOU DRAIN ALL THE FEAR FROM ME….

I LOVE THAT YOU STILL REACH FOR MY HAND.

THANK YOU FOR TEACHING ME TO LIGHTEN UP AND UNLEASH MY INNER CRAY-CRAY…..

THANK YOU FOR WORKING SO HARD AND BEING SUCCESSFUL.

THANK YOU FOR FOR BEING THEIR FATHER ….

FOR TEACHING THEM, GUIDING THEM, COACHING THEM, BEING THERE FOR THEM AND LOVING THEM. THANK YOU FOR BEING THE EXAMPLE OF THE MAN THEY ARE EACH SUPPOSED TO BECOME

THANK YOU FOR CONCERTS ….

AND FOR MAKING A FLYERS CAKE FOR PENGUINS FAN ON HIS BIRTHDAY

THANK YOU FOR MY FRONT GARDEN ….

AND MY BACK GARDEN TOO.

THANK YOU FOR BEING ANNOYING, ODD AND STRANGE…

THANK YOU FOR HAVING SO MANY INTERESTS. YOU HAD A GOOD RUN AT BEING HAMMOCK MAN …

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UNTIL YOU DECIDED TO BE GRIDDLE MAN, CONQUERING OUTDOOR COOKING.

THANK YOU FOR PERSISTING WHEN YOU ARE MOST TIRED, EVEN WHEN YOU ARE TRYING TO STEAL A MOMENT TO RELAX (and have a lil’ lie down)

THANK YOU FOR MAKING MILESTONE BIRTHDAYS SPECIAL AND FOR THE ANNIVERSARY GETAWAYS, GREAT AND SMALL….THERE IS NOTHING LIKE A ROAD TRIP WITH YOU!

THANKS FOR THE VACATIONS AND ADVENTURES – YOU WORK SO HARD TO MAKE SURE YOU GIVE US ALL THESE WONDERFUL THINGS, YET THE TRUTH IS, YOU ONLY HAVE TO WAKE UP EACH MORNING AND SAY HELLO… BECAUSE YOU ARE ENOUGH FOR US AND WE LOVE AND APPRECIATE YOU.

THANK YOU FOR MAKING ME FEEL BEAUTIFUL AND CONFIDENT AND MAKING ME FEEL LIKE A WOMAN…A BETTER WOMAN.

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YOU MAKE LIFE MORE INTERESTING AND SPECIAL…

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THANK YOU FOR ASKING ME TO BE YOUR WIFE…

AND FOR THE HOMEBREWED COFFEE EVERY MORNING….

AND FOR SAYING I DO ALL OVER AGAIN.

FOR THE PATIENCE AND THE LOVE…. YES…I KNOW…

THANK YOU FOR LOVING ME AND US….

YOU ARE THE LOVE OF MY LIFE… I LOVE WATCHING YOU WHEN YOU WALK INTO A ROOM. I LOVE HEARING YOUR VOICE. I APPRECIATE YOU AND YOUR ARE (according to Phoebe) MY LOBSTER.

AND I BELIEVE IT IS IMPORTANT TO SAY THESE THINGS NOW AND EVERY DAY SO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I CARE AND HOW I FEEL ABOUT YOU.

MOST OF ALL, YOU ARE MY “BEST-GOOD-FRIEND”, (Bubba)

AND TO CONTINUE IN THE IMMORTAL WORDS OF FALL OUT BOY…(yes, them again)

YOU ARE THAT ULTRA-KIND OF LOVE YOU NEVER WALK AWAY FROM. YOU’RE JUST (one of ) THE LAST OF THE REAL ONES.

I’M INCREDIBLY LUCKY AND BLESSED TO HAVE FOUND YOU (under a plastic coconut tree) AND I AM TRULY HAPPY. I HAVE BEEN HAPPY FROM THE MOMENT WE MET. WE HAVE KNOWN EACH OTHER MANY, MANY A HAIRSTYLE ….AND THROUGHOUT ALL THOSE HAIRSTYLES, YOU’VE MADE, AND STILL MAKE ME HAPPY AND I AM HONOURED YOU CHOSE ME TO LOVE. NOTHING COMES CLOSE TO THIS LOVE WE SHARE OR THIS FAMILY WE’VE RAISED. IT’S STILL AN INCREDIBLE RIDE. NEVER BORING. STILL SPICY. WORTH EVERY SECOND. HAPPY 23RD MY LOVE. I LOVE YOU. YOU ARE THE ONE. YOU ARE THE BEST. YOU ARE MINE. I AM YOURS. ~ “elephant shoes”

AND BECAUSE I AM CAPABLE OF A REAL QUOTE …..

LOVE YOU ~ YOUR DANIELLA

Thanksgiving has come around and Covid-19 is in it’s second wave in parts of Canada. Families have been discouraged to mingle beyond their immediate households to prevent community spread but somehow, Canadians have a way of making the most of what can be done during trying times and they did enjoy the long weekend albeit low key. I am Trinidadian and Thanksgiving is not a holiday celebrated in the Caribbean but having gone to school in the U.S and calling Canada home for 32 years, it’s a holiday I have learned to cook and eat my way through just like any other. My husband comes from a family where a traditional holiday meal would be prepared. For Thanksgiving and coming to think of it, Christmas too, his mom would prepare a turkey, stuffing/dressing, mashed potatoes and either brussel sprouts or broccoli or green peas with cranberry sauce on the side. While my mother-in-law always did a good job on the turkey, (I have only made a turkey once in my life and take my hat off to all who do) not one of the 4 in our household is in love with the bird outside of a turkey bacon sub. Since turkey is such a big bird and not beloved chez nous, over the years I have subsitiuted it with roast beef, cornish hens, or chicken and side dishes that ranged from a wild rice and vegetable medley, seasoned corn on the cob, garlic bread, some kind of jazzed up pasta dish or interesting and flavourful potato and if Adam has his way, it is boiled for 5 minutes then generously seasoned and baked for 20 minutes until crispy. If Logan has his way, the side would most definitely be sharp, cheesy Trini macaroni pie. Tom, on the other hand is just happy to have anything but turkey, however I have spent all the years I have known him dissuading him from his desire for Thanksgiving pizza. The childhood bland pallette does rear its odd head in my husband from time to time and I know for a fact if he weren’t married to me, A, would have had his way and B, he would not have woken up his taste buds the way he has over the 28 years of eating from me and my family. My man eats it all, from callaloo to curry but the turkey is a no go. In his defense regarding pizza, he has perfected fire oven pizza to the point of gourmet so maybe I’ll bend next Thanksgiving , weather permitting and we shall have his excellent fire oven pies.

So, what did the James family have for Thanksgiving this year? Well something from The Chef Show on Netflix, of course, and we gave thanks with a HONKIN’ MEGA LASAGNA! We watched the episode about 3 times and Tom watched it again to make notes and we showed it to Logan to psyche him up for the meal, not that he ever needs psyching up for meals. Adam has moved away from pasta except in the form of Macaroni pie so he swung by and picked up a meal of garlic bread, meatballs with a side salad that I made for him and cinnamon muffins he baked himself. With him taken care of, Tom and I excitedly went about preparing our dish.

The twist for us making this Lasagna was the sauce, which was a tomato sauce with the ricotta melted into it. That was the sauce for the bottom of the baking dish and to drizzle throughout the layers. We also had to make a rich red tomato sauce made with ripened tomatoes, garlic and seasonings that we used throughout the layers and on the very top what we like to call the lid layer.

Another difference for us was the meat. Instead of a meat sauce, this recipe calls for ginormous meatballs that you pre-cook then dice and spread over the noodles on each layer so it makes for a chunky dish that is flavourful and cheesy with that rich garlic and tomato tartness that makes you smile with satisfaction with every bite.

In total, this dish took us 2 hours from start to finish and that was because we don’t like using oven ready noodles. It was worth every second and it was a very delicious version of the way I make lasagna. We decided we aren’t huge fans of the meatball chunks so when we make this again, we would brown the ground beef and layer it with the sauce and we would use a bit more oregano in the meat. We are definitely keeping the fresh basil on the layers and the ricotta tomato sauce in addition to the red tomato sauce. We captured the recipe in photos and have included photos of the instructions Tom noted while he watched the episode. So whether you are like us and your tradition is to let go of tradition and try new and odd things, or you are looking for a variation on a HONKIN’ MEGA LASAGNA give this a shot. It is fun to make and tasty as all get out and there are enough leftovers to feed an 18 year old who is in hockey training camp and eats five meals a day. We also had enough to put into the freezer that we can have in a couple weeks when we don’t feel like cooking. It’s a perfect one dish meal that you can serve to guests as well (when having guests are a thing again) or if you are suddenly asked to do the catering for an event lol. The best part for us was the time spent in the kitchen. Tom and I cook together quite a bit but this was the first time we tried something new together. I was reminded of the moments my parents shared in the kitchen. My dad did more cooking later in his life but he was always the Special Holiday Helper in the kitchen. Mom would have it all under control and dad followed her instructions here and there, putting the ham, for example in and out of the oven, helping prep ingredients for the stuffing, garnishing dishes and of course making the drinks. You can’t do big Trinidad cooking without a few drinks. And as I manoeuvred about our oddly shaped kitchen(we will be remedying that) with the love of my life, I realized we are the same age as my parents when I remembered them cooking together. It made me a little nervous because I realized our ages – that middle age period where life starts to make you aware of your mortality. But, I was also really happy because it shows where we are in our journey. We have done so much together and we will do more and I hope even much more than that. As our sons launch into their adult lives we uninterruptedly get to have each other back and as much as I love going places with Tom, my absolute favourite moments are the simplest ones like making a special meal. Happy Thanksgiving Canada – ableit a more down played Thanksgiving because of Covid-19, it was warm and loving nonetheless.