The Decline of Ben

Dogs are gendered pets. Man’s best friend. There aren’t many great stories about a girl and her dog. Marley and Me, My Dog Skip (did anyone even see that?), Old Yeller; childhood classic Homeward Bound gives each young boy and canine companion, while their sister has “Sassy!” (I am channelling the final scene here – you with me? “Sassy!” No? Rewatch immediately.) Judith Butler’s doubtless abhorrence aside, my own experience runs entirely contrary to this.

Yes. I am a crazy cat lady in the making. I love She Ra inexplicably (my father deigned to share today  that, “on a scale of 1 to 10, she’s probably a 5”) and she is my first pet who is really and fully mine. But cat lady and dog’s best friend are not mutually exclusive categories.

 

Ben is my dog.

Ok, ok. Ben lives with my parents, and they rescued him by the time I was no longer living full time at home (the last summer, in fact, that I lived in our family home). I had been working for my dad, and he told me that we were leaving work early to run an errand; that errand was confirming that we wanted to adopt Ben, who was, of course, not yet “Ben.” My childhood dog, Bixby, had been dead 2 years, and my parents were interested in getting a new dog. Not a puppy, though – they didn’t have the energy to train one. So when my mum saw a pure bred Golden Retriever (which Bixby had been) at the SPCA, given away by his owners at 7-years-old, she called my dad right away. “Chance” – a name we early rejected in an attempt to stem the flow of puns from my dad about our new dog, “Second Chance” or “Last Chance” – had acquired an unfortunate breed trait of growing benign tumours, which is likely why his family had given him up. When my mum found him, the SPCA had removed 4 baseball sized tumours; his entire back was shaved, and he had four 7 inch incisions healing. He looked quite beat up, but had the most shameless, endearing grin I'd ever seen on a dog. It's his trademark look - like Julia Roberts, but less frightening and more dopey.

Ben came home with us that evening. Two days later, I maintained my streak of naming our worthwhile pets and he was dubbed Ben Black. (My brother insisted on Willow as the moniker for a cat who, so mean she would wait at the top of the stairs so she could jump out and attack people’s faces as they ascended, did not have a long tenure with our family).

I always felt a close tie with Ben. Almost days after deciding on “Ben” as our new hound’s name (and yes, I realize that it is confusing and perhaps a little ignorant of us to change a 7-year-old dog’s name – but you haven’t heard my dad pun), he acquired a new nickname: DumbDumb. I felt the need to not only defend my proffered name, but our newest family member. Since then, we were tied.

And this. We shared a fondness for rugby balls.

Ben is probably a bit stupid. He is easily confused and completely graceless, for sure. He will wag his tail so enthusiastically and inexpertly that, when travelling from our carpeted family room to the tiled entryway to great guests, he often would have built up enough rear-end momentum that he would fall over. He barks whenever the door is knocked upon or bell is rung, but will promptly approach the arriving stranger and adoringly and assertively thrust his nose up into his or her crotch. “Ben, we’re not that kind of friends” has been my constant refrain. He is completely indifferent to the presence of other animals, lest they are receiving attention that he so desperately craves and considers rightly his. While on this trip, should I ever try playing on the floor with She Ra, he will, with great effort, heave himself up and send her scattering, sitting right on top of me. His neediness has often exasperated my parents, who are far more prone than I to yell at him for being under foot, or to lock him away when people are over. He does not have the dignity of Bixby, but instead he has that enormous grin and foul breath. In hilarious contrast with this court jester demeanour, however, he always lies with his paws crossed. I find him entirely charming. For that inability to yell or begrudge him anything, he has shown a loyalty towards me that my sporadic presence in his life has not entirely earned me.

We adopted Ben five years ago. Twelve is very old for a Golden Retriever. When Bixby died, his descent into old-dogdome was the course of a week; he jumped out of my dad’s car and hurt himself and by the end of the week could no longer lift his head, and was put down. This all happened, however while I was at boarding school. Ben’s aging is much more drawn out, so purported my teary eyed mother, after we had made the mistake of trying to take Ben on a too-long walk, which caused him to trip and fall a couple of times. He is absolutely covered in tumours, and his hair hasn’t grown out evenly since his last hair cut. It is one of the hardest things in the world to watch his cheerful face and know that he is slowly dying. 

“You really bring out the puppy in him,” my dad told me this morning. Ever since I used Ben as an inspiration to channel an energy and a kindness from within myself. Wouldn't it be nice if we could all be a little more like our dogs? Better hygiene and more science, but a willingness to greet kindly every person we encounter, and to smile and play whenever we can?

This is far more sentimental than I'm sure you'd like to read from me, but I wanted a solid tribute to Ben. He could so easily slip away from our family history - the sick dog we had for a few years, less a part of the family than the dog before - but he is a crucial part of my growing up. And I love him. And it is so unspeakably sad to know, "soon..."

So, to Ben, with love. 

I Meet Your Four Cheese Gnocchi, and Raise you Homemade Pasta

That was gambling speak, and a reference to Chopper and I’s most recent recipe for the Black-Choptiany Bi-weekly Bi-Continental Culinary Throwdown. The Chop has been unable to complete the most recent gazpatcho recipe – which he has already ensured me he will do with great caution – because he’s in Italy! He’s there for an energy conference, and his university actually paid to send him to Rome.  So, inspired by his new surroundings, where he has been eating this nearly daily (motivated by both a genuine love of gnocchi, which I can attest to both of sharing, and, I suspect, the reality that no one in Europe knows what “vegetarian” means )  he suggested this Quattro Fromagi Gnocchi recipe – complete with video of actual Italian guy cooking!

 

So, while Chopper has been busy globetrotting and learning how to save the planet, I have been in southern California, working on my tan (I think they will make me an honorary Mexican soon) and very leisurely reading a book that is somewhat relevant to my thesis. But more the former than the latter, honestly. So I figured I would not only rise to the challenge of a holy shit so rich four cheese sauce, but I would try my hand at making the gnocchi myself. My mum has done it before (never for my benefit) and assured me that it is very manageable, and so with that, I bought me some russet potatoes and a ricer and got to work.

I had found a variety of recipes, but the one my mum recommended to me was this one, from epicurious.com:

Ingredients 

1 1/2 pounds russet potatoes, scrubbed

1 cup (or more) all purpose flour

1 large egg yolk, beaten to blend

1 teaspoon coarse kosher salt

Large pinch of freshly grated nutmeg

1 tablespoon olive oil

Directions

Preheat oven to 400°F. Pierce potatoes in several places and bake until soft, about 1 hour. Cool slightly. 

Cut potatoes in half. Working in batches, scoop hot flesh into potato ricer or food mill. Rice potatoes onto rimmed baking sheet; spread out and cool to room temperature.

Line large baking sheet with parchment paper. Transfer potatoes to large bowl. Add 1 cup flour; toss to coat. Form well in center of potato mixture. Add egg yolk, coarse salt, and nutmeg; stir with fork until mixture is evenly moistened (mixture will look shaggy). 

Turn mixture out onto lightly floured work surface. Knead until dough comes together, sprinkling dough with flour very lightly only if dough is very sticky. Form dough into ball; divide into 4 pieces. 

Roll each piece between hands and work surface into 3/4-inch-thick rope. Cut each rope into 3/4-inch pieces. Place gnocchi on prepared baking sheet.

 I recommend it, if only because baking the potatoes saves you from having to clean a pot you would otherwise use to boil them.

One may be tempted to skip some steps in this – not using a ricer, and ricing the potatoes straight into the bowl, rather than dirtying a baking sheet were the two that I toyed with. Don’t. Ricing the potatoes gives them the necessary light texture for gnocchi and it allows for you to blend the flour in much more evenly (so says Bonny – and her culinary word is gospel!). And the reason for ricing onto a baking sheet, rather than into a bowl? The thing with gnocchi is that you really don’t want to the dough to be moist – then you get soggy dumplings (which sounds gross enough to be a deterrent, don’t even think about the reality of that in your mouth...). So, by ricing the potatoes onto the tray, you allow them to cool evenly, quickly and without trapping the moisture of the potato.  

Tricky parts? Well, probably the first half of my dough was too moist – I began mixing in more and more flour as I went along, testing to see which would be superior, the stickier or stiffer dough. It was definitely the latter. Also, I broke my dough into 8 pieces, since I found it hard to continue rolling out the dough into the necessary gnocchi “logs” if they got too long. Also, don’t bother making the round marks with your fork – it takes forever to do, and I prefer the rustic look of the plain gnocchi pillows.

The hardest thing I found with making this dinner was timing. I don’t mind spending forever in the kitchen doing prep work, but I get really stressed out when everything needs to happen in rapid succession. You should see me make pad thai – I’m a god damn crazy person. I opted to start the sauce first, to which I actually added a FIFTH cheese (take that, Choptiany) – gruyere. I know it totally throws off that Italian cheese thing, but I didn’t buy enough fontina, and Bon warned me against Mozarella, which she says doesn’t melt down well into sauces. So gruyere. We had it kicking around.

I stopped using the video as my guide – genuine Italian guy be damned! I waited for each cheese to melt down almost all the way before adding the next. Also, my gorgonzola did not look like video-guy’s did – it was firmer, and rather strong, so I added less than was called for. As I added the cream, it was time to pop in the gnocchi. This is where things got stressful. The sauce was simmering (and needs some pretty constant attention to keep the cheese from baking to the bottom of the pan or forming a skin on the top) and the gnocchi was quickly rising to the top of the pot (and I did get to experience the inevitable over-boil of pasta water, of course). 

Thanks to the gnocchi recipe, I made two, what I’m sure will prove to be life-long, changes to the way I make gnocchi. For one – the slotted spoon removal. Why did no one tell me this before? I started hating making gnocchi because of the mess it made of my colander. Well guess what – fuck the colander and use a slotted spoon, removing your cute little dumplings a couple at a time. And put them where? Into a frying pan! I had fried gnocchi once, but had never thought to do it myself. I think a little crisp coating (and the salt from the butter in the pan) goes a long way.   

And the sauce? Uh...I little runny. So Bon taught me a trick with a fancy name - beurre meuniere. It is actually just equal parts butter and flour, but it is great for thickening sauces (and explains my failed attempts at thickening stew with just flour, which floats to the surface and doesn’t blend...whoops...). So added a bit of that and it came along beautifully. Added the fried gnocchi straight into the saucepan and from there, to the table.

And it was really good. I mean, really good. I will definitely be making my own gnocchi again – it is the same sort of soothing process of making risotto. Those Italians must be the most blissful chefs.

Bon Appetito!

Cobbling Wish List

Ok team. I'm obsessed. With pretty much every shoe I stumble across.

Having brought a very limited selection of apparel, foot and body, with me on this trip to California has instilled me with a, likely false, sense of need. So many outfits I have would be so much better if I only had a classic black pump. Or better yet, a chunky black motorcycle boot. Or a pair of Clark's Desert Boots to make every casual, lying around outfit a bit more edgy. Or nude flats, to elongate my legs! And so the list goes on.

So here I have for you a display of my absolute wet dream footwear.

To begin with, in my most lofty of dreams, the perfect black pump:

Christian Louboutin | Bianca 140 mm | $795 USD

Spot the red sole? Be still my heart. My dream in life is to own a pair of Christian Louboutin heels. Another dream pair, should Holts be out of Louboutins?

Sergio Rossi | Black Leather Colby Platform Pump |  $630 USD

I actually own a pair of Sergio Rossi shoes, a most generous gift from my Dad, and they are the most amazing, comfortable heels in the world. They give my Stuart Weitzman Alex wedges and run for their money (pun totally intended). But seeing as both pumps come in at more than a month's worth of rent, I think they will stay put in my faraway fantasies. For now.

Alternatively, you may recall that I have been thirsting for some kickass chunky boots. I had in mind originally, and more reasonably, some Doc Martens. Either;

Dr. Marten's | 1460 Women's | $120 USD

 Or

Dr. Marten's | Blake | $125 USD

But then I wandered into the completely newfound (for me, anyhow) AllSaints store in Santa Monica and began an [unrequited?] love affair with these badboys;

AllSaints | Damisi Boot |  $315 USD

I fondled them lovingly for a while, and toyed with the idea of trying them on, but in a true test of will power, walked away (I was alone, and had no parental authority to tell me no, which could lead to a dangerous family quarrel when I walked in with secret new, sexy boots...)

Others on the wish list? Well ever since I read on Lucy Lacht's blog that nude ballet flats are a staple for any girl who can't walk around in heels all day but wants to make her legs look longer, I have been keeping my eye out for some. Sitting right next to my adored Sam Edelman Lorissa pumps, were the Ionias;
 

Sam Edelman | Ionia | $110 USD

 I actually had these on my foot and everything, but it was my mum who had grabbed them to try on (we just, luckily, have the same shoe size) but they didn't fit her as well as they fit me, but I didn't have the heart to go in and snag them from her. I tried to sell the "matching mother daughter shoes!" angle again (which worked magnificently with the Weitzman espadrills) but it was for naught.

The most likely shoe on my horizon though? Once I let slip to my dad that I had been looking for Clark's Desert Boots, he has made it his mission to make sure they are mine. He has a somewhat similar attitude towards Berkinstocks, which I revealed I would be interested in acquiring, particularly after the tragic desintigration of my favourite thick leather Fry sandals. Any footwear he can sympathize with he seems to think must be necessary. Which is why, last week, my mum, dad and I all walked out of the Sperry store with our own pair of topsiders!

cute, right?

Touch-a Touch-a Touch-a Touch Me

Perhaps this is a misleading title. No - I have not had any sexy romps with pool boy[s], nor am I longing for any. It's just that it's feeling a bit lonely here on this side of Wearing Rags.

I waffled around about a month ago with giving the blog more direction - focus on my culinary ambitions, my sartorial distractions or my fitness fixation (or my linguistic acrobatics, perhaps?) - but the sense I got was that, as a self proclaimed narcissist's blog, I should write about every and all things I want to. And I think there is good sense in showing these many facets of a person. I read fitness blogs, fashion blogs, cooking blogs, but very few try to tie these elements together: isn't it frustrating not knowing if beautiful woman A on the Sartorialist eats? And it seems like every fitness aficionado with a blog could not care less about divulging in such material rewards as shoes-beautiful-shoes. But let's be real; we all like food, and we all like things that are shiny and kickass, and hence, we feel obligated to like working out. No?

But does it make for a captivating blog? I don't know. My "followers" are few (seriously embarrassingly few) and so in an uncharacteristic moment, I shall remove my focus from myself and shift it out towards the abyss of the internet (or "truth machine" as I call it); what do you like about this blog if you read it? What should I keep and what should I toss? There is nothing more obnoxious than obsessing out loud about your own trivial concerns only to realize your audience is, well, no one. My cat.

Can you tell I'm heartbroken that I got no feedback about my animal print outfit? I thirst for validation from my lovely readers!


Back to L.A. tomorrow. Just me and Papa B and a little white sports car. At 5:45 in the morning. Sigh. I don't see any shopping this time round, but brace yourself for some charming outfits...

Adieu, Santa Monica

So I am back in the Palm Dessert. Sigh. My parents are excited - "It's much more laid back and casual here!" "...and easier to drive!" - but I'm forlorn: I think I could live quite happily in [parts] of L.A.. I can't imagine I would be able to ever afford to live in Santa Monica or Venice, but a girl can dream. And dream I will.

But, for now, reality. I promised you gazpatcho and gazpatcho I shall deliver.

I stumbled across the recipe on Pink Parsley, a favourite blog of the PBRunner, and, with the help of my uncle and my mother's amazing Vitamix blender (but, as she would say, you can't describe it as a blender - it's a class of its own. Seriously, if I kept the thing running longer, it would cook the gazpatcho into tomato soup...).

The recipe was followed exactly, save the addition of cilantro, which my uncle insisted upon.

 So after letting it sit for a day - to better let the flavours mingle - we had it for lunch with some beautiful sandwiches.

And, lovely as this soup may look, it was fated for the garbarator. The red onion I had used, which I vaguely recall my mother exclaiming upon purchase "God that's a big red onion - you probably don't want to use all of that..." was overpowering. And red onion is a taste I have very gradually warmed up to, so having strong and acidic red onion flavour dominating was truly disappointing. Hopefully Chopper didn't make my mistake...
 
On a more inquisitive and excitingly sartorial note, I'd love some feedback for a look I rocked my last night out in L.A., to the very posh Boa Steakhouse on the Santa Monica waterfront.

Jean Jacket Colin's | Top Free People | Skort Free People | Purse George Gina & Lucy | Belt Wilfred

 The top and shorts were L.A. acquisitions, and when we bought them, my mum assured the girl at the register "Don't worry, she's not going to wear them together." Oh - but she did. Not my dream way of rocking the skort - I am thinking some bad ass boots or rock-n-roll heels, like these from Sam Edelman (drooldrooldrool), plus a white sleeveless dress shirt in a drapey, transparent fabric, with either a leather vest or a structured overlong blazer. That said, is this really too much animal print?? How would you rock those shorts, and should I be afraid to show my face at boa on our return trip next week?

Let us not say good bye, but, as the French have it, Adieu, Santa Monica

Rollin' in the Hollywood Hills

I write this blog post from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Science's Cecil B. De Mille Reading Room. That's the Academy. Of little golden Oscars fame.

And clearly I am using my time judiciously.

I jest - this is my second day here, and I just finished flipping through handwritten post cards by Salka Viertel and Fritz Lang; an ode to Katharine Hepburn by Marlene Dietrich and the original Paramount pressbooks for Sunset Boulevard and Double Indemnity.

My thesis is cooler than your thesis - all I'm saying.

The AMPAS library and staff has been so hugely helpful, if only for making me feel like a slightly more legitimate scholar/person. AFI, tragically, was less so, but it did give me a chance to do at least a little bit of shopping while I'm here in LA (I am dreaming up a myriad of ways to style the leopard print romper-style short shorts I just acquired - I am thinking Doc Martens are in my future..)

AND - exciting news : this girl got herself a new camera. Or rather, begged and pleaded until her merciful and beneficent parents bought her one. And a nice one. I owe them eternally. So here are the results of my playing with my new Canon G12 and proof that it isn't all work and no play in LA (such fun with rhyme!)

every trip to the Venice boardwalk requires a photo of an oldschool VW van

So hopefully there will be more to come, and I will share with you soon the delayed results of my photogenic but horrific adventures in gazpatcho making. Sorry Chop - your incredulity may have paid off this time. Teaser: beware excessive red onion.

Construction and Cabin Fever

So I have been going a little stir crazy here in the retirement complex that is our gated Rancho Mirage community.

Distractions include: my dad cutting out power, internet, phone service, etc with his renovations, and the mounting anxiety of my archive trip next week.

However, my lovely lovely uncle has been around, and I have had the opportunity to meet his equally charming boyfriend. I love my uncle, and for the first time actually, I really love his boyfriend - we get along like peas in a shared pod. They came over for dinner two nights ago for which I prepared the side dish-cum-main attraction: lemon risotto.

I have made lemon risotto before, Jamie Oliver's asparagus and lemon recipe, and it didn't turn out how I would have liked; new to the world of risotto, I may have simply been taken aback by the refreshing lemon paired with the creamy sharp parmesan, but either way, I had been sticking to more traditional risottos. But it is far to warm down here for a creamy comfort dish, so I started trolling blogs, rather than google, for a new lemon risotto recipe. And I found the most amazing one on Cate's World Kitchen [though she adapted it originally from Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone by Deborah Madison]. In true food-blog turn, I also made some adjustments; here is what I cooked up:

5 green onions, chopped

olive oil

salt and pepper

1.5 tetra packs of low sodium chicken broth

2 shallots, diced

1 1/2 cups (approx) arborio rice

1.5 cup white wine

1/2 cup chopped parsley

8 basil leaves

zest of one lemon

2-4 tablespoons of lemon juice (to taste)

1/3 cup grated Parmesan

 

Slice the scallions thinly. Cook them in olive oil until soft, about 3 or 4 minutes.  Season with salt and pepper and set aside.

Put the stock in a saucepan and bring to a simmer.  Keep it simmering as you use it.

Chiffonade (which I just learned means to stack the leaves, roll and then slice thinly) the basil leaves and set aside.

Heat some more oil in a saucepan (I would recommend grapeseed or walnut oil, however - you will be sauteing shallots, and olive oil loses its nutrients at high temperature, while grapeseed and walnut oils do not).  Add the shallot and cook over medium heat for 3 to 4 minutes, stirring frequently.

Add the rice, stir to coat the grains, and cook for 1 minute.

Add the wine and simmer until it’s absorbed.

Add the stock 1/2 cup at a time, stirring constantly, and waiting until the liquid is absorbed before the next addition.

When the rice is almost finished cooking, add salt and pepper to taste, stir in the scallions and lemon zest, and cook for one more minute.

Turn off heat, stir in the basil, parsley, lemon juice, and parmesan before serving - drizzle with olive oil and add parmesan as desired.

 

It was so complex and delicious - served with sliced steak and peas, it was so perfect.

Tonight? Chicken burgers with roasted grape tomato crostini and pineapple-cilantro quinoa, courtesy of keep it skinny. Culinary distractions abound as well. Keep posted for my return to the Black-Choptiany Bi-weekly, Bi-coastal culinary throwdown - Mother's Day style - tomorrow evening.

Hit a Snake

IN YOUR CAR???

No - in the game of snakes-and-ladders-to-adulthood that is my life.

I left my passport on the plane yesterday.

That one at 87. That's the one I've hit.

I had learned to crack an egg with one hand, I responsibly books vet appointments, I do daily yoga and weekly laundry; I finished a chapter of my thesis last week; I handled my previous two travelling debacles with grace and stride; I go to bed by 10:00 and wake up at 5:50; I can make risotto.  

But. this. trumps. all.

Sheer forgetful idiocy with possibly the most important document a person can have.

I did somehow manage to make it to Palm Springs in the end (I left it in the seat pocket in front of me during my Montreal-San Francisco flight, from where on I just used my driver's license), though my bags are stuck in limbo in SanFran. And furthermore, I did all of this under the foolish delusion that one can look stylish while travelling; I wore my Stewart Weitzman wedges, which not only shortened my strides rather obnoxiously, but provided a hilarious contrast with the yowling creature I had in tow who peed all over herself (AGAIN!) before we had even checked in. It doesn't matter what you look like when you smell like cat piss. 

But apparently I don't need my passport to get back into Canada since I am driving - just my birth certificate and government i.d. And my bags - they are a 1 hour flight away, so I am not too bent out of shape. And She Ra is languidly making herself queen of this castle.

Thank you yoga instilled yen.

Speaking of, I meant to post, while in the flury of election fever, about my yoga class last Monday evening that was taught by Tracy from Moksha Yoga Halifax! I had been debating going to a second yoga class that day - I hadn't really done much that day, but I wanted to get a good night's sleep, and I had been up at 6:00 that morning to already go to a yoga class. After I finished waffling, I knew I would be much happier if I did go, and was I ever right. If you have never had the pleasure of practising at the Moksha studio in Halifax, you do not know the most lovely and warm-hearted woman in the world, Miss Tracy Duru. Her Moksha bio reads "When you meet Tracy she’ll offer you a smile to warm your heart and lighten your day. She loves what she does and you can tell. She shines." Well, it's true. And I am not always one who "takes yoga into your life," though I increasingly try to be seeing someone like Tracy who actually just always makes me happy to interact with. After the class, in which I just reflected back her amazing energy, pushing myself in postures in ways I never had, but with a newfound strength and groundedness, we hugged it out tons. There is just something so beautiful to me about this kind of love and trust that can be fostered in the yoga community. Tracy is leaving MYH soon, however, and opening her own studio in St. Catherine's Ontario, where she will do absolutely amazing. Much love and luck to her in her new endeavour.

Send some good karma my way, faithful readers - I think I need it.

The Election Made Me Eat 2 Chocolate Bars!

I bought them with every intention of having 3 squares of each - Lindt Sea Salt and Intense Mint - but after listening to the CBC at my dad's house via speakerphone, which will likely be the most charming and memorable way I ring in an election, they were both gone! It was the excitement!

To be honest, and this will sound crazy, I was torn between voting NDP and Conservative. I appreciate money, and having it, which makes me fiscally conservative. But there are some things Harper does which scares me; his nefarious and covert fund-cutting to Planned Parenthood has me more than a little concerned, and I am squarely with Layton when he said "I don't know why we need so many more prisons when the crooks seem so happy in the Senate." And the audience goes oh snap.

In fact, this clip from the debate is hugely responsible for my vote:



That, and "the bling."

But this is an exciting election all in all! We have some history making upsets: the Bloc has confronted the reality of a populace no longer pushing for separatism; the Liberals will not be making the official opposition and instead, for the first time in Canadian history, the NDP will be. Bet Ignatief is regretting this zinger tonight as he loses his own damn riding:



Whooooooooooooooops. Boy is his face red now. Strawberry red. Until tomorrow morning.

And Elizabeth May looks like she will win her riding!

I am pretty excited, all in all. I don't have an vehement hatred for any parties, and I think Harper's fiscal policy is sound, and I think Layton will temper the government on social policy. And no more separatism? Things are looking exciting from here...