You may see more of me soon...

I'm moving east for a few months this summer to work as a journalist full-time for the first time.

I'm absolutely excited for the challenge of the job.

But there will be another challenge: moving from a city of one million, to a town of 9000 7,500, as a vegetarian. In fact, when I told the publisher in my job interview, that I'm a vegetarian, he laughed.

I will stock up on nutritional yeast before I go, I think.

Food Mayors Like

I’ve started reading the National Post with some regularity because we get copies of the paper at work. I’m a sucker for their design, use of illustration and even a decent dose of humour.

There is, however, a little twinge of smug superiority whenever I open the paper. That’s because last fall, a few of my friends and I applied for internship positions at the Post. They had reporter positions through the different sections, and copy editing spots. Time passed and they emailed our internship coordinator to tell him that they weren’t interested in hiring any of us because (I’m paraphrasing here) we didn’t have daily experience and we didn’t want to write about business.

So besides the fact that internships are generally important for getting such experience, and that at least one of us had worked at a large daily, the smug superiority comes from the copy editing errors that I keep finding (Come on: “slinger” instead of “singer” on the Arts front?). But enough about work!

Here comes the (just barely) food part of this mashup!

The Post interviewed a few mayors at the Federation of Municipalities conference in Toronto. The brief Q&As are pretty similar in their queries: What do you envy about Toronto? If you had to, where would you move? What food best represents your city? How do you spell South Dildo?

Bronco wasn’t included in the article, but I just imagine his answers were the same as Edmonton mayor Stephen Mandel’s answer; that is, he doesn’t envy anything about Toronto, and has challenges with the oil industry. Probably would say beef is more iconic than perogies though.

The worst response was Pat Fiacco in Regina. He said they have the best pizza in the country (that’s certainly debatable). And then he said that Regina is like a panda bear: “They’re adorable and charming.” Hey, Pat! They’re also ridiculously poorly evolved animals: the stomach of a carnivore, but they eat undigestible bamboo; they have to eat all day because they can’t process the bamboo properly; they can’t live together because they can’t afford to share food; the females are only able to conceive three days a year; if they miraculously find a mate on one of those three days AND they conceive, they have twins, but only raise the least-runty one, and leave the other one to die.

I’m not sure what the Saskatchewan metaphor should be with those facts in mind, but I just thought it was important to put that information out there.

Gregor Robertson in Vancouver said that the city’s most iconic food is wild sock-eye salmon. He then went on to say that if Vancouver was an animal, it would be a wild sock-eye salmon: “it serves a lot of roles in our city.”

OK, it made me laugh heartily inside my head.

Cafés and Employment

I am sitting in a coffee shop with a dark, burly Americano between me and my keyboard. This simple ritual is fast becoming a favourite. I’m staying open-minded about the elements of the ritual, though. It doesn’t have to be a strict equation of me + coffee + coffee house. I’ve explored me + two pints + Neapolitan pizza, and that was just fabulous.

As I was saying, I am sitting in a coffee shop. It’s one of many in this little neighbourhood that is so well-known for its lattes, tea shops and hippies. But today, Vendome wins out thanks to @ugonnaeatthat’s latest blog post.

I made my way over here, following a path behind the C-Train tracks, and past a small flock of ravenous pigeons. The café is furnished with dark wood tables and chairs, and a panoramic photo of historic Calgary. This is the second time I’ve visited now. Last time I had a mocha, and to be quite honest it was no better than a mocha from Second Cup. But this time, I indulged in a $6.95 croissant sandwich with spinach, mushrooms, emmenthal and gruyere to go with my Americano. Now, I’m stuck in this delightfully drawn-out eating affair where I feel like I could eat the crisp and soft and buttery slab of glee in the time it takes to shotgun a can of Lucky Lager. But I've managed to control that side of myself and the one that's won out is the side that wants to cut the sandwich into dainty pieces — with this ineffectual butter knife —and savour every bite.

Okay, poetry over. I finished eating my sandwich.

Today, a Friday, marks the last day of official unemployment for me, at least for a few weeks. And friends, there is so much good about this job (she says, before working a single hour). It’s journalism-related, I got it thanks to a recommendation from one of my profs and it requires my brain. While typing up a job-hunt spreadsheet earlier this week, I started to consider serving and bartending positions, because I did spend nearly three years cultivating those skills before being booted out of the bar. But I am very thankful that this new job is based on a rather different skill set that has cost me thousands of dollars to develop over the past four years.

I like to call it a “real-person” job, at least to whatever extent you can call journalism a “real” job. Maybe “real” is the wrong adjective, because of course it’s literally real. Any fellow journalists will know what I mean. In this context, I mean it’s a job where I go to a place and do a thing — or things — for a bunch of consecutive hours. Often while sitting in a chair. That makes it sound boring, but I am really excited.

You may soon be treated to posts about what I pack in my lunch box. How cute will that be?

More talk of journalism

I just want to write. Ideally, I want to write in a way that yields money so that I can continue to write instead of doing things like mixing hiballs or pulling shots of espresso. School has ended and instead of putting my nose to a grindstone (AKA MacBook screen) searching for jobs, I’ve sort of just been reveling in this newfound existence of mine.

This is the envelope that my first freelance checque came in. I will remember it always, for its crumples and tears.

I’ve now conquered four years of post-secondary. Much of that schooling took place while I had two jobs. Now, I’m unemployed and out of school for the first time since getting my first real-ish job at the Saddledome when I was 15.

A discovery: In which I tweet in square brackets instead of on Twitter

I’ve been inhabiting an otherwise empty house for the past week and I think it’s had an effect on my tweeting habits. I stated officially (in an officious class presentation about Twitter) [I just learned the word officious.] that you shouldn’t be afraid to Tweet, because people following you are doing so because they enjoy what you have to say. [I abhor telemarketers who don’t leave messages. I would call back if they left messages.] Even so, I feel uncomfortable clogging up my channel with the fairly mundane narration of my life.

But having nobody to speak to while I am sitting at home lamenting my workload, or, conversely, while I am sitting at home feeling particularly inspired, has resulted in more tweeting. [Almost time to break out yesterday’s enchilada’s, methinks.] I’m a bit addicted to Twitter, I guess. It’s been dubbed micro-blogging, and I think that’s accurate. There’s still a chance to [why are there no synonyms for the verb version of craft?] articulate yourself intelligently, but you’re not as pressured to produce something substantial.

Maybe that’s the problem with me and Vegediblogging lately. I feel so much pressure to produce something that fits the criteria of my three blogging communities or even just something that I've made out of the blue, that I just put it off, put it off, put if off. In fact, I even made onion jelly for last month’s can jam, but still haven’t posted it.

This didn’t start out as a post to relinquish me from my posting duties. But I think this quasi-stream of consciousness has led me to the point where I needed to come. I’m a word addict and I do love blogging, but I have to find a way to make it work for me.

Let’s try this: I’ll start blogging things other than recipes (but recipes too!) that reflect me a little bit more. Things like my burgeoning pipe dream [gosh, pipe dream sounds a lot like pipe bomb. Wondering about the etymology of the phrase] to sell mustard at the farmer’s market across the street, or links to other food and journalism blogs that entice my taste cells and brain buds.

Yes, let’s try that.

(PS: I was totally going to post photos but Photoshop keeps freezing when I do simple things like press file + open. Sad.)