The Diderot effect

Inspired by yesterday's success with our kitchen cart, we went out today to buy some new dish towels that wouldn't look disgraceful hanging beside it. Unfortunately, we didn't read the package labels very well, and ended up with a whack of dish cloths. 

It's fresh and new, but very small. I don't think we can use it as a dish towel!

It wasn't our day for reading labels. Our new door mat is too long, but we're going to keep it for the winter anyway.  It gives us room for drying out snowy boots.

The Diderot effect is what happens when you buy a new dress, say, and find it makes your shoes look so shabby that you have to buy new ones. Or, kicked up a notch, a fancy new bathroom sink ends up triggering a whole bathroom -- or maybe a whole house -- renovation. The phenomenon is named after an essay by 18th-century French philosopher Denis Diderot, who records what happens after someone gives him a beautiful new scarlet dressing gown. Suddenly his chair, his desk, the very prints on his wall aren't good enough for his new elegance. Debt ensues.

"I was absolute master of my old dressing gown, but I have become a slave to my new one," he writes in "Regrets on Parting with My Old Dressing Gown." "Beware of the contamination of sudden wealth. The poor man may take his ease without thinking of appearances, but the rich man is always under a strain."

I thought of Diderot's dressing gown when I realized the new kitchen cart we installed yesterday made the dish towels hanging beside it look very old and sad. And in shuffling items from the kitchen cupboards to the new cabinet, I noticed the newspapers lining the shelves were yellowed and tattered (some were dated 2003, yikes!) Maybe we should line the shelves properly? Maybe we should get some new dish towels?

Buoyed by yesterday's unexpected success (we are terrible shoppers), we went all out at Home Hardware, snapping up two packages of new dishtowels, rolls of shelf liner, a new mat for the kitchen door to replace one shredding at the corners, and the piece de resistance, a pair of new red oven mitts to replace the ones with burn marks. Nothing too good for the room that houses the new kitchen cart!

Alas, one of the packages of dish towels was not towels at all, but dish cloths -- and so many! The door mat was the wrong size. The shelf liner didn't stick very well. And burrowing into a kitchen drawer, we found an unused pair of oven mitts that were better than the new ones.

Nothing serious, and we're certainly not going to do a kitchen renovation. But given that it's the Christmas gift-giving season, it might be good for all of us to keep in mind the dangers of the Diderot effect.

The amazing kitchen cart

John and I have been looking for years for a cabinet to replace the little shelf under the window that holds the yellow-topped coffee machine. Almost everything we've been able to find would stick out too far, blocking the doorway.

On Wednesday we found a cabinet that fits the bill. It adds counter and storage space, and doesn't it look like it should always have been there? 

When we finally had to get rid of our 1960s-era harvest gold stove a few years ago, I mourned it and complained about its replacement, with its glass top that forever needs scrubbing. When we replaced our bulky white refrigerator with a sleek metal French Door model earlier this year, I called it a "play fridge" because it holds so little. So I think John was on tenterhooks today when we hauled home a big flat box from Canadian Tire that contained something new for our kitchen. From past experience, he couldn't see this ending well.

But I was the instigator of this exercise, having struggled for years to do all my kitchen work on three and a half feet of countertop. How to add to it without blocking any of the kitchen's three doorways, the fridge or the existing counter? We needed narrow; furniture makers think wide. But I had hopes for the skinny-looking Mayfield Kitchen Cart, which I spotted amidst the tools, the kids' toys and the Christmas lights in a recent Canadian Tire catalogue.

The marked-up catalogue sat around for awhile -- John was understandably reluctant to rush into anything -- but after he checked it out online this morning, we made our move. A couple of stores, a traffic jam, and a few hours of "assembly required" later, John had created something amazing and wonderful.

Not only does our new kitchen cart nearly double our counter space and add storage, it gives the whole room a feeling of completion it has always lacked. Sure, it's mass-produced and real carpenters would turn up their noses, but with its metal fittings and its old-fashioned style, it looks like it has always belonged exactly where it is. At last, a change to the kitchen that I won't complain about. I think John is relieved.

The box containing our new piece of kitchen furniture.

The box discloses its secrets. John is fortunately accustomed to opening boxes and putting their contents together. 

The kitchen cart (it has wheels) partly assembled. Notice the shelf behind that it will soon replace.

John makes final touches to the cart's innards.

All assembled and ready to be rolled into place, but the shelf has to be removed first.

John does some patching on the wall where the shelf was removed.

Our new-look kitchen. The coffee maker looks very happy on its new counter top.

Ros's birthday

The friendship Ros and I forged as reporters at The Vancouver Sun  decades ago is still going strong. I took this photo of her at Cardero's restaurant in Vancouver this summer when she was visiting from Mexico. 

Look at the intensity reporter Ros brings to this discussion with deskers John Olding (left, standing), Scott Macrae (standing), and Pete Louden (seated) on the first day of the Vancouver Express newspaper on Nov. 1, 1978. The Express brought together  Sun and Province employees to put out a paper while we were locked out by Pacific Press. Ros and I both wrote for the Express; she also sold the finished product on the street. Photo by John Denniston. www.johndenniston.ca

Friendships form in many ways, but for Ros and me, it always goes back to a scene in the old Vancouver Sun newsroom at Sixth and Granville. The setting was the city desk, presided over by the night city editor and his assistant. The time was the end of a night shift on a Friday. The occasion was a colleague being feted on his or her departure for a job elsewhere in the country (newspapers were booming, jobs were plentiful). The funds would have been collected, the wine bottles would have rattled in, the cheese and crackers would have been laid out. With reporters and editors congregating at the city desk, the party would begin.

But off in the background, two people would still be labouring away at their stories, loath to hand them in until they were done to their satisfaction. And they weren't quite there. . .yet.

Ros and I may have mystified others, but to us, missing a party in the service of a better story made perfect sense. Ros went on to the CBC and to teach journalism, while I stayed at The Sun reporting and editing; but our understanding of each other from those early days formed the basis of a friendship that has continued through the years.

I'm thinking of Ros and the beginnings of our friendship because it's her birthday on Wednesday (the 21st). We won't be celebrating together because she's in Mexico, but she's told me her plans: Scrabble and a quiet at-home dinner with her partner. No one should be surprised that I understand that perfectly.

As a former CBC reporter, Ros knows all about the value of visuals. During her visit this summer, she  poses beside a planter of flowers to indulge my need for photos for my blog. 

Slush city

Where to walk? Where to bike? Pedestrians and cyclists have to sort it out as best they can as they head south on the Burrard Bridge. The fact that the sidewalk and a cycling lane are closed off during the bridge's reconstruction  adds to the confusion.

This view north from the Burrard Bridge doesn't make it look any more inviting. The slush and snow have caused chaos on city streets. Notice how few cars there are at mid-afternoon Monday.

A closer view of the slush on the bridge. 

This walkway on the north side of False Creek has at least been cleared, although there is still plenty of ice to skid on if you're not careful.

A big limb of a tree cracked off -- probably because of the weight of  snow  -- and lies across a sidewalk  on Cypress Street on Monday afternoon. The sidewalk has been shovelled, but it's still impassible!

I took this to illustrate how sidewalks are cleared in bits and pieces. You can walk for 30 feet on clear pavement, then the rest of the block can be an icy mess. This particular sidewalk is tricky because it is on a steep slope.

Even sidewalks on main streets like West Broadway aren't clear. This section at least has a bare trail near the building, but some don't.

Marilyn Monroe, James Dean and Elvis Presley huddle in a little threesome as if they're trying to keep warm in the snow. These statues normally stand in more visible positions outside the restaurant behind them. 

Poor Marilyn has a wodge of snow on the upturned hem of her skirt. It was never this cold in The Seven Year Itch!

Very soon after everyone has stopped admiring the picture-postcard beauty of a snowfall here and started coping with what it means on the ground, they start praying for rain. A good heavy rain can wash all that beauty -- and bother -- away in a couple of days. What we don't want is clear skies; sunshine guarantees we're going to be sloshing our way through gradually melting snow for a very long time indeed.

The forecasters broke our hearts by predicting a deluge Sunday night, then delivering -- thanks to a slight dip in the temperature -- a fresh blanket of snow Monday morning. The sun came out and temperatures rose. In my garden, big blobs of half-melted snow fell off the trees, landing with a thud. Small bushes bent under the snow's weight. Later in the day, I walked home from a dentist's appointment through a sloshy stew of ice, water and half-melted snow. Even though there's a city bylaw requiring businesses and homeowners to clean adjacent sidewalks, even the main streets were a slushy nightmare. In residential areas, less than half the sidewalks were cleared.

Perhaps, after two weeks of this unaccustomed duress, Vancouverites are simply giving up. But our block must be made of sterner stuff: after every snowfall, people are out there shovelling. By the time I got home Monday, wet-footed from all the icy streams I had forded, I was pleased by more than the fact that I had finally made it. Unlike so many areas I had just passed through, from one end of our block to the other, the sidewalk in front of every house was clean.

The fronds of these palm trees are looking a bit yellow; it seems odd to see palms along a snowy sidewalk.

Another plant not too happy with the snow: this is the azalea bush in my front garden that turns a bright red in spring. The weight of water-logged snow is hard on its branches. Every so often, I go out with a broom and clear it off. 

The apple tree in our back yard is a study in black and white on a day like Monday. 

And, the birdbath had a fresh new poof of snow on it Monday morning. It will be awhile before any bird bathes in it again. 

John, under those cursed blue skies, on the north shore of False Creek on Monday. He doesn't look too happy in the snow, which is cutting into his cycling. Bring on the rain!

Christmas decorations

I seem to be seeing fewer outdoor Christmas decorations this year, although this house is an exception. The yard is full of goodies for children, including a playhouse-sized gingerbread house, giant lollipops and lots of shiny Christmas baubles.

This inflatable display has a front-end loader that rises and falls. Notice the locomotive on the roof. Somebody else has children in mind. 

These photos were taken later, after the snow had mostly gone. I couldn't help but be amused by the procession of various animals someone had lined up and headed in the same direction. 

A front view of the procession. It would be interesting to know the story behind this decorating theme. 

In the same yard, penguins slide down a slope while a big-eyed deer watches. Clearly, these decorations are all about kids.

Back to winter: red and silver balls, each wearing a little hat of snow, signal Christmas in a more restrained way at this house. 

Snoopy awaits Christmas on top of his doghouse; another outdoor inflatable. 

Christmas balls and lights decorate this boulevard tree. 

Another restrained Christmas display -- a wreath on the door. With the stone frontage of the house and the hedge, I think it looks smashing. Also, no ladders involved.

Every November, our friendly and community-minded neighbours across the way haul out a ladder and climb up in the cold to string big batches of Christmas lights across the front of their house. Every November, John and I do not do this. No lights, no wreaths -- we operate on the principle that if we don't put anything up, we won't have to take it down. But, we do benefit from Ron and Shirl's pretty lights shining across the street from us every Christmas season.

This year, there seems to be a troubling trend in our neighbourhood: There are more and more people like John and me. Usually, some blocks in our area are ablaze with lights by this time in the Christmas season; there's a sense of friendly competition to see who can be the most amazing. But this year? A wreath, a few colourful balls on an outdoor tree, maybe one string of lights above the door. The zest is gone, even though this year's snow means we've rarely had a more Christmasy Christmas.

Not all is lost. I passed one yard that was stuffed with child-friendly Christmas decorations, including a playhouse-sized gingerbread house and a forest of gigantic wooden lollipops. More common are the giant inflatable characters -- snowmen and jolly elves bearing gifts -- clearly aimed at kids. Which raises the question: Will doting parents and grandparents be the only ones in the future who bother putting up outdoor decorations?

A bleak prospect. Perhaps it's time for John and me to buy some outdoor lights and return the favour Ron and Shirl have been doing us all these years.

Here is our house in the snow. It has no Christmas decorations. 

Linda's birthday

 Linda turns 71 today, but ever since the early years of our friendship, we've always  found lots to laugh about. John photographed us together in 1985, when we were both in our 30s. 

We've dropped the makeup and added a cat, but Linda and I still find lots to talk about. John took this photo of us in 2012.

Linda has always been an avid knitter, to the benefit of  her friends and family. In this photo taken by John this fall, Linda puts the final fittings on a hat she is making for me. 

I planned to write a paean to my friend Linda today in celebration of her 71st birthday, but find I am blocked, the computer screen yawning and empty. It's not that there is nothing to say; it is that there is too much. We met in the early 1980s when we were both in our 30s. Linda was a fine arts graduate working in a law firm; I was a newspaper reporter hoping to do great things. She was an urban Toronto kid with a fine sense of design; I was a prairie farm girl with no fashion sense at all. Our common ground was literature and laughter, and we've held onto that through 30-plus years of all the things that happen in a lifetime. 

When you're 30, you can't imagine a contemporary ever turning 71 -- at that age, you have no idea of the richness that gets compressed into the accumulating years. And you don't know that at 71, given the opportunity to return to your younger self -- minus all that richness -- you would probably choose against it. 

Little daily miracles

 Lily Briscoe is getting older, the horrors of the First World War have just ended, and she is thinking of her dead friend Mrs. Ramsay in the following passage from Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse. Lily is realizing that Mrs. Ramsay had the unusual ability, like an artist creating a masterpiece, to turn ordinary moments of life into permanent memories -- in this case a simple day on the beach that turned wonderful.

"What is the meaning of life?" Lily wonders. "That was all -- a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one."

This week's unusual snow and cold has cast a dramatic light on ordinary life right now, and Woolf's passage popped into my mind as I was returning from a snowy walk in a pink dusk. My eye was caught by the metallic glisten of mauve-purple berries on the bare stems of a beautybush in a garden I was passing. Then I noticed movement, and finally spotted the source -- a tiny bird, almost hidden by a stem, eating the berries with swift, precise snicks of its little head. I froze in place to watch; the bird kept eating. For a moment, the world was just me, the bird, the purple berries, the snow underfoot, the pink sky above.

Lily's little miracles? For me this week, "here was one."

Slow walking in Dunbar

It's business as usual in the lower parts of Vancouver, where salt, sun and proximity to the water have left streets and sidewalks summertime-clear. But hike up the Dunbar hill, where I live, and you're in winter -- testimony to the difference a bit of elevation makes. Even though the sun was shining when I went for a walk on Thursday, there were plenty of places where I was repeating my mantra for walking on ice: If you're hardly moving when you fall, how badly can it hurt after all? It was a very slow walk. Here are some photos of my own personal winter wonderland:

 Climbing back up the Dunbar hill at the end of my walk, I came across this tree bejeweled with icicles. Making it even better was the pink glow of the late-afternoon sun shining on the mountains behind. A sight like this makes up for a lot of very cautious walking on icy streets.

A scary sight for a pedestrian. A layer  of ice runs all along the front of this property, as if someone had let loose with a hose. Maybe a sprinkler system went awry in the cold weather?

And here's a nearby intersection. It would be good to have good grips on your shoes and winter tires on your car.

Like Dunbar, the North Shore mountains in the distance are sporting a coat of snow.

Green lawns and clear sidewalks are common at lower elevations, although there is still snow on the boulevard of this street. 

I photographed this snow fort a few days ago. It was built of blocks of snow, with holes for sighting the enemy. Some kids had a lot of fun.

A fallen snowman in Balaclava Park, a photo from a few days ago.

Here's what Balaclava Park, a few blocks from where I live, looked like after the snow first fell about a week ago.