Fear of Giant Squids

Rod's mom gave us a membership to The Rooms for Christmas. Oddly, she gave us a senior couple membership. When I redeemed my card, the missus says "You're obviously not a senior." No, not quite yet. She then issued my sticky ticket. One must now wonder if a similar conversation is going to happen every time we go.

Today is one of those rare weather days for St. John's. Cold (-10 C) and sunny. Ottawa weather. The Rooms has a beautiful view of the harbour - blue skies, blue ocean, red rocks with a dusting of snow and colourful houses. It was a perfect morning to celebrate finishing a chapter in my thesis by sitting in the cafe, catching some rays, reading articles on my phone, and writing cryptic notes to myself.

The first time I went to The Rooms, a man at work asked me "Are ye goin to see the stuffed animals?". Like a teddy bear exhibit? That's weird. It wasn't til I got there that I realized that he meant taxidermy. So I will never again look at a stuffed caribou without thinking about teddy bears.

While I love all the beautiful exhibits (it really is a high class joint) and the expansive space (we all need to feel small sometimes) at The Rooms, there is one thing that always draws me back. The Giant Squid.

I hate it. I love it. It scares the bejesus out me. "That's a lot of calamari." says a more enlightened friend. I can almost smell formaldehyde just looking at it.

The first time I saw him* I felt the fear. In my throat, heart beating fast, and quickly walking to the much safer looking giant whale bone. Next time, I say to one of my visitors to St. John's "you gotta see this Giant Squid, it's disgusting", maybe to see if it scares them as much as me. Nope, just another dead animal. It may as well be a teddy bear to them.

But I keep going back to that exhibit. Like directly. Okay, after I eat. But then I am compelled to see the Giant Squid. Every Time.

I wonder why I am compelled. He's disgusting, sure. He's Giant, sure. He has tentacles that could pull me to god knows where, sure. There are other big and scary things in the ocean. On second thought, that might be part of it. I'm a mainlander, a land-lubber, and the North Atlantic is damn cold. I am, regardless, fascinated by this fear and even more fascinated that I keep wanting to go back, to know more, to understand. A very huge part of me hopes that this reaction to the fear is what will get me through my thesis. I want it to keep drawing me back even though writing it and putting myself out there scares the bejesus out of me.

Lately, a much more beautiful Giant Squid has come into the spotlight. I still find him scary yet compelling.

*don't ask me why I've decided to make these squids male. I don't know why.

How I learned to love bologna

Why was I driving through a snowstorm yesterday thinking about how I am learning to love bologna? I wasn't sure, but I couldn't get it off my mind. I mean, what the hell am I doing living in Newfoundland, with all this beautiful majesty around me, and somehow that makes eating bologna okay. I swear to you I could not love bologna elsewhere.

I grew up in the Ottawa Valley. People around me ate balogna (baloney) sandwiches all the time. You know, on white bread with lots of margarine and french's mustard. I think I was jealous while I was eating my fried egg sandwiches with ketchup on toasted brown bread. "Is that blood on your sandwich?" kids would ask. Somehow, even with those alienating comments (or perhaps because of), I learned to look down on baloney. My mom was into health food like couscous and lentils or dutch food like boerenkoel and brown beans and bacon. Baloney was an over-processed no-no in our world.

But yesterday, looking at the snow on the drooping spruce trees along Healy's Pond driving from Rod's house, I thought 'holy shit, I think I like bologna'. We'd had bologna for lunch. Rod microwaved the hell out of it. "There's nothing you can kill in there." he says. No shit. There must have been somethings that died to get in the bologna. But that was a long, long time ago by the time it was put in the microwave. Regardless, I turned my nose up to the whole event.

When it landed in front of me, it was delicious. The fat, the salt, the yum. Newfie steak, they say at the screeching in ceremonies.

I think my favourite thing about Newfie steak is that it's pronounced "bal-og-nah" here. I could never in my child's mind understand how bologna was pronounced baloney. And, of course, Rod's entertaining comments and kind hospitality.

I've even started to love the turnip.