works of wanderlust

Tag: personal backstory

  • half life

    This is not a game. 

    I did the math. I was exactly half the age I am today when I wrote my first blog post. Maybe that’s nothing. Maybe that’s everything. I’m not sure I’m equipped to tell you either way.

    Take my age today, divide by two and that many years, months, days ago I sat down in front of my aging desktop computer, logged into a web server hosting ftp something or other and uploaded a thing that I would identify from then on as the first blog post I ever wrote.  I think I had been for a walk through Vancouver after recently moving there, and figured rather than send endless emails—that’s what we did back then, wrote emails to our friends—back to my family and University chums I would start one of those blog things and post updates confirming my continued survival out and on the coast.

    I enjoyed writing it. 

    I used it as an excuse to invest in the cheapest portable digital writing set up I could afford so fresh out of school: I bought a battery-powered keyboard for my palm pilot pda, and then would go sit in cafes or the library or the park at a picnic table and fill the memory of my little greyscale pre-cellphone mini-computer with words and anecdotes and stories and opinions and fleeting words. Then I would go back to my little studio apartment on Oak Street and plug the pda into the serial port of the computer, sync the text files over, format them into crude HTML and add them to my blog as pages.

    Within half a year I had moved to Blogger, and even paid for a premium ad-free account. And then when, shortly after they were acquired by Google, I got a Blogger-logoed hoodie in the mail and decided to migrate all my words off to something more customizable. 

    I poked around in MovableType for a year or two, learned a stupid amount about server management and web design, so much so that it blurred the lines at my job and they promoted me into running the website. I eventually turned that into the main part of my career: running websites. 

    In the end, and I can’t recall when, I found WordPress and even to this day use that CMS as my software of choice. I have skimmed the surface of other tools, played around in Drupal quite a bit for a while there, built at least three custom CMS tools from scratch if for no other reason than to learn, but ultimately decided that I want to write for the writing sake and that dabbling in the tech is bothersome and distracting, so I just use WordPress now because I don’t want to muck around any more than I need to than to just blog.

    Blogging is, all these years later, a clearly dated form of expression. Sure, people still write blogs, but you’re more apt to find people tiktoking or substacking or vlogging on video platforms, than you are to find self-hosted long form writing as anything but a niche hobby for the “olds” as my kid would call us. I don’t mind. I have stuck with it for now literally half my life—which, if you haven’t done the math yet, is approaching a quarter of a century—because it suits me.

    Sure. I have made content for all sorts of other platforms and—meh—because first, they are someone else’s platforms, but second, I’m not cut out to make six second video shorts or speak into a camera or sales pitch bullshit into the algorithmic feeds of the social-network-de-jour. 

    Nor is this form perfect. Blogging too has been tainted by monetization. I remember getting so disillusioned about the whole thing when, having joined a Reddit forum a few years ago, seeking people who I thought would be kindred spirits discussing their love of the long-form personal blog post instead therein sharing advice on gaming search engines and using AIs to generate content and employing bot nets to drive engagment in any of a hundred sketchy ways. No one there want to discuss writing habits or idea generation or platform optimization, no, they wanted to hustle and then hustle some more to make money on their shallow content with the least effort possible. “How long before I make money at this?” Was the most common inquiry. 

    I tell you this because I don’t want you to think the last quarter century has been smooth sailing.  Between the tainted reputation the form, the deep competition from other platforms, the saturation of generative content in the internet itself, and the constant security and piracy threats, it is odd that anyone would want to have this hobby at all. And, while I never really went dark, I have shuttered blogs routinely, gone incognito in my writing output, and even for a time wrote a blog that was completely private and set up more as a web-based personal journal behind a password. It was not all fun and games these past years.

    And yet here I am still blogging: writing just another rambling post on the topic of writing. Which is maybe exactly why I write so much metacommentary on the act itself. Half my life blogging, being one of the last stragglers in the art, clinging to an aging digital art form and self-publication tool there must be a few more folks out there who can relate, who are looking for something besides SEO advice and hustler cheat codes for gaming the blogosphere. There must be someone who needs to know that some of us have done it because we just love to write out loud into the universe while we still have the freedom to do just that.

    If this it the first post of mine that you have read, thanks for reading.

    If you have been along for the ride since the beginning, I probably don’t need to explain to you that have helped keep me sane in this crazy world, given me an outlet for expression, and made the internet a fun place for a while, too. 

    That’s worth a digital high five. 

    And let’s just keep going, shall we.

  • After the Storm

    Exactly one week ago, almost to the hour of me writing these words, I finally tested positive for COVID-19. By all accounts and on a severity scale of one to ten (one being no symptoms and ten being the most severe fatal variety) I would rank my infection experience at a 4 or maybe at most a 5.

    There were a few hours in the middle where I considered asking my wife to take me into the hospital, but that feeling was short-lived and a good-night-sleep later I was back to slouching it off on the couch and sick-napping through a Netflix marathon.

    This morning I feel almost normal.

    I mention here for two reasons.

    First, I feel like I need to explain why I haven’t posted in over a week. (Answer: I was sick.)

    But second, this was a blog (and now blossoming project) that was conceived out of the rippled effects of this global pandemic. I can’t say for certain, but I doubt you’d be reading any of these past three-hundred and twenty-five posts if it were not for COVID-19. That pandemic provided both the space and motivation for me to start a little more self-evaluation and personal reflection and refocusing of priorities… and all those fancy things that make one take stock and dive into a new hobby, or reinvigorate an old one… even if it was just me stanning on cast iron cooking and raving about trail running adventure.

    Living through the pandemic, which we’ve all done in some shape or another, has likely left an indelible mark on each of us, the scale and scope of which will only be understood in time.

    For me, living through the pandemic in the first year of that event was marked not actually by a personal infection but rather by being on the front lines of my job, putting in erratic twelve hour days, burning out, being crushed emotionally and physically by the effort and the decisions and the reactions and the uncertainty of it all. I pounded a stake into the metaphorical sand and anchored myself to words and ideas and a reinvented self that I projected outwards through this space. It may have seemed trivial to those who were reading, but this was me tethering myself back into reality and hand-over-hand pulling myself back towards normal.

    None of it is over. Many others have their own COVID stories to conclude, but I realize that by living through the actual infection, even a mild version I’ve kind of put a pin in my pandemic adventure, at least the first volume of it:

    Learning about the pandemic, going through lockdowns and panic and societal shift. Working from home to avoid catching the damn virus. Mountains of PPE, masks of every shape and colour. Three vaccinations. Symptoms and tests and dozens of negatives, false alarms. The slow toe back into the new reality of post-COVID life, work and play. Demasking and lowering defences and then finally getting the damn virus and taking it on the chin for seven full days of fever and cough and headaches and utter fatigue, until…

    Reaching healthy?

    And in the blur of that two-and-half-years-long story, learning a lot about my own self, what I believe in, cherish, value… and how I want to write the sequel to it all.

    The storm has passed. At least, my storm has, and I’m just pausing here for a deep breath — literal and metaphorically — as I look around and ponder where next.

  • Curry Surprise

    There is a graphic design story that I read about a decade ago that goes something like this: nearly everyone hate the font “comic sans” and turns their noses up whenever it turns up printed across an amature bit of graphic design work. But as much as some might scorn the folks who use that font, the alternative perspective is simply that … as bad as that font might be … people who use comic sans are still thinking about fonts, design, and breaking out of the old standard font library that comes default with their computer.

    Even if you don’t care about fonts or design, the moral of the little parable is simply that people who try, even if their attempt is mediocre by professional standards, are still people who try.

    Trying is the first step to learning.

    I bring this up only because back in university I was a terrible cook… but I tried.

    What is something you ate 25 years ago that you’d never eat now?

    My wife (who I was merely dating at the time) calls it curry surprise.

    Ground beef, curry paste, cooked noodles, cheddar cheese, and … well, serve hot.

    Or better, don’t serve… and just eat alone in front of the television before you go back to your bedroom and hit the homework for the evening.

    It wasn’t great. It was a student meal.

    But I cooked it routinely because it was simple, filling, hit multiple food groups, and (honestly) none of my roomates would steal my leftovers.

    We laugh at it now and every so often I offer to cook my wife a helping of curry surprise, but I look back on those days of experimenting with weird (and akward) variations as my cooking-slash-comic-sans moment. Cringe-inducing and not worth considering for anything serious, but yet dabbling and thinking about food, cooking, and those first steps to being better in the kitchen as an adult.

  • The Hot Pan of Endless Convenience

    This is not the first time I’ve brought up my mushroom grilling wonder pan on this blog, and it is unlikely to be the last. A summer of backyard grilling and open-flame cooking has done nothing short of cementing my resolve celebrate a years-long (if accidental) effort to season a chunk of generic cast iron into one of the most useful pans in my cast iron collection.

    Behold, the barbecue beast.

    In fact, one of the first posts I wrote in this space referenced a chance purchase by a naïve young cooking enthusiast a decade prior.

    A new gas stove in the kitchen prompted an experimental foray into cast iron.

    Frugally, I bought a small pan from a discount department store, a generic import that had no pre-seasoning but a cherry red enameled outer finish.

    Cast iron was cast iron, I thought. Tho my lack of experience with the product left me floundering with messes and ruined meals. I struggled.

    Admittedly, there is a learning curve when switching from an everybody’s non-stick basic cooking tool approach to a tool that requires care and preparation. I had jumped in the deep end and with minimal research immediately sunk to the bottom of the metaphorical swimming pool.

    Years passed.

    Further research and interest blossomed a casual cooking fascination into a mild obsession and I quickly expanded my collection of newer cast iron items.

    The cherry red pan lacked for a home in my bursting cupboards and for one reason or another migrated to a more permanent home on the backyard barbecue grill, hiding under the lid from rainstorms and winter snow.

    Year after year after year.

    Back to that accidental effort: it was just sitting there taking up space on my grill, so alongside a steak, some seasoned chicken, or just a stack of hamburger patties I got into the habit of oiling up the cherry red pan, tossing in some veggies or sliced mushrooms, and grilling up a side aside the main.

    Year after year after year.

    Now that at least half a decade has passed, and my understanding of cast iron cooking has blossomed into a kind of enthusiast-level expertise, countless heaps of potatoes have been browned, numerous broccoli fry-ups have been enjoyed, and endless bowls of garlic mushrooms have topped homemade burgers, the pan is matured.

    This cherry red generic cast iron pan still sits inside my barbecue, of course, waiting patiently for the next outdoor cookout, but now as a perfectly seasoned cooking vessel and a prime example of the potential of a little oil, time, heat, and patience has on a black iron surface.

    The potential is bountiful and amazing in this barbecue beast, my hot pan of endless convenience.

  • Smoked Chops

    When I was younger our summers always meant smoked pork chops.

    I didn’t appreciate it much at the time, but my father had access to bulk buy cases of delicious, thick chops direct from the local processing facility. He did this once per year, ensuring that in our chest freezer lived a cardboard box containing about forty of these special treats, setting our family up for seven or eight really great summer meals.

    Then I moved away, went to University, lived my life, started a family, and…

    It turns out that these specific smoked meats are not as common in the local grocery store as my easy access to these delectable slabs of not-quite-pork chops seemed to be in my youth.

    It also turns out that my wife had a similar experience growing up. Her family also caught the summer vibes of a slab of smoked pork. Her youth was also one of barbecued pink meats and camp meals made from this exclusive, elusive delicacy.

    The ties that bind us, eh?

    What’s up with smoked pork chops anyways, you ask?

    Well, imagine a regular pork chop, but infused with a subtle smoky flavour resembling bacon, edging towards the succulent tenderness of a slice of ham, and all grilled over the hot flame of a barbecue or to a tasty crisp finish in a cast iron pan. Moist. Aromatic. A piece of meat nudged towards the perfection one imagines from a great barbecue, but heated and ready to be eated in less than fifteen minutes.

    For some reason we were lamenting our inability to find these chops locally in recent a family conversation. Then last week it was my wife’s birthday. Not thinking anyone remembered that first convo, well, it turned out I was wrong… in a good way. Her folks showed up and (jokey gift kind of people that they are) cracked open a cooler full of smoked chops.

    It turns out that if nostalgia could set off the smoke detector as it cooks in a thin layer of hot oil, my nostalgia would be shaped like a pork chop.

    It was as good as I remembered. And I appreciate it now.