What is a Denizen?

Sometimes words just seem to pop up everywhere. I must have heard the word "denizen" half a dozen times in the past two days. Now, I have always been good at determining (or "guessing" if you want to be technical) definitions from the context. I felt I knew the word. This is kind of like how Stephen Colbert "feels" the truth. There is not necessarily a relationship between the feeling and the facts. Anyway, at the fourth time I heard it used, I decided it was time to learn it properly.

Let's start with my assumption. Based on the times I have encountered the word denizen in print and in conversation, I came to the conclusion that a denizen was a person who lived or hung out in a particular place. What I was unclear on was whether it had any legal implications, like being a citizen.

One of the nice thing about wanting to learn definitions is that you can accomplish this very easily. In fact it is one of the simplest exercises in research. People could look up words before there was even an Internet, kids. The fact that dictionaries are now online makes the process short and sweet. For those who wonder what might be a thoughtful gift to give me, access to the OED online would be right up there. WORD NERD!

Here are the findings: I was right. Go me! The primary definition at the Merriam-Webster dictionary is an inhabitant. This is also expanded to include resident. The secondary definition addresses my confusion about the difference between a denizen and a citizen. A denizen can be a person who is granted residence in a foreign country and receives some or all the rights of citizenship. In this definition, a denizen is a cut above legal alien. In other usage, a denizen is a person who frequents (hangs around) a particular place. Less interesting but also accurate, denizen can refer to plants or animals that adapt to a new environment.

So how shall I use this in a sentence? I think I will make a brief listing on my denizenships.

I am a denizen of used bookstores and coffee shops, dusty theatres and messy workspaces.

There is a sense of belonging in denizen.  It does not simply describe being in a place, but rather inhabiting, living in that place. It has a sense of membership.  I am a denizen when I belong. This isn't always a net positive, one can easily be a denizen of a drug house or a maximum security prison.  We don't always belong someplace nice.  But if I had to pick between belonging or isolation, I know where I would lay my bet.

I hope I will be a denizen of Vermont.  I never really felt that sense of habitation here in Toronto. It's been a place full of great people but mostly missed connections.  Time for something new. 

What is the use of Cumin?

The boy was going through the spice box in the pantry this afternoon, and pulled out bag after bag of cumin.  This is a spice I will come across in a recipe and assume I don't have, so I grab an extra bag.  the result: many, many bags of cumin gathering dust.  As I looked at the mounting evidence of my poor pantry management skills, I wondered for the first time what's the use of cumin anyway?

To the Google!


I read through several sites on cumin, and here's what I learned.

Cumin is a spice that is cultivated all over the world, from the Mediterranean to Mexico, with stops in India and China as well.  This globe trotting annual herb pokes its earthy nose into recipes from the Middle East, North Africa, Latin America, and South Asia.  The distinctive flavour produces a warming sensation, which makes this spice ideal for chili, curries or stews. It is used both as a whole seed (fruit, actually.  Each seed is an individual fruit) or ground into powder.  It belongs to the Apiaceae family of plants (better known for carrots or parsley).  It looks similar to caraway, but tastes much hotter and is larger.

I also know I only like it in small amounts, as I am a spice wimp.

Sources:  WikiP, Food.com, Penzeys

New Project in the Midst of Chaos

Inspiration only comes when you don't have the time and resources to really throw down and embrace it.  This month I am relocating my entire little family to a new country, buying my first home and doing a DIY style container move.  It is not the time to start a new project.

And yet here I am, ready to begin one.  I just feel like if I do not start it I never will, it will just be one more inspiration that falls flat in my lackluster follow through.  Let's be frank: I am a terrible blogger.  I  get caught up in real life and lose track of the virtual one.  I am a fits-and-starts participant on social media - I like FB and Twitter, but I don't always have things to say.  So I say nothing.  The same principle has ruled the blogging.  If I have nothing to say, I DON'T SAY ANYTHING.  And then months go by before I take a moment to think about the world around me and my place in it.

This radio-silence brings me to my reboot.  I am going to make regular posts.  They may be short single links, or long elegies.  The point is, I want to post every day.   I originally started this blog to force myself to use my undernourished brain.  I have spent the past few years making little babies into little people. I want to have a place where I get to think about more than that. It is not to diminish the work I do raising the kiddos; I need to have my own room in my head. The din of child rearing can make grown-up things hard to hold on to.  I found the impulse for this blog was good, but it turned out to be too vague.  I need more structure to keep me on track.

This is the new game: I learn something new every day, and I post about it.  This is a simple plan.  There is no restriction on topic or style, high culture or low, intellectual challenge or trivia, all are welcome.  It just makes sense to me that if I want to commit to using my mind, I need to feed it regularly, and on a rich and varied diet of tantalizing little brain nuggets.  So starting now, I commit to learning everyday, and being actively aware, seeking new thoughts and information.

Ready, set...learn!

Camera

Supermarket. The ceiling soars into an industrial cathedral and gives the fresh food section a feeling of open air. Along the wall lined up refrigerated cases filled with mounds of green leaves, the mister opens up and dampens my sunglasses. The rows of fruit and vegetables snake maze-like, a labyrinth of reds and greens and oranges. The air smells scrubbed, with the earthy musk long sprayed away. Plastic clamshells form a jewel box to display perfectly formed strawberries. Five corn cobs, cleared of all extra silk and leaves lie on a black foam tray cello-sealed in. They look like clones, all sprung from the same plastic corn. The tomatoes are in season, and there is a mountain of red beefsteaks piled into a chaotic pyramid in a bin near the door. I can't find the blueberries, but I feel they must be here somewhere. 

I don't know why I remember

I don't know why I remember playing in the parked camper van.  My parents had a conveniently rust coloured Dodge camper van they kept parked in the open field of the backyard. My sister and I used to climb in and play.  I am sure we were not supposed to be in there, I am not sure why it wasn't locked.  It often was - we would reach up to the push button chrome door handle and find it bolted tight.  Those times it wasn't there was not great appeal to the interior, nothing that would particularly attract to young girls. The air was dry and dusty, smelling of trapped sunshine and stagnation.  There was a little counter with a cooktop, a small mildewy sink and cupboards covered with dark wood grain laminate.  The back of the van had two orange plaid bench seats and a table top. Sometimes the table was collapsed down and the plaid cushions spread out to make one large bed area.  It was always too warm in the van, and there were always strange remnants of the last trip cluttering up the corners - forgotten colouring books, clear green plastic salt and pepper shakers, unbreakable beer mugs. There were also sneaky spiders who crept in and made elaborate webs around the steering column. It was an odd refuge where we would play elaborate games of make believe. I can't remember the games, I only remember the playing.

Moving Along

It looks as if the whole world is going to be turning upside down. There is a huge change coming, I am going to move to the United States of America. What is it that I think about this? Some moments it doesn't faze me at all, then every now and then a mad rush of adrenaline rushes my brain and I realize that this time next year I will be surrounded by American in a foreign country. This makes me panic and I have to focus on some of the finer details, like the fact that it will be a great step for the boy. It will be a great opportunity for our family. And I will find my place in the new world order. It will all be fine.

The Books are Free Again

You know who a library strike hurts? Me. Not only is it the only city resource (water and waste removal aside) I use on a weekly basis.  It has a direct impact on my quality of life.  So when the library workers go on strike, it throws a spanner into my carefully ordered routines.

The day before the strike began, I taught the kidlet how to go online and reserve books.  So every day of the strike the little kiddo pumped me for information on when her requests were going to be filled.  Every. Day.  Often multiple times a day. There was no placating her, as labour disputes are beyond the horizon of a not-quite-four-year-old's world view.  All she knew was that the library promised Froggy and Olivia, and was taking a suspicious amount of time to follow through.

This afternoon we were able to go and renew our love affair with mashed dead trees.  I resisted the urge to grab as many books as possible and kept the consumption of word stuffs down to a manageable bunch.  This cache of books will keep us going, and likely keep me from buying Hunger Games for another week.