I Digress

Finn at 4 days and, in a hat knitted by Auntie Wumbles, at 10 days.

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What a weekend! Wumbles and Stockwell came up from the good old U-S of A to meet Finn. Lest anyone think we don’t have our priorities straight, I need to tell you that they proceeded directly to Don Mee Restaurant for Dim Sum. I was already there – to make sure we got a table, you understand – munching my way through a second order of har gao – delicious little shrimp dumplings folded in glistening, semi-transparent rice pasta – when they arrived. We ate our way through an astonishing array of mostly shrimp-based delicacies. Stockwell has an excellent appetite.

Victoria’s Chinatown goes back to the earliest days of the city’s foreign settlement. Until the late 1850s there wasn’t much here except a few long-established encampments of indigenous people and a Hudson’s Bay fur trading fort. Then, one sunny Sunday afternoon in April of 1858, a ship from San Francisco, packed to the gunwales with prospective gold miners, floated into the harbour. Seventy-five of the 400 passengers were Chinese so their community has played an important role in local history from the beginning.

Whether you’re returning to the City of Gardens after a long absence or dropping in for a short stay, going to Don Mee for the stellar dim sum the moment you get here is, quite simply, the only sensible thing to do. Goldie Hawn and Michael J. Fox agree, as their signed photos on the wall attest.

Certain cities make certain demands on you. Beijing, to provide another example – especially if you arrive by long-distance train as my friend Pam and I did – compels you to head for the closest Wal-Mart in search of heavy-duty cold medication. Let me advise right up front that you’ll be disappointed and find yourself, instead, at the mercy of Chinese Traditional Medicine. For the duration of your stay, you’ll trail around pulling a cartload of apothecary supplies behind you. The wonders of the Forbidden City and the Great Wall pale beside the challenge of sorting out bat wings from snake skin.

The Beijing Duck, though, is extraordinarily good.

Stuffed dangerously full and overdosing slightly on soya sauce, we made our way to the Fir-Draped Cabin where Stockwell immediately established himself as a Baby Hog. Creature, Wumbles and I were reduced to standing around watching Stockwell hold Finn. Nym vacuumed. Let me digress once more and say there’s something enormously satisfying about a man who vacuums. I am of the Gloria Steinem, “I’ll vacuum when they make one I can ride,” school of thought so it’s doubly satisfying to me. Forget Playgirl pinups, forget People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, even forget – reluctantly – Johnny Depp – give me a man with a firm grip on a vacuum cleaner and I’ll be content.

“Okay, buddy,” said Stockwell to Finn. “Us men are outnumbered here at the moment so I need you to listen up. The most important word – the one to learn and to remember – is toys. T-O-Y-S. Toys.”

Finn snuffled.

“That’s right, buddy. Toys.”

I had a sudden mental image of Piglet sitting on the living room floor surrounded by a Big Loader and all its components. It was Wumbles’ fourth Christmas and Piglet, fed up with ‘girl toys’, insisted on the purchase of a Big Loader. All his friends and two of his brothers came over to play. It was Wumbles’ favourite present. And, in fact, it’s the first Christmas she remembers.

Later, at my parents’, a rather bad time began for Creature. She’s got mastitis in both breasts and feeling pretty miserable, every slightest movement painful. My mother patting her belly and saying, “I see you haven’t delivered the other twin yet,” didn’t help. As Creature fought back tears, we attempted levity by teaching Stockwell some new Canadian vocabulary.

Stockwell: What the heck is a parkade?

Wumbles: You call it a parking garage.

My Mom: Careful you don’t spill that tea on the chesterfield.

Stockwell: The what?

Wumbles: The couch.

My Dad: Did you know they’ve instituted a transit tax? Our hydro bill is scandalously high this winter!

Stockwell: Your what?

Wumbles: Their electric bill.

Then, to my shock and horror, I learned they don’t have Shreddies in the United States. Or Smarties! Or Yorkshire Pudding mix! How do they survive? I don’t even eat breakfast but the neat rows of Shreddies’ boxes at the grocery store soothe me, reassuring me that all is well with the nation’s digestion.

Since I’m digressing left, right and centre, I’ll remark that the vocab lesson reminded me of my friend Pam again, on a cold January morning in Beijing. Hacking, sneezing and running low temperatures, we sat in Mandarin class trying to embed bus schedule words in our fevered brains.

Our Lao Shi (Teacher) wrote ‘route’ on the board and asked, “How do you pronounce this word in English? I’ve heard it said different ways.”

“Rowt,” said American Pam.

“No!” said I. “A rowt is an ignominious defeat. It’s pronounced ‘root’.”

A bit of heated discussion ensued but I’m happy to report that henceforth our very clever Lao Shi said ‘root’.

Sadly, a family dinner was more than Dad could handle, so the younger six of us rounded off an Asian Food Day at Futaba, a fabulous Japanese restaurant. Age Tofu. Spider Roll. Dragon Roll. Kushitori Chicken. So fresh and clean tasting. So beautifully presented. So easily sliding down the gullet in vast quantities.

The waitress endeared herself by admiring Finn, who slept peacefully while we gorged ourselves.

“What a beautiful baby!” she cooed, her tip doubling as the words tripped off her tongue. She glanced at Wumbles.

“You, too, are expecting? When?”

“In 74 days,” said Wumbles.

“But who’s counting?” added Stockwell.

The waitress looked at Finn again. “A boy?"

We nodded.

“How old?”

“Ten days.”

“He has a lot of hair.”

“Yes,” I said. “His mother had a lot of hair when she was born, too.”

“And it was all in her armpits,” volunteered Stockwell, thus, amongst the explosion of laughter, setting the final seal of happiness on Creature’s day.