My lovely friend Mami and her equally lovely husband Cech invited Katr and I and another lovely couple, Li(no last name) and An(also no last name), to their home for a vegan dinner party Thursday night! It was my first dinner party in Vancouver and it couldn't have been more delightful.
I admit I was a little apprehensive beforehand. Despite the awesome, hilarious vegans I actually know, I always worry that vegans are without humour about their veganism and are judging my meat-acious, leather chair-having lifestyle the same way I usually judge their notoriously dry and crumbly "baked goods". As comedienne Dawn Whitwell says, "Vegans, here's a tip - just because it's SHAPED like a cookie . . . doesn't make it a cookie."
Also, when I am invited for a dinner party, my usual modus operandi is to offer to bring dessert, because then I can whip up a batch of my famous "things I bought at Safeway". In view of vegan dietary restrictions, however, Mami wisely suggested I bring a salad or vegetable. I was seized with panic and then mirth in the produce aisle Thursday afternoon when I drew a blank on how to make a salad. IT'S BEEN THAT LONG. What goes in it? Do vegans eat live hydroponic butter lettuce? Is there beef tallow in the dressing or worse - HONEY? A grocery store employee asked me if I was okay and I asked him "Does this misshapen carrot look . . . like rabbit to you?"
Fortunately I managed to pull it together eventually (although I did leave out the butter lettuce) and Katr and I set out. Turns out I worried for naught. Dinner was really, really good (including the baking) and our hosts and the vegans were awesome and hilarious, like all the other vegans I know. And Mami and Cech's daughter is adorable (which, of course, we already knew).
I've known Mami since elementary school and we've stayed sporadically in touch over the years. My childhood memories of her mainly involve the summer she and I were the only girls at the Jewish Community Centre's Leader In Training camp when we were 12. The boys in the LIT were jerks, really mean jerks and Mami and I, who went to school with nice, respectful, funny boys, were totally shocked and bonded over it. Also, once (possibly the same summer) she and I went to Klondike Days (Edmonton's yearly carnie-fest and exhibition, which now has a different and stupid name) and beforehand, we met at her dad's bar (her DAD! Had a BAR!) which I thought was the coolest.
As reminiscing kicked in Thursday night, however, it was more sports-based than I had anticipated. Mami was telling me that when she ran into my parents at Chma's wedding last year, all the talk was of how she and I played soccer together in our youth. That's right. Me. I played SOCCER.
In fact, I believe I played community league soccer for 6 or 7 years and I seem to have blocked most of it out, though I do remember the one or two years my dad was the coach. He must have been a good coach, 'cause we didn't make fun of him, like we did our teammate Kaha's middle-finger pointing dad.
I remember that I played defence (less running) and was the GREATEST THROWER-INNER of ALL TIME, which Mami corroborated by re-enacting my legendary throwing-in skillz, complete with Bionic Woman sound effects. I remember I once scored a goal on a throw-in, when the ball bounced off the goalie. I remember taking a kick-off to the face from a hard-assed girl named Kyle, who seemed impressed when I didn't cry or bleed. I remember having a very confusing crush on the red-headed goalie named Karen. "Ooooh yeah," said Mami, "she was inTENSE."
All this soccer talk suddenly brought back some vivid memories of my first year playing soccer when I was six years old. I'm going to have to check on some of this with my parents, but I seem to remember my first year of soccer that our coach was this crazy rich mom from Quesnel whose daughter was on the team. She had big streaked '80's hair, wore lipstick and velour track suits and a lot of rings and had a GOLDEN WHISTLE. For half-time at our first game, instead of the traditional quartered oranges and water, she brought these weird marshmallow mini ice cream cone confections that really hit the spot, if "the spot" was your pancreas and "hitting it" meant "a severe over-production of insulin". By the end of the game, half the team was running about manically and the other half had collapsed due to dehydration. She was, obviously, kind of clueless. But hey - we were six! Bring on the marshmallow treats!
I remember my first year of soccer was lots of fun but we did not, as they say, have a good season. In fact, I believe our team scored one goal the entire season and it was on our own net. But our coach wasn't daunted and at the end of the season, the team went out to the Old Spaghetti Factory to celebrate and she gave us each ENGRAVED BRACELETS with the year and team name on it. Again - we were SIX. Even as a six year old who loved jewellry and spaghetti, I thought it was a little weird. Who WAS that woman?
Anyway, back to the soccer glory days. Mami says we made it to the city finals in 1984! I have only vague recollections of this, but she had the hilarious team photo to prove it and whipped it out on Thursday night over Dutch Girl chocolates and tea. It took me a little while to identify myself in the photo. Ah, yes, that was me. The tallest girl on the team. I'd like to think my hair was in a ponytail but I suspect what I'm seeing there is the Grade 4 Mullet.
I handed the photo to Katr, who wanted to see if she could pick me out. I offered to give her a hint, as it had taken me longer than I thought to find myself, but she waved me off. She pointed me out right away, without hesitation and I was stunned. "How did you KNOW?" I asked, truly mystified. "Silly," she said to me, "I would know you anywhere."
And then I blushed.
