Super exciting: I have finally joined the ranks of people who have a website! For some this is something of a routine feat but for me it’s a pretty big deal. As I’ve mentioned before I have no knack for technology and gadgetry and certainly never though that I would have an actual website. In this day and age though, if you want to be visible, you have to be omnipresent and that means getting onto the great, wide inter-tron. So, here’s me, Blair Petty, in an attempt to go viral with www.blairpetty.com
Photo: Matthew Burditt, Model: Oliver @ Elmer Olson, Stylist: Erin Stanley, Grooming: Me
I haven’t drawn anything in years. Correction, I should say that I haven’t actually sat down to draw in years. I’ve doodled on the occasional business card or napkin or in the pages of a binder, but no real art the way I used to.
When I was growing up I was always drawing something. Always. I would get giant sketch pads as birthday presents and I’d fill them with all sorts of ridiculous images. If you looked at the books you might have thought that you were looking at the early sketches of a young Hugh Hefner as most of the pictures were of gorgeous girls with fluttery lashes, long hair and even longer legs. My grandmother still jokes about my near obsession with drawing “babes.” I don’t anymore though. I don’t really need to because the make-uping has completely eclipsed the drawing.
When I was wrapping up a shoot a week ago with Matthew Burditt we were discussing Vancouver’s very small fashion industry and how it’s not the easiest on in which to make a living. He said that he does what he does though because he’s making art. It’s true, and sometimes I forget that this is what we’re doing. Working on shoots has definitely provided a creative outlet for me and as long as they keep up, I don’t know if I’ll sit down and put a pencil to paper and render a supermodel.
The shots from above were from a shoot I worked on on Sunday with photographer Matthew Burditt. The model was Oliver, a really hilarious British guy from Elmer Olson Models and the stylist was Erin Stanley who is a Renaissance woman if there ever was one (she is the music buyer for Zulu Records and runs the vintage clothing company Daughters of Dawn). Busy girl. I hope you enjoy them because I sure enjoyed working on ’em.
When I was a little kid I thought about what I would do when I was a grown-up. I thought that I would be something like a wildly successful film director and marry my best friend Kalie. I’d work with people I loved. I’d have complete control over everything I produced and people would hand me large bucketfuls of money that I wouldn’t have to pay tax on.
I grew up.
Things have changed slightly. I am still best friends with Kalie but a marriage for us seems rather pointless. The career with loved ones however is holding true. The shots from above were done with my friend Lyle Reimer of Evan and Dean as the stylist. Please check out their designs: amazing, architectural, wearable. Every time I get to glance through their look book I think of how much nicer everyone would look if they were donning a piece from the collection. Anyway, it was the first time Lyle and I were able to collaborate on a shoot and we were able to do so with the expert, artistic eye of Tyson Fast. Tyson is trained as a photo-journalist and you definitely get a sense of that spontaneity in his work. The softness isn’t lost though and I think that was crucial to our theme here, which was based on the 1970’s horror flick Carrie (minus the bucket o’ pig’s blood). Lyle had found a giant rosary that we used in the shoot (I loves me some religious imagery) and we were able to photograph one of my favorite Harley Davidson tee-shirts which was amazing.
We were sent Lisa from Liz Bell whom Lyle and I met a day prior at the Aritzia show. Both she and her mom were a blast to work with and Lisa was an absolute champion when Lyle and I decided to douse her eyes with Fix+ (a M.A.C facial mist) in order to make her mascara run. She’s barely in high school but this kid had the confidence of a 30 year old and took the stinging spray like and absolute professional. I’m excited to see where Lisa goes with modeling and with any luck, we’ll be able to see her and her mom Marion again. Hope you enjoy the shots.
In truth I still don’t think I feel like a true grown-up but man, to work on something you’re good at with people that you love, that’s sure evidence you’re going in the right direction.
It never happens honestly: me, sitting at home thinking, “damn I’ve got it all figured out.” Mostly whenever I’m in my own space for any length of time I start to feel a little like I’m running behind. Silly. Anyway, the shots I’m putting up are from a shoot I did a while ago with photographer Mike Chatwin and relate sort of to how I view my apartment.
The shoot itself was a small kerfuffle (sp?) because we were originally going to shoot another model with Wilhelmina who happened to be in town. I managed to work some voodoo on my shifts at work and somehow got the day off only to find that the model left town almost as quickly as she got here. Crap. It ended up being amazing though because Britt at Next agreed to do the shoot. I mentioned earlier about down to earth people–she’s one of ’em. Mike and Britt came to my apartment and we shot around the neighborhood and for the last look Mike decided to shoot it right at my really dirty gorgeous window. It gave me a bit of a new perspective on this little box I call home. Enjoy! Credits: Photo: Mike Chatwin, Model: Britt @ Next, Hair/Make-up: Me
So here it is, the first post in the new format. I might throw some images from past shoots up here to get the ball rolling and then moving forward I’ll try and upload images from the new ones. Did that make any sense?
Whatever, anyway this shoot was done with photographer Matthew Burditt whom I adore and whom I hounded for weeks into working with me a while back. Luck has given me a bunch of opportunities to work with him and I must say, the guy is amazing. There’s something lovely about discovering down-to-earth people in fashion and I’m lucky that I’ve now met a few. Styling was done by Leanne Trigg whom I finally met in person at this shoot. She’d styled a few others that I’d worked on but was actually so booked that she had to deliver the outfits and jet. Multitasking is undeniably a talent. The model was Robyn at Richard’s, and though I covered her eyes in gloss texture, she still managed to crack jokes and gave me the run down on the Rich Dad, Poor Dad books. Free education rules!
Photo: Matthew Burditt, Model: Robyn @ Richard's, Stylist: Leanne Trigg, Hair/M.UP: Me (same credits for all)
It’s true, I am a neglectful blogger. I haven’t really paid much attention to this thing as of late and so I have decided to do a bit of a renovation on the blog itself to better enable me to contribute to it on a more regular basis.
Gone now are the days of witty, sarcastic entries about jobs, job hunting, finding my way in life and then loosing it just as quick. No more posts about random gym visits and the concrete reality that I am indeed a “hard gainer” and will not now, nor in the foreseeable future start a cycle of anabolic steroids. No more rants about the Vancouver police’s merry band of drug dealing, prostitute visiting, binge drinking, disable person assaulting serial rapists, their bogus “recruiting” practices and a certain closeted lesbian detective with whom I’ve had the misfortune pleasure of encountering on a number of occasions. I’m moving on past bits on gay stereotypes and bites on trying to seek out a literary agent in favor of a more shameless approach to self-promotion.
As it stands now, I am still a mid late 20-something guy working as a make-up artist. I am still a writer. I am still a foodie. I figure that a recessionist (read: shorter and more visual) version of Degrees Of… will probably be more legible, more understood and ultimately more interesting than the previous long-winded and dare I say it, verbose essays of yester-month.
So dear and loyal reader, I will now be displaying a great deal more visual content and a great deal less “rant.” Sure, from time to time I might have an overwhelming urge to post an epic letter about something such as my hatred of Vancouver city transit’s insistence on using fabric seats, but mostly I’ll be sticking to putting up work from photo shoots, culinary experiments and the occasional fiction piece (book 2 is trucking along just fine actually).
I thank you for popping in from time to time and reading each piece in the past and I hope that as Degrees Of… evolves, you will continue to do so. It is because of you, gentle reader, that I continue to be inspired to do this.
He goes to my gym and is always at the weight stacks. Nice arms. Source: Wikipedia
It’s an undeniable fact that Vancouver is a bizarre city. There’s some contention as to whether or not you can use the adjectives ‘International’ and ‘Cosmopolitan’ to describe this fair place we call home, because to some it’s a bustling gateway between Asia and North America and to others it’s a celeb-obsessed, pseudo bohemian hamlet too far West for anyone to give a rip about it. To me it’s just gay. I don’t mean the slanderous “Don’t be so gay,” gay, but the literal, capital ‘G’ kind. It’s GHEY!
I think when I first moved here, the city merely seemed more liberal in comparison to the cities I’d lived in Alberta. The people here appeared more open minded and on more than one occasion I would get introduced to someone and his or her “partner,” which was something that would have never happened in Little Texas. Of course this was six years ago and I think that since then, there has been a steady, rainbow-coloured stream filtering into the city. I may have a slightly inaccurate cross-section from which to judge the population though.
A couple weeks ago I signed up at the new YMCA centre on Burrard Street. Now, I already have a gym membership at the decaying Kits Workout on 4th and Cypress but because it’s summer (well…sort of) and because I vowed to become a better swimmer and because the combined cost of the two memberships was still less expensive than a single trip to Whole Foods, I decided to join the ranks of fanatical, image obsessed Vancouverites with multiple gym passes. If I feel like slumming it and risk contracting a strange bacterial infection, I’ll do a workout in Kits (honestly, the place is drrrty) and if I want to see how the other half lives and witness first hand how a full-grown man is able to work out in a sequined size-zero onesie, then I’ll head to the YMCA. Both have their own unique charm but they share one major similarity: they’re both outrageously homosexual, and not just because I’m there.
Now obviously the YMCA has a solid history with the gays ever since the Village People immortalized the facilities in their iconic anthem, but I think there’s more to it than that. Gays have a tendency to flock en masse to the newest and best and I tell you friend, this place is crazy sauce. The inside of it resembles a spaceship of sorts, with multiple “decks” featuring different amenities. There’s the ozone pool with the floor that mechanically moves up and down to adjust the depth and there’s the locker room with the spinning machines that miraculously whirl your swimsuit dry. Then there’s the weight room with a selection of completely digitized equipment that allows you to have a simulated personal trainer guide you through your fat loss. The male “trainer” is a blonde, rather buff looking mandroid who instructs you to squeeze your glutes as you pedal on the spinning bike. Again, gay. There’s also a “Reflection Room,” but nobody uses it.
The main thing I’ve noticed though is how the gays begin to set up something of a traditional social structure when they’re in such high concentrations. I’m reminded of the movie Land of the Dead where the zombies have more or less taken over the world and only a few outposts of humanity remain. When left alone, the zombies began to adopt behavior reminiscent of the humans: they went on dates, held down jobs, pumped gas, raised their families and watered their gardens. To outsiders they looked like a regular Joes just going about their business. The same goes for the gays at the ‘Y’. I’m sure I’ll be crucified for comparing my people to the living dead but if you happen to take in a workout downtown you’ll see what I’m talking about.
At the YMCA, the gay social hierarchy is obvious and well defined. There are the Muscle Heads (the gays on steroids who stick to the free weights) the Cheer Squad (the gays on steroids who stay on the machines and wear the above mentioned onesies) the Jocks (the gays on steroids who stick to the basketball courts) the Nerds (the gays on steroids who read while on the ellipticals) and the lesbians (the gays on steroids who date women). The groups are well defined and don’t intermingle much except to cruise a bit or to ask if a machine is in use. Looking around you’d swear that we’ve taken over the world.
I was talking to a guy at my gym in Kitsilano one afternoon just after I finished my workout. Between talk about the weather and him trying to interest me in a cycle of steroids (‘Gear’ he called it) I informed him of my new membership at the YMCA where I go with my partner, Matt. He paused for a moment considering the statement and I anticipated a punch to the chin. Instead he smiled, told me he was thinking of getting a membership there himself because “all those guys are good customers,” and if I changed my mind about adding 20 lbs of lean muscle to my frame I knew where to find him, same went for my partner. How nice.
I think it’s the total normalcy of the gayness that makes this city seem so flamboyant. I mean, if a 250 lb drug dealer isn’t fazed by someone’s orientation then I think it’s safe to say that nobody is. We’ve arguably entered the age of the “boring gay,” where we’re no longer screamingly fabulous queens or the outrageous “Betchs” of decades past. Ultimately that’s the whole point I think: for gays to be thought of as typical, ordinary people. I doubt if I’ll ever get to the point where sequins don’t seem out of place or even all together ridiculous in a gym (or anywhere) but I suppose I could stand to be a little less shockable. After all, these guys are just people who, when they’re not working out are just average Joes who go on dates, hold down jobs, pump gas, water lawns and raise families and if they do it with the help of a little “Gear,” it’s only to help them fill out the onesie that they throw on for old time’s sake
I’m in front of my computer and I’m Hell bent on writing a blog entry; it’s been too long (again, sorry). Not to make excuses but I have been writing a great deal. My second book is well under way and is whistling along at a good speed. Turns out there is something to writing up chapter outlines first. I’m aiming to have book two done by at least this time next year and Unextraordinary Things (book one) is now in the extremely capable editing hands of Jessica who also works for the Westender and who is, in her own words, “brutally honest.” I’m excited and nervous.
As far as the blogging goes, I’ve had a number of false starts and I get to the end of each new “column” and I’m like, “What the heck is this about? I just wrote two pages about the hole in the toe of my socks!” Though I realize that writing a blog is sort of a narcissistic exercise despite your choice of subject matter still, nobody needs to hear about my boring day-to-day let alone the ever-thinning fabric of my footwear. If I want to be that self-important I’d audition for 1 Girl, 5 Gays. Not on your life.
I also started an entry the day before my birthday (the 11th) about how celebrating one’s birthday has changed through the centuries and that in ancient Rome it was probably a celebration being able to survive an entire year and now it’s about…well now I don’t know what birthdays are about—growing up I guess. I know that mine signified that I am now 27. T-W-E-N-T-Y-S-E-V-E-N. When I sound it out it’s kind of freaky and it reminds me that I need to change the ‘about’ section of this blog to tell all you readers that indeed I am three short years away from the big 3-OH and that though I still feel that the quarter life crisis is going strong (it might continue to do so until the day I die) I’m no longer at my quarter life. In all likelihood I probably wasn’t at my quarter life last year or even at 25. Statistically speaking I was probably at my quarter life at 20 but I’d rather not get into a big discussion about life expectancy and age related illness just now—too morbid.
Anyway, this year was actually fantastic as far as birthdays go. Usually I just wave at them as they go whooshing past and then take an whole week to settle into my new age bracket. This year though I celebrated a joint party with my best friend Kalie whom I’ve mentioned before. She and I have known each other for most of our lives (since about the age of three we’re guessing) and to be honest she is closer to me than my own thoughts so it was great to actually be able to have a dual birthday with her because we’ve never done it before and because for some reason, throwing a party for just you as you get older somehow seems like too much of an effort. A birthday party, however it comes to you, still lessens the blow of aging and maybe that is why we celebrate them nowadays.
Matt donning the laurel wreath (good sport)
Kalie and I decided that a Roman themed party was the best idea of all time and so we, with Jessica, set about making three different kinds of cake (two “traditional” Roman honey cakes and a batch of chocolate cupcakes) and collected a bunch of fabric (blankets and such) for people to fashion into togas. Kalie had a bit of a shopping seizure at IKEA and bought out most of their candles and I did the same with the peony bouquets that are on sale across the city (gay much?). We bought bread, made hummus, guacamole and bruschetta and Kalie set out a giant container of green branches with which to make laurel wreaths. We put on a disc of the HBO series Rome and cranked a play list that was heavy on the Shakira (what could be more Roman?). It was exactly what I was hoping for and when Jessica’s boyfriend melted a handful of birthday candles to create the Coliseum on top of one of the birthday cakes I knew that 27 was going to be a very good year.
Three Cakes
I think that birthdays are to me what January first is to a lot of other people. Now, like every year I’m taking stock and re-evaluating every aspect of my life in an attempt to spring-clean on an existential level. I have to decide what I need to keep, what I need to chuck out and what I might need to add. I’m keeping the hiking and the writing and I’ve already added the publishing internship, more climbing with Mysha and swimming. I do need to trash a few things though in order to feel like I’m successfully moving forward. My apartment for one is getting increasingly more obnoxious due to the never-ending maintenance and light installations on the adjacent building (seriously, it’s like staring into the last act of Chicago with the number of lights they’ve added to the façade) and I do indeed need to make a serious leap in terms of career (hint, hint, I’d love to publish something) but ultimately 27 is well on its way to being a great age and I already feel like I might miss it when I turn 28. 28 though is a whole year away.
Well because this blog is supposed to be about the quarter life crisis (and inevitably about aging itself) I thought that it was only a matter of time until the subject matter rolled over to that of one’s appearance, mine specifically.
In general I’d say that I’m doing okay in the epic fight against old man time: he hasn’t completely beaten the crap out of me yet and though I sometimes slip, I am pretty diligent about all the things you should be pretty diligent about. Despite the fact that my sunscreen makes my face as white and shiny as a gooey, wet marshmallow I still use it every day, only skipping when I either run out or the winter days are so short and rainy that it’s more a waste of product than a measure of protection to slather the stuff on. Diet wise, I manage to “eat the rainbow,” which as limp-wristedly gay as it sounds, simply means consuming produce that reflects the spectrum and is also on the more bland end of the taste scale. I also exercise regularly and because I don’t own a car, my legs are my default mode of transportation.
Sure, there are things I could do better. Beating stress is pretty futile as my job has more or less obliterated any hope of that and though I’d love to actually fix some old running or weight lifting injuries before they cripple me in middle age, I can’t swing the series of massage or physical therapy appointments needed to correct them. I’m also sure there is some sort of appliance I could invest in for grinding my teeth and a procedure for gum recession but until the higher-ups bestow dental coverage on yours truly, the bi-annual check-up and cleaning in tandem with my obsessive brushing and flossing regimen will have to do. Sorry teeth.
Yep, in comparison to some people my age I’m doing alright. At work I get to see a great number of driver’s licenses and I always play a game with myself to see if I can correctly guess someone’s age before they hand their card over. More often than not, customers born in 1983 look a good decade older than their true age. This is usually when I pull my, “Have you seen our skincare?” line on them. After all, nothing sells cosmetics better than a lack of confidence.
There are things that diet, exercise and avoiding the sun can’t prevent though. I’m of course referring to the loss of one’s hair. It’s a touchy subject for people because hair is one of those physical attributes that is so socially loaded and emotionally charged that it’s better to ignore it than to deal with it. When away from their wives, middle aged men will talk about hair the way a lot of girls talk about pants (it’s always pants isn’t it?) perseverating on the topic until the bartender flicks on the ugly lights and they are forced to run glintingly into the night
I got to thinking about hair lately when a couple girls (now women actually) that I attended elementary, and then middle, then high school with stopped in at the store I work at. Neither knew I worked there which made the interaction all the more embarrassing because I was A) selling them something and B) dressed in a puce coloured, ill-fitting tee-shirt that made me look like a nightmarish stuffed animal. While providing the two girls with testers of gloss and trying to stand in a dimmer light to conceal my flushed face, we were able to catch up a bit on what we and the people we went to high school with have been doing. There was mention of one of the more athletic members of our school who was still living back in Alberta. Truth be told, I had a significant crush on this guy a long time ago and so I asked how he was doing in the nonchalant way that doesn’t fool anyone: “Oh speaking of shoelaces what is Chris up to?” Both the girls responded in unison saying, “Bald!” At first I didn’t really know what to say but eventually settled on the “AWWW,” that’s normally reserved for children who’ve just dropped their ice cream on the ground. ‘Bald’ is such a curse. ‘Bald’ is permanent and in our extremely perfectionist society, ‘Bald’ is shamed and above all else, old.
When I was a young kid I had a pretty mean head of hair. Though for a good number of my formative years it was cut into a bowl shape, it was still thick and healthy and it made my face complete. When I grew into my a teenager and wanted to look like everyone else, I cut the bowl into a different shape and managed to gain a modicum of respect amongst my peers. Hair is, if nothing else, a status symbol. After high school I left home for university and my hair had grown into the long and sun bleached look popularized by Kurt Cobain. I adopted a ripped jeans and plaid shirt style to suit both the hair and my laid-back B.FA persona and my popularity percolated along just fine as a result.
Yep the sexily disheveled look worked until one night upon arriving back from the campus bar drunk with my roommate I glanced in the bathroom mirror of our dorm wing and noticed a glaringly sparse patch on top of my head. The spot wasn’t there the day before but here, alone under the fluorescent lights of the guy’s bathroom, I was losing my hair.
It progressed from there. Everything became about my scalp and I began looking at the parts of everyone around me. “This ruins everything,” I thought, “I’m just going to have to start liking hats or move into the wilderness.”
When I wasn’t studying for exams I’d be researching hair on the internet, convinced that I’d be able to find something that hadn’t been tried before and would miraculously cure me of my genetics. I tried to also adopt a more positive, nonchalant approach baldness but in the end it gets exhausting trying to convince people that Ed Harris and Bruce Willis are sex symbols. Fact of the matter is people are downright obsessed with hair. If asked, women and gay men will always rank “good hair” in the top three characteristics they look for in a partner. A good personality normally comes in close to the ‘20’ mark.
Right before I moved out to Vancouver I shaved my head completely. I suppose it was euthanasia of a sort: I was going to get rid of my hair before my age or genetics could do it for me. With the new bald head I found that the Kurt Cobain, grunge look didn’t really fly and so I took on something of a militaristic aesthetic, more by accident than anything. Once shaved, I had to smile like a brain-damaged golden retriever at all times because if I had my serious face on it would inevitably lead to people asking me about my political affiliations (of which there aren’t any) and how I felt about the holocaust. Vegetarianism seemed to be the only logical solution since when paired with the bald, it would lend itself to thoughts of Buddhism rather than fascism. No one fell for it.
Eventually I gave up on my hair all together and just kept its length to a number 2 clipper. Every couple weeks or so I’d strip down, stand in my tub and run the rotating blades back and forth over my skull making everything look intentional. After a while I more or less forgot about the top of my head save for the occasional sunburn, or when I would be studying make-up at school and one of my teachers would demonstrate on me how artists have to “creatively conceal” balding actors’ heads with nylon hair fibers. I’d sit under the shaking canister of fake hair and the class got a lesson on how a young actor isn’t marketable if he’s “losing it.”
Lately though I’ve been getting lazy. I stopped buzzing my head and my hair grew out at what can arguably be light speed (it hasn’t had to do much for close to a decade after all). I went to my friend Spencer and through some magic trick he cut my hair to make me look like I have a good amount of it. I have to say, it’s a bit strange having my head populated again. I can’t roll out of bed anymore and just walk out of the house without looking in the mirror (at least not if I want to be taken seriously) and I am significantly more protected from the sun, which is great because I look like a garden gnome when I wear a hat. Most of all it’s nice to know that if someone from my past happens to ask someone else what I’m up to, “being bald” won’t be the unanimous answer. Whoever knows me will just say “fine” and change the subject.
It’s no secret that we North Americans (and probably Western Europeans and Australians) have a seriously dysfunctional relationship with food. It’s all or nothing with us; it’s gluttony or starvation. Food even in its most basic form, its most virgin, is still contested and argued about ad nauseam. Everyone I know it seems doesn’t eat something for one reason or another or if they do “embrace” all food then they do so in excess. I’m definitely not judging but really just making an observation. To be totally honest I’m completely guilty of this mentality as well. There are a couple things I don’t eat. Soy for example, I have tried to expunge from my diet (it apparently contains estrogen and I’m trying to be as manly as possible…I’ll let you know how it works out) the same goes for pork, though I’ve been slightly less successful with this one. Everything else I do is to the point of overindulgence. Terra Breads green olive sourdough doesn’t stand a chance in my house. I can finish one of those babies off in less than two hours. Two hours! That’s for a whole loaf of bread! Mind you I feel like a colossal sponge after but I always forget that fact when I’m cutting into its crusty goodness. Who do I think I am, Michael Phelps?
Everyone has something though. Matt won’t eat salt or drink 2% milk. My brother won’t eat anything that doesn’t say “low fat” on the label. My mom won’t eat strawberries, raspberries or avocados and the people at work, bless their cotton socks, won’t be caught in the same room as anything that contains butter, eggs or dairy. Try baking something that is missing all three of those, you’ll end up with a mug of hot water.
I think it’s butter though that is the most contested. The French seem to have made peace with the creamy emulsion but the rest of us can’t get seem to reconcile in the same way. I once had a friend that would put butter in everything she cooked. It was everywhere: stuffed into chickens, coated over Brussels sprouts, baked into cakes and cookies and pies and probably tossed into salads though I never wanted to ask and find out for sure. Everything she made tasted like butter. And it was delicious. Mind you, this friend’s relationship with food was just as dysfunctional as everyone else’s, just in a different way. The butter debate got me thinking though: how can one make something delicious and rich without at least a minor addition of this cerate? My project began, I was to reinvent or recreate the taste of butter in a recipe without actually using it or one of its more popular substitutes.
A Brownie. It was the perfect baked good with which to experiment. You can easily tell a brownie made from Franken-ingredients from one made with butter and flour and love. I decided to make a fudgey brownie without using flour or butter. No small task I assure you. I replaced the flour with black beans (seriously) and buckwheat (it’s not a grain I swear) and replaced the butter with a mixture of goat’s cheese, banana, and grape seed oil. It sounds more like a recipe for some strange lasagna but in the end it actually worked…almost. The brownies were rich and dense and had a ghost of buttery flavor about them but they still didn’t compare to the real McCoy that I had grown to love as a kid. My mom’s brownies are a stunning testament to the antidepressant powers of a chocolatey baked good…and they contain butter as a rule. The fact is, nothing is butter except butter, no matter how you slice (or melt) it. And as in baking, so too in life. Right?
Butter free ingred's
The older I get the more perceptive I have become (luckily), and I think that people are a lot like baked goods (leave it to me to compare life to food). Vancouver is a city seriously devoid of “real butter” people. I’m not referring to where they rank on the BMI index at all or whether or not they’re vegan, but how they are with those around them. “Genuine” isn’t a term I can use to describe the average person in this city. Sure, you may get a butter substitute every now and then and in the immortal words of a margarine-era Fabio, you just “can’t believe it’s not…” but you will see through the phony emollient sooner or later. The “butter substitute” people’s agenda becomes very clear pretty quick.
I consider myself really lucky because though most of my friends here in Vancouver have strange (sometimes oddly so) diet restrictions, they are indeed “real butter” people. They are authentic and honest and make the day-to-day seem that much richer. Some of my “true butter” people have moved away from the city (miss you Andrea), some have landed here and are thriving (hi Kalie) and some of them from other regions are considering a move. No matter where they are though, I know that they are a permanent fixture in my life and vice versa. True butter after all is thick and sturdy and doesn’t melt at room temperature and even if you only get it in small amounts, real butter is always satisfying. You can depend on butter.
Ultimately I guess butter can’t be reinvented and really, why would you want to? The only thing that imitation butter does is make you appreciate the real stuff that much more. Sure, you can temporarily fill up on ersatz baking once in a while but in the end, nothing beats a substantial brownie made with the goodness of real, sincere butter.
Degrees of... 