We're not terrible people. Really.

Driving home late one night, Dave complained of a scratchy throat. Being the good wife that I am, I offered him a mint or a Lifesaver to take his mind off the scratchiness. He selected the Lifesaver option, so I dug one of my individually-wrapped, assorted-fruit-flavor sugar rings out of my purse and unwrapped it for him. I held it out for him to take, but he opened his mouth and said "Ahh", with his tongue out.

"Really? You want me to feed it to you?"

He nodded and grunted in the affirmative, tongue still out.

I put the candy on his tongue, at which point he drew it into his mouth and said in all sacriliciousness: "Body of Christ." I tell you, you can take the Catholic out of church...

"Wow, honey, if that's the body of Christ, he's got some serious diabetes."

He shrugged. "Hey, he's made up of all those white bread wafers. Nothing but carbs will do that to a person."

"So, refined carbs were Jesus' downfall?"

He considered that for a second. "Yeah. That and the Romans."

Writing assignment #1

This week's writing prompts included "incidents that stand out in my memory", and offered examples of parades and circuses. This event sprung immediately to my mind, and although it's a short piece, I'm going to be happy to present it in class this week.

Elephants on the Nydeggbrucke

On a foggy alpine morning in Bern, my friends and I rose early for a visit to the Barengraben before taking the train up into the mountains for the day. The city still seemed to be asleep. The narrow streets were almost empty of traffic and the sidewalks were bare except for a few early risers clutching steaming cups of coffee. The tall closeness of the buildings in the Swiss capital blocked out much of the surrounding view, so when I heard a commotion coming from somewhere nearby, I couldn't locate the origin of the foreign voices. I rushed ahead, turning a corner and losing sight of my friends.

I blinked. I gaped.

I ran back towards my friends, who were keeping a leisurely pace a block behind me, and I shouted to them.

“Elephants!”

My companions looked at each other, not sure I was sane.

“Elephants!” I repeated, racing back to the main road for another look.

We gathered on the damp sidewalk with other bleary-eyed tourists and confused locals, to watch the elephants walk by. A procession of five huge Asian elephants was being led down the street to cross the Aar river by way of the Nydeggbrucke bridge. There were no banners, no marching band, no circus clowns in giant shoes. Just five elephants, being led quietly down the streets of Bern on a sleepy morning. The elephants wore no costumes or blankets. They didn't walk trunk-to-tail like they do in cartoons. Their legs weren't shackled together, like all of the elephants I'd ever seen performing in the circus. They simply plodded slowly forward, towering into the grey sky, each following the other at a short distance. Men who I supposed were their trainers walked alongside the beasts, holding riding crops in their hands to correct their course if necessary.

I don't know where the elephants came from, or where they were going – I only spoke enough German to order bratwurst and beer, so I didn't think to ask anyone around me for an explanation of what I was witnessing. Given the dazed looks of the others on the sidewalk, though, I suspect everyone was as confused as I was.

We followed the silent parade across the bridge and watched them walk on into the morning as we stopped at the bear pit to eat our pastries.

For Momo.

My grandmother, Mabel Mills Blais, known by all as Momo, passed away last weekend. I have been wanting to write her a tribute, but how can I condense a whole life onto this page? The magnitude of that task intimidated me all week and kept me from trying, until I realized that it's not my job to chronicle every detail of Momo's long and fascinating life; at least, not right now. Everyone who knew her has their own version of Momo to remember, and all I can do is share my Momo with you. The Momo who will live on in my memories.

My most comfortable and familiar Momo memories center around her kitchen table, where we'd sit and chat when I came to visit. Standing ready by the stove, nudging one of her rescued feline friends from the counter, she'd ask “Shall I make us a cuppa tea?” Refusing the offer got me nowhere – half a cup was always her next offer, as though the thought of a guest in her home not drinking at least a little tea was unconscionable. Officially, Momo herself only ever wanted half a cup of anything. She just had to drink through the top half to get to the bottom half, that's all. When the tea situation was settled to her satisfaction, she would clink mugs and spoons and shift the whistling kettle while she hummed to herself about what one should do with drunken sailors*. Always sturdy, sensible, big coffee mugs for Momo's tea - I never saw her using dainty teacups. Dainty just wasn't her way. 

Momo's mugs of tea always came with offers of food: cookies, May West snack cakes, toasted tomato “sangwiches”... Despite years of my best efforts to convince my grandmother that I do not like sliced raw tomatoes as a sandwich filling, she offered me one every time I was in her kitchen. I can't decide whether my preference just never registered for her, or whether she was getting a good laugh out of it. I'm inclined to believe the latter. Still, I have to wonder – what if I'd said yes, just to throw her off? Did she keep fresh tomatoes in her kitchen all year, season to season, just in case I called her bluff?

We talked about everything at that table. Sometimes politics, sometimes family goings-on, and always a discussion of something she'd heard on the radio. CJAD talk radio was her constant companion, always droning on in some corner of the house at all hours of the day and night. When her eyes started to go, the radio meant even more to her, and she'd relate stories from the radio programs as though she'd heard them from good friends. Whenever I came to her with a problem or a complaint about something at work or at school, she'd think for a moment and ask “Do you ever listen to Dr. So-and-So on CJAD? They talk about that sometimes. You should call in.” I often sighed, quite rudely and unfairly, when she asked me about the radio programs, because I never listened to anything but music stations and she knew that. It was the tomato sangwiches all over again!

She did watch TV sometimes, most of it absorbed through her closed eyelids while she rumbled the couch cushions with her snoring. If someone tried to turn off the TV while she was installed, she'd wake with a jolt and protest that she'd been watching that, and resting her eyes! And you know, if you quizzed her, she could almost always tell you exactly what had been happening on the screen.

Momo never had a problem sharing her opinions with you or with anyone within earshot. She was a woman who loved a good debate, and would shamelessly shift sides in a discussion if it meant it would keep the conversation lively. Looking back on those moments now, I can't help but think that I've got a bit of her in me. I see all sides of every argument and can play the Devil's Advocate and rationalize almost any position, if I'm given a chance. I see now that all those cups of tea with Momo had more of a role in shaping my personality than I ever realized at the time.

There's so much more. More than I could ever fit here and more than I could ever really relate to those who never knew her. So many little things about Momo and about the big house in Longueuil. The Crayola-red and -yellow tulips in the front garden. The white stone lions on the front porch, who made such comfortable chairs for the grandchildren having imaginary adventures. Holding out peanuts for generation after generation of backyard squirrels (all of whom were named "Chippy"), and throwing stale bread out to the "dickie birds". 

Her home was always a home to all, with family members holding a lifetime, unrestricted Golden Invitation to come and stay as needed. Nobody would ever be turned away - even the Jehovah's Witnesses who came to the door were accepted for a chat, and every stray cat who ever sat on the porch and meowed for food was given love and a warm home to purr in.

We'll miss her. She was strong and opinionated, kind and witty, and it's obvious that her whole family carries parts of her with them. You won't be forgotten, Momo. Toodley-pips, and God Bless.

*Her preferred method of dealing with one was to kick 'im in the belly and bust his boiler, whatever that means, but I can't find a reference to that line anywhere other than in my memories.

Cuppy Cakes a la Momo

This isn't a recipe. It's a fond memory and a sweet tribute to my grandmother, Momo, who left us this past weekend after 91 rich years in this world. I've been working on a written tribute, because I feel it's something I need to do, but this week has been very difficult. The words aren't lining up right, so I turned to food, as so many people do in painful times.

These "cuppy cakes" were Momo's specialty, as far as my siblings and I were concerned. "Cupcakes" could mean almost anything, but when someone said "Cuppy Cakes", you knew exactly what was waiting for you. They never stood a chance of surviving overnight once they were made.

They're just simple chocolate cupcakes, made from a box mix, with holes cut into the tops to make room for homemade, lightly sweetened whipped cream. They always lived on a shelf in her fridge because of the whipped cream filling, and we kids would try to be subtle about sneaking back over to open the fridge door for just one more... Sometimes the simplest things are really the best.

They just seemed like the right thing to make this week.

I Killed My Oven

Remember my intelligent wall oven? The one trying to speak to me in Morse code? I think I killed it.

I was tired of hearing the oven screaming at my delicious green beans, so I went to jiggle the part that I always jiggle when I need to silence the irritating alarms. I must have jiggled harder than usual, because this time the whole thing fell out into the oven, trailing ancient wires and insulation with it. The best part? The alarm was then permanently on. One frayed wire had come loose from its connector on the part, so I tried to jam it back into place with my oven-mitted hands, with little success. I couldn't get it to stay in place, and even when I held it there, the alarm wasn't shutting off. The shrieking wouldn't stop until I turned the oven off - as soon as I tried switching it back on, the alarm came back, no matter what I did with those wires. It was a few minutes before I realized that I was playing around with wires that may be hot in a couple of different ways, and I gave up.

Dave made a valiant effort at fixing it, but it's beyond our abilities. Looks like I'll be exploring the art of microwave cookery for a while. I wonder if any appliance repair guys will know how to fix a 30+ year old oven, or if we need to consider moving up our kitchen remodeling plans.

My Class

I took a big step outside of my comfort bubble last night. Ever since I escaped shift work and started my new day job, I've been muttering about taking a class of some sort. Frustrated with my endless procrastination, I dedicated an afternoon to searching the internet for online professional certificate courses to push my career along, but became discouraged when I found that legitimate courses are very expensive. But I was tired of always saying I wanted to do something, and never doing it, so I decided to start small instead of giving up. Baby steps aren't much, but they're better than standing still. I registered for a writing class at the community college.

My first class was last night. I wasn't given any information beyond the name of the high school where the classes were held, so all I brought with me was a good pen and a slightly-used yellow spiral notebook, figuring that I'd at least have the basics covered. Notebook in hand, I stepped nervously through the front door to the school and was greeted by a helpful volunteer who showed me to my classroom.

The desks were tiny, arranged in three neat rows facing a chalkboard half-filled with a teacher's precise handwriting. I saw that the class was reading and analyzing Nathaniel Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter, and I smiled to myself, thinking it was probably just as well that I never had to read that one at school, or I wouldn't  have enjoyed it. Sometimes, reading too much into a book takes all the joy out of reading the book.

I was alone at first, twenty minutes early on purpose so that tardiness wouldn't add to my anxiety. The door was behind me, hidden at the end of a short hallway, so each time I heard the click of a new student arriving, I had to turn and wait to see who would appear. One by one, my five classmates came in and chose their seats. It's a very small class - only six women - and I am by far the youngest student. It feels strange to be taking a class about memoir and legacy writing when I'm not really old enough to have much of a life story, especially when I'm sitting there beside women in their seventies and eighties who have done so many incredible things.

When the teacher asked us to introduce ourselves and tell her why we were taking the class, I told everyone that I'm a Canadian import who came here for love, and that I love to write and want to learn more about it so that my blog will be better and maybe someday I'll write down my family's interesting stories for my grandchildren to read. I then had to explain a "blog" to my oldest classmate.

I hope I like the class, and I hope I do well. It's not for credit, but I will feel better if I can notice a difference in my writing, or at least in my approach to writing, by the end. We do writing exercises and share our work, which terrifies me. How strange that I can put my work online and not feel anxious about how it will be received, but reading a paragraph to the class makes my voice tremble. But it's not a challenge if it doesn't push me, so I'm going to do my best.

The first bit I read aloud to the class was the result of the teacher's instructions to find an important moment in my life and write about it for ten minutes. No other guidelines, just put something on paper and share it. I wrote about my first date with my husband, and while I would definitely go back and polish it up before presenting it to the world as an example of what I can do, it made the class laugh, and writing it made me happy.

I'm not sure whether I will, or whether I even should, share the results of my writing exercises with the internet. Who wants to read my memories, anyway? The important thing is that I followed through on a goal I set for myself, and I'm trying to be creative and find a way to grow a little. Wish me luck.

'Tis the Season

Not the Christmas season, of course; it's much too early to be thinking about Santa Claus. Unless you're a major department store, in which case you've had your light-up snowman yard ornaments on display in your seasonal section beside the rakes and lawn bags for two weeks. I know it's true because I saw this guy at Sears last week and would have brought him home to live with me if he wasn't so ridiculously expensive.

But I digress.

What I'm trying to talk about is cold and flu season, which started a week ago for me. Despite my best efforts to wash my hands and stay healthy, I caught a real humdinger of a cold. In hindsight, handling a giggling snotty nephew wasn't the best idea, but I just couldn't help myself. So I got to enjoy blocked sinuses, sniffles, sore throat, fatigue, and a low fever, making me a miserable slug for a week. I'm grateful that everyone has given me permission to take it easy and rest up, and I'm glad that laundry is a fairly low-energy task, because otherwise we'd be out of socks by now.

Don't be like me. Don't get sick. Avoiding small, sniffling children is a good start, but that's only one (very effective) method of germ transmission. So what's to be done?

Wash your hands.

 

Everyone says this, because it's absolutely the best way to keep from getting sick. The CDC has a whole page dedicated to handwashing, with links to videos, factsheets, and podcasts.

How to wash your hands. Image from cdc.gov

Yes, sometimes people will cough or sneeze right at your face (small children, I'm looking in your direction) and you'll be out of luck, but it's far, far more likely that you'll get germs on your hands and deliver them to your face yourself. Someone coughs into their hands and then opens a door, or sneezes on an elevator and pushes the buttons, and then you follow behind them a few minutes later, unaware of the collection of cold viruses waiting for you on those surfaces. You open the door, you push the button for your floor, then you rub your tired eyes or bite your nails. The next day, you'll start feeling off and will probably start distributing those germs yourself.

Cold and flu viruses (and plenty of other nasties) can live on surfaces for up to 48 hours under the right conditions, so unless you want to wear gloves all day and get strange looks, you should make an extra effort to touch only what you need to, wash your hands every chance you get, and keep your hands away from your face. At home, if someone's sick, break out the Lysol now and then to spray doorknobs, toilet handles, and faucets. Encourage everyone to wash their hands after using tissues to blow noses, and to cough and sneeze into their sleeves instead of into their hands.

You don't need to bother with antibacterial soaps. Any soap will do, used with warm water and brought to a good lather. In fact, there's research to suggest that the main antibacterial agent in most of the commercially available hand soaps, Triclosan, is contributing to antibiotic resistance.

It's also a good idea to keep an alcohol-based hand sanitizer with you, for times when you may not have quick access to soap and water. Again, antibacterial agents aren't necessary here - anything that's got an alcohol content of 60% or higher will be effective in destroying most of the bacteria and viruses that are on your hands. You should still look for a sink eventually, though, and wash your hands the old-fashioned way as soon as you get a chance.

With all this handwashing, you're likely to get dry skin, no matter how many emollients the soap and sanitizer manufacturers add to their products. Get yourself a good hand lotion, because chapped and cracked skin is not a good barrier against germs!

What Have We Done to This Place?

I'd love to give everyone another update on the new floors, but unfortunately, nothing new has happened since the end of July. Not only do we still have our old nasty carpets, we've still got a pile of old hallway carpet sitting on the front porch because the nice Columbia Floors folks never took it away. We're still missing the shoe molding around the new tile by the door, and in the laundry room where it would hide the uneven edges left by the tile guy. All of this is supposed to be done by the mysterious carpet people, who keep cancelling their appointments at the very last minute (and only after we call to ask what time to expect them). Part of why it's taking so long is because we want one specific guy to come back and finish the work, because he showed up on time and had some pride in his work, but it's been hard to book him.

As of this post, he is scheduled for next week. Again. I guess we're just having a hard time finding reliable contractors. We bought into the Angie's List thing, thinking it would save us some grief, but we've been so disappointed with this company despite their good reviews online. Hopefully the end is almost here, and I can have my cozy new carpets in time for the cold weather.

But you know, we've done an awful lot to this place in the two years we've been here. It's not all drama and chaos and epic failures in our quality assessment of hired professionals. I made a list of the accomplishments:

• Painted red room, bedroom, family room, computer room
• Removed wallpaper and painted living room, dining room, hallway
• New curtains and rods in most rooms 
• New vertical blinds in dining room and family room
• Replaced porch light
• Replaced front door and doorbell
• Pulled up shrubs by lamppost
• Replaced mailbox
• New a/c and air handler
• Added doors to family room fireplace
• New sliding glass doors in family room
• Hardwood floors in living and dining room
• New vinyl tile in laundry room
• Replaced ceiling fan in bedroom
• Replaced doorknobs everywhere
• Replaced fan/heater assembly in two bathrooms
• Re-grouted shower in master bathroom
• Updated closet door hardware in family room
• New fridge
• New light fixtures in computer room, red room, hallway, dining room
• Had trees removed in backyard
• Had trees removed in front yard (post-Irene cleanup)
• New section of fence and gate (post Irene)
• Tore up vines along fence
• Repaired side fence
• Cut down dying shrubs in back and side yards
• Landscaping work in front yard, removing poison ivy 
• Put hooks up along front porch for easy Christmas light installation
• Had chimney rebuilt
• Repaired roof leak
• Painted outside windows
• Put up drywall ceiling in computer room (replaced tile ceiling)
• Replaced toilet in downstairs bedroom

There are so many things left on the to-do list, not the least of which is getting the carpet situation settled, but when I list out everything we've gotten done so far, I really feel that we're making progress. Just look at all that stuff! Bit by bit, it's all getting done, and the house looks and feels a whole lot more like we wanted it to. It feels like home.

The pet of your dreams

Full disclosure: the topic of today's post was shamelessly stolen from a Paul and Storm podcast I had the pleasure of listening to on the Montreal road trip. Many, many times while we listened to their chats, Dave and I hit the pause button and discussed our own views on the topics they brought up, which was really the best part of the drive. I took some notes on topics I wanted to explore on my own blog, and today's post will be the first of (hopefully) several Paul-and-Storm-inspired musings.

Assuming that science was able to make it happen, what pet would you be willing to pay 

20 thousand dollars for?

My first thought, my first immediate thought: House Hippo!!

Hippopotamuses are among my favorite animals at zoos. They look like they've been overinflated with a bicycle pump, and they're smooth and shiny and have those disproportionally tiny tails that make them so comical. Of course, in real life, hippos are vicious. They're incredibly large, aggressive creatures who are known to attack humans any chance they get, capsizing river boats and just being mean old sons of bitches.

SO CUTE IT BURNS

But if science could create a teeny little hamster-sized hippo, and maybe breed out some of that aggression, I would be seriously tempted to save up my money and get one. Of course, the cats would hate it, but if I built it a little hippo habitat in a fish tank, it might work.

Unfortunately, I doubt that very much research money is going towards the shrinking of giant wild animals for house pets, so my house hippo dreams are never likely to be fulfilled. So, just in case I ever end up rich enough to spend obscene amounts of money on ridiculous pets, I have a backup plan.

Glow-in-the-dark cats. 

No, really. These are a real thing. When scientists are trying to splice a gene into an animal's genome, they need a convenient way to know whether it worked. One of the simplest ways for them to do this is to pair a glow gene, usually from jellyfish, with the important gene. If your test animal glows, then the insertion was successful. And adorable.

Glowing kitties of the future!

How great would it be to have a cat nightlight? Considering how often my boys like to dart around my feet when I'm walking downstairs in the darkness of early morning, a little glow could go a long way to keeping my neck intact.

What super-creature would you fork over 20 grand to have in your house?

Montreal Bagels

Since it's a trip home and not really a vacation, you wouldn't think I'd bring home many souvenirs for myself when I visit Montreal. Usually, this is true, but this time I had a moment of bready weakness and brought back dozens of fresh bagels. 

Explain to me how anyone can walk into a place like this and not leave with as many bagels as they could carry. I'm grateful they didn't have shopping carts, or I may have bought more. The staff was very understanding of my need to take pictures of their bagel oven. Apparently they get that all the time. See those long flat boards? They use those to get the bagels into and out of the oven, and they slide the hot golden bagels off the boards  into the big bin you see on the right, where they get scooped out and put by the dozen into paper bags for the customers waiting in line.

Brossard Bagel, in Greenfield Park, QC

One dozen of the delicious bagels I imported were to share with my coworkers, because I thought it would be a welcome change from the boxes of saltwater taffy that always appear in the break room whenever someone gets back from vacation. Also, we're a pretty seriously carbohydrate-loving group.

I sent out an excited "OMG you guys!! Montreal bagels for everyone!!" e-mail and then spent the rest of the morning trying to answer "what's a Montreal bagel?" And that's a difficult question. All I know is that they're dense, they're delicious, and I can't find anything like them around here.

So, in the interest of educating the world, I acquired different types of bagels so that I could proceed with: 

A Comparative Anatomy of Bagels

 

I started with one sesame bagel from Brossard Bagel, and one poppyseed bagel from Wegmans. I was going to get one from Panera, but I was grocery shopping anyway, and the Wegmans ones looked exactly like the Panera ones I'm used to, so I think it's a good example of a generic "bagel" available in this area. I specifically did not buy the packaged Thomas Bagels in the bread aisle, because I wanted to compare a fresh-baked Montreal bagel with a fresh-baked generic bagel from this area. The guy at the counter at Wegmans assured me that they bake them fresh, so we're on more or less even ground there.

First, let's have a look at them.

Left: Montreal bagel. Right: Wegmans bagel.

The first thing that you notice is that the Wegman's bagel looks a lot bigger than the one from Montreal. It's taller, and while it's about the same diameter, it has a much smaller center hole, making it look a lot less dense. But is it less dense?

Here's a look at the insides.

Left: Montreal bagel. Right: Wegmans bagel

They both show evidence of bubbles inside, but the ones in the Wegmans bagel are bigger. This doesn't necessarily mean it's less dense, but I noticed a big difference in texture just by poking them. The Wegmans bagel is much, much more squashable.

I crushed the bagels with my girly pink dumbbells to demonstrate the squash factor. Using a 5-pound weight on each bagel eliminates the possibility of me pushing harder on one or the other.

Left: Montreal bagel. Right: Wegmans bagel

As you can see, the one on the left barely deforms at all, and the one on the right looks like a Tempur-Pedic commercial. I'm going to let this stand as my test of bagel density, because calculating bagel volume is a little too intense a task for me, and I'm not in the mood for math.

I told my coworker that I was doing a bagel experiment, and she generously offered to get me a couple of bagels from a Jewish bakery in her neighborhood, to give me a third data point. Fantastic!

I didn't squash the bagel from the Jewish bakery, because I was too excited about jamming it into the toaster so I could eat it, but I did take a photo of its insides for you.

Bagel from Jewish bakery

It looked very much like the Wegmans bagel, both inside and out. It was fat and fluffy-looking, and it had many large bubbles inside. The biggest difference was the smell - much more yeasty than the Wegmans bagel. I also noticed that the texture was denser, but not as dense as the Montreal bagel. Many of the little holes had doughy threads across them, making me think there's a lot of gluten in this bread.

The Taste Test

I toasted the bagels in my cheap two-slice toaster, and then tasted them both with butter and plain cream cheese. I also tried the bagel from the Jewish bakery with some veggie cream cheese, which is a specialty of that deli. It seemed like the right thing to do. The bagels were tested at least a half hour apart. I am so very very full of carbohydrates.

Wegmans bagel

It got crunchy on the outside, and remained very soft and bready on the inside. It felt like it took a long time to gain any brown color. Where I cut the toasted bagel in half, the knife flattened the bagel completely. It tasted bland, vaguely yeasty, like a big soft chunk of white bread. No dominating taste or smell. Not entirely different from a dinner roll.

Montreal bagel

Much more difficult to cut in half because of its density, so my halves were uneven. If ever there was an appropriate time for those safety bagel cutter things, it's with Montreal bagels. It turned brown much more quickly than the first bagel. The Montreal bagel had a much sweeter taste, and I posit that the higher sugar content led to faster browning. Incredibly chewy, with a crunchy crust. Coworkers commented on the sweetness of the bagels I brought in, and how chewy they were.

Jewish bagel

Its browning speed fell somewhere between the other two. The smell and the taste were very yeasty, and it was chewier than the Wegmans bagel by far, which surprised me given how similar they look. It was nowhere near as dense and chewy as the Montreal bagel, though, so although it was good it didn't win my taste test. Yes, I'm biased. I admit it.

So why are Montreal bagels so dense? I'm not sure. Wikipedia has the following to say about how Montreal bagels differ from the "generic bagel":

• The bagel dough includes egg and honey.
• Honey is also added to the water used for poaching the bagels before baking.
• The bagels are baked in a wood-fired oven. 

All these things make them so much more delicious than any other type of bagel I've ever tried. I don't know why they haven't spread out and become more popular across Canada and the United States - you'd think the sweetness would be a great selling point. There are some recipes I've found online for "Montreal-style bagels", and one of these days I may give that a shot, but for now, I have dozens of frozen bagels to tide me over.

Oh, before I close this out, I have one more reason why Montreal bagels are better. Check this out, from the same Wikipedia article:

Montreal-style bagels are currently the only style of bagel to have ventured into in space. Gregory Chamitoff, who grew up in Montreal, took three bags of sesame bagels with him on his assignments to STS-124 as passenger and ISS Expedition 17 as crewmember.

That's right. I thought I was a hardcore fan because I dragged dozens across the border in my Honda Fit, and here I learn this guy brought them to space. We loves our bagels, what can I say.