Suddenly Michael is at my elbow throwing down his version of a gauntlet—a brochure screaming the headlines Saute—Moutons surles Rapides de LaChine…L’aventure au Vieux-Port. “This is what I want to do”, he says, “and it’s hot outside.  Today would be a good day.” Apparently, I forgot to explain the rules of Kings X.

Time Out

After two weeks of driving and running and going, I have to say King’s X!

It has been so long since I heard the term I begin to wonder if it is an imagined childhood dream or if it is a cry that once truly sprang from my lips, as it does today. And so the story goes…

To give the “king’s x” means to surrender in a fight. It’s probably too much a relic of the time when kids played outdoors for some people to know it. In games of tag or chasing, if you say “King’s X” and hold up your hand with the first two fingers crossed it’s a kind of “white flag.” It means you’re safe for a moment to tell someone something, or to discuss something. It’s a truce, not a surrender. When you uncross your fingers, the game goes on.

Apparently, I’m that old — I remember the term. Not very fast on my feet or as agile as my friends, I think I cried King’s X a lot.

Being Domestic

At any rate, my fingers are still crossed and I am taking a true timeout; concentrating on things domestic. I have a job to do this week — use up all of the fresh food in the frig.  Michael thinks I over-purchased at the market last Saturday — seven ears of corn, more tomatoes, fresh garlic, potatoes, and too many things to remember.  What I do remember is that I filled up two bags of stuff, including a bottle of rosé wine from Quebec (chosen and purchased by Michael), a small loin of lamb, and two veal scallops. So, I shared the burden of the bags this week as we trudged back home via the metro from the Marché Jean–Talon.

I check my Epi(curious) App to find recipes to use up my coveted stash. But unfortunately, I always need more ingredients to fill in.

Lunch

For lunch today I am working on a corn and pasta dish.  How can it be bad?  Pasta, corn, bacon, garlic, basil? It is like pasta carbonara, substituting corn for the eggs. And I am able to fix this dish because I was foresighted enough to bring my handy-dandy-all-purpose Cuisinart blending stick and a sharp knife, and a few other things. However, I still have to be creative in some of my cook’s tools.  Actually using the blending stick is being a wee bit creative.

Ears of corn are smaller in Canada. Bacon is wider–twice as wide–not salted, not smoked, not cured. Fresh garlic is milder and harder to peel.

While I scrape and chop and whir in the kitchen, a load of laundry whirs in the washing machine down below. Lunch is ready before the laundry, so I proceed to serve the creamy pasta sprinkled with salty bacon and fresh basil. I accompany it with a crisp-crusted rustic baguette, and a tiny tossed salad.  I set two bottles of wine on the table, rosé for Michael and white for me. The rosé is not my favorite, beyond the point of being bone dry it is almost bitter.  But I think the white table wine from Argentina will be a great compliment to the pasta. Too bad white wine is not Michael’s cup of tea.

Michael mmm’s—it’s good while eating the pasta. So, I ask how the wine tastes.

“I made a blend,” he tells me.

“Why?”

“Sometimes two bads make a good,” he replies.

“Well…”

“It didn’t work this time.”

Rapides de LaChine

At 2:30 p.m., the clothes still whirring down below, I am in the kitchen fixing myself a glass of ice water.  Michael is at the local convenience store picking up bread for tomorrow’s breakfast.  I hear him climb the stairs.  Suddenly he is at my elbow throwing down his version of a gauntlet—a brochure screaming the headlines Saute—Moutons surles Rapides de LaChine — L’aventure au Vieux-Port.

“This is what I want to do”, he says, “and it’s hot outside.  Today would be a good day.”

Apparently, I forgot to explain the rules of Kings X.

4 p.m. finds me standing on the dock of said Vieux-Port — in near 90 degrees heat — next to a large green machine. I look like a pregnant Big Bird wearing four layers of clothing (three not my own) consisting of a bright yellow tarp-like thing, a four-inch-thick life preserver, a sweatshirt for warmth — and my tank top.  I am warned it is cold on the river, the sweatshirts are for young girls and children. Mike tells me I need one even though I am neither. And, I am not cold.

This spur-of-the-minute adventure has set us apart from the crowd. We are the oldest.  We are the most overdressed.  I at least have on lightweight, rolled-up cargo pants. Mike is in a nice shirt (rescued from the dirty clothes) and a good pair of khakis. His extremely casual pants are left whirring in the washing machine. Other men are bare-chested or tank-topped. Bermuda-shorted, or bathing-suited. Nothing like your clothing screaming—we really don’t belong here! And our clothing draws many comments from many tour guides.  In the boat our inappropriate bottom clothing is hidden. We are part of the pack — except for the fear on my face.

la cuvette de W.C. 

We are told there will be water in the boat.  If it gets to your feet, don’t worry.  If it gets to your knees, don’t worry.  If it gets to your waist, don’t worry.  I don’t believe them. I wonder How can the water get that high and not sink the boat? Foolish, foolish me.

The boat is fast. I like fast.  The problem comes when it slows down in the middle of the class 5 rapids when we get to a whirling swirling area called la cuvette de W.C. Think about it. (the bowl of the W.C. aka toilet)

Suddenly it is like twenty of those W.C’s are dumped on my head all at one time.  Each person in the boat gets their own twenty W.C. experience. Young girls scream with glee.  Mike says it is fun. And me? Well, I hold on for dear life.

Our guide asks, “Do you want to do it again?”

A resounding “YES” erupts from the group.

So we do it again. And again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again. And…

Well, you get the picture.

So much for Kings X.

…how they make haste to cry with fingers crossed King’s X —no fairs to use it anymore — Robert Frost

A Survival Celebration

Surviving the beast, we walk down Rue St. Paul– clean, dry clothed and refreshed — to dinner at Modavie.

Giddy with our survival I order a celebratory French Mojito. I move on to Prosecco with our shared order of Duck Rillette with Crostini (which by the way is outstanding), change to a Baron Philippe de Rothschild Chardonnay with my absolutely wonderful Moules and Frites, then top the evening off with Armagnac and coffee with our shared Crème Brulee.  Not as giddy as I am, Michael is more restrained, settling for beer to my mojito and a glass of cabernet with his rack of lamb.

Whitewater

Now, about those rapids—I should have been more frightened—the highest class of whitewater is a 6—we were at a 5 and our water class was H or High. Water is becoming difficult to handle. The river is well above normal stage. 

• Class A: Lake water. Still.
• Class 2- Moderate. Medium-quick water; rapids with regular waves
• Class 3- Moderately difficult. Numerous high and irregular waves
• Class 4- Difficult. Long and powerful rapids and standing waves
• Class 5- Extremely difficult. Long and violent rapids that follow each other almost without interruption.
• Class 6- Extraordinarily difficult. Paddlers face constant threat of death because of extreme danger.