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Mahjong is a centuries-old Chinese game with tiles, usually with four players (and a fifth so players can rotate out and have a break), with the goal of making up hands containing sets and runs. I grew up with my mother playing Mahj every Wednesday. Once every four or five weeks, her weekly game was held at our house, and we were confined to the upstairs from seven o’clock until bedtime. That didn’t stop us from hearing the click of the tiles and their voices calling out the values of the discarded tiles (“One bam.” “Five crack.” “Soap.” “Flower.”). The best part of Mahj night was around 8:30 or so when the ladies took a snack break in which we were allowed to participate. We always tried to persuade my mother to order pizza for break time at our house. That’s also where I learned my appreciation for anchovies and tomatoes on pizzas, something I still enjoy today.

As an adult, my mother always suggested that she teach me, my sister-in-law and my daughters how to play so we could have a regular game of our own. We thought there would always be time for that, and one day she would teach us, but then she took sick and lived out the last four or five years of her life in and out of hospitals and the last three years of her life in the hospital. She passed away nine months ago, and her dream of teaching us never came to fruition.

After she died, I inherited her Mahjong set, and it seemed a shame to let it sit around and continue to collect dust as it had the previous twenty years or so. My sister-in-law and I mentioned this to our cousins and their Majh group, who graciously agreed to teach us how to play. Later, we taught my daughters and began playing semi-regular games, sometimes with my mother’s set.

There’s something about playing the game, especially when we use my mother’s set, that feels as if I am honouring her with every click of a tile and every call of a discarded tile. Playing evokes a warm nostalgia hearkening back to one Wednesday a month in my childhood when my mother and her friends (all of which have now passed) used to play, tinged though it might be with regret that she wasn’t the one to teach us.

I went shopping this week and picked up the most gorgeous berries I’ve ever seen. The blueberries were at least a centimetre in diameter and the blackberries were at least two centimetres long. Not only did they look phenominal, but they tasted better than any berries I’d had in a long time. I knew I had to do something special with them.

That “something special” was berry cheesecake waffles. This recipe combines my standard pancake and waffle recipe with a slightly sweet cheesecake topping that makes this an over-the-top yet keto-friendly meal. My mouth watered so strongly while photographing it, I almost couldn’t wait. And the flavours and texture did not dissapoint.

Without further ado, here is my berry cheesecake waffle recipe along with approximate carb counts.

The Recipe

For the waffles:

2 large eggs (1 net carb)

2 tablespoons almond flour (1 net carb)

0.5 teaspoons coconut flour (<1 net carb)

0.5 teaspoons psyllium husk fibre (<1 net carb)

0.5 teaspoon baking powder

0.5 teaspoons vanilla extract

pinch of salt

For the topping:

2 tablespoons cream cheese at room temperature (2 net carbs)

1 tablespoon butter at room temperature (0 net carbs)

1 tablespoon Swerve confectioner’s sugar (0 net carbs)

0.5 teaspoons vanilla extract

1 teaspoon Tutti graham style crumbs (~1 net carb?

6 blackberries (1 net carb)

8 blueberries (1 net carb)

Instructions:

Mix waffle ingredients well and allow to sit a few minutes while waffle maker heats up. Pour batter into waffle maker and wait until preferred doneness.

While cooking, use a whisk to beat topping ingredients minus the graham style crumbs and berries. The consistency should resemble melted marshmallows when ready.

When waffle is done, top with berries. Drizzle cream cheese topping over berries and waffle. Sprinkle graham style crumbs over top.

Enjoy!

As an English teacher, my favourite course to teach was Writer’s Craft, as it gave me the opportunity to inspire and coach young writers along their writing journeys. It was always my goal to publish my lessons and/or create a series of online courses, and that day has finally come.

Announcing: THE SHAPE OF STORIES: A COMPREHENSIVE GUIDE FOR FICTION WRITERS.

Designed with new and aspiring authors in mind, this book is suitable for use as an independent, self-taught course or as a textbook in a course. This book is chock full of writing tips and tools, prompts, exercises, and mentor texts to use as examples on your quest to unleash the writer inside you.

From the back cover blurb:

In the magnum opus of her teaching career, seasoned English teachers , author, editor, and publisher Elise Abram curates a collection of lesson plans and techniques related to the craft of writing.

Abram’s method uses mentor texts to demonstrate elements of the art of storytelling, including crafting believable characters, gripping plots, and finding your author’s voice. Each lesson includes a number of writing exercises, exemplars, and self-assessment checklists to help you assess your progress as you complete the assigned tasks, building upon previous lessons as you hone your writing chaps. 

• Use mentor texts to read like a writer
• Practice showing and not telling
• Construct believable characters
• Pen plots that keep the reader turning pages
• Experiment with different points of view
• Blog and journal about your experience
• Self-edit your work

Learn about the elements of storytelling from past and present masters of fiction as you study their techniques and apply what you learn to your own writing. Discover your writing style as you complete the activities in this course as you learn how to shape stories worthy of publication.

THE SHAPE OF WRITING: A COMPREHENSIVE GUIDE FOR FICTION WRITERS is available on Amazon.

Today, I retired my best-selling book, a novella entitled Throwaway Child, and here’s why.

I wrote Throwaway Child in 2012 as an attempt to bring awareness of the Canadian Native residential “schools” to the fore. At the time, I was still reeling from the fact that this travesty was left out of most history courses. I had not learned of this dark chapter in Canadian history until I took a course on Native education in university in the late 80s, and I was shocked, to say the least.

If you have not read it, Throwaway Child follows the case of a child’s skeleton found in the basement of a building that was once used as a Native residential “school.” It follows forensic anthropologist Palmer Richardson, archaeologist Molly McBride, and police detective Michael Crestwood (also featured in The Mummy Wore Combat Boots and Phase Shift) as they investigate what led to the child’s death and burial. It has been in publication for nearly ten years and has sold the most copies out of any of my other books, but given the fact that the murderer proves to be another Indigenous child at the school, and in light of recent events, I have decided to retire the story.

You see, the children interred at the residential schools were the victims of such abuse that to make the murderer (accidental though it may be) Indigenous and a child no longer seems fitting. This is particularly true in the wake of the discovery of so many unmarked graves of Indigenous children who lost their lives while inmates at these “schools.” I cannot justify turning an innocent victim of systemic genocide, cultural or otherwise, into the perpetrator of the very crime being visited on so many others like her. I also cannot help but wonder if the story wouldn’t have been more satisfying if I’d put Palmer in charge of excavating one of the mass grave sites to determine the abuse that had been visited on the untold numbers of children who never left the “schools.” Imagine how much more satisfying the story would have been had it climaxed in handcuffing an administration-level official who had either participated in the travesty or turned a blind eye to the abuse.

It is for these reasons that I have decided to unpublish Throwaway Child with my apologies for falling short of accomplishing the very goal I set out to meet with it’s publication.

Yesterday marked the third mass, unmarked grave found in association with Native residential “schools.”

For the uneducated, Native residential “schools” were a ploy by Canada’s early government to facilitate the “civilization” and Europeanization of Canada’s Native population. In existence in Canada from about 1880 through 1996 (yes! 1996!), these so-called schools were nothing short of concentration camps into which all Native children were shunted as a matter of law. This was a joint endeavour between “Christian churches and the Canadian government as an attempt to both educate and convert Indigenous youth and to assimilate them into Canadian society.” The net result of this horrific practice was the cultural genocide of generations of Native people, and as recently discovered, the actual genocide of (among others) innocent Native children.

I hesitate to call these places schools. School is supposed to be a place of learning and enlightenment where people leave better off than when they arrived. I doubt there are many (if any) Indigenous people who would claim this describes their experience there. Those of us who knew of the existence of these institutions have long suspected there were many children who entered their doors never to exit. That statement is mind-boggling enough, but now that the sheer number that is the body count shaping Canada’s shame is coming to light, we, as Canadians, should be shocked, sickened, and mortified.

In the last month alone, the remains of 215 individuals in Kamloops, 751 in Saskachewan, and 182 in Cranbook, B.C. There were 130 of these places in operation in Canada over the approximately 100 years of their existence. Do the math: if we take an average of the three known mass graves thus far uncovered, we are looking at approximately 50,000 children slaughtered and buried in unmarked, mass graves. Disposed of in the same way as trash before organized garbage collection. This is not okay (to say the least).

Today is Canada Day, a celebration of Canada’s confederation on this day in 1867. Residential “schools” came into existence barely 10 years after that. Lighting fireworks at bar-b-ques in celebration of Canada as a country has been the way we’ve always celebrated, but not this year. Anyone lighting fireworks and cooking meat over an open flame in honour of Canada’s confederation this year should be ashamed. I will be marking this dark day in history by lighting a memorial candle in memory of all those who perished at the hands of our government. We should never forget the human toll paid so Canada could be established as a country. Do not celebrate the bloodshed and bodies felled; mourn them instead. Mark the existence of Canada Day, not with celebration but with sorrow, honouring those whose way of life and actual lives were unceremoniously taken so that we might live here.

This is the first in a series of poems (and possibly rants) I plan to write about teaching during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Accessible doors locked so I have to use my hands—

Once, twice, three times, four—

on the same handles used by several hundred students

and several dozen teachers.

“Attention Staff: Please sign the log sheet located on the filing cabinet upon entering the room.”

I must sign into the “private” office I share with up to eight colleagues

“Maximum number of occupants: 5”

but only five of us can access our possessions at any given time.

“High Touch Surface: Remember to disinfect after every use.”

“High Touch Surface: Remember to disinfect after every use.”

“High Touch Surface: Remember to disinfect after every use.”

Fridge…microwave…printer.

“Maintain physical distance”

In a room where students sit no more than four feet apart

“Face mask required for entry”

with ill-fitting masks.

The students arrive all too soon,

forgetting that I have asked them to remain in their seats

and get my attention

before asking a question.

The double the normal length lesson begins.

Some students are with me while

others catch up on sleep,

and I am envious.

Warning: spoilers are likely to follow.

Thanks to Netflix, I was just able to catch up on Supergirl season 4, and I was blown away. Now, I know I’m coming late to the party, but I’m going to whoop it up anyway, so if you’ve already watched the season and screamed accolades from the rooftop, imagine that I’m right there with you.

Supergirl, for those of you who don’t know, is Superman’s cousin who is also on Earth, wears a similar costume, and fights bad guys, just like Superman. At the core of the Supergirl story is a trio of strong female characters (Supergirl/Kara, Alex, and Lena) who are joined this season by Nia Nal, but more on her later. Nevermind that the season 4 has plenty of elements from Superman lore, like Brainiac, Lex Luthor, and even Superman himself, and aside from the fact that actors from other Superman productions–such as Erica Durance who played Lois on Smallville, Helen Slater who played Supergirl herself in the 1984 movie, and Dean Cain who played Superman on Lois and Clark–are featured in roles. Supergirl season 4 is impressive for the values it imparts. Here are my observations.

A timely message

Given the state of the nation and that racism and hatred and mistrust for immigrants has risen to the forefront over the past few years, Supergirl is to be praised for demonstrating how xenophobia can only lead to a nation’s destruction. Rather than human immigrants, aliens (as in from other planets) are the targets. They are referred to as “roaches” and told to go home. Near the climax, they are even banned from Earth and a satellite goes into orbit to shoot down approaching spacecraft. Though it’s interesting that we see the leader of the racist Children of Liberty–Ben Lockhart’s–origins (played with sexy scowls and determination by Sam Witwer), at its heart, the season is a parable for where we are heading if we give into our fear of the unknown and buy into stereotypes. In other words, allowing hate to grow and lashing out at our fellow man will assure nothing short of our own destruction.

Typically, literature–and science fiction in particular–is used to hold a mirror up to our society, but according to LiteraryTerms.net, one of the traits of science fiction is “to explore what could happen if certain events or circumstances came to be.”And while I’m not suggesting that Supergirl demonstrates what might happen on Earth if we become a safe haven for aliens in danger on their own planet, I am suggesting that it takes our persecution of those we perceive as different to the extreme. Angry mobs, protests gone wrong, and burying democracy in favour of a police state are only a few of the things that could seriously happen if we stand by and let racism flourish.

Nia Nal is a Superwoman

Nia Nal is the new character introduced this season. She is trans character played by a trans actress. Her character is a half-alien who belongs to a race of dreamers (they have prophetic dreams) that are passed on from mother to daughter. Nia’s parents expect her sister to have the ability, but instead, Nia is the one to inherit the power. This is a puzzling reveal for Nia’s sister, a genetic female, who observes that Nia shouldn’t have the power because she’s not a “real woman”. I think this turn of events is fabulous. To me, it says that in her heart and in her mind, Nia is a true woman. And the fact that the Supergirl‘s writers set the story up this way, it says that this is true of all trans people. If a person–in this case, Nia (Nicole Maines)–believes herself to be female, who are we to judge? Nia has no qualms about letting the world know that she is trans and in the Supergirl universe, no one so much as bats an eye at her admission. The situation is a brilliant example of art depicting life the way it should be.

Watching season 4 of Supergirl has only cemented my enthusiasm for this television show. I can’t wait to see season 5!

Do you watch Supergirl? What do you think of the series and plotlines? Let me know what you think in the comments below.

At this point in history, most of us know about the Native residential schools. Some of us might be aware that there were, in fact, slaves in Canada. Let’s not forget the boatloads of Jews who were sent back to Europe during the Holocaust to meet their fate in the concentration camps. There was also the appropriation of the Dionne Quintuplets who were taken from their parents and made into tourist attractions. I would, however, be willing to bet that few Canadians are aware of the travesty orphans in Quebec orphanages suffered in the 1940s and 50s, something The Home for Unwanted Girls by Joanna Goodman strives to bring to the fore.

In The Home for Unwanted Girls, fifteen-year-old half-English/half-French Maggie gets pregnant by her French boyfriend. When the girl, named Elodie, is born, her parents whisk the baby off to be adopted by a Jewish couple who cannot adopt through the system, but Elodie is sickly at birth, and the couple backs out. The only thing left to do is to give the baby to an orphanage. When Elodie is 11, she meets with a doctor who declares her mentally insane so she can be admitted to the insane asylum to which the facility is about to be converted. Told the other is dead, Elodie and Maggie stumble through life, unable to rise above the circumstance of Elodie’s birth which, in Catholic rural Quebec, is a horrific sin.

Search for the “Duplessis Orphans” to learn the whole story. In a nutshell, the Catholic-run institution found it could make more money housing the mentally ill than orphans, so they had the residents in their orphanages declared mentally insane so they could keep living in their institutions and collecting money for their incarceration. The Duplessis orphans were treated no differently than the other inmates, receiving the same, harsh punishments and no education. The orphans were not removed from the institutions until after 1962. They were eventually issued an apology in 1999 and paid damages in 2006, but the damage for “an estimated two to four thousand children [who] were physically, mentally, and sexually abused” had already been done.” As would be imagined, the orphans found it difficult to integrate back into society after their experiences. The character of Maggie is inspired by Goodman’s mother, who was the daughter of a French Catholic married to an English “seed” man (one who makes a living selling seeds like Maggie’s father in the novel), but the rest of the book is based on Goodman’s research into the Duplessis orphans while giving a “deeper historical context into some of the long-running tensions that still exist between the province’s French and English communities.”

The Home for Unwanted Girls was an incredible read which I was unable to put down and finished in less than a week. Some of the attraction is akin to slowing down to catch a glimpse of the aftermath of an accident—we are so enticed by the devastation that we can’t look away. Elodie’s story while incarcerated, based on an actual, first-person exposition by a Duplessis orphan, propels the story forward, as do Maggie and Gabriel’s will-they-won’t-they relationship. Will Maggie and Gabriel get back together? Will Gabriel ever find out about Elodie’s existence? Will Maggie and Elodie ever be reunited? Read Joanna Goodman’s The Home for Unwanted Girls to find out.