Chicken with figs, honey, thyme and pearl onions?

Nope. Decided against it. Going to save it for next week when my childhood friend is visiting. It’ll make a nice Friday night dinner.

But what to do about tomorrow night? My husband and I are making dinner for a friend, his wife and daughter ‘cuz it’s his birthday. He’s a foodie, we love him and want to make something special.

So out I hauled my file folders, filled with recipe clippings, culled from every women’s or food magazine I’ve perused in the last umpteen years.

The files are divided into l) salads, soups and appetizers, 2) main courses, and 3) desserts. They tell a lot about me. The dessert file is packed. The app and soup one is also full, but a little less so. There’s hardly a thing in mains.

You can get a pretty good idea of my likes and don’t likes by the recipes I’ve collected, which also says something about the ones I didn’t.

The app/soup file includes recipes like Roasted Feta with Thyme Honey, Eggplant and Orzo Salad, Carmelized Tomato Tarte Tatin (highly recommended, it’s from the New York Times). There’s Smoked Salmon, Feta, Mint and Cilantro Nori Rolls and the ever-solid standby, Hot Artichoke Dip made with cans of artichokes, grated fresh parmesan, lots 'o lemon, fresh garlic and mayonnaise. Choose your own proportions. Serve with pumpernickel.

I do have a main or two, like Pomegranate-marinated lamb with spices and couscous, Orecchiette with Prosciutto and Peas, Asian Chicken Salad with Snap Peas and Bok Choy.

The dessert file is overloaded with bundt cake recipes, streusel topped sour cream coffee cakes and every other kind of coffee cake, including the yeasted kind with marzipan, chocolate or poppyseed fillings. There are lots of Jewish clippings for  mandel bread, rugelach, honey cake, poppy seed cake and a mile-high lemon sponge cake for Passover.

I am mad about sour cherries, so there are recipes for cherry clafoutis, cherry pies, cherry kuchens and cherry almond tarts. I’m even crazier for lemons than I am sour cherries (do we detect a sour note here?), so there’s every version of lemon something, from crackling-topped French tarts, meringue pies, cakes, syrups (to pour over pound cake), pudding, mousse, curd and those wonderful bars that have a gooey buttery lemon topping over equally rich shortbread. Divine.

What you won’t find anywhere in my dessert recipe file are layer cakes, chocolate cakes or frostings. I love them when someone else makes them (yoo hoo, out there), but they’re not part of my personal repetoire.

So what’s for dinner tomorrow night?  Can’t completely give it away since the guests are blog readers. They should come hungry, though not expecting a mile high birthday cake with an icing sugar frosting.

Since our friend is an artist, they should expect something in the Pop Art category of desserts. I happened to find one my file, just waiting for the right artist and the right day. Happy Birthday Frank.

I plan to later post a few recipes from tomorrow's dinner. Stay tuned. In the meantime, try the deliciously sweet and savoury Cherry Tomato Tarte Tatin. It's a winner. Just follow the directions carefully, particularly about making slits in the pie crust top. Have to let the steam escape after baking. Otherwise it gets soggy when you flip the pie over. Let me know how it goes.

I Love My BFFs

I opened up my email this morning and read a message sent to my community e-group from a wonderful artist and wordsmith who lives amongst us. She’s the one who invented a term I used in my blog on Valentine’s Day, Weapons of Mass Affection.

Today, Barbara’s  message for International Women’s Day was perfect too. ‘Must have been a woman who came up with the term ‘Make Love Not War.’

I bet Barbara’s right. Like her, I always expect women (and girls) are behind most good things in the universe. Not all by a longshot. But, most likely, more than we’re given credit for.

It’s International Women’s Day, but I’ll let other people wax on today about all the great contributions women have made to the universe and how women continue to struggle in deplorable conditions around the world.  I’m choosing to set my sights a little closer to home.

I’d like to honour and pay a collective tribute to all the wonderful women who have been in my life since I was a little girl and remain by my side today. I have been blessed, and I doubt there’s a day that goes by that I don’t thank my lucky clichéd stars. I plan to raise a glass of a nice New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc tonight when I meet the wonderful and forgiving women in my book club. Why forgiving? Because no one has read the assigned book. We still want to be with each other, though. That’s part of the wonderful.

When I was little, I distinctly remember asking my father why women didn’t stop all the wars in the world. “They just have to tell their husbands to stop fighting or they won’t be nice to them.” My dad probably didn’t know the ancient Greek story of Lysistrata or didn’t mention it because it has the word sex in it, but it would have been appropriate. Lysistrata persuades the women of Greece to withhold sexual privileges from their husbands and lovers as a means of forcing the men to negotiate peace.

Years later, when seeing the Godfather, I wondered the same thing. Why didn’t all these Mafia guys’ wives just tell them to get a day job or don’t bother coming home to my gnocchi.

My naivete had its roots. Though I had a critical mother, she was dutiful and loving in her own way. I had two doting and loving sisters and the bestest of friends from the time I was able to make them. That hasn’t changed. My female family members and friends mean the world to me and I wouldn’t want to live in the world without them. I can’t bear the thought that I may someday have to.

My middle sister’s piano playing taught me to love classical music, and even today, when I hear Claire de Lune, I think back to the childhood years I listened to her play the damn piece non-stop, even while I was in bed trying to fall asleep, until she got it perfect. She did, and now have only good memories everytime I hear the piece played.

My oldest sister has always been an inspiration in my life. “I want to be just like you when I grow up,” has always been my motto regarding this sister. I’ve never come close, though. I have never in my life known anyone besides her to so successfully devote her life to becoming a ‘better,’ and ‘more loving’ person, and still have so much fun.  An honourable and noteworthy combination of attributes as far as I’m concerned.

And my girlfriends. It would be shallow if the first thing I mention about them is the fact that they make far superior dance partners than any man I’ve been with, including my beloved husband. But its true. This is no small thing. So yes, I’m shallow.

What else do my girlfriends do? They listen to me ad nauseum when I go on and on about my life, my husband, my children, my jobs, my no jobs, my frizzy hair, increasingly growing hatred of winter as well as waistline. They make me laugh, teach me how to garden, take photographs, be a good person. They lend me books, tell me about good sales. Many know I love anything that comes in close contact with a lemon. All know I’m a sucker for home baking and make sure I get some. They always seem to say the right things when I need them to, and even when they don’t get it right, I can see they’re trying, which is almost as good.

A few of the chosen will even go clothes shopping with me and give honest opinions when I ask ‘does this look good on me’. They’re not quite as brutal, in a good way, as my mother was, but they’ll generally give an honest opinion to the question “Does my ass look big in this?”

I am blessed to still have two close friends who have known me for over forty year, going back to my childhood years in Detroit. How lucky can I get? They knew my parents and like to be kept up-to-date on my sisters and other members of my extended family. Since coming to Canada, I’ve made other great girlfriends. Besides being great company, they show interest in my husband and children. They know it means the world to me.

And finally, I will paraphrase the great Sally Fields, “They love me, they really love me.” It can’t always be easy.

My 21 year-old daughter is getting together with two girlfriends this evening. She hasn’t seen them in awhile, and I don’t think it has anything to do with International Women’s Day. If she even knew about it, it didn’t seem to resonate in any obvious way.

Before she left the house this morning, I asked her to come upstairs. Though I don’t normally give her spending money, I opened my purse and pulled out a $20 bill to buy a few goodies for her and her friends tonight. “Celebrate your friendship” with it, I said along with a few scintillating words on the subject which would, on any other day, make her want me to shut up right then and there. But instead, she lit up, partially because she had a crisp new $20 bill in her hands, but also because she loved the idea of buying some treats. “Yeah, they’ve been great friends.”

It’s obvious. I think women are special. I know the women in my life are special, have always been and will continue to be. So, I know it’s a little early, but I’d like to pretend I already have that glass of Sauvignon Blanc in my hand, raise it, and give a toast to all the wonderful women and girls in my life.  My BFFs.

Complaints, Catharsis and a Toronto Choir

How lucky can I get? I get to complain and call it art.

I've found a way to get through this harsh Toronto winter by joining a Complaints Choir, a concept developed  by Tellervo Kalleinen and Oliver Kochta-Kalleinen in Helsinki. Perhaps it was due to the coldness of the day that they ended up discussing the possibility of transforming the huge energy people put into complaining into something else. Perhaps not directly into heat – but into something powerful, anyway.

In the Finnish vocabulary there is an expression "Valituskuoro". It means "Complaints Choir" and it is used to describe situations where a lot of people are complaining simultaneously. What a nice way of referring to what other people might refer to as a bunch of whiners, no?

Kalleinen and Kochta-Kalleinen thought: "Wouldn´t it be fantastic to take this expression literally and organise a real Complaints Choir!" They did, and it’s come to Toronto at the Harbourfront Centre. Though I can't sing, I signed up the second I heard about it. I do know how to complain.

As complaining is a universal phenomenon, Kalleinen and Kockta-Kalleinen thought the project could be organised in any city around the world. They offered the concept to different events where they were invited as artists – but it was only after Springhill Institute in Birmingham, England, got excited about the idea that the First Complaints Choir became a reality.

Birmingham (to some known as the "arsehole of England") was a perfect place to start the project. The participants – found through flyers and small posters – understood the concept instinctively.  Local musician Mike Hurley turned the complaints into a easy to learn song. Within two weeks time the song was rehearsed to perfection by the committed participants – despite the fact that only few were able to sing. A hit was born – with a chorus you can't get out of your mind: "I want my money back..."

The Complaints Choir concept was a success, so much so that Kalleinen and Kochta-Kalleinen were invited to initiate complaints choirs all around the globe – Hong Kong, Philadelphia, Gothenburg, Buenos Aires Helsinki, St. Petersburg, Hamburg-Wilhelmsburg, Chicago, Singapore, Copenhagen and Tokyo.  http://www.complaintschoir.org/choirs.html

The choirs were such a success, other cities were encouraged to follow the Finnish prototype and set up their own Complaints Choirs. http://www.complaintschoir.org/news.html

Toronto has joined in. We now have our own Complaints Choir.

I went to my first meeting last month at Harbourfront Centre, and will be heading out to my next soon. All you had to do to become a member of the choir was send in your complaint to a Hotline. I did, and rattled off one of my pet peeves, about young people on our subway system, so plugged in to their iPods, that they never look up long enough to notice much older people standing and in need of a seat.

It was good enough to get me picked for the choir (though I think everyone who sent in a complaint was, in fact, invited).  At our first meeting, we received a sheet of all the complaints, lumped into categories, everything from the weather to local politicians. The good men are all married. Co-workers clip their fingernails at their desks. Laundry comes back from the cleaners still dirty. Society is too competitive. It is impossible to get enough sleep. 

Fortunately, the choir is open to people of all ages and no singing experience is required. I figure I can lip-synch in a crowd, which is exactly what I’ll be doing. A musician has been hired to compile the best-of complaints and create an original, humorous but poignant song which the 100 plus people in the choir will learn and perform around the city in a flash mob (or two) in public spaces.

Though the originators of the Complaints Choir concept are still involved peripherally in the concept, they are no longer directly involved.  “I think we have listened to enough complaints,” Mr. Kochta-Kalleinen has said. I can only imagine.

The originators of the Complaints Choir want the choirs to continue though, and on their Web site is a nine-step process http://www.complaintschoir.org/doityourself.html for forming a choir, which includes inviting people to complain, finding the right composer, planning a performance (“spontaneous” unpublicized public performances at places like train stations are highly encouraged) and compiling a video. They also intend to be a resource for people who want to start their own choirs, and then to post videos of their performances.

At our first meeting last month, we warmed up our vocal chords and winnowed down the massive number of complaints sent in (both humourous and serious) to a usable sum. A composer was asked to come back to our next meeting with a composition that we will be rehearsing for the next couple weeks until we take it out into the (anxiously waiting) world in the form of flash mobs.

I’m really looking forward to our first real rehearsal, even more to our performances.

Until I report back with further details, please remember: Your call is very important to us.

.

More on War Photography and iPhones

I sometimes worry that I have no opinions of my own, only those spoken by the last person I heard giving theirs. It happened to me again today.

I’m not sure what side I’m on in a debate raging among some photographers about the use of an iPhone app for the photo that won this year’s prestigious Picture of the Year International award in the Photojournalism category. The app in question uses various mechanisms, including filters, allowing you to take pictures that imitate vintage analog photos.

I wrote about this in a previous blog because I was fascinated by Damon Winter’s use of the Hipstamatic App to shoot U.S. soldiers in the field in Afghanistan. War photography with an iPhone as it were.

Everyone agrees the photos Winter took are great. No argument there. So why did critics pounce?

I’ll reduce the argument into a nutshell. According to fellow photojournalist Chip Litherland, a great admirer of Winter’s work, but a critic on this subject, “It’s now no longer photojournalism, but photography.”  Photography vs. photojournalism. Huh? Stay with me here.

According to Chip, this makes it a whole new ballgame.

“What we knew as photojournalism at its purest form is over and POYI {the organization that gives the award} just killed it. Well, they didn’t kill it so much as just dig another knife deeper into the back of its decaying corpse.”

I’m sympathetic to Litherland’s argument. I happen to have real interest in the issue because I’ve always been a fan of what’s called documentary photography. I learned about war, segregation in the southern U.S. and the beauty of faraway lands from the documentary photography and photojournalism in Life magazine. Photographs literally changed my life.

It did what it was supposed to do: chronicle significant and historical events. It provided a record of social and political situations. It conveyed information. “Provide a record” and “chronicle” are the key terms. And people like Mr. Litherland think Winter’s photos didn’t do that..

Documentary photographers (and thereby photojournalists) are purists. Probably considered boring purists by more adventuresome and “creative” photographers who use every technique possible, including Photoshop, to enhance pictures to get the best possible image.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with doing that. I love Photoshop. I love filters, gadgets and gimmicks that allow me to make the best possible photo. I’ve turned day into night, used filters to intensify clouds. I’ve deepened my sky blues.

It’s just that by doing so, I’m no longer telling a story about what I actually saw. I’m not documenting what was in front of me. I’m playing with the image and my camera and my software and my apps to create art. I’m creating a facsimile of what I saw. And that’s fine. Makes for great photography. I’m an artist.

But that’s not the job of a photojournalist, according to some. They’re record keepers. Their job is to tell us a story. A real one. It’s history they’re recording.

Says Litherland:

“The fact it (Winter’s photo) was shot on a phone isn’t relevant at all and fair game,” says Literland,  “but what is relevant is the fact it was processed through an app that changes what was there when he shot it.  It’s now no longer photojournalism, but photography. That transition happens when images become more about what the photographer does and less about the subject of said photos.

 “It’s to a point now where the more proficient you at using Photoshop, the better you are at rising above the rest. Storytelling is about 4th or 5th down the list.”

Okay, so Litherland had me convinced. The rest of us can keep busy with our new state-of-the-art “stuff” to enhance our pictures. Not photojournalists, though.  But that’s not to say they’re not artists. Good photojournalists will capture reality in powerful, moving photos. Not everyone can do that. The good ones are making art with their very specific craft. And they accept their craft has certain limitations.

Then I read Winter’s response to the criticism and got all confused on where I stand on the issue. I’ll give you a few nuggets of Winter’s thoughts on the use of his app, and let you decide if you’re likeme,in that your opinions are those of the last person you heard giving theirs.

Winter says:

“At the heart of all of these photos is a moment or a detail or an expression that tells the story of these soldiers’ day-to-day lives while on a combat mission. Nothing can change that. No content has been added, taken away, obscured or altered. These are remarkably straightforward and simple images.

What has gotten people so worked up, I believe, falls under the heading of aesthetics. Some consider the use of the phone camera as a gimmick or as a way to aestheticize news photos. Those are fair arguments, but they have nothing to do with the content of the photos.

We are being naïve if we think aesthetics do not play an important role in the way photojournalists tell a story. We are not walking photocopiers. We are storytellers.  We observe, we chose moments, we frame little slices of our world with our viewfinders, we even decide how much or how little light will illuminate our subjects, and — yes — we choose what equipment to use. Through all of these decisions, we shape the way a story is told.

… The problem people have with an app, I believe, is that a computer program is imposing the parameters, not the photographer.

If I had had the choice at the time, I would have used a program that applied less of an effect. But this was all I had available to me. Without an Internet connection, I could not download a plug-in for the application with more subtle processing, as I would have preferred. This is what I had. And this is what I used. And that is that.”

That's all I needed. Winter had me in his clutches the second he said: “We are not walking photocopiers.”

It's best I don't know what Chip Litherland would say in response. 

Doing What We Do

I was singing "The Way You Do the Things You Do" today, a hit single recorded by The Temptations on the Motown label in 1964. Written by Smokey Robinson, then a member of the Miracles, it was the first song by the Temptations to hit the Billboard Hot 100. The Temptations. It’s worth checking out. You’ll even see Muhammed Ali dancing in the ring as well as the Temptations doing some pretty cool, smooth moves.

I was sixteen when the song came out, and Motown was Hometown. Detroit. We were all swept up in the Motown Sound at the time and I didn’t know anybody who couldn’t lipsync every word to the Supreme’s “Stop in the Name of Love” or Marvin Gaye’s “I Heard it Through the Grapevine.”  Motown was everything to us (until Bob Dylan entered our lives).

So why was I singing “The Way You Do the Things You Do” today? Because a neighbour completed an extraordinary and impressive adventure yesterday – something I’d never dream of doing in a million years. So it begged the question,  “Why do we do the things we do?” The song popped into my head simultaneously. For all those who remember it, try it now (or in the shower later) with the new words “Why Do We Do the Things We Do?”  Works perfectly, doesn’t it?

Ok, so what did Tom do that led me to ask the question? I’ll let an article in today’s Toronto Star  explain:

A Toronto Island resident has become the oldest person to row across the Atlantic Ocean, landing in Barbados Friday after rowing 12 hours a day for 52 days.

“We’ve been looking forward to getting here,” Tom Butscher, 67, said from his hotel in Port St. Charles, just hours after reaching dry land.

He completed the more than 5,000 kilometre journey from Morocco to Barbados  aboard Big Blue, an ocean rowing catamaran.

Butscher, a former Canadian long-track speed skating champion and   father of two who has already rowed solo across Lake Ontario, set out Jan. 11 with 15 other          crew members. They rowed for two hours and rested for two hours, 24 hours a day to try to break the world record of 33 days to row across the Atlantic.

Understand the question now?  Why do we do the things we do? Why did Tom row the Atlantic? Why did Sir Edmund Hilary decide at the age of 33 to be the first non-Sherpa to climb Mt. Everest? Wildly impressive feats (congratulations Tom!), but as I’m not much of an adventurer into the unknowns, I can’t rightly say why someone chooses to do these things. While I’m hugely impressed and cheered Tom on every inch of the way, I think both he and Hilary were a little nuts, probably saying as much about me as it does them.

A friend recently told me about a conversation he had with his eleven year- old, a good swimmer. He suggested she join the school swim team. “Why?” she asked. If you ask why and don’t have an answer like Hilary “Because it’s there,”  (referring to the mountain and obvious need to conquer it), the answer can only be, “beats me.” 

You either have drive to do something or you don’t. If you have to ask why you’d want to be on a swim team, it’s probably best you’re not on it. Someone with a little more of a competitive spirit might be preferable.

So that brings me to the rest of us. Do our minds lead us to the things we do, as in “no matter what it takes, I’m going to learn to milk goats.” Or do our hearts, souls or talents send us in certain directions. Are mathematicians born or made?  Do priests, rabbis and imams have spiritual natures the rest of us don't? What if we’re not ambitious or competitive by nature. What role does that play in determining our life calling or passion. Nature or Nurture? Born To Be Wild? Goat Milker?

I think my daughter may have chosen to go into social work because she grew up in a house with a brother with ‘special needs’. But she also has the skill and compassion for it. Did she develop them living in our household or was she born with them?

It's marvelous when we find our calling(s) and true passions. Everyone counsels young people to “Find Your Passion” before making a career decision. They're right. If it's possible. Sometimes a person’s passion doesn’t identify itself as early as we might like. I know adults (including myself), who still periodically ask what they're going to be when they grow up.  Many of us change course mid-career, go back to school when we’re 80, write our first novel at 70 and find other heretofore unsung talents later-in-life.

So nothing’s fixed. We all have great potential. But I assume our potential lies more in some areas than others, though that shouldn’t necessarily stop us from following our passions. I took up the viola at age 59. Talent, skill or aptitude didn't enter into it. Only desire.

I think it’s marvelous that we do the things we do, and equally marvelous that those things are so diverse. What would we do if people didn’t decide plumbing, tuba playing or surgery were their true callings (or best way to make a living)?

And for all those folks out there who aren’t exactly sure what it is that they do, I'd like to share with you a note I wrote recently to our neighbourhoold e-group after the death of an older woman in our community who we all loved.

“I walked into the Rectory one day a few years ago when Deenie was 
having lunch. She waved when I came in and motioned for me to come to 
her table. She reached her hand out, took mine in hers, and said. "I 
really don't know what it is you do, but I really like the way you do 
it."



I wasn't sure what she was referring to, just thanked her for saying something so sweet and kind. I didn't bother telling her that I 
didn't really know what it was I did either. I just took the 
compliment. Coming from her, it made me feel like a million bucks."

So keep on doing the things you do. The way you do them.

Mega Pixels (Make Me Sweat)

I saw remarkable and moving photographs today, culled from the front page of the New York Times. They were taken in the field by Pulitzer prize-winning war photographer Damon Winter in Afghanistan of the U.S. First Battalion, 88th Infantry. That explains why they were moving. The remarkable part is that they were taken on a SmartPhone using Hipstamic.

Hipstamatic is a digital photography application for the Apple iPhone. It allows the user to shoot square photographs and choose filters to make images look like they were taken with an antique analog camera. It works. Remarkably. hipstamatic.com/ I wrote about this and other great apps for SmartPhones on a previous blog, http://linda-rosenbaum.blogspot.com/2011/02/happy-snapps.html Honestly, if you have the least bit of interest in photography, check these apps out.

Seeing those photos was all I needed to kickstart my desire to learn more about digital photography. If Winter could do that with an iPhone, I should be able to do something with my point-and-shoot. Surely.

I saw Winter’s photos during a five-hour workshop I took today, basically a Point and Shoot for Dummies at a place called Pikto in downtown Toronto http://www.pikto.com/. I needed every second of it. Up until a few years ago, I would have called myself a serious photographic hobbiest. Maybe even a photographer. I filmed only in black and white, developed my images in a darkroom, even had a few shows of my work. My specialty was hand-colouring the black and white photos, mostly landscapes, gardens and botanicals.

Well, that was then. The world changed. I did not.

When it was all-too-obvious that the tides had turned and digital was the state-of-the-art, I had no choice. I succumbed. I waited as long as I could, but eventually gave away my SLR and bought a point-and-shoot. I was traveling to Israel, and thought it would be good to take a camera. I never learned a thing about it, before, during or after the trip. I took one or two decent shots.

That was three years ago, and I’ve barely taken a picture since. Partially, because I’m a technophobe and don’t do well learning how machines work. I know it sounds silly, but my body really does tighten up when I hear terms like mega pixels, raw files, ISO, .TIF, DPIs and bit depths.

So I just stopped taking pictures. I wasn’t that interested in shooting color and didn’t know how to shoot b&w with the digital. Nor did I know what type of digital printing papers were appropriate, if any, for hand-painting. The surface of the paper has to have very specific properties to ‘receive’ oil paints and water colors. I knew nothing about the new papers.

The workshop was a success. Great teacher. I still have a lot of playing around to do with my camera, and have yet to master all the settings that can improve my shots. Who knew there were so many options. Not me, but I did have a hunch.

My husband and I are often in the same place taking pictures. I, of course just hold up my camera and shoot, whereas he’s always fiddling with the camera and seems to take, IMHO, forever. ‘Get on with it’, I’m thinking. And, guess whose pictures look good and whose don’t. Those stops and whistles must do something, I guess.

So I took the course. I was impressed with myself. But even more impressive is what I did when I came home. I found my instruction manual and actually read a few pages. Enough to know how to change my ISO, use the flash for infill and learn the maximum distance I can be when using my macro setting. Who knows what might be next.

All this may mean little to you non-photographers. So let me explain: You can indeed teach an old horse new tricks. And rekindle flames for a lost love (of the photographic kind).

Please stay tuned. I hope to share on of my new photos with you on this blog. Until then, enjoy Damon Winter’s photographs.

And lest we forget, take a look at the old b&w film masters too.



One last thing. A picture from the Israel trip: A ritual hand-washng urn.




Subways, Art, Finances and Priorities

I’m no expert on finances. Ask my husband. Look at the balances in my chequing and savings account.

So that might explain why I don’t completely understand how the city of Toronto, my home, is always short of money when it comes to city services. We’re a wealthy city. We’re prosperous here. We have people with money, a thriving downtown, booming real estate market and more well-dressed latte –drinking young people and Starbucks outlets than we do new high-rise condos going up in our downtown core.  And that's a lot. Trust me. We’re doing well here. Not everyone, of course. We have our share of social issues. But we’re doing okay. Doesn’t that mean something?

So how come we’re always short of cash and forever hearing about much-needed cutbacks. Aren’t people paying taxes? Don’t the wealthy pay their fair share? Let’s, for the moment, assume affirmative to both (and please be advised, 'the moment' refers to the course of this blog, only).

So what’s with our transit system?  Like most cities, it is, of course, subsidized. But fares are continually rising, there’s always a crisis, service is poor and…the subway stations are so bloody ugly.

This is where my question about finances comes in. Why do other ‘great’ cities of the world, a title which Toronto is forever aspiring to (ad nauseum), have architecturally stunning and art-filled subway systems they can be proud of?

Are Stockholm, Barcelona, Brussels, Dubai, Budapest, Athens, and Berlin so much wealthier than we are? Maybe Dubai, but Athens, Budapest? Or is it a question of priorities. Or both.

As I said, I’m no expert on finances. If Toronto had the money, would we turn it into art like these other cities have? I’m not sure, because they also have free city-run museums and art galleries, unlike us. Is ‘art for the people’ (and tourists) a low priority for us here in Toronto. Or are we just happy pushing people through because we have to save bucks to build the next line.

Whichever, here’s what we’re missing. Take a look. Stockholm’s system is the most impressive. At 110 kilometres long, it’s said to be the longest art exhibit in the world.

http://www.tripfilms.com/Travel_Video-v74921-Stockholm-Stockholm_s_Subway-Video.html

Once you’ve checked out Stockholm, take a look at these other wonderful spots.

http://mic-ro.com/metro/metroart.html

So what's with Toronto?