Tammy Lowe's Blog

Interesting Fact of the Day...

Here's your interesting fact of the day: Orcas are as intelligent as 15 or 16-year-olds. Not only do they have their own language, but they also exhibit human-like behaviors, such as following trends and fads within their pods – yes, even in fashion!

Remember a few years ago when Orcas made headlines for ramming boats in Portugal and Spain? Scientists were puzzled until they realized the whales were just having a bit of fun.

But here's the kicker: Orcas are trendsetters too! Back in the '80s, a female Orca started a craze by wearing a dead salmon as a hat. Soon, other pods joined in the trend.

The salmon hat fad faded away as quickly as it started, only to make a surprising comeback in 2022. Who knew Orcas had such impeccable fashion sense?

Interesting Fact of the Day...

Here’s your useless, but interesting fact of the day.

Turns out, I am very passionate—

About cotton.

Yes, cotton.

Bed linen and bath towels to be more precise.

When we were in Istanbul a few years ago, we went to a particular Turkish hamam to buy what is supposed to be the finest cotton towels on Earth. Apparently, even the King of Morocco gets them here.

Everything is hand-woven by the last traditional weavers in Turkey.

The threads themselves are spun from cotton grown in the fields of Gaziantep. The towels are then made on ancient-style shuttle looms in small villages of South Anatolia, by little old men who’ve grown up with the tradition of weaving.

These huge towels are so beautiful that we have been in love with them since the day we brought them home. I cannot fathom drying myself off with any other towel.

However, the part I find fascinating is this:

Did you know...

You have to “teach” organic cotton to become absorbent?

So, before you use your new towels, soak them in cold water for 24 hours first.

Once the towel is completely saturated, you have to really work the water into the fibers.

Then, wring out the water the best you can...and do it all over again.

In the end, you have the most wonderfully absorbent towel...and you’ve trained it yourself. It will last you pretty much a lifetime.

And there you have it. Your interesting, but useless fact of the day: organic cotton is not absorbent until you teach it.

Interesting Fact of the Day...

Gather round for Story-time!

During the Seven Years’ War, a French army officer named Antoine was captured by the Prussians, dragged off to a prison camp, and forced to eat potatoes.

Being made to eat potatoes was nothing short of mental torture for Antoine and the other French captives.

You see, about two hundred years earlier, after the Spanish returned from South America, they brought with them an exciting new vegetable…the potato. However, it didn’t win over the rest of Europe. In fact, the French were aghast, convinced it was poisonous and caused leprosy, sterility, “rampant sexuality”, hemorrhoids…

Even the poor, starving peasants wouldn’t eat potatoes.

Completely convinced of the ill-effects this vegetable caused, by 1748 the French Parliament outlawed potatoes due to health concerns.

That’s right, potatoes were illegal in France.

While a prisoner of war, Antoine was forced to eat this poisonous, leprosy-inducing tuber that his own government had been intelligent enough to prevent from being grown.

During his time in prison, Antoine discovered he’d suffered no terrible side-effects of the potato. In fact, they were delicious.

He realized France had been dead wrong.

When eventually released, he returned to Paris to study nutritional chemistry.

In 1772, due in large part to Antoine’s work, France repealed the law:

Hear ye, hear ye,

The potato is indeed edible.

You may grow and eat them now.

Of course, everyone remained doubtful.

In 1779, Antoine was appointed a position in which his job was to stabilize the food supply for Paris. Determined to bring potatoes to the masses, Antoine set out to make them popular amongst the Parisian aristocracy, hoping it would trickle down to the commoners. He’d serve delicious potato dishes for dinner and invite guests like Benjamin Franklin. He sent a bouquet of potatoes, shaped like flowers, to Marie Antoinette. But, since this was just before the French Revolution, the commoners didn’t have a lot of respect for Marie Antoinette or any of her peers.

Not about to give up on his goal of convincing the masses they could safely eat potatoes, in 1781 Antoine came up with a brilliant plan.

After convincing King Louis to gift him a huge plot of land, he planted a massive amount of potatoes. Then, to make the potatoes irresistible, like some forbidden fruit, Antoine had the king’s men guard them.

And I mean “guard” them.

They were under strict instructions to do a crappy job.

If anyone tried to steal potatoes, they were to look the other way.

If a guard was offered a bribe, they were to accept it, no matter how big or small.

The potatoes were pretty much being protected by Sgt. Shultz:

During the night, the crops weren’t even watched.

Finally, after months of small thefts, and the public getting used to seeing this secret new crop being grown, he fired all the guards.

As expected, people raided the land, stealing whatever potatoes they could bring home, and began to grow them in their own gardens.

A few months later, almost every farm near Paris was growing potatoes, all thanks to Antoine-Augustin Parmentier.

By François Dumont - http://www.reprodart.com/a/dumont-fra..., Public Domain

And there you have it, your interesting, but useless fact of the day about potatoes

Story Time...

Come with me to my favourite era of them all. Can you guess where we're going?

Victorian England?

Nah.

The Renaissance?

Nuh-uh,

The Dark Ages?

Good guess. Try again.

Ancient Rome?

Bingo!

My heart belongs in Ancient Rome, so I thought I'd share one of my favourite legends.

Image by ,Franck Barske from ,Pixabay

Gladiatorial fights, along with chariot races, were THE big sports events of the day. You'd cheer for favourite teams and root for favourite gladiators. The men were pretty much the equivalent of today's sport's heroes. Being a spectator would not be much different than going to a football or baseball game today.

The chariot games were fascinating in their own right, but...let's go to the arena instead.

For Ancient Roman slaves, it was possible to buy your freedom. As a gladiator, you were well-paid. Even more so if you were a crowd favourite. Therefore, survive the arena for three years--you'd likely become a free man.

Some free-men became gladiators solely for the fame and fortune. One emperor would partake in battles in the ring himself. Of course...he'd always win.

Picture it.

The Emperor is sitting in the gilded section of the spectator stands, watching the day long gladiator games.

The prisoners come out, forced to fight to the death.

Later, gladiators come out, putting on their fantastic show.

The final performance...

A trap door opens.

Out saunters a lion.

However...the organizers have run out of prisoners.

Trained gladiators are too expensive to continually have killed.

So...

Bored out of his mind, the Emperor instructs his guards to send an entire section of spectators into the arena.

That's right!

You're sitting there at the game, eating Ancient Roman popcorn, cheering with your buddies and family-- and suddenly you're all rounded up and tossed into battle.

According to legend, it happened under Emperor Caligua.

And there you have it. Your useless, but fascinating fact of the day.

Story Time...

I'm watching the special on Netflix about David Beckham. I really know nothing about soccer, yet it brings to mind a story.

Clearly, I am going to turn into Sophia from The Golden Girls when I'm an old lady.

Picture this. Rome, 2006.

The final game of the World Cup is playing.

Italy vs. France.

The score is 1-1

We're standing on the tarmac in Vienna, boarding a plane to Rome. The captain spends the entire flight keeping passengers updated on the match.

I don't know the technical terms for soccer, but the game goes on to a penalty shoot-out in overtime. Everyone is going bonkers. Thank goodness for autopilot because I'm pretty sure the pilot is paying zero attention to the actual flying at this point.

We land safely.

You can feel the tension and excitement in the air as we wait to get off the plane.

But...

Nobody comes to let us off.

Eventually someone brings the stairs for us before running back to the airport to finish watching the game.

All the passengers disembark and we find ourselves in an empty terminal.

I swear...nobody who worked at Rome-Fumicino Airport showed up for work that night.

Our entire flight is wandering around aimlessly.

We finally find a frazzled employee. "Where are our bags?" everyone asks her in a million different languages.

"Everyone call in sick. No one here to get bags off plane."

So, eventually everyone in the airport clears out knowing none of us are getting ANY of our luggage. Some old ladies are crying because they're getting on a cruise the next morning.

This is pre-cellphone days so we look for a payphone. At this point we're positive our driver, Stefano, will have ditched us too.

Wrong. He's Saint Stefano and has been waiting patiently for us the whole time. He drives to the door to pick us up and as we leave the airport---

You guessed it!

Italy wins the World Cup!

Now let me tell you, arriving in Rome when Italy has JUST won the World Cup is something you will never, in a million years, forget.

It was crazy exciting. Millions of people rushed out of their homes and took to the streets, hooting and hollering in celebration. Fireworks were being set off everywhere. Italy's flag waving from every balcony. People climbing ancient statues to hang more flags. Horns honking non-stop. You'd have thought Caesar himself had returned from a successful foreign campaign.

https://youtu.be/Ii9sen-szdQ?si=tkjhW4b2BwtwZOml&t=63

Finally, after basically crawling through Rome, we make it to our hotel which is up on one of the hills overlooking the Vatican. The entire night we're having fun watching fireworks and listening to horns blasting in the city below.

Meanwhile, we assume the airport will deliver our luggage to the hotel the next morning.

Next few days...nothing.

Eventually, in desperate need of our luggage, my husband, Gord, can't sleep and decides he's going to take a train to the airport and hunt for our suitcases himself. 9 yr old Quinton is sleeping so I stay with him in the hotel room.

Gord heads off to hunt for our suitcases himself because clearly the airport is overwhelmed.

My hero.

He leaves around 9:00 that night thinking he'll avoid all the daytime crowds and tourists.

11:00 pm. He hasn't returned to the hotel yet.

12.00 am. He should be back any time now.

1:00 am. I'm getting worried.

2:00 am. Still no Gord.

3:00am I am in a panic, pacing the floor.

4:00 am he stumbles into the hotel room, carrying ALL our luggage. Let me tell you, we were in Europe a month so there was a LOT.

What we didn't know was that his timing couldn't have been worse.

For...it was the night of the Victory Parade!

Turns out, the train wouldn't go all the way to the airport. However, he finds a cab and makes his way there.

When he finally gets to the airport, the entire terminal is a sea of luggage. Every plane that arrived World Cup Night has had their passengers' suitcases scattered everywhere.

But, Gord somehow found all our luggage and hauled it out of there.

Outside...No taxi.

None.

He started to walk, dragging five suitcases down the road for miles and miles. Bumping up and down the cobblestone through enormous crowds of people. Millions. I mean...they were partying in the streets all the way to the Circus Maximus. Not a bus, train, nor cab to be found.

Like a scene from an old Steve Martin comedy, Gord spent hours hauling five huge suitcases from the airport to the city, until he was finally able to get transportation when the crowds began to thin in the wee hours of the morning.

It was so many years ago, but when I hear anything about soccer, my mind drifts back to those summer nights in Rome, Italy--and I can't help but giggle.

Story Time...

Today, we’ll head over to the beautiful red sand dunes of the Arabian Desert where “A Whole New World” is waiting...for you and meeeeee.

But alas, our magic carpet is at the cleaners, forcing us to travel via more conventional means— airplane.

We eventually reach our destination.

The United Arab Emirates.

Dubai to be exact.

We arrive at our resort on Jumeriah Beach, right on the Persian Gulf. With it’s luxurious grounds and winding canals connecting the hotels and shops, it’s a cross between Venice and the fictional town of Agrabah.

It’s magical.

A romantic, magic-carpet, Arabian Nights sort of place.

While snacking on fresh dates, you half expect Princess Jasmine to come waltzing across the glossy marble floors of the flower-filled lobby, followed closely by Rajah, her Bengal tiger.

It’s the fairytale version of the Middle East.

One day we’re at The Mall of the Emirates.

We‘re just off the food court, eating Haagen Dazs ice cream, watching in total amazement as locals enter a snowy, indoor ski resort.

A ski resort.

In. The. Mall.

Loaded chairlifts head to the peak of an indoor mountain. People with rented winter coats are making their way down the slope. Meanwhile, children bundled up nice and warm squeal in delight while playing in the snow.

At the bottom of the ski slope is a fancy restaurant. Flickering candles glow inside a row of gondolas stationary on the ground. Looking closer, you can make out the private tables—each gondola set for a romantic dinner.

As patrons arrive, they’re given luxurious fur coats, and ushered into this winter wonderland to dine. The windows soon fog over and the gondola truly becomes their private dining room for two.

We’re still lingering near the doorway, smiling in amazement—and amusement—when the maître d’ comes over to us.

We strike up a conversation in English and when he asks if we’d like to try skiing and see the snow, we can’t help but break into laughter.

“We’re from Canada.”

He breaks into laughter too. “I guess you’ve seen snow before then.”

Wild Wadi is my son, Quinton's, favourite place to spend the days. It’s Atlantis’ rival water park, located at one end of our resort. Picture lazy rivers and countless water slides. It’s hours and hours of fun under the scorching desert sun.

But, the most anticipated evening was yet to come.

One afternoon, a young Arab man comes to our hotel to get us. Dressed in his long white tunic and traditional red head scarf, is super-cool Tarik. He takes us far from the city in an SUV—pointing out all the palaces, princes, and princesses, along the way.

Seriously.

Palaces. Princes. Princesses.

The Sheikh has something like six wives and thirty children.

We finally arrive at some distant meeting place in the desert, now joining a convoy of SUVs.

And the fun begins.

We leave the highway and start driving up and down the rolling red sand dunes, heading deeper and deeper into the Arabian Desert.

We watch the vehicle ahead of us race to the peak of a dune, tires spinning, throwing a wall of sand at us as they try to get going.

Will he make it?

With a bit of fancy maneuvering, he reaches the top, now waiting for us to follow.

Tarik makes his way up the mountain of sand, then we all roar with laughter while flying down the opposite side, as if on a roller coaster—hoping we don’t roll the vehicle on the way down.

Eventually, as the golden hour nears, our convoy stops. Everyone piles out to watch the sun set over a glowing desert.

It’s a beautiful sight to behold.

Then...we pile back in to the SUV’s.

In the darkness, we keep driving until we get to...

Camels of course.

As my husband follows on foot, videotaping, Quinton and I share a camel, eventually stopping at a Bedouin Camp. Once within the compound’s make-shift walls, the food and entertainment begin.

In the middle of the camp is a low wooden stage covered in carpets.

Low tables placed on carpets—with pillows for seats—encircle the platform.

Under a starry sky, music plays and a lavender-garbed belly dancer performs for us. When she pulls Quinton up, attempting to teach him how to belly dance, Gord laughs non-stop the entire time.

The rest of the evening is spent laughing, eating and drinking, and posing in traditional costumes for photos. When we finally head back to Dubai in the wee hours, we’re tired, but content.

It was the side of the Middle East we’d travelled this far for.

A glimpse into a fairytale.

The stuff of 1001 Arabian Nights, magic carpets, and genie lamps.

It truly was a whole new world.

https://youtu.be/CC3YIdceLZ8?si=jFi14PKtnwRipSor

Story Time...

By Kurmanbek - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index...

It's the year 1545. A French scholar named Petrus is strolling down the streets of Constantinople. He notices a guy selling fish in front of his house.

"Wow! This fish is so fresh," Petrus says.

"Yeah. I just caught it in my basement."

Petrus gives him a dazed look. "Huh?"

The guy goes on to explain that people living around here have discovered if they dig a little well in their cellars, they have fresh water...and can even catch fish.

Fresh water in their houses?

In the 16th century?

Petrus investigates this mystery.

In the year 532, Roman Emperor Justinian had 7000 slaves convert and build a cistern atop an old basilica. Able to hold 17.5 million gallons of water, it's nickname to this day is: The Sunken Palace.

Originally, this basilica cistern provided all the water needed for the "Great Palace". If Constantinople was ever under siege, their water supply was protected.

The fish were a clever addition.

Why?

If the fish died, you'd know the water supply to the Palace had been poisoned.

Fun Fact:

When turned into a cistern, they used whatever they could find from even older ruins. An old Medusa head fits perfectly to prop up this column.

By Metuboy - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index...

Interesting Fact of the Day...

In 8000 BC, Incas began growing potatoes.

Around 1536, Spanish Conquistadors brought potatoes back to Europe.

Meanwhile, in Belgium, people would catch small fish, cut them into strips, deep frying them for a snack. One winter, in the late 1600’s, when a river in the Meuse Valley was frozen and villagers were unable to catch fish, they began to cut the potatoes into small pieces and deep fry them...exactly like they did to their fish.

Eventually, the fried strips of potatoes became a common dish throughout Belgium.

During the first world war, American soldiers befriended some Belgian soldiers who gave them their fried strips of potatoes to eat. The Americans loved them...because what’s not to love!

However...because the Belgians were speaking French, the Americans mistook them for Frenchmen, telling everyone about the delicious FRENCH fried potatoes they’d sampled.

The truth is...they’re Belgian Fries.

There are five foods to sample while in Belgium:

-Waffles

-Chocolates (they invented the little stuffed chocolates in boxes we all know and love today)

-Beer

-Ghent Noses, and

-“French” Fries

There is an art to how fries are made there, including deep frying them twice to achieve perfection- soft and fluffy inside, crispy outside.

Served most often with mayonnaise and/or gravy, the fries in Belgium are AMAZING.

So, there you go.

Your interesting fact of the day. The birthplace of French Fries: Belgium.

And now I’m hungry.

Story Time...

Walking by, can of paint in hand, I can’t help but think this dollhouse is what my great-grandchildren will find in an attic fifty or sixty years from now.

At the moment, it’s covered in dust and everything’s been knocked over. It normally sits on an antique table in a corner of the master bedroom.

As a little girl, I dreamt I’d someday have a real, honest-to-goodness Victorian dollhouse. The kind found in the nurseries of Peter Pan and Mary Poppins stories, that Wendy Darling and Jane Banks would have played with.

But alas, we were very poor. So, I made dollhouse rooms by decorating old boxes...and used toads my brother and I caught at a nearby creek as the dolls.

Yes, toads.

Fast forward to adulthood.

When my husband, Gord, and I were still in our twenties, he commuted to work. Almost an hour drive each way.

Every day, he drove by a quaint dollhouse shop. The display windows were stuffed with every Victorian dollhouse imaginable.

Now, the only kind of tinkering Gord liked to do was on cars.

He hates anything finicky.

Yet...

One day, he stopped the car, went into the charming little shop, and bought a dollhouse kit anyway. He brought it home and proceeded to spend the next several months painstakingly sanding, painting, gluing, and nailing it together for me for Christmas. He hated the work, but was determined I have my Victorian dollhouse.

Thank goodness our son is as sentimental as we are. I‘m pretty sure someday his own grandchildren will find the old dollhouse in an attic. He’ll let out a shallow sigh and with a small smile tell them, “You know...your great-grandfather built that for your great-grandmother back in the late 1900’s."

Story Time...

Grab your cup of tea (or coffee) and gather round for it’s story time and I LOVE this one.

1911.

Czechoslovakia.

An old castle burns down.

However, a local eccentric guy named Josef, who loves everything about the medieval days, buys it.

He restores the castle, fills it with antiques, and even smuggles a real suit of armor out of France for himself to wear.

Now…nothing can stop him from becoming a real knight.

Josef opens his fortress for school trips, welcoming children while on horseback and dressed in his suit of armor. Rumor has it a wooden crocodile even lived in his moat. Beloved by everyone, he’s affectionately called “Bearded Dad” and “The Last Knight” by the locals.

As the years go by, everyone considers him a real life Don Quixote, for he personifies all the qualities of a noble knight.

Josef got older, yet remained dedicated to his role. He treated everyone with kindness and generosity and a visitor to his castle was never turned away, declaring all knights must be brave and honest.

Then, in 1938...he learned the Nazis were coming.

He donned his suit of armor, mounted his horse, and rode off to stop the German tanks, blocking the road to prevent them from invading his beloved country.

A bit puzzled at first by the sight of the knight on his steed, the Germans laughed at Josef before pushing the old man out of the way. Nobody knows why the Nazis didn’t kill him, but locals say they couldn’t help but feel some respect for his bravery.

Josef Menčík died on November 19th, 1945...some say of a broken heart.

*Cue musical number*

https://youtu.be/osvdGAD0z5c?si=jVayyVLOjuxNBicM&t=10