Oh joy and bliss! Hot Docs, North America’s largest documentary film festival is here! Spring has finally arrived, the trees are budding, Torontonians are gradually emerging from their winter cocoons blinking their eyes in the sun and it is documentary season again!

Documentaries are always capable of provoking strong emotions. Often the films I expect to love infuriate me and those I had originally dismissed move me the most.

A couple of years ago there was a Hot Docs spotlight on Eastern Europe and I was excited to take my mom and her best friend to see a Latvian documentary. Unfortunately it was the worst documentary I have ever seen, featuring endless scenes of potato peeling and squalor. Horrible. I began to hear deep and progressively more aggravated sighs from my mom and her friend. Suddenly in a wild clatter of canes, my mom and her friend stomped out of the theatre. Climbing over tsking patrons, I followed sheepishly to hear my mom’s friend yelling at the poor Hot Docs volunteers, “I’m Latvian and I have never been so insulted in my life! This is not how Latvians live. They dropped a potato on the floor and didn’t clean it. We are a clean people! We would never do that!” My poor mom and her friend were upset for weeks, convinced that the film was a Communist plot to show Latvia suffering since gaining freedom from Soviet occupation.

On the other hand, Anvil was one of my favourite documentaries last year and I had almost overlooked it. A film about a washed up Canadian heavy metal band did not sound particularly intriguing. By the end of the movie, however, I was humbled and in tears, cheering with the rest of the audience, giddy like a teenage groupie.

 
At this year’s festival I have fifteen movies lined up over eleven glorious days. I will be sustaining myself on popcorn, hot tamales and inspiration and expect to be delightfully exhausted by the end.

I have met my new obsession in the form of Hakka, which is a type of Indian style Chinese food. Friends introduced me to Hakka at their Oscar Night party in February. It was the most delicious Chinese food I had ever tasted. In fact, the feast almost made up for my humiliating Oscar pool loss (I had been convinced of a sure victory and spent the evening heckling and trash talking the other guests until “Man on Wire” won for best documentary and ruined my chances).

I quickly became obsessed. I made transparent attempts at drawing The Sweetie into useless reminiscences about Hakka. “Sooooo, what was your favourite part of the Oscar night party? Mine was the Hakka, was yours the Hakka? Wouldn’t you love some Hakka right now? What was your favourite Hakka dish? Mine was the Manchurian balls, have you ever had anything like that before? Wow, it was delicious wasn’t it?” I pestered my friends who had given me my first hit of Hakka. “Sooo, who feels like Hakka? Are you guys planning a Hakka night any time soon? Cuz I’m in. If you are going. I’m ready. Just give me the word. Ready for Hakka night…”

Hakka Hakka Hakka. It became a sickness.

We finally made the voyage deep into the suburbs to Kimling Chinese Restaurant in Scarborough. It is an unassuming restaurant located in a strip mall, but what it lacks in location and decor it makes up for in unbelievable deliciousness. We stuffed ourselves on crispy vegetable pakoras, sauteed garlic green beans, pepper tofu broccoli, Hakka style rice noodles and Manchurian vegetable balls. Even The Sweetie, a die-hard meat lover outnumbered by vegetarians, exclaimed that the tofu was amazing and he is far from generous in his praise of tofu. The four of us were stuffed, smacking our lips and rubbing our bellies, for a mere $45.00. It was frugal feasting heaven.

Alas, a new serious addiction has been born, but one I am willing to endure.

I was lucky enough to attend a gleeful girlie swap this weekend. It was definitely worth leaving the house and violating my self-imposed hibernation policy. These days, with dreams of a beach vacation and debt that doesn’t seem to be disappearing on its own, shopping in other friends’ closets makes frugal sense.

Over wine, cheese and strawberries with some delicious creamy dipping sauce I forgot to ask about, we grabbed clothes and magazines and gabbed about blind date set ups, work woes, and the status of Mickey Rourke’s busted up face.

It is always exciting to see old clothes get a new life. With a dash of vision and ambition, boring, wrinkled discards can be resurrected. A skirt from a previous swap reappeared as a Doctor-Zhivago-goes-to-chef-school hat, a millinery project by one of our more ambitious swappers.  Old lumpy sweaters reappear as pillows or get felted into tea cozies. Too tight blouses always look sexy on the skinny bitch we keep meaning to ban from future swaps.

We were snarky, supportive and noisy, and came away with new stashes of goodies and baggies of leftover cookies. With the warm glow of  female bonding and wine guzzling, I felt a little less assaulted by the cold trudge to the subway.

Once again I successfully avoided horrid New Year’s Eve parties, with their forced joviality and overabundance of cheer. Phew.

The Sweetie and I enjoyed our annual New Year’s Day tradition of Dim Sum with friends at the Bright Pearl in Chinatown. I gorged on dumplings and crispy mounds of yumminess in preparation for tomorrow when everything will be different and I will eat nothing but salads and clear broth to atone for my gluttony during Shortbread Season.

I realized that things need to change while trying on Lululemon pants in Victoria. Lululemon’s workout gear is known for magically sucking in all the wobbly bits and the excessive price can be justified for the sake of looking fit without having to actually go to the gym. No one looks bad in Lululemon pants. Or so I thought. Unfortunately something went terribly wrong when I was in the change room. There was no mood lighting to cushion the blow and somehow instead of admiring my Lululemon clad apple bum, I was horrified to face a spandex wearing sausage. Apparently a month of eating cookies and fudge wreaths the size of my head has consequences after all.

As a result, my first New Year’s resolution for 2009 is to cut back on the fudge wreaths and re-introduce vegetables into my life.

In order to spare myself unnecessary temptation tomorrow, I will finish the remnants of my holiday cookies and a bottle of wine tonight while working on the rest of my list.

In order to put off getting organized for Christmas, the Sweetie and I decided to brave the blowing snow and get ourselves some chocolate at The Distillery District instead. Why clean the house or get ready for Christmas when there are steaming cups of hot chocolate to be had?

The Distillery District looks really magical right now, with little fairy lights strung everywhere and the brick streets lined with evergreen boughs. I actually had a moment when I thought winter could be pretty.

I quickly came to my senses and pulled us into Soma Chocolatemaker for some warmth and their magical Mayan hot chocolate elixir. Bravo to the Mayans for building pyramids and their astronomical advances, but the true accomplishment is discovering that chocolate and chili’s go so well together. I had a big cup with steamed milk, while The Sweetie opted for a short cup which was a gooey thick mass of pure heaven. My fuzzy head felt instantly clearer, and all was right with the world again.

Nothing like a nip of chocolate to put everything in perspective and take the sting out of winter, at least temporarily.

Sheba Ethiopian Restaurant on College Street is absolutely scrumptious and a bargain eater’s delight. You can stuff yourself and have a beer for less than $20.00 and the atmosphere is cozy and inviting, perfect for whiling away a couple of hours with friends. It’s a perfect date place as well. There is something wonderfully sensual and intimate about eating with your hands. The only drawback, unfortunately, is that all of the waitresses are gorgeous. Really really gorgeous. And friendly. My girlfriend and I had planned on going with our sweeties. We purposely opted for a Friday night, figuring that all the really gorgeous waitresses would be out on dates. We hoped that there would only be plain waitresses left, leaving our men free to gaze upon us adoringly and undistracted.

Alas, no.

Luckily we were able to take comfort in the delicious food and despite the gorgeous waitresses, we’ll be back (maybe for a girl’s night).