Old Fashioned Granola Recipe

here's how to make classic granola - image Stacy Reynaud

It's $20 for 500 grams of granola on Hornby. Why? 

I made my own. Nothing fancy, just old-fashioned granola. 

It's vegan if that makes any difference.

Granola lasts about two weeks in an airtight container. 

Buy a vacuum sealer, and you can keep it for six to eight months! I just bought this one, and I love it.

INGREDIENTS

• 4 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
• 6 tablespoons each of pecans, pumpkin seeds, almonds*
• 1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon cardamom
• 1/3 cup coconut oil (melted)
• 1/4 cup agave syrup
• 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
• 1 tablespoon vanilla extract

STEPS

1. Preheat oven to 300 F.
2. Grease a large baking pan (I use vegan butter).
3. Mix the oats, pecans, brown sugar, salt, cinnamon and cardamom in a large bowl.
4. Combine the oil, agave, and granulated sugar in a small saucepan.
5. Bring to a simmer; immediately remove from the heat and stir in vanilla.
6. Pour over the oat mixture.
7. Stir well until thoroughly combined.
8. Spread in the prepared baking pan.
9. Bake until golden brown - between 25-30 minutes - stirring every 8-10 minutes.
10. Transfer the pan to a rack and let cool completely*

* I soak my pecans and almonds in water for a few hours and then bake at 250 F for 50 minutes. If you do this, too, remember that the nuts are already cooked and burn when you put them in the oven again for 30 minutes. I learned the hard way! 

* Because we're using coconut oil, the granola sticks together quite well (coconut oil solidifies when cool). I let my granola cool for about an hour, then use a spatula to lift it out of the pan and break it up.

Doused in Mud Soaked in Bleach

My home on Hornby Island

Come doused in mud, soaked in bleach 

As I want you to be 

As a trend, as a friend 

As an old memoria 

 - Kurt Cobain, Come as You Are

It was Christmas Eve, and I wanted to dress up. I knew it'd be my cat Flo's, and possibly my Dad's, last Christmas, but something in me wanted to get dressed up,

Only a few pairs of socks and a black nightie (just in case), made it into my unfastenable duffel bag for my two-week stay, and here I was on week 30—two. 

Wearing the same fucking thing:

 

✅    men's vintage jeans - six sizes too big 

✅    thrifted wool Acne sweater – heavily repaired 

✅    burgundy fast-fashion toque – stretched out 

✅    men's 50-year-old dead duck down coat – shedding feathers 

✅    hiking boots - muddy 

I was as dumpy and worn out as my clothes. 

I can't remember if I was wearing the fake fur coat when I took off from Vancouver nine months prior or if I'd shoved it into my conveniently unfastenable bag while I ran out my door. Probably the latter. 

Well whatever, it now hung on a hook-shaped piece of driftwood that my Dad drilled into the wall beside my front door—the summer before all this shit happened. 

Pacificnorthwest accountrement

My fuck this, I don't give a shit anymore attitude wasn't fully developed yet at nine months in, but it was strong enough to construct a whatever; I'm going to dress up and find some people to stand around with. 

That dusty fake fur was the dressiest thing I had on that island of woe.

I thought about styling the dust catcher up with my little black nightie, long johns and hiking boots—and since grunge never died on Hornby...

Too friggin cold. 

Scratched that.

Agh Go.

I wiped off my boots and grabbed the dusty coat on the way out the door. I was headed to Ringside to see if I could find some humans. 

Ringside's Hornby's version of downtown and is located at the Island's only four-way stop. It consists of six vibrantly painted hand-built caravans organized in a circle - hence Ringside - a conglomerate of local artisan wares, tie-dyed tourist crap, seasonal tacos, and city-priced coffee. It's also a dependable spot where locals gather for rumours and news. You go to the gravel gas lot to find out where to get an iron clawfoot tub, but if you want to know whose nephew is sleeping with Helene's daughter, you go to Ringside. 

The past nine months were difficult for everyone on the Island. The Co-op grocery constantly ran out of food and supplies, people were divided by medical beliefs, and the winter hurricane winds had started early. 

As usual, I wasn't sure what I'd encounter beyond my gated yard, but I hoped it was humans. 

Walking across the gravel lot, I was greeted by social anxiety. I wasn't the only one who'd made the Christmas Eve pilgrimage. Ringside was packed. Folks dressed up in moth-eaten fur coats from the free store, Halloween top hats, silver Christmas boas from that box up in the rafters and the most outlandishly wacked array of Christmas accoutrements. 

Some stood alone, 

others in pairs, 

but most looked 

                       awkward 

and uncomfortable. 

It was a gathering of misfits, bound by our haphazard Christmas finery, an unbeknownst faith and resilience only a few will ever know. 

We'd pulled ourselves together in whatever way we could and left the isolation of our homes. Drawn together by a tradition that not many of us followed in the hopes of finding another suffering human in search of compassion. 

It takes courage to come out from behind a wall of isolating depression—IYKYK

Although I didn't talk to anyone on Christmas Eve, sharing the presence of other raw souls was more than enough.

The Back 40

my back 40

The wind's cold on my face, but I won't go inside until I feel the chill deep within my cheeks. 

Stoke the fire, 

drink hot chocolate, 

snuggle with my cat, and 

watch the birds from the bed beside the window. 

Dark-eyed Juncos snacking on Salal berries, 

Spotted Towhees kicking up dry leaves and

Rufous Hummingbirds fighting over the last flower on the Oregon grape. 

fireside good times 2020

My yard's my sanctuary. 

The cedars and firs protect me, 

hold me, 

and help me heal. 

Because 

there are 

no

arms 

to fall 

into. 

me in my yard 2019

My first autumn on the island was spent clearing my land by hand—the Back 40. I planned to build some raised vegetable beds and live off the land as much as possible. 

I wasn't sure exactly how to make those beds or where I'd get the soil, but that's what I wanted to do. Unfortunately, the only yard tools I had were a rotting pick axe I found in the bushes and a metal lawn rake left by the previous owners. 

back 40 after a few hours pulling crap out -  Fall 2019

trying to figure out how to make a raised bed

The Back 40 was about half an acre filled with: 

rocks 

sandy soil 

4 ft tall bracken ferns 

salal 

huckleberry 

blackberry 

dandelion and 

garter snakes 

before

the finished product - rocks are under the Fir tree top right

There were a lot of rocks on my property: giant slabs of conglomerate, perfectly round stones, and large boulders. 

I'd choose the spot I'd work on that day by the rock I tripped over. 

Trip 

Curse 

Kick 

Dig 

I'd spend the day digging the rocks out. 

First, I'd kick them to see what I was dealing with, 

and then I'd kick them some more because it felt good. 

The work - physically draining but emotionally satisfying. 

one of my few tools

Once I could see more of the rock, I'd try to pull it out with my stinky work glove-clad hands. If that didn't work, I'd use the head of the pick axe—whose handle broke off the first time I used it. 

Sometimes, the rocks were hidden by thick Salal bushes. In which case, once the snakes vacated, I'd start cutting the Salal back to grab hold of its roots and pull it out while briefly considering business opportunities in Salal distribution. 

stinky work gloves in Spring

My buddy Dave warned me not to try and pull the Salal out. 

Stace, you can't win against Salal. 

I didn't listen. No matter how many times I tried, I failed. 

Salal has a deep and wide root system. 

Most of the time I'd end up in a tug of war and on my ass. 

Root system still intact. 

Clearing the rocks became an obsessive challenge. 

the back 40 after I pulled out the ferns, salal and threw rocks

adhd hyperfocused back 40 after I was done with it

When the day's battle with the Salal and the rocks came to an end, I'd throw the rocks under the tallest tree on my property—the Douglas fir, which stood over 100 feet tall and whose top twinkled like a star on a Christmas tree when the setting sun caught it just right. 

Sometimes, I'd pretend I was a shot putter; other times, I was back on the softball field, and even more times, I was hurling balls of fire. 

Overhand 

Underhand 

Hurl 

I threw the rocks with my eyes closed. 

Occasionally, over my shoulder for luck. 

With each rock I threw, I released a stuck memory. 

The flat clap of the rock hitting another signified success. 

I never saw where they'd land, and the thick Salal surrounding the tree hid the pile. 

I'd consider future inhabitants of the land pondering the meaning of all the rocks piled under the tree. 

Is something buried there? 

Yes.

The Back 40 after I cleared it and put in the beds and firepit

Summer Breeze

My Kitchen in Kits 2018

I feared falling into depression again. 

It'd been almost a decade since my last episode. 

I avoided everything that might trigger one. 

I stepped around it, turned my back, and disassociated. 

And then it hit. 

It was a beautiful late afternoon in July, around dinner time. 

I was washing dishes in the kitchen of my shithole yet perfect Kitsilano rental.

My outstretched arms were warm from the gentle breeze 

that danced through 

the pink sequined fabric 

I'd hung over the window above the sink. 

It was my favourite time of day.

That time of day, my two cats watched me disappear while 

I'd transport myself into the lyrics of Seals and Crofts' Summer Breeze. 

Love is Patient; my kitchen rock. Kitsilano 2018

The sunlight shone perfectly through 

the horizontal window beside the hundred-year-old back door, 

throwing sunbeams on my giant philodendron, 

bouncing off the copper pots that hung on a rack from the ceiling and 

landing on stacks of pottery I'd just retrieved from the kiln – all inspired by him.  

Kitsilano 2018

Seemingly, out of nowhere, my body gave in, and 

I collapsed to my knees on the floor beside the stove. 

The sunlight disappeared. 

The needle dragged heavily across the song playing in my head, 

and everything stopped. 

My reflection grabbed me through the baked-on grease of the oven door, 

I looked myself in the eyes and listened as 

the song's lyrics were thrown in my face. 

Solarium, Kitsilano 2018

He's not going to see the newspaper layin' on the sidewalk 

while a little music plays from the house next door; 

he's not going to walk on up to the doorstep 

through the screen and across the floor. 

He won't come home from a hard day's work - because he doesn't work. 

And his arms definitely won't reach out to hold me when the day's through. 

This is make-believe. 

Nannie's Guitar, Kitsilano 2018

This is reality. 

You let him in the front door late at night 

on Thursdays and Sundays, 

you share a few puffs in the solarium,

you go for a walk on a star-filled beach,

you talk about things only you two can talk about,

you both do all you can to remain detached,

you come home,

you fuck -

like only you two can fuck,

and he leaves. 

Stop living in a fantasy. 

Jared, Kitsilano 2018

And with that, I curled into a fetal position amongst 

the crumbs and random sticky stuff on the old pine floor 

and wailed. 

I know my neighbours heard me because their BBQ chatter went quiet. 

I respect that they allowed me my privacy -

they knew what I was going through. 

The kitchen floor, me, Tilley and Flo

Tilley and Flo - my two cats

Not deterred by my sobs and hiccups, 

my cats came over to the sack of me on the floor and 

stuck their noses in my wet eyes. 

They snapped me out of my mindlessness and 

I conjured up enough strength to crawl to the washroom and puke. 

Exhausted. 

My forehead pressed against the cold base of the toilet. 

My cheek cooled by the tile floor. 

My eyes focused on dust bunnies under the claw foot tub I loved so much. 

My thoughts twinkled like birthday sparklers, then exploded amongst epiphanies. 

I didn't cry during the depressive episodes of my past because 

my brain was stuck in a sludge of darkness. 

I was too numb to move. 

A broken soul covered with a shell of a human. 

A vase I made and a sandpiper skull, Kits 2018

Although I felt like a shell of myself lying there on the cold floor, 

I found solace in the realization I wasn't depressed. 

I was living a moment in time. 

An experience, 

a situation. 

A moment that one day would be over, and 

far enough in the past that I could 

see it as a distant memory. 

me in the wildfire pollution Summer 2018 Kitsilano

That beautiful late afternoon in July, when I was 

washing dishes in a warm summer breeze is a memory now. 

I can watch it like a movie in my mind, and 

I can write about it. 

Not all shit experiences are lessons. 

They're simply shit experiences. They aren't meant for anything. 

There's no need to be bitter. To get drunk, high or angry. 

But there are a lot of reasons to be strong.  

I crawled through my soul's darkest nights until I had the strength to stand.

Sometimes, I lay collapsed on my stomach 

between the thresholds of darkness and light, 

convinced it was the end. 

But then something inside me would flicker—and I'd get up again - 

and again. 

The realization I'd been living in a fantasy was the start of my healing. 

Little did I know that fully healing meant metaphorically dying.

Voodoo

We got together at Dave’s Halloween party, and he died in an avalanche in Whistler in March. 

I was briefly living in Kelowna. 

He was living in Whistler. 

We knew each other for years. We were in the same scene if you will. 

Steep runs, 

deep powder 

and 

adrenaline. 

Both of us painfully shy and awkward, 

too timid for anything beyond a nod and a “Hey.” 

The Halloween party was loud – 

there was some thrash band – 

and clumps of people I’d never seen before. 

I stood against the back wall, 

fur-clad with leather pants and a crotched bikini top. 

He approached me from out of the shadows. 

“We’re supposed to be together,” he motioned his hand at us. 

He was fur-clad, with tight leather pants and shirtless. 

Rock and roll wallflowers guarding the nearest exit. 

Shortly thereafter, we were at my place making “rock star nachos.” 

And shortly after that, I was stopped short by a huge Hendrix tattoo on his right shoulder. 

He stayed with me for a few days. 

We listened to music, 

played air guitar to Hendrix, 

laughed nonstop 

and had a glorious time. 

He was tender, corny, polite and beautiful. 

We made plans for Spring when I’d move back to Van. 

But he died before it could happen. 

I often think of that Hendrix tattoo; the first time I saw it, 

his beautiful smile, 

and our Spring that never happened. 

Last night, I dreamt of him. 

We were riding bikes and had stopped at a crossing. 

He leaned over to me and whispered, 

“I’m going to die soon.” 

But I already knew.

Milky Way

 

Darren asked me, 

Were you ever scared? 

It was the first time anyone asked me that question, and I had to think about it. 

I certainly had to be scared a few times – but I couldn't remember any. 

I did, however, remember the moment I realized that fear is an illusion.

 

It was about 3 in the morning. I woke up and decided I wanted to sit outside. 

I'd sat on my deck at night but never further than my wifi would allow. 

Because I like using the Sky Guide app 

That night, I woke with an urge to sit on the cold, 

late September ground in the back 40.

The Milky Way usually 

hung above my yard like a mobile, 

its purply blue halo dripping trails of twinkling silver, 

but tonight, it was absent—

I gazed up beyond the layers of stars to infinite black dust.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed shadows of various shades of black brush by me.

I focused, and they were all around me—

moving like the employed on a noon-hour sidewalk.

Warm rhythms of air moved through the cold,

and I fought the urge to get up and run. 

I thought about orgasms, 

the exhilaration of waiting and the ecstasy of release. 

I fingered my memory for a quote from Poe but only came up with Shakespeare. 

There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. 

I pushed myself to stay – to wait and see what would happen. 

I sat in the night as the shadows moved over and around me. 

I 

didn't 

exist. 

I envisioned my heavily treed property in the daylight. 

I rationalized—these aren't bears or rapists or cougars because 

there are no predators on the island. 

I hypothesized the viability of shadows thrown on a moonless night. 

I concluded that what I was experiencing was the unknown. 

How could I fear it if I didn't know what it was? 

Fear, therefore, was irrational, an illusion.

There's nothing to fear but fear itself. 

Instead of running, I waited, embraced the unknown and released my fear.

I was overcome with emotion—ecstasy of the purest form. 

Shadows dance beyond the depths of darkness.

My friend came to stay with me for some October 31st shenanigans. 

We sat around the fire in my backyard until the last ember burned 

and the treetops melted into the night sky. 

On our way back to the cabin, the shadows emerged. 

I didn't say anything. 

Dude, what the fuck is that? Seriously, what the fuck! 

I still smile thinking about that night. 

That's the unknown. Just welcome it in and ride it out.

My bunkie at night

Blackberry Mojito Recipe

What to do with blackberries?

Make blackberry syrup,

then make a blackberry mojito!

Last year, I spent two days cutting down blackberry vines in my yard. This year, they're back in full force. I read that dumping boiling water on the roots will kill them, but I haven't tried this yet.

I'm trying to live off my land as much as possible this summer - I have blackberries everywhere - they're food, might as well eat them - or drink them!

Here's how to make a blackberry mojito. I adapted Natalie's recipe from Tastes Lovely and Dana's recipe from Minimalist Baker to suit my taste.

INGREDIENTS

• 2 oz rum
• 2 oz blackberry syrup
• soda water
• 7-10 mint leaves
• 1/2 lime (quartered)
• 1 cup crushed ice

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Grab a  highball glass 
2. Add mint leaves, lime wedges, rum and blackberry syrup. 
3. Muddle with the base of a wooden spoon if you don't have a muddler. 
4. Make sure the limes are muddled and the juice is squished all through that goodness. 
5. Stir it up a bit. 
6. Add crushed ice. 
7. Top with soda water and garnish with a wedge of lime. 

Stir it up from time to time as you're cocktailing - it keeps the melting ice flavoured with the blackberry mint lime rum goodness!

Check out my Pinterest for more cocktails.

A DECADE OF BIJOU LIVING

silk moth in a jelly moon Hornby 2018

A decade—ten years—sounds like a long time. I don't really have any concept of time—it's either "now" or "not now." I live in the moment—the adhd posse will relate.

Bijou Living started ten years ago, on May 5, 2008. I started writing to share cool things, give tips/techniques, and journal my thoughts and feelings. Where have I been since my last post? 

Life happens...

• 
  

2016

divorce

California

start pottery

soul searching

old love, new heartbreak

good friends

laughter

peace

2017

happiness

inspiration

closure

confidence

laughter

sensuality

love

gratification

peace

Jan - Apr. 2018

achievement

stamina

good friends

soul searching

peace

...

Leslie, at The Bloomerie (Arbutus and 12th), saw my pottery on Instagram and contacted me to purchase some pieces. Donald Yim saw my pottery at the Bloomerie and called me for an interview. Here's the fun video we did! 

The soundtrack most definitely steals the show...

January 2018 saw the first major retrospective of Thomas Kakinuma's ceramic art, and I'm proud to have been involved in it. 

Remember my Kakinuma post ten years ago? The Kakinuma family reached out to me in 2015 as they'd read the post. We met shortly after, and a beautiful friendship has evolved.

May 26, 2018 - I'll be selling my studio pottery (my work) as part of a small conglomerate of West Van potters (there are only 16 of us). We'll be at the West Van Community Centre from 10 to 3. You can view what I'll be selling on my Instagram. Please come say hi—I'll tell you the story behind each piece.


I'm locked out of my Facebook. I post regularly on Instagram, head on over that way - Instagram - Stories is where I share the behind-the-scenes stuff. Chat later, Stacy ✌🏻