The other night, my husband said he was going to make pizza. What kind, he asked. Pineapple and ham, I said without hesitation. They’re small, he said, so anything else? Pepperoni and pineapple. That’s what Sam Panopolous likes.
We had a can of pineapple rings and ham slices. No pepperoni but nice salami. And black olives. Jim said one of the best pizzas he ever had was a Hawaiian with black olives.
Store-bought pizza crusts (these are 9″ flatbreads)
then pizza sauce from a can,
shredded mozzarella, and
toppings – pineapple chunks, ham pieces (or sliced salami or pepperoni), sliced black olives
bake about 20 minutes at 375°F
Thank you, Mr. Panopolous, they were delicious.
Sam Panopolous is the inventor of the Hawaiian pizza. Since 1982 he has lived in London, Ontario where he owned the Family Circle Restaurant on Wellington Street. Its website says it’s family-owned, his family, I assume.
Before that, he ran the Satellite restaurant in Chatham, Ontario. There, in 1962, he came up with the idea of pineapple chunks on pizza. He liked it and, while not an immediate hit with his customers, he kept ham and pineapple pizza on offer. Eventually it took off and now is a standard item in pizza places.
Mr. Panopolous told CBC’s As It Happens that he is retired now and doesn’t even make pizza for himself. He likes Dr. Oetker’s frozen pizzas. A great testimony for them, and I agree with him.
Hawaiian pizza and Mr. Panopolous were in the news last week. It started with a furor over a tweet by a political leader. For once, not Donald Trump. Rather the President of Iceland, Guðni Th. Jóhannesson.
President Jóhannesson put it out there for the world that he did not like pineapple on pizza. That if he had the power, he would ban pineapple on pizza. But he doesn’t have the power. And that’s a good thing. “I would not want to hold this position if I could pass laws forbidding that which I don’t like. I would not want to live in such a country. For pizzas, I recommend seafood.”
Seafood on pizza? Ok, that’s weird. I thought his tweet was perhaps allegorical. A small reminder to, oh maybe Donald Trump, that personal opinion shouldn’t be the basis for policy making. But evidently it came from a classroom Q & A about pizza preferences. Sometimes a topping is just a topping. But I still think it’s a good allegory.
While googling, I came across a Guardian article from March 2015. The Pizzeria Boccalino in Lausanne, Switzerland politicized their pizzas by naming them after world leaders and celebrities. The Barack Obama included pineapple. What would be on a Donald J. Trump pizza, I wonder.
In this gallery are newspaper clippings from my mother’s scrapbooks. Their dates are from the 1940s on. They are about family and our towns as well as random people and events that struck her. And, of the many clippings in her scrapbooks, these are the ones that also particularly struck me.
Hover over an image to see its caption. To see a particular article, click or tap it. After doing that, you can click the small magnifying glass under the image title for a larger view. I will add more as I scan them, so check back.
Belmont Clubs, late 1940s
Oddfellows photo with my dad George Anger, granddad Austin Anger and uncle Wallace Jackson. The Mary Hastings’ Bluebirds (below) with my mother Ruby Anger.
Belmont Arena 1949
The parents of Jake Bradburn (top photo, left) were Flo and Wes Bradburn. A few years later, when my parents moved to the big old house at the corner of Main and Odell, Flo and Wes lived in the front apartment.
Uncle Floyd, horseradish king of Tillsonburg, was my mother’s uncle. He married Marguerite Lymburner, sister of Minnie Lymburner Burwell. They lived near Tillsonburg with their eight children.
The top clipping is from 1950 and tells the story of a young Port Burwell teacher, Mary Anne MacMath, a century earlier. The next is about the 1960 historical plaque for Col. Mahlon Burwell. Below that are stories about a faith healer in Port Burwell in 1951. I can’t find any information on the Rev. Orland Bailey but I found Harvey Vaughan’s 2013 obituary.
My mother was quick to send off a letter to the editor if need be.
Obituary for Mom’s uncle Eddie Lymburner, 1948
Miscellaneous Newspaper Clippings
In this 1951 story of Woodstock cat Herkimer, the writer mentions “the wealthy” Rhubarb. Googling told me that Rhubarb is a 1951 movie about a stray cat who hits the jackpot when he is given a home. It is based on a 1946 novel by H. Allen Smith. You can watch it on YouTube (for a fee).
Pawlooza happens this coming Saturday, August 20th from 10 to 6, at Steve Plunkett’s Fleetwood Farm on Elviage Road, near Westdel Bourne in west London. It is a huge dog party organized by ARF Ontario (Animal Rescue Foundation) in London. Admission for the day, including parking, is $10 per vehicle. Hundreds of vendors of dog stuff are there, along with specialty groups like dog sports, specific breed clubs and rescue groups.
Each group keeps the money it raises through sales and donations, and the overall funds raised go to ARF and LEADS, a special needs employment and training programme. You’ll see vendors from all over the province. There’s lots of food for both you and your dog. There are demonstrations of dog talent like agility and obedience.
Your dog can go swimming or compete in dock diving in the small lake on the property. But if, like us, you have non-swimming dogs, you can find a spot along the bank and watch Labs fling themselves off the dock into the water time after time.
Just the property itself is enough to make you want to go. The grounds are incredibly beautiful. Booths are lined up in several rows, so you can shop to your heart’s content. Then you can wander in the landscaped grounds and woods.
If you are thinking about getting a dog, there will be lots of dogs there with their rescue groups. You can talk with knowledgeable people about the characteristics of different kinds of dogs, and you can see pretty much every breed of dog walking around the grounds. You can even find out exactly what kinds of dogs created your mutt with a DNA test. If you want to get inside your dog’s head (and who doesn’t), you can visit the dog psychic’s booth.
Its date is a deliberate choice. Since 1992, the 20th of August has been International Homeless Animals Day. The International Society of Animal Rights picked that date to focus attention on animals in need of help and a home.
So mark the calendar and have a great doggy day. Your dogs of course are welcome – it is a dog party after all. But if you want to go without a dog, you’ll still have a great time.
From my St. Thomas Dog Blog Aug. 12, 2011. Date, time and cost is from Pawlooza website for 2016.
My brother asked if there were pictures of Dad’s tow truck in Mom’s photo albums. We only found one, with Bing the service station dog inside.
It was an International pickup, 1941 I think, blue. He rebuilt it to take the wrecker.
It had a 3 speed transmission. He put in a 4th speed. He mounted dual wheels on it. The fenders had to be extended. The strips welded in them never got painted. It wasn’t welded too good either. I can still see the holes, but it worked.
Dual exhaust coming out up behind the cab. The smoke would stream out of there. An orange flashing light on top. He put a switch for that under the dash.
For the wrecker, he started with a gearbox affair – small gear going to a bigger to a bigger, about 4 sets of gears in there. Then he welded all the angle iron to put the cable on, the crank, all that stuff.
The cradle for hooking up cars was his own invention. It changed over time. First, it was a hand crank he welded on the side. You’d stand there and crank and crank and crank. The cars weren’t that heavy, it just took a lot. Eventually you’d get her up.
Then a Briggs & Stratton lawn mower engine took the place of the crank. But that was a pain in the ass too. It had a pull start. Awkward and hard to start, but it was better than cranking.
The last one was a power take-off on the side of the transmission. That drove the gears that lifted the vehicle. It was the best deal. You could shove the lever forward and back and up she went.
He built a snowplow for her. The plow was made out of an old culvert. He hooked it up to a vacuum system. He got that off a transport truck.
There’s a drum with a vacuum system to lift it. The engine creates a vacuum in the cylinder. The cylinder would lift the plow and gravity would lower it. The cold air hitting the hot valves would cause engine problems down the road. But it worked good. She barked though, loud!
I’ve never heard of anybody else ever doing that. I remember Dad and Jack talking about it, and the next thing I knew it was done. I never saw them working on the truck. I don’t know how it got done. I likely saw, it just didn’t register.
She was a thing of beauty. If I had any idea where she was, maybe parked someplace, I’d have her back home and I’d be working on it.
Came home smelling of strange dogs tonight. I’d been to see the PC Superdogs at London’s John Labatt Centre [now Budweiser Gardens]. My dogs are now sitting either side of me, as close as they can get. Maybe they’re afraid I’m going to trade them in. They’re not in any danger of being replaced, but the Superdogs were awesome.
Big, little, purebreds, mongrels, shelter dogs, pound rescues – they’re all there, and they’re brilliant. We sat in the front row in floor seating. Sometimes dogs that veered off the path came right in front of us. We took pictures, held our breath when they jumped hurdles, cheered “our” dogs on in races until we were hoarse. It’s regular people with their regular dogs, a little bit of glitz with rhinestone collars and sparkly scarves. A bit of clowning with Pot Roast, a bulldog who couldn’t really jump or weave around poles but had a good time trying. Dogs sometimes doing incredible agility feats, sometimes starting out brilliantly then just kind of losing track and going off to sniff the floor in search of popcorn. The ‘dog freestyle’ Rottweillers turned out not to be in a dancing mood, so pretty much just goofed around.
After the show, everyone got to meet the dogs. They enjoyed being the stars and loved the pats and kisses. When the arena cleared out, some of the pups in training came out and played around with each other and the audience members who were still hanging around. I think we were the last to leave. The arena security people were telling us and the remaining dog handlers which exits to use, as in it’s time to leave now! It’s a great show – kids and adults alike loved the show and the dogs. If you have a chance to see them, it’s well worth it.
From my St. Thomas Dog Blog, May 8, 2010. Here are the cities and dates for the 2016 PC Superdogs Canadian tour covering Ontario, Alberta, Saskatchewan and British Columbia.
In the early ’60s, my mother worked at London’s postal sorting station during the Christmas rush. It was for a few weeks when the volume of mail overwhelmed the sorting capacity of the regular staff. It was the only time my mother worked at a job where she had to clock in for regular hours. Very tiring, just standing all day. The other women told her to bring egg cartons. She’d flatten several cartons or get the 2 1/2 dozen flats and take them to stand on.
It was odd coming home from school and Mom not being there. It was kind of fun but I don’t think I’d have liked it all the time. I think that’s how she felt about the work too – fun to go somewhere and do something different and nice to have the bit of extra money but not something she wanted to do day in and day out.
I never thought at the time how she managed to pull Christmas together at the same time. She made dinner for us, her parents and her sisters and their families. Dad set up tables in the basement, using sawhorses and half sheets of plywood. Plastic Christmas tablecloths covered them. All the food got carried down from the kitchen. It was the only time of the year that our unfinished basement was used as a dining room. It was fun. In the evening, after everyone had left and Mom had cleaned up, we would drive to my other grandparents’ house and have presents and another huge meal there.
I don’t know if Canada Post still hires casual Christmas workers. There is not the deluge of Christmas cards mailed that there used to be. We got so many that Mom would cover walls with them hung on loops of string. She sent just as many too.
All this was before automated sorting and postal codes or the strikes that seemed to happen every few months in the 1970s. It was before courier services took over much of the mail delivery, because of the strikes. It was before postal workers began making a very good wage, and before the head of Canada Post earned half a million dollars plus bonus each year. And of course, it was before faxes and emails, Facebook and Twitter.
People mailed letters and thank you cards, party invitations and birthday cards, sympathy cards and thinking-of-you cards, postcards that got back before you did from your vacation, and airmail letters on onion-skin paper to save on weight. It was all delivered to your house or, if you lived in a small town, you went to the post office and had a chat with the postmaster or –mistress while you collected your mail. In the country, it came to a box at the end of the driveway, delivered by someone like my grandparents who had a mail route for many years.
There’s still some of that of course. Superboxes haven’t replaced all human postal contact, yet. And they’re fine, as long as they don’t freeze up in winter or jam in summer. But you still need post offices for stamps and questions that the website can’t answer.
Last weekend, St. Paddy’s Day, London Ont. joined the ranks of cities of fools. Violent, vandalizing fools. Students at Fanshawe Community College in the city’s east end overturned cars and torched a CTV news van. Houses near the campus were damaged and several people were injured.
Over what? High tuition fees? The upward spike in unemployment among young people? The political struggle in Syria? Outrage over the Kony 2012 video? Nope, just too much partying and too much green beer. And, important to note, Fanshawe is in the suburbs, not downtown. There aren’t a lot of bars and clubs around, no one congregates there other than the college students and area residents.
This isn’t the first time Fanshawe students have run amok for no apparent reason. From Canoe News: “Oct. 30, 2009: About 500 people at a student party on Thurman Circle near Fanshawe College pelt police with beer bottles, overturn vehicles and smash windows. Police charge 22 people.” There was at least one such incident a year before that.
But these were before last year’s Stanley Cup riot in Vancouver, also starring foolish youth going nuts. In that case, their home team lost the game. Not much of a reason, granted, but at least a reason. In London? Nobody seems to know, but everybody seems to have lost patience. Some of those involved have posted on Facebook and other online sites. You’d think they’d have learned after Vancouver – don’t take pictures with your phone and don’t post on Facebook! Police are going through the material, online and contributed to them.
Local tv news said local high school students and “some University students” were involved as well. The University of Western Ontario is the only university in the city. Glad to see you’re putting the high cost for your education to good use.
The only major vandalism I remember when I was at Western was, once a year, the engineering students bricked up the bridge that was a main access to the main campus. Everyone knew it would happen sometime in the academic year, including maintenance staff who would dismantle it in the morning, early bus drivers with a load of students anxious about being late for class, and profs with morning classes who knew few students would turn up. It was pretty funny, the thought of students out there all night long blocking off the bridge as quickly as they could. And they always did a good job of it, putting their learning to practical purpose. Even, so I heard, competing against the previous classes that had done it, with each year’s job assessed on the length of time it took to demolish it.
I don’t know if they still do it. Yes, it was vandalizing university property and, yes, it inconvenienced people. But I don’t think too many people really minded. The engineers were using what they were learning and we all took pride in how well they had done the job.
Throwing bottles? Bashing in windows? Overturning cars? You don’t need higher education to do that.
Pawlooza last Saturday in London Ont was great. So many people and dogs! Other than a bit of a walk-around, I hardly saw anything of it other than our St. Thomas Dog Owners booth in Rescue Row. But the world comes by one’s booth, I found.
We didn’t take Leo and Charlie. Charlie likes a party, but gets bored and cranky quickly. Leo gets very enthusiastic at parties! While I felt a bit ‘odd man out’ without dogs, I found our booth provided a haven for dogs who wanted a little quiet time.
Next to us was the Chinese Crested Rescue. They had several of these dogs with hairless bodies and long plumes on head and tail. I overheard them telling stories of their dogs to people flipping through photo albums. Horrific stories. One dog was left in the house, locked in, after the people moved away. Fortunately, someone suspected that she was in there, and she was saved.
Why, I thought, would someone leave a dog like that? Any dog, but one of these? These aren’t dogs you see notices tacked up for, saying “free puppies.” You have to go to a lot of trouble and expense to get one. So why would you then just walk away?
A magnificent black Standard Poodle across the aisle. A St. John’s Ambulance therapy dog now, he’d been taken from what sounds like an unbalanced hoarder. The man who rescued him had been looking for a Giant Schnauzer. He’d had them for years, but this time he wound up with a giant Poodle.
He said Giant Schnauzers end up in rescue care because people get them as puppies and then are surprised at how big they get, how much care their coats take and don’t want to be bothered. How can that happen? Doesn’t the “Giant” in their name give you the tip off that this is going to be a big dog? They too are expensive pups. He said it’s easy to pay $4000 for one. You would lay out money like that and not realize that it’s going to be a big dog and that rough beautiful coat requires a lot of brushing and clipping?
I passed by Friendly Giants Rescue on my one tour. A St. Bernard was lolling around, hoping for a home I guess. Sure, there are legitimate, even heartbreaking, stories of why someone has to give up their dog. But so many of them?
Do people get them as status symbols? Be the first on your block to have a hairless dog. Then you realize there is upkeep and expense particular to that breed and it’s too much bother? Or you saw the movie Beethoven and thought how much fun it would be having him living with you? And you forgot you’re already cramped in your tiny apartment?
I am so glad the rescue people are around, both for specific breeds and just for regular old dogs. Without them, I don’t know what would happen to these poor creatures. A woman at Boston Terrier Rescue told me a lady had made an 8-hour drive to Pawlooza, just to look for a dog at their booth. I hope she found one.
I’ve noticed something this year, or rather the lack of something. MINI drivers in the London area are not waving at each other. Forest City MINI Club, get the word out – we wave at each other. We are MINI.
Just because MINI now has tv commercials, that does not mean that our cars are just like every other car out there. We’re still distinct, we get attention, we’re still a community within the larger sedan and minivan driving population.
First thing I discovered, after buying our 2002 MINI in 2004, was everyone waved. People walking down the street turned and waved. Other drivers smiled and waved. I thought I must know a lot more people than I thought I did. So I’d wave back, thinking ‘oh dear who are you?’ Then I realized it was the car.
That brought another driving responsibility – you have to be nice when you’re driving a MINI. Sometimes, if someone had cut me off or done something stupid, I’d be cursing at them and wanting to make a rude gesture. Then at the next light, I might be pulled up next to them, still mad, and they’d wave and smile and point to the car and smile more. How can you then give them the finger? You can’t, so you wave and smile back.
But even when the sight of a MINI became more commonplace and passersby stopped waving their arms off at you, MINI drivers still always waved. Might be a full wave, maybe just a forefinger raised off the steering wheel, but it was an acknowledgement.
Until 2007 the closest MINI dealers to London/St. Thomas were in Waterloo and Windsor. Either way, an hour drive. So there weren’t many MINIs around here. Having Grand Touring Auto, the BMW dealer, also open as MINI London was wonderful. It made it easier to get your MINI fixed and your MINI fix. And, as it should have, it increased the number of MINIs on roads around here. Still, MINIs waved at MINIs.
Until this year. I’ve noticed a lot more MINIs this summer and very, very few have waved back at me. Especially in London. In St. Thomas and Aylmer, yes, there is sometimes acknowledgement. But London, no. Come on, people. We drive a car that has clubs and model toys. We drive a car that looks cute in packs. We recognize our fellow MINI drivers.
If you’re interested in the Forest City MINI Club, call MINI London for contact information. The book below is really good on Mini’s history.
Newfoundland Mi'kmaq, family history, Coronation Street, etc.