Upskilling for an Uncertain Future
A middle-aged perspective on sparking joy in darkness
Since leaving the UAE in November 2022, we have split our time evenly between Mexico and Canada.
Five years out of the country meant that we were sheltered from what’s been building and is now boiling over.
I don’t have to tell you what you already know: inflation, a food and housing affordability crisis, violence, hatred, addiction, homelessness, war, and a planetary catastrophe.
It has been humbling. It has brought me to my knees.
The small Canadian city we live in used to feel safe and sleepy. Now there is the constant wail of sirens. Our first responder friends tell us that guns, overdoses, and human trafficking cases are off the charts. You won’t see this in the local papers, however. There are only rosy stories about whatever festivals or fundraisers are happening. Even the multiple shootings that took place this summer were not mentioned in the media.
Last week, I let the dogs out around 10 p.m. and noticed a dance of lights reflecting from the street. Neighbors were outside peering towards the light show. I took a peak and there were three cop cars and a fire truck. The first responders were in fentanyl garb, so I knew it was another overdose. The cousins who live across the street say the drama on this block is better than Netflix these days. Everyone is hustling drugs or stolen goods.
Two weeks ago, I stood at a crosswalk waiting to cross. An Audi swerved down the street, stopping dead in the center of the road. A truck pulled up behind, honking. The Audi continued to lurch along as I stood timidly on the sidewalk. Through the tinted windows, I made out a couple beating the living daylights out of each other. Fists, hair flying, teeth.
That was a first.
By the way, this is a normal neighbourhood in a small, blue-collar city, not some inner-city slum.
Dark Night of the Soul
At 48, I am in the midst of peri-menopause, so it is possible that I skew negative these days. I know what I’m sharing is not unique to this town, to my experience. But comparing 2018 to now?
Totally different ballgame.
Middle-age is worse than I imagined. Aging would be an extension of my younger years — energetic, but mature, I thought.
I was wrong.
The trifecta of depression, anxiety, and untethered rage are unbearable at times. Even with HRT, micro-dosing, meditation, sleeping pills, and a relatively healthy, active lifestyle, most days are permeated with a deep sense of dread, fear, rage, and sadness. On the plus side, the odd day when my old self surfaces for a day or two feels exquisite.
There you are. There you are, I say.
Earlier this week, I managed to get an appointment with my old doctor who I used to see before we left Canada in 2018. I was only able to see her by sweet-talking the medical receptionist into squeezing me in even though I’d been away for so long. There is a waitlist of four years to get a family doctor, so I was grateful that she helped me out.
Yes, that’s right. If you want a family GP, you need to wait at least four years to secure a doctor. Otherwise, you need to use walk-ins or ER where the wait times are six+ hours if you’re lucky or don’t die first.
The Canadian healthcare system is in shambles, but that is another story.
I wanted to ask my doctor if there were any adjustments to my HRT that might improve my mood.
Exasperated, she said: “Everyone is depressed. It’s not just you. It’s everywhere and everyone. It is the state of the world.”
In other words, suck it up.
Then the closer: “Do you need tranquilizers?”
My personal food history
This summer, fires raged across Canada. In the grips of my own personal climate grief, I reminisced about my first 18 years growing up in a rural, farming community. The nearest town was a 15-minute drive. Our 100 acres were surrounded by verdant forests and farmland.
After my father left when I was 5, my mom’s mom moved in to help out. We had an enormous garden, and everything we ate came from there. We canned, pickled, preserved, baked, froze, and cooked. There was a cold cellar in the basement, and the garage had two large freezers that fed us through the howling winters. Though we lived on a dirt road, our garden was famous, and people often detoured to marvel or take pictures.
Around 8 years of age, I was making full meals unattended at the stove. Stuffed peppers were a favorite, though I must confess I had a penchant for Hamburger Helper.
Looking back, there is a quaintness to those years, but honestly, I hated living there. I couldn’t wait to move to the city and escape the farmers and manure.
These days, the one (and only?) joy I have rekindled is a love of cooking. And I don’t mean just following a recipe. No offense, but anyone can do that.
I’m talking about delicious, make-you-pause, lip-smacking meals of delight. The kind of meal that makes you feel satiated, happy, and nourished. The kind of meal where you always go for seconds.
Until the last few years, to experience a great meal, you had to dine out. These days, most restaurant food is overpriced and mediocre at best. The portions have shrunk, and the quality has declined. Many restaurant owners I’ve talked to have explained that they can’t find people willing to work. People don’t show up. They are hiring whoever they can and training them on the job.
Why would I pay top dollar for some untrained college kid to make something that I can actually make better?
This has been a key motivation for me to up my game, so I signed up for an online cooking program. You learn similar skills and techniques as chefs do, and already I have seen a dramatic increase in the quality of my meals.
In the last week two weeks, there have been marvelous meals:
- succulent roast chicken with creamy mashed potatoes
- pineapple glazed ham with scalloped potatoes
- crispy chicken parm with scratch marinara
- savory, saucy cottage pie
- tangy Panzanella salad with tender burrata and heirloom tomatoes
- vibrant, crunchy stir-fry (though the tofu was overdone)
Oh, and the lessons on eggs! Scrambled, frittata, boiled — all have been a delight.
Though my pants are snugger, cooking has offered a thin slice of paradise in an otherwise insipid existence.
If I’m honest, there is a darker motivation…
Cooking in and of itself is proving to be a reprieve from my current, sad state of despair. But underneath the self-soothing, there is a deeper purpose.
I don’t talk about it much, but when I do, there are quiet nods of agreement. Friends share their darkest fears as well as their personal preparations for the unthinkable. With the chaos of the world, it is hard not to think about what might happen in the coming decade. The floods, water shortages, famine, and fires are already here.
For a decade, I worked in tech. At a sales conference around 2016, I chatted with an American colleague over drinks. Nonchalantly, he explained how he had a bunker set up in his basement. In case of a calamity, he explained, his family would be safe. There were food and water stockpiles, weapons, and ammunition. The more he talked, the more frightened I became.
Honestly, I thought he had lost the plot. A bonafide nut case disguised as a tech sales exec.
These days, I wish I’d listened more carefully to that sales guy or taken notes.
It’s not just me, by the way.
Perhaps you’re harboring doomsday plans too?
On the plus side, there is a resurgence of homesteading. Ancient food growing and preservation techniques are being revived.
My grandparents lived through two world wars. They learned these skills because they were essential for survival. Knowing how to use what grew (or could be grown) on their land was life or death. Meat was a luxury. My great-grandmother, abandoned by her husband in WWI, was able to obtain butcher scraps — organs, feet, tongue, and brain — which were served in creative ways to sustain her family.
These days feel a bit like a war, no? Whether we look in our own neighborhoods or abroad, we are at each other’s throats — killing, shouting, blaming.
The opioid crisis has created communities of zombies — vacant, empty shells. Many of the working poor, pushed out by the housing and food crisis, are homeless. The number of people displaced by climate crisis and war is increasing exponentially. Heat, floods, and droughts will spur water wars. The ravages of greed and consumption are everywhere.
Worst of all, we don’t seem to be learning.
When the shit hits the fan.
If things go to shit, I have to realistically consider what skills I can bring to the table in middle age.
Let’s be honest.
I can’t build things. I don’t see or hear well, so I’m not great for defense or fighting. I hate knitting and sewing, and I have no idea how to fix machines. Without a viable skill, I’ll just be another mouth to feed. A liability.
But food is a theme that has been a mainstay throughout my life. There were the first 18 years of gardening, canning, and cooking. In university, I spent eight years bartending and waitressing. Then I spent another nine years living and working abroad, traveling and exploring food and cuisine. Then there’s all the practice and refinements along the way.
Plus when I’m not steeping in this mid-life existential swamp, I’m actually funny as hell. Charming even.
The way I figure is that if I can master making delicious food, then I’ll be indispensable in the event of a collapse. No one will want to turf the lady who makes the best scones on the planet, the legendary stew, or life-altering casserole. They’ll keep me around so long as I keep everyone fed and happy.
I’ve already started hinting to friends who live on farms or who have larger homes with land. I’m positioning my cooking skills as a sweet spot to garner my husband and me places in a future, uncertain world. Since my husband is naturally handy and funny, he’s a no-brainer bonus to the deal.
I can see it now:
Available immediately — Scratch cook and handyman/electrician couple! If you are looking to add a hilarious, fun, yet productive (!) duo to your apocalypse homestead team, look no further!
Over the coming weeks, I’m honing my knife skills and dusting off my grandmother’s biscuit recipe.
See you in the trenches.