The Importance of Being Earnest about Voting

British Columbia is known to the rest of the country for three things, mainly: wonderful wilderness, wacky tobacky (marijuana growing and consuming), and wacky politics. We even had a premier back in the 1950's whom everyone called Wacky Bennett and seem always to be dealing with some scandal, fiasco or nail-biting bi-election. We had yet another full-on demonstration of the wackiness of our politics this week, in that, despite polls all pointing to a majority government being formed by one party, when it came down to it, not only did the far-ahead-in-the-polls government lose the election, they even lost several seats in the legislature to candidates from the opposing party. Everyone shook their heads at the result, even the winning party themselves couldn't believe it, and the next day, every type of media available was attempting to unravel the mystery of the Bizarre Provincial Election of 2013. And we are still all talking about it, many of us in mourning for the death of our hopes for a new government to replace the present one who have, from the perspective of many, done enough damage, thank you very much.

One of the main topics of conversation around the proverbial water cooler is the percentage of the electorate who voted, or more accurately, didn't vote. Only 52% of eligible voters took the time and opportunity to mark a ballot and have their vote counted. Apparently, according to some statistics I read this week, in 1983 70% of the electorate voted and the numbers have been sliding ever since. Theories as to why this is the case abound, as well as ideas of what to do about it. I find the numbers disheartening. Here we are in a democratic country where no one has to risk their lives to vote, where women can vote, where one's local candidates will find a ride for you to the voting station, and where every effort is made to make voting easy and convenient - although one cannot, as yet, vote on a smartphone in between updating one's Facebook status  - and yet nearly half of eligible voters still refuse to exercise their democratic right to help choose their next representative in the capital, Victoria, a city celebrating all things Victorian this Victoria Day weekend.

I wonder just what it is that causes so many not to vote. Is it a feeling of disconnection? Is it a 'none of the above' response to the available candidates? Is it due to sense of helplessness in the grand scheme of things? Is it laziness? Anarchy? Anti-government sensibilities? Ignorance as to what it is our Members of the Legislative Assembly actually do in Victoria? I wish there was a way to find out why people don't vote, and a better way to engage voters. I really don't think the television commercials and endless messages via social media are doing it, not because TV and social media are not effective tools of communication, but that somehow, the parties go about promoting themselves in the wrong way. One of our parties, the Liberals, chose the attack ad route, resorting to placing a cut-out of the New Democratic Party's leader on a weather vane which moved back and forth to show his apparent 'shift with the wind' policies, and dragging out a long-forgiven forged memo from back in the mid-nineties. The New Democrats decided to run a clean campaign with no attack ads, only somewhat bland commercials showing nicely dressed, smiling folks planting flowers and hiking in the forest with their children and saying, "I'm ready for a change in government," without really pinpointing what that change would look like, specifically. As for the other parties, The Conservatives and The Green Party, along with several independents, they apparently lacked the funds for TV and YouTube spots apart from the televised debate which many analysts say was the turning point in the election. The Green Party ended up with a seat in the Legislature for the very first time, and our Premier actually lost her seat to an NDP candidate. She will now have to convince another winning MLA to give up his or her seat so she can enter the Legislature. Her party, however, did win the election overall, with a resounding lead. Did the attack ads work? Or were people just listening too much to the polls and became apathetic about the other parties actually needing their vote? It is very hard to say, and each party's representatives have convincing arguments to support their point of view.

On election night I heard one analyst say that "this election will be studied in universities and books will be written about it." The result was certainly unexpected, but by now, we in British Columbia should expect the unexpected when it comes to our politics. The sun will go on rising and setting no matter which party is in power, but if 48% of us are not voting, we need an overhaul of the system, or societal attitudes for that matter, because the issues at stake are huge for us all. Jobs, the environment, stagnating inflation, education, rising medical costs, child poverty, increased homelessness, disenfranchised youth, funding for arts, culture and heritage (okay, maybe we don't all care about that, but I do!) - how can anyone say they are not personally affected by the decisions made by a bunch of suits in Victoria? How can anyone say their vote does not matter? If only 52% of us vote, how can an election not have some elements of a farcical comedy?

Have a lovely weekend, all! It's a nice, long one here. The above photo of the Parliament Buildings in Victoria is from The Georgia Straight publication. Looks a bit stormy, doesn't it?

Big Things for Blog Post 200

I saw the most enormous recreational vehicle the other day. It was nearly twice as long as my neighbour's RV, which is the size of a small motel room and much fancier. She gave me a tour one day. The kitchen was complete with cupboards above and below, a decent amount of counter space along with a tidy sink, stove and refrigerator. The dining area could be expanded out the side with the push of a button, and the bedroom was fitted with a queen-sized bed, wood paneling, carpeting and mood lighting - and hers is a moderately sized 'fifth wheel trailer', called such because the front of it attaches over the box of her truck. Plenty of people around here have nearly the same one, so I suppose one could call it the average.

The R.V. I saw the other day blew by me on the highway when I was running and just seemed, like a train, to keep on going. It reminded me of another RV I saw years ago. I remember driving (nearly twenty-one years ago now) on the Alaska Highway with my very new husband, when we were passed by a bus. Except this was no ordinary bus. It was a private bus with dark windows and a pastel pink and blue paint job which exactly matched the expensive S.U.V. it was towing behind it. After the bus pulled into our lane, purring as it went, we saw the brand name in gold, three-dimensional script: Ferrari. I am fairly sure that Ferrari does not make recreational vehicles of that sort, so the bus we saw must have been a custom job for someone. "Ooooooo," we both said, and wondered who was hidden behind those tinted windows.

With our camping gear stuffed in the back of our Toyota Tercel hatchback, we were slung low to the road, the RVs towering high above us. After living and working a few months at Panorama Mountain Village resort in the high and dry cattle country of the eastern part of our province, the dry heat was what we were used to, and anyway, we had no air conditioning in that car. We drove a long way without enough water for drinking and few places to buy any bottled drinks. While the travelers in the RVs enjoyed the luxuries we went without, a place to go pee when they needed to, cupboards full of food and a fridge full of cold beverages, we sweltered in the hot afternoons and listened to music from our cassette collection. We arrived at the campground and, if it had showers, we gratefully washed off the road dust and grimy sweat. We slept alright, everything considered, in our much needed bug-proof tent each night of our three day journey from the south of the province 'due up,' as Daffy Duck would have it, to The North to take part in a seven-day river rafting expedition down the Tatshenshini and Alsek rivers.

Living near the TransCanada Highway now, we see giant RVs, although I have yet to see another Ferrari bus, all the time, especially at this time of year. They don't impress me much anymore. I think of the amount of gas they guzzle and shudder. We are car campers and always have been. I am, however, especially as I get older, open to moderately priced and environmentally friendly change.

It was when we started camping on the West Coast, land of fog and mist and the occasional downpour, that I found myself slightly envying those with trailers. While I have never desired the Las Vegas-hotel-suite-on-wheels sort of experience, it did occur to me that being able to sleep up off the damp ground might not be a bad thing. I began to dream of a pop-up tent/trailer hybrid such as some of our friends had, with storage on board and a simple fold out kitchen on the side. I would see people pulling these tent-trailers behind their mini-vans and think, 'I could get into that.'

We still don't have a tent -trailer for two reasons:

 1)  So far, my husband is a camping purist, which means tents, sleeping bags, roll-up mats, and a camp stove in dubious working order that will burn the hair off your arms when you are trying to light it. I don't try.

2)  It is hard to justify arguing for one when we rarely go camping these days. Sad, but true, although I am determined we go this summer.

So, I will continue to be fine with sleeping in our tent as long as I can have the following: two roll-up mats to sleep on, and my husband being the first one up in the morning, boiling the water for my coffee. I will even enjoy the experience, after the first night, of course. I never have a good first night anywhere away from home. Not even if I were to sleep on a Ferrari bus.

Yes, this is my 200th post, believe it or not. I started this blog back in the fall of 2009, and it has been a rich experience, meeting other bloggers from around the world and writing all these letters. 
I also want to welcome the two people who have recently joined this blog. I hope you like it here.

The Audition

The Violinist by Thomas Eakins

As we sat on one of the many sofas in the music building's lobby, or stood, or walked around the campus, I observed the other parents who had brought their talented children to audition for the university's music program. Our boy had put a year of his life into preparing for this audition, taking music theory, history and harmony courses, studying tutorials online and wrestling to conquer a difficult Bach Fugue and a Mendelssohn concerto until he could play them upside down and backwards, or so it seemed. Our family, just like all the other families in the room, had found the money for private lessons and supported our child from his first days of drawing a scratchy bow across his quarter-sized violin strings, and I wondered how the other parents were feeling that day as they also waited. I was not nervous because I knew in my heart that even if he was not accepted into the orchestral performance program, he would be able to say that he could not have done more to prepare for his chance to show the department what he could do. At the end of the day of theory tests and a private audition with the heads of both the strings department and the orchestral department, our boy came out smiling, giving us the thumbs up. Everything had gone according to plan for him.

Our son began with the Suzuki method, which encourages children and parents to practice together. I had taken years of piano lessons and so downstairs we would go after supper each night to practice. We went through five levels of Suzuki before the piano accompaniment became too complicated for me, but I also think it was time for the two of us to go our separate ways. I was often tired after a busy day of working and mothering, and I confess my patience was a little on the thin side. We sometimes argued about a passage and how to get it right. I'll admit that I pushed him fairly hard in those days, recognizing his talent and wanting him to strive to be the best he could be. Somehow I just knew I could not let him give up on himself, and I hoped to teach him that hard work, perseverance and steady progress would overcome his frustrations, which seemed to be as regular as his many victories. He could be very difficult sometimes, and emotional, but over the years he learned to regulate and harness those emotions to feed his technical talent and make it into something beautiful.  Once the piano parts were beyond me I decided it was time to step back and let him figure out if he wanted to continue on without me holding, or squeezing, his hand, so to speak, through every practice. He had a short crisis, but got through it and committed to his music on his own terms. He was thirteen. Since then he has developed an excellent work ethic which has crossed over to other areas of his life. He also knows how to relax, and when it is important to do so.

I was not pushed as a child. I was the sixth of six children, so that may have had something to do with it. I practiced my piano, but was never made to take an exam. I never once passed a set of swimming lessons due to the fact that I could not float or swim on my back. I did not need pushing to do well at school, and I was challenged plenty by my parents' way of living and bringing up their children, which was fairly strict and scrupulously honest. Nobody, however, hovered over me like a helicopter at any time in my memory, nor did they inflict their agenda on any of my 'talents', dubious as they were.

I have often wondered if I could have done with some more pushing. I have this sense that I sort of floated through childhood. Apparently, I resisted being organized into any activity such as Brownies (girl scouts) or sports before the age of ten. I remember a lot of playing and a lot of reading, always piano and some ballet lessons, and a lot of teasing from my brothers, whom I loved after all. Nor have I pushed my other three children. Sure, I made them all take music lessons, at least for a few years, and insisted they do their best in school, but besides my violinist, I have sort of sat back while they all excelled far beyond my expectations. I have stepped in when necessary and been their main cheerleader and psychologist, but after asking my daughter last night if she ever felt I pushed her and having her respond 'No' with a laugh, I am confident that my approach has been appropriate.  Their dad and I have striven to help them learn to discipline themselves so that they gain satisfaction in their various accomplishments. I want the best for them, of course, but it is not my best. It is their best.

One hears from time to time of children who were pushed relentlessly by their parents to excel, and grew up to hate them. As I looked around the lobby of the university music building I wondered if any of the parents there had done so. I hoped not. I also reflected that perhaps my lack of skill at the piano had saved our situation. For once, I was glad I had not been more proficient.

Our son waited for a couple of weeks for news from the university. I was in the kitchen one morning when he came in saying, "Guess what!" He didn't wait for me to answer. "I got accepted into the program." I gave him a hug and phoned his dad at work - he was ecstatic and so proud.

We have a lovely new spring recipe over at Stella's Virtual Cafe: Roasted beet and Spinach Salad with Citrus Vinaigrette.   Have a lovely weekend! It's going to be positively summery here. 

Every Day can be Earth Day with Children

I read in a local newspaper article this week that in order to care about the environment we at first have to learn to love it. The article also claimed that we are raising children with 'Nature Deficit Disorder'. Far too many children are not spending enough time climbing trees, smelling flowers, hiking up hills, picking berries and identifying plants and birds, and when they are brought up only to connect with things that entertain them like television and video games, they are disconnected with the 'hand that feeds them', meaning the earth.

Here in Canada we have a great tradition of camping out of doors as families, and of sending our children to summer camps. I spent two wonderful childhood summers attending a week-long Anglican summer camp with a friend. We learned to steer a canoe, make sand candles with recycled crayons, pound the picnic tables for food while singing Johnny Appleseed, use a map and compass, make a campfire and sing funny songs around it, and pray to God the creator on the top of a high bluff overlooking beautiful Garland Bay on the east shore of Kootenay Lake. My parents also took me on many an outdoor adventure in the mountainous, lake and river- filled place in which I grew up. By climbing mountains to pick wild huckleberries,  swimming in the lakes and streams, and even walking the back alleys with my mother to peer at our neighbours' gardens and listen to her identify flowers and vegetable varieties, I learned to love the environment like I loved anything else good in the world. If I read in my OWL Magazine, a Canadian magazine for young naturalists, that discarded chewing gum might kill a bird which tried to eat it, I would be extra careful to wrap mine in its wrapper and put it in my pocket until I could find a trash can. 'All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small, all things wide and wonderful, the Lord God made them all,' was how I was raised to think about the environment, and I think, perhaps, we need to remember to give our children this same idea, if not in the same words, at least with the same approach. We need to develop a conscience and care in our children to consider each of their actions and how they affect the environment, and through the environment, their fellow, and future, citizens of planet earth.

Some dreamers talk of humans being able to live on Mars eventually. I have absolutely no interest in living on another planet. I really, really like this one. Words can not possibly do its beauty justice, especially at this time of year, with its blossoms and newly green trees, billowing clouds in the bright blue sky (when it has stopped raining, that is), and I cannot understand why anyone would want to desecrate it with garbage, toxins and other destructive ugliness. But, as I run the roads around my town, especially up the highway to the bridge which passes over the train tracks, I see a lot of garbage in the ditches. A lot of garbage. Everything from diapers to pillows, jackets, odd shoes, rubber car mats, coffee cups, liquor bottles, beer cans, fast food packaging, and sometimes even children's toys end up in the ditch. I imagine all the drivers who have thrown these things out of their windows so they wouldn't have to carry them to the nearest garbage can or dump, and I feel sorry for their lack of conscience and care. Granted, some of the stuff could have simply flown out of the back of some unsuspecting driver's truck, but surely not all of it?

This dumping of garbage in the ditches and rivers might seem minor compared to oil spills in the Gulf of Mexico or carcinogenic toxins spewed into the air by chemical plants, but it does point to a lack of consideration for this planet and its people, and if we care to change the mindset of those who believe the earth is their garbage can, we need to start with the little things, not to mention the little people in order to make a difference. Everyone focuses on the need to look after the world for the sake of the children we will leave it to. Few mention the fact that our saving the planet will matter little if our children are not taught to keep on saving it. A previous neighbour of mine refused to recycle her cardboard, cans and bottles. "I can't be bothered," she would say. With all the information out there about landfills and toxins and the island of plastic in the ocean, and she could not be 'bothered'? She was a very nice woman, but I just could not understand her reluctance to take responsibility for her family's garbage. She was young, healthy, able-bodied, and owned a van. She even had a garage to store the recycling in until she had time and the inclination to take the stuff down the road to the recycling depot. She could have made recycling a family affair and have the kids help sort, and they would have learned something valuable in the process.

We are going to leave this world to our children, so we had better start giving them the idea that respect for the earth and its inhabitants starts with us, and it starts with them. We don't need to cajole or lecture or fill their heads with a lot of gloomy statistics, we simply need to take them outside and share the joy of nature with them. Outdoor experiences are free of charge for the most part. Especially in this part of the world, all we have to do is unplug and then open the door to the wonder of the world outside. And outdoor experiences can make a huge difference to children's lives. Once a child has been camping or has learned a skill such as building a campfire or reading a map and compass they become aware of their own abilities and gain confidence in themselves. And if camping is not an option, then a trip to the lake shore or a walk to a park that has unpaved trails and plenty of interesting plants and trees can also awaken the senses to the calming effect of nature and a desire to experience it more often and in a respectful manner. Children are natural sponges of information and sensory experiences; let's make sure that what they are absorbing is worthy of them and their future.

The photo above is a personal favourite. It was taken at Botanical Beach on the West Coast of Vancouver Island, and is of my husband and daughter examining a tidal pool. My husband, a city boy who grew up in Calgary, started his lifelong love of the outdoors during his family's annual two-week camping trips to Wasa Lake when all meals were cooked over the fire and entire days lived in the freedom of the outdoors. He spent a good part of his adult career working with kids and using an excellent book called Sharing Nature With Children by Joseph Cornell.

I am working at the annual Tulip Festival these days, and it is heartening to see so many families coming out, even in the rain, to enjoy the flowers and play in the mud. One little girl came up to me, her boots caked in mud, and very proudly showed me her feet. Her face shone with delight as she said, 'You have some great mud here!'

Why I Keep on Writing

Once every fifth post or so, I feel encouraged about my progress as a writer. I see the development in my ability to express my feelings in words and in keeping to a train of thought. I sense something new and improved in my post as a whole and am happy and satisfied for a time.

And then I read a book by a writer who blows my socks off with their insight, their incredibly knowing way of describing human emotion and motivation, and I begin to think, "Why bother writing when it has already been done this well?" I have been reading one of those 'Collected Works', an awkwardly heavy hard-cover tome containing seven novels by D.H. Lawrence. He, of course, is one of the most gifted writers of the twentieth century, and one of the most famous. Lawrence writes with a clarity, originality and depth that is astonishing to me. I find myself reading a passage and thinking, "How on earth does he do that?" and then wonder if I could manage anything in that league - ever.

I remember when I was in my late teens and my English Literature teacher told me I was a good writer. He was the first to say that to me of any of my teachers and my parents were beginning to encourage me in writing as well. I found out that the best way to learn about writing was to read well, so I started reading all kinds of classic literature and I became a little overwhelmed by the skill with which these masters framed and filled in their stories. When I expressed frustration with my own fledgling efforts, especially in comparison with the sheer craftsmanship of the novels I was gobbling up by the dozen, my mother said something very simple, yet wise, which has stuck with me always: "They do what they do, and you do what you do." Comparisons were futile and unproductive when it came to any of the arts.

I remembered my mother's words the other day when I was reading and exclaiming over D.H. Lawrence's awe-inspiring prose, and I found myself thinking about writing in a whole new way. Stopping writing just because I could not write as well as the authors I so admire was like stopping running just because I am not a 90 pound Kenyan finishing marathons in just over two hours. Or stopping cooking just because I don't have my own cooking show and a ten-book contract like Jamie Oliver or one of those types. I love to run, I love to cook and bake, and I love to write, so I do, but I will strive to improve always. I will challenge myself with long distances when my body says yes, I will continue to seek out new recipes and techniques for the pleasure and satisfaction I get out of tasting and sharing something nourishing and delicious, and I will write, write, write because not to do so creates an emotional and creative dam in me that just begs to be cleared so the thoughts and words can flow how they will. I will do what makes me happy and fulfilled, healthy in mind and body, and although for many that seems obviously the way to think about life, it has been a long journey for me to separate what and how I do things from what and how others do things.

A couple of weeks ago, I wondered if I should carry on with this blog, but after the thought processes that have come about while reading an author who inspires me, I know that for now, I must. Not in order to be a 'great' writer, but to become a better one, which is all I can continue to hope for, whether five or 500 people read my ramblings.

Thank you for reading.

Road Rage in the Alleyway

I am sometimes, okay, fairly regularly, proven wrong, especially when I make a blanket statement, a generality. The other day I was going about my business, doing my errands, and chatting with an acquaintance at her bakery. We were talking about our little town and I heard myself saying, "What I like about this town is that it is refreshingly devoid of drama." Those, my friends, were to be what Shakespeare, or somebody, called 'famous last words'.

As I left the bakery, order in hand, making my way to the after-school program I run at the church, I decided to take the little shortcut through the drive of the ambulance service building. As I turned the corner, I became witness to an episode of full-blown road rage. Two men, one in his car, the other just out of his, were shouting at each other - apparently one had tail-gated the other the full twenty minutes' drive from the city. I am not sure who initiated the shouting match, but both men were of good size and well able to cause injury to the other if the argument escalated to a physical exchange. I kept walking, wanting to be out of the way, but after about fifty yards, I turned back because the shouting had become louder and more violent and both men were now out of their cars. I saw one of them throw down his jacket like a hockey player throws down his gloves before a fight. They started posturing and circling like inexperienced boxers in a ring - or gorillas fighting over a banana - and it looked ridiculous. Suddenly, I felt a surge of indignation, and I shouted at them, "Hey! Do you want me to call the police?" One of them shouted back at me, "Yes! Go ahead and call the cops. Then I can tell them how this guy drove five feet behind my bumper all the way from (the city)!" More 'F' words from the other guy, and they were back at it, but somehow hesitating a little to start throwing punches. An older man from across the street began to walk slowly and cautiously toward the pair, and I decided to carry on to the church so I wouldn't be late for the kids who would be arriving soon. I yelled at the pair to 'for crying out loud grow up' and left. I don't think they heard me, and I didn't end up calling the police.

Maybe because I've been watching too many episodes of the BBC's Robin Hood with my girls - we've been saying to each other lately, "Where's Robin when you need him?" in certain situations - but I wished I'd had the time to go back to the scene and intervene. I knew one of the men by sight, knew who his wife and children are, too. I felt like asking him, "Is this the kind of example you want to give your family? Do you want them to hear you calling another man a 'faggot'? Do you want them to see you exercise your stupid pride, rather than just apologize to this man for riding his bumper so closely, which by law puts you in the wrong, and then leave in peace?" And I wanted to tell the other man to walk away, that fighting would get him nowhere. But, I had somewhere to be. I hope that older man was able to calm the pair down and talk some sense into them, especially because both of them were old enough to know better. I hope, above all, that he wasn't hurt. That none of them were.

The road rage scenario got me thinking on a number of levels. When we are in a car, we are in a safe bubble of anonymity in many ways, and the other person is just a stranger who, perhaps, drives more slowly than we'd like. We believe we have the right to treat that person solely as the operator of the vehicle, not as another human being, so we feel quite free to swear at them, hurl abuse if we see fit, and speed past with a honk and a raised middle finger at the first opportunity. I've seen it so many times; people who would behave somewhat politely to another stranger in person, behave like a complete ass just because they are in a vehicle. That has happened to me before, when I wasn't driving as quickly as the woman in the vehicle behind me would like, so she floored the gas at the first opportunity and screamed at me as she drove past.  She was still only a car ahead of me at the red light, seconds later, so what did her rage really get her?  I still remember her face as she stuck it out her window to scream at me, and I remember thinking that it takes an awful lot of energy to get that angry.

Why do some people need to scream at others when they are slightly inconvenienced? And why do some people, particularly men, feel that fighting with fists is the only way to make a point? Why do they not back down when they know they are in the wrong, and if they are on the receiving end of that wrong-doing, do they not just walk away? Tailgating is not exactly a cause for World War III. I am pretty sure Robin Hood wouldn't bother raising an arrow to another man just because he drove his horse-drawn cart too slowly in front of him. If that driver was endangering the lives of others by mowing them down in the road and stealing their hard-earned gold, however, that would be a different story, of course.

From what I have seen, most episodes of road rage are a lot of drama over something quite trivial - just people looking for a fight, really. Sometimes I think the world needs to go for a long hike followed by a collective yoga class, given a cup of soothing peppermint tea and be made to read a selection of enlightening books before it even thinks about getting behind the wheel.

The Photo of the gorillas is from thefabweb.com. The other is from BBC.com Have a good weekend, friends. Stay cool. 

And speaking of bananas, Stella has a great banana cake recipe over at her virtual cafe. 

Easter Traditions Then and Now

I remember once sitting in the living room with my parents some time over the Easter weekend while we listened to the entire recording of Handel's Messiah. I'm not sure if that was a yearly tradition or not, but it left an impression on me. Now I like to turn on CBC Radio while I am cooking breakfast on Easter morning and tune in to The Messiah with all the other people listening across the country. It's a good, unifying feeling of joy and celebration while maple flavoured bacon sizzles in the pan and the scrambled eggs cook up light and fluffy. We have bacon and eggs every Easter morning, and my family looks forward to the meal, but it is the beautiful braided Easter bread that is the crowning glory of the white clothed breakfast table.

Every year, For as long as I can remember, my mother has made her family-favourite Easter bread. My mom is an excellent bread maker and I have good memories of sitting in the kitchen watching her knead the dough - thump thump thump - as she turned the dough over and over with her capable hands on the yellow formica topped kitchen table. She generally made a large batch of sweet dough and after decorating the braided bread with white icing and brightly coloured jelly beans, would deliver a few loaves to close friends. We still had plenty left over for Easter breakfast, though, and it was always a big treat sliced and slathered with sweet and slightly salty butter. 

When my boys were little I asked my mom for her Easter bread recipe. She gave me the original booklet from which she had first learned the method; the booklet had probably come free of charge with a bag of Robin Hood flour. Every year since, I have made Mom's Easter bread, and it has become an essential part of the Easter celebrations in our house. I make two loaves and they are both gobbled up in as many days. Easter bread is not terribly filling and being white bread, it becomes stale fairly quickly. Fortunately, it never lasts long enough in our house for staleness to be a worry.

The first rising (I love punching down the dough)

Ian insited on putting his copy of Ben Hur in this photo
of the braided dough ready for baking

Golden baked loaves. They smell sooo heavenly.

Iced and decorated for Easter morning

I made our Easter bread today, and this evening, our youngest is decorating eggs. When I was growing up, Holy Saturday was the day for egg decorating. I, the youngest would do my best not to smudge the colours on my eggs, while my sisters, especially my sister Pauline created objet d'art with theirs. A local shop also sponsored an Easter colouring contest each year, and Pauline often won First Prize. I could only gaze in wonder at what she could accomplish with a set of pencil crayons. We had a beatiful collection of eggs which decorated the sideboard or the table for the Easter season.  My girls have made some beautiful creations over the years, and my eldest brought home one she had made by tying a piece of patterned silk around an egg before boiling it for several minutes in vinegar water in her cooking class this week. The pattern transferred itself onto the egg throughout the process which made for a very pretty result.

The egg on the left was boiled tied in patterned silk, while the
other was decorated with felt tipped pen by my youngest daughter

On Saturday night, our family would attend the Easter Vigil at our Cathedral. With the lights dimmed and the scent of incense sitting heavily in the air, I would generally fall asleep on my dad and sometimes he even carried me all the way home. Easter morning, we children rose and sought out our stash of chocolate and jelly beans. We always had a large, flat Peter Rabbit, and my brother and I would attack the ears first. We even had a type of Easter treasure hunt once. We had clues that we had to follow in order to reach the hiding spot of our cache of treats.

As a family now, we attend whichever Easter mass works for us because my husband is usually very busy during any holiday period at the hotel where he is employed. He even used to dress up as the Easter Bunny on Easter morning and hand out chocolate eggs to all the children staying at the hotel for the holiday. This year we opted to go to mass early Sunday morning, when our eldest girl will be singing in the choir. For several years I hid plastic eggs filled with little chocolate eggs and other candies in our downstairs for my own children. Each of our four kids was assigned a colour of plastic egg. They had to find only their colour. Eventually, they got too old for that (or my skills at hiding just could not keep up to their skill at finding) and for the past few years I have simply filled a basket or similar container with brightly coloured Easter grass to make a nest for their treats. I make one for their dad, too, so he doesn't feel left out.

We always get together with friends for an Easter supper, generally of baked ham, scallopped potatoes, salads and of course, luscious desserts and wine. This year, with the weather being so beautiful we will shake things up a bit. We are going out to our friends' farm where we will gather with some other families and go for a long walk followed by an Easter Tea (which our host says will be supper disguised as something easier). We often shared our Easter supper with friends when I was growing up, too, if I remember correctly. Easter was always the most important celebration in the year and many of the traditions I grew up with I have carried on with my own children. Taking the rich and meaningful moments of our childhoods and adapting them to our own families is what tradition is all about. And barring that, we make our own.

A joyful and very happy Easter to all!

I decided to re-post this from April 7 of last year, as much of it still holds true for our Easter celebrations this year. Again the weather promises to be beautiful and warm, and again we will be going to our friends' farm for a walk and an Easter tea, but on the Monday this time. Three of our kids will be working Sunday afternoon after the early mass, two here at the bistro, and our eldest back at his job in a music store in Vancouver (although he will be here Friday night and Saturday for a little visit). "The numbers are dwindling," my friend said last night, "The numbers are dwindling." Even on the Monday we will be with only two of our kids as our second eldest is making a visit to his grandparents for the week. One tradition we will all partake in together, however, and that is the eating of the Easter bread, but I'll be making it a day early so that can happen. 

Here is an extra photo from a little side road I took the other day. A little valley within our Valley: 

And I found some of these just opening up:

Happy Spring!