Moving on from Cheese Ball

I used to make a locally renowned cheese ball at Christmastime. I would bring it to parties, and serve it Christmas Eve in my house with crackers of various kinds. Everyone looked forward to the cheese ball. One friend even begged me for the recipe and put one in each of her family members' stockings. I got the recipe from a friend of my mother's in the 1980's after I had tasted it at one of their arts council events and fallen in love with its creamy, tangy, walnut studded richness. Made with sharp cheddar, cream cheese, grated onion, garlic and mayonnaise, it was easy to put together with my stand mixer. It also kept well wrapped in the fridge, which was good because I always made a few. Christmas holiday lunches usually featured cheese ball and crackers in our house.

I realized that people had moved on from my cheese ball when I brought it to my friend Kim's annual season-opener Christmas party and nobody ate it. Amid the lighter fare of hummus, veggie trays, olives, and salmon, it lay untouched. That was a first. Then, three of my kids developed lactose intolerance in their teens and twenties. my cheese ball was permanently off the menu. 

How did I feel about this? The end of my cheese ball felt like the end of an era, to be honest. My kids were growing up and my world as I knew it was shifting, friend group-wise, focus-wise, and soon, location-wise when we moved to the nearby city. Yes, I was a bit wistful, but I moved on. You have to move on when every indication points in that direction, don't you? Holding on just leads to disappoinment and stagnation. I can't really stomach much super-rich food anymore anyway, and my cholesterol count insists upon it. I'm good with hummous and the like.

My cheese ball can actually serve as a metaphor for so many things in my life I have had to let go of, mainly ideas about myself and my role in my family, and in the world. My children are grown up and have independent lives of their own, but that's how it is meant to be. I could cry and lament, (and I did at first) but really, I've developed a love of my own company, and often my husband and I being 'just the two of us'. I still enjoy looking after my kids in my own way, but I try to just let them carry on with their lives, with little darts of love from me via text, birthday gifts, phone calls, and occasional visits. They know I'm here if they need me. I've also had to accept the fact that I am a creative person who lives by a slower-paced timeline that works for me. I used to try to wedge myself into roles I thought other people would accept and respect. That just made me kind of ill in the end. 

If you'll be so good as to indulge me, my cheeseball metaphor can even be extended to the wider world. There are so many things we humans hold on to tightly, even when circumstances demand change. I look around and see devastation from climate change, food insecurity, the toxic drug crisis, homelessness, and too much money in the hands of too few. We're going to have to let go of so many of our pre-conceived notions of personal comfort and wealth if anything is really going to change in our society. We have lived very comfortably in the Western world for many decades. We have come to expect that we can guzzle this planet's resources like Gatorade after a hot, sweaty run. Our governments are supposed to work for the people, not their own agendas. Yes, we need economic stability, but if it's at the expense of our environment and the poorest and most marginalized among us, we're bonkers to accept that. 

It's time to accept and push for the changes that are necessary to move on with sustainability and our health in mind. To go from a 'cheese ball' mentality to a 'hummus' mentality, if you will. I have every faith in our ability to adapt. We are very good at that when tested. 

'til next time, 

Rebecca

How Does Your Garden Grow?

I was out for a walk the other day, revelling in the perfection of a sunny spring day, when I noticed an elderly woman working in her yard. She turned to greet me and I said, "Beautiful day, isn't it?" She must have misheard me because she replied with, "Thank you". It was then that I realized that she had a beautiful front garden on the other side of her walkway, jam packed with perrenials coming into bloom. She must have been used to compliments on her garden, which explained her reply. "It will look much nicer in a week or two," she said. "I'll be sure to walk this way again," I said. As I picked up my pace once more, I felt a glow inside my chest. I am truly inspired by people who can create and maintain a beautiful garden. 

From my observations, you either have a green thumb or you don't. Mine is somewhat beige. My middle sister's is a bright shade of Kelly green. She only has to touch a plant and it seems to thrive. When I lived in a house with a yard I did my best to create something of a garden. I did alright with flowers, but my vegetable gardening was limited to a few containers of tomatoes, cucumbers and basil on our south facing deck. I grew some mildy successful garlic in the ground, and, with my husband's help, maintained the raspberry canes and rhubarb that were planted before we lived in the house, but that was it. Once upon a time I had tried to grow a vegetable garden, but I learned that my back didn't respond well to garden work, and I wasn't very successful in any case. Now, on my condo's small deck, I grow a few culinary herbs and some pretty, easy care flowers like geraniums, petunias, and marigolds. In summer I like to eat supper at the little table we have on the deck and enjoy the flowers. 

Even though I don't garden myself, I can see how satisfying it is to grow your own food. I belong to a veggie co-op that was started by a farmer friend. She is an excellent gardener. Both her thumbs, and probably her big toes, too, are bright green. Her daughter has inherited her love of growing food and is now making it her life's work. I feel so lucky to benefit from her hard work and her aptitude for farming. By the end of May I will be picking crunchy lettuces, mild, sweet spinach, and crisp red radishes, not to mention long ruby stalks of rhubarb.

I live in a very rich food-growing area, famous for its berries. Soon there will be luscious strawberries followed by plump raspberries (my favourite) and toothsome blueberries in abundance for sale in the many stands along the rural roads of my region. We are blessed to have a long season of weekly farmers markets with everything from fresh veggies and fruit to baked goods, canned jellies and jams, local honey, and flowers. Even though I sometimes wish I had the ability to grow my own food, I would say that I make many a local grower happy by purchasing from them. That has to count for something in the food chain.  

I have a niece who is an accomplished gardener. I asked her once if it was possible to both love gardens and loathe gardening. She said, yes, that's why she is employed by people who don't want to or can't do it themselves. When I had a yard to care for, I had a love-hate relationship with it. I wanted the results, but the ongoing work to maintain it was a challenge. On the other hand, I had a friend who loved working in the yard so much that as she aged she decided she had to set a timer for one hour so she wouldn't overdo it. Another friend was so dedicated to her garden that she got up every day in summer at 5:30 to beat the heat and work in her garden. I am a little bit ashamed that I am never going to be one of those people. If I were wealthy and had a house again, I would tend a little patch of flowers and leave the rest of the yard to the professionals. 

If you're a dedicated gardener, I salute you. I'll walk by your house and feel that glow in my chest that comes from appreciating the beauty of your work. I hope you know that. 

'til next time, 

Rebecca

The Turkey that Kept on Giving

A couple of weeks before the last Christmas my husband and I ever spent living in the Kootenays, I went to the local butcher shop and ordered their smallest, locally raised organic turkey. When I asked how small they came, the woman at the counter said about nine pounds. We had two small boys at the time. Nine pounds would be plenty.

My mom had come a few weeks prior to look after the boys while my husband and I flew to the Comox Valley on Vancouver Island to look for a place to live. My husband was being transferred there by the non-profit educational organization he worked for to start an Island branch. Our little rental house in a cozy, beautiful mountain town in the East Kootenays had been perfect for us to live in as a small family, but it was pretty tiny. We looked forward to spreading out a bit more, especially in a larger kitchen. Moving day was to be a week from Christmas day. 

On a visit with my friend Sandy, I had mentioned the fact that I had never cooked a turkey. She gave me her copy of Martha Stewart's November, 1996 edition of her magazine because it had a 'turkey 101' guide in it. I was aware of Martha Stewart, of course I was. She was everywhere, but I considered her out of my league. I wasn't rich and her recipes were. I was, however, into good food and aspirational, so I read the recipe. It actually looked do-able and delicious, as did the recipe for stuffing, so I thanked Sandy for the magazine and tucked it in my diaper bag. 

On December 24th we drove down to the butcher shop to pick up our little turkey. When the woman brought out our turkey from the back I thought she had made a mistake. "We ordered a nine pound turkey" I faltered. "This is the smallest the farmer sent us" she said. "How much does it weigh?" I gasped, eyeing the Merry Christmas, Mr. Bean-sized girth of the bird on the counter. "Nine kilograms" she said. I'm pretty sure I said, "Oh my God". Well, there was nothing for it. We'd ordered it and it was Christmas Eve, so we had to buy it. 

I went about gathering all the ingredients for our now enormous Christmas feast. We had no family coming to dinner, no friends either, since the contents of our little house was mostly in moving boxes. It was just us and our 9 kilogram bird. I studied Martha's recipe and made calculations. I was not an entirely experienced cook so I was trusting Martha to lead me to victory. On Christmas Day, I melted a whole pound of butter with an entire bottle of white wine. I soaked a four-layer large square of cheesecloth in the liquid and draped it over the turkey. Once in the oven, I started preparing all the ingredients for the stuffing. My husband kept our little boys occupied with their new toys and cleaned up after me (our kitchen usually looks like a bomb went off when I've been cooking) while I chopped endless amounts of celery and onions. The stuffing recipe alone filled an entire large roasting pan. I don't remember where I got the pan for the turkey. 

Every half hour I wrestled with the roasting pan and basted the turkey with more of the white wine and melted butter. About three hours in I removed the cheesecloth as per Martha's instructions and continued to baste the bird on the half hour. Our entire little house filled with the delicious aroma, so much so that we opened a few windows in the middle of winter. 

That the turkey was a rousing success is not the main point in my story. The fact that we ate it for lunch and dinner for the next five days after Christmas is. Sadly, we were forced to throw the last bit out. I suppose, looking back, that cooking a week's worth of meals before moving is a smart idea, just maybe not the same meal every day, twice a day.

I still cook that same turkey recipe, thirty-odd years later. It's a winner. The turkeys themselves vary in size, depending on the amount of people sitting down to dinner. I halve the stuffing recipe and it still fills a large baking dish. 

My husband loves the share the story of our first Christmas turkey. He's an expressive guy so the story is always accompanied by large hand gestures and increasing vocal volume. This post is in his honour.

Until next time, 

Rebecca

French Women Don't Get Fat - or, I wish I were French

Recently, I was given the book French Women Don't Get Fat by Mireille Guiliano, a Franco- American. I was happy to get a copy of this book (even though it may have been a hint) after wanting to read it ever since I saw the author interviewed on Oprah way back in the mid-2000's. I was nearly finished reading a novel called My Brilliant Friend written by Italian author Elena Ferrante and thought perhaps a transition from one European sensibility to another might be natural. I am anything by willy-nilly in my choices of what to read and when. I did find Guiliano's 'non-diet' book easy to get into, but to stay with? That is another matter, and fitting don't you think?

After explaining the French woman's loving relationship with food and pleasure in a delightedly light-handed way Guiliano launches into a series of meal plans and recipes that further illustrate her philosophy. Light, varied but satisfying and delicious meals seem to fill her life, with a glass of wine at supper each and every night. She grew up in France fairly privileged (with a nanny and a gardener) and food preparation and mealtimes were  near-sacred ceremonies, especially lunch, which was the main meal of the day as it is in many countries. Her mother seems to have been a wonderful cook who got the family involved in the harvesting and preserving of the fruits of their orchards and gardens. The main bits of wisdom I take from the book so far are the following: if you are going to have dessert - and dessert is very important - skip the bread at dinner (although bread is also very important, so skip the dessert if that makes you happier), set the table beautifully and present small portions with panache, eat what is in season when it tastes its best, and enjoy a hearty, healthy breakfast containing yogurt because that will start your day off right and prevent over-eating later in the day. Try not to snack, but if you are stuck in the airport waiting for a delayed flight, keep a handful of nuts in your Hermes handbag. Moreover, enjoy every bite of your precious food, simply take fewer. In any case the pleasure of food is tasted only in the first few bites.

Guiliano's way of living and eating is admirable and enviable. There is something beautiful and classic about her approach. To our North American way of thinking the French woman's philosophy may seem elitist. We immediately shout at her, "I can't afford halibut and lamb chops and all that wine and fancy cheese!" In France, however, food and wine ARE the center of everything, and she explains how life works there. Markets exist in every town and shopping is done daily on foot, not by car, so you get some exercise, too. One purchases for ultimate freshness and quality. I think the anecdote which impressed me the most was when she writes about going to the melon seller and him asking when she wanted to eat the melon. When she replies "In two days when my husband arrives from America - these melons are his favourite," the seller carefully chooses a melon that will ripen perfectly by then. Her husband arrives in Paris, enters the apartment and his nostrils are filled with the perfectly ripened aroma from the melon. "Wow!" is all he can say. French people would rather eat an ounce of good, what we would call 'artisan', cheese than a pound of  American cheese from the 'hypermarche'. The difference between North America and France is defined by how the poor eat as well. In North America, she observes, the poor eat low quality carbs and junk food because that is what is immediately available to their budgets. In France, however, their culture has shown them how to buy food in season when it is at its most plentiful and cheapest, and since less is more they fare better than North Americans health-wise. Eating well seems to be written into the French person's DNA. How lucky they are! We seem to live a lifetime learning how and what to eat.

Living in New York half the time, Guiliano has access to year-round European style markets selling everything from asparagus to fresh caught fish and seafood. Most of us are lucky to live in a town with a farmer's market open once per week in the summer months only. The 'hypermarche' is the reality for most of us. We've all heard the advice, "Shop the outside aisles only" because that is where the fresh food is. Everything else in the center aisles is bottled, packaged, and processed. Well, I shop the center aisles, too. Where else can I find pasta, oats, jam, peanut butter, crackers, coffee, tea, those mint Oreos my kid loves, and the juice my husband needs to survive? In France, perhaps, all of this is available freshly produced at the market, apart from the Oreos (but then, who needs Oreos when you have macarons?). I know from experience that my area's local farmers produce oats and even jam, and I can access these by a bit of extra leg work, but I don't always have the time. I do stop at the pepper farm once a week for a bag of bell peppers in season, and visit farm stands often for berries, eggs, and fresh corn, for these are all on my way home from work. I have always made it a priority to feed myself and my family the way I need to for our health and my peace of mind. That being said, I could stand to lose a few pounds.

So, what can I learn from Guiliano's book? I think I can take her principles and apply them realistically to my own life. I do many of the things she suggests - eat a good breakfast, eat what's in season, make most of our food at home, drink a lot of water, move my body, etc. I do not refrain enough from snacking, especially at work where I am surrounded by food. I do not set the table every night with nice dishes and cloth napkins, sipping wine while I chew slowly and thoughtfully. Perhaps that is the ticket. When all my children lived at home and my husband came home every night we sat at the supper table most nights of the week.  Most nights now, I and my youngest kid, the only one still living at home, eat sitting in front of the TV watching an episode or two of our latest favourite show. Our supper hour is a routine for the two of us and we both enjoy it.

The other night I served myself smaller portions of supper, sat as usual in front of the TV for an episode of Father Ted, and took smaller bites, trying to savour them slowly in between hoots of laughter. Life is all about compromise. Oui, oui!

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I know it has been an age since I posted something on this blog. Life has been rather full of late and although ideas and a desire to post have floated around incessantly in my head I have not had time to sit down and get to it. A couple of Saturday mornings ago I sat in my favourite coffee shop and wrote the draft of a post in my notebook. Did it get typed and posted? No. I have done this twice now. Like Charlie Brown I can't quite get it together. 'Good grief!'

I do have at least one rather good excuse, though. Some of my regular reader friends will remember I began working on a novel on November 1st, 2013. I am happy to report that my novel's first draft was completed on November 25th of this year. I was, needless to say, relieved and delighted. When I originally wrote about completing NaNoWriMo (see linked post above for an explanation) I thought I only needed to write about another third to complete my draft. I was wrong. My word count ended at 103,000 words, more than double what I had written as part of National Novel Writing Month. Still, I was happy with the outcome and look forward to the editing process. I have been advised by an editor friend to let the manuscript rest for a while so I can look at it with fresh eyes. Completing my first draft was a Christmas gift to myself, I suppose, and one I was happy to unwrap early, for now I can concentrate on making the house clean beautiful and the upcoming Season as delicious as possible for my family and friends. My husband also just started three weeks of holidays from work so I know much will be accomplished in the way of tedious long-neglected tasks around here. My three living-away kids will be home for varying lengths of time for the Holidays and even though I will be spending a lot of time ferrying my youngest daughter to her rehearsals for the production of the Addams Family Musical to take place in January, I will enjoy every minute of having a full house once again.

The first Christmassy thing I do every year is bake fruitcakes. In the early days only my husband and I enjoyed eating these boozy, rummy fruit and nut cakes. Then, I began sending my parents one, too and they asked for the recipe. This year I received a message from our twenty year old son which said, "I am looking forward to eating Christmas cake with a glass of port." My eldest daughter now enjoys the cake as well, so it looks like we will have no trouble consuming the two large and three small cakes I have baked this year. Today I will bathe the cakes in rum and rewrap them in cheesecloth to marinate for another week when I will bathe them in rum again. They end up very well preserved by Christmas week. I have also already made a double batch of another family favourite: cheese ball. I coat the cheese balls in chopped walnuts harvested from the tree in our back yard, and serve it with a variety of crackers. We have already attended two events at which cheese ball was our contribution to the food table; we are becoming rather predictable at parties.

Christmas is not Christmas in our family without certain food related traditions, but new additions are always welcome. Last month, my youngest daughter and I made Maple Toffee Popcorn for the first time. It was absolutely delicious and would make a great gift for gluten-free friends. We will be making a big batch again. I will make fruit and nut chocolate bark as well, but I will leave the rest of the baking to my husband and daughter who has been away at college and surviving on stove-top cooking. She is longing to bake when she comes home next weekend.

Last Friday we and our eldest daughter attended the year-end concert at our son's university. He is in his second year studying violin in the Orchestral Performance program and we are always happy to go to any concert in the university's beautiful concert hall. Our son had worked very hard to get a top seat in the orchestra for the second half of the concert when they would perform Shostakovitch's Symphony No. 5. Shostakovich is one of his favourite composers and the piece is also a favourite. The first half of the concert featured an extremely accomplished young pianist performing Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 23, but it was the second half which earned a standing ovation - or perhaps a cumulative effect was the cause. Either way, the concert was wonderful and we and everyone else in the packed house were so proud of all the young musicians up on the stage in front of us. When we came out of the hall at the end of the concert snow was falling in earnest. A group of students had run outside to play in the snow and were visible from the floor-to-ceiling windows in the lobby. I love snow, too, but driving in it is not my favourite activity. After dropping off our son at his dorm building we drove to our eldest daughter's apartment and said goodbye to her. We made our way slowly and carefully all the way to Langley where the snow had come and gone already leaving the roads bare for the rest of the journey home.We munched on chips and listened to the radio to keep ourselves awake, arriving at home well past midnight, but we both felt it had been worth it.

Speaking of fine young musicians, I am a new fan of twenty-six year old pianist Yuja Wang. I am happy to share a video of her playing one of my (and her) favourite composers, Chopin. Have a listen during this month of hustle and bustle of the Holiday season, and I guarantee it will help you catch your breath. Until next time, enjoy December as it speeds by at its customary alarming rate. I know I am.

Autumn Mists and Apples

'Tis the time of year for reflecting on 

the 10 months past, 

their fullness realized

in the turning leaves

 and rising mists from empty fields.

The harvest was good this year.

The view behind our house

I have made so much applesauce 

apple crisp and apple muffins.

A friend shared her bumper crop.

She had more than she could ever use.

Her children are flying the coop

 like mine are.

The grocery bill is shrinking

but my freezer is full.

Is there any thing more perfect than an apple? 

These ones are Macintosh.

They've just been washed.

Now they will be sauced.

For your listening pleasure, a newer take on an old standard,

'Autumn Leaves'

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!

I Know Why the Englishman Drinks Tea

I have never been so cold as the winter I moved to Vancouver to go to University. I grew up in the Kootenay Mountains in south eastern British Columbia where it snows in winter, rains some in every season, and is pleasantly hot in the summertime. As long as I wore a coat, hat, scarf and gloves I was warm enough in winter, unless we had a rare cold snap of -15 for a few days. Then, I wore long underwear under my jeans. After a beautifully warm fall in Vancouver, the winter rain set in. It rained, and it rained, and it rained. My hair loved the moisture, and I had waves in it for the first time. My limbs, not so much; I wore my long underwear and wool sweaters all winter long. Some days, when I was walking to my bus stop on Broadway and Commercial I was chilled to the bone by the damp, and it wasn't even very cold outside if the thermometer was any indication. When I arrived at my class, I looked forward to a break in the arts lounge where I could buy a cup of tea and begin the day's bodily thaw.

We were tea drinkers in my family. My mom always served tea after supper. I would have a cup and then head upstairs to my room to do my homework. I drank tea at breakfast when I was an older teenager - I wasn't allowed coffee until I was in college - but I'm not sure I appreciated it as much as I do now. I have a cup or two of tea every afternoon. I use it as a break in the day and a lift of both my spirits and energy which often begin to flag after lunch. After supper, in the fall, winter, and early spring I can usually be found with my hands wrapped around a cup of herbal tea as my work is generally done, and I need to keep warm while I sit with a book or in front of the TV to wind down the day. The hardworking furnace can only do so much for me.

Last night was another dark and rainy one. I drove with my son the twenty minutes into Chilliwack for his music lessons. Well, he did all the driving. I just sat and directed him from the passenger's seat. Before I left home I had filled a thermal mug with Bengal Spice tea (sort of an herbal chai in a teabag) to take with me. After dropping my son at his first lesson I went off to do errands. When I returned to wait for him outside his teacher's house, I took a few sips of my still hot tea. The spicy, milky sweet liquid warmed me as it went down my esophagus and I could feel my shoulders relaxing. I had been chilled all day, and I so appreciated the radiating comfort that tea gave me. I dropped my son off at his next lesson and went to sit in the waiting room. I made myself comfortable in one of the wooden armchairs and proceeded to enjoy my tea as the rain hammered the roofs outside. I grew warmer and sleepier by the minute. I managed to stay awake talking about books and movies to another person in the room, but it was hard to keep my eyes open. I needed Mr. Bean's toothpicks.

Or perhaps I needed some Yorkshire tea. An old friend of mine had immigrated from Yorkshire, England with his family. The first time I went to his house his mother asked me if I drank tea. I assured her I was a 'big tea drinker'. She made the tea in a small metal pot, the proportion of tea to hot water most likely equal, for the tea was the colour of mahogany. I added sugar and a lot of milk and drank a mugful. My friend's mother offered me another cup and I, already vibrating from caffeine but too proud to admit it, had another cup. I had to admit defeat after that second cup, however, and my friend and I went out for a very. long. walk. Recently, I discovered a tea called Yorkshire Gold, which has a lovely, slightly exotic flavour and reminds me of the tea I once drank with my friend's family. The tea was part of a gift basket of international foods our friends gave us for Christmas, and they informed us laughingly  that Yorkshire Gold, a tasty blend of Assam and East African teas, is 'what the commoners drink' in England (where it also rains an awful lot). The 'commoners' in this part of the world are now drinking it, too, and enjoying it very much, although we use only one tea bag per mug, or two for a pot.

Do you like a good cuppa? What's your favourite kind or brand these days? Over at my other blog Stella is sharing her easy recipe for a homemade Chai latte. It's delicious and oh, so warming on a bone chilling early spring 'Wet Coast' afternoon. Cheerio, and happy weekend! 

Above image: unknown

The Reluctant Gourmet Rides Again

Just over a year has passed since our foodie group first gathered at the home of two of our members. Marilee, a music teacher and something of a bon vivant, and Stefan, a professional chef, invited five couples plus one special out-of-town guest to their home for a New Year's Eve six course meal. Each couple was responsible for a course, so our hosts specifically invited those of their friends they knew may be up to the challenge of producing a course worthy of any gourmand. I was exceedingly nervous at the prospect, so went the safer route and signed up to bring the soup. In my everyday life I create a lot of soup.

I had made my carrot ginger soup many times, but I laboured over the pot during every step, as if my future life in this town depended on its success. After the soup was pureed and I had added the sherry but omitted the cream, wrongly believing that a vegan soup would somehow impress this crowd, I took a final taste and pronounced it good.

Off we went with our soup and wine, my husband and I, dressed elegantly but comfortably enough to sit through six courses of food and drink. Concerned that my soup would become cold I put it on the burner of our hosts' stove top where over the course of the next hour and a half - some of the guests were late in arriving, particularly the ones responsible for the appetizer - my soup simmered away, awaiting consumption. When my course was up, my husband and I served the soup and I waited in grave anticipation for the reactions of the seasoned guests, one of whom had recently flown from London to Copenhagen just to eat at a particular restaurant due to its reputation. Although everyone said the soup was good 'and just the sort of thing we should have had on the ferry today coming back from Victoria to the Mainland in the freezing damp', as one guest declared, I knew after one taste that the hour and a half of simmering had done it no good and had made it slightly bitter. 'Oh well,' I said to myself, 'Live and learn.'

After our New Year's Eve dinner party the idea of a seasonal supper club was born, and since then, most of us have gathered three more times, taking turns making different courses and hosting the event at our homes. I have made dessert and salad, and my results have been mildly successful but improving each time. As the least experienced, albeit passionate foodie, the gourmet learning curve has been somewhat vertically inclined. At least my husband has taken it upon himself to research and take care of the wine pairings, which has taken the pressure off me a bit. I believe that Julia Child's husband Paul took that task upon himself most willingly as well, not that I am putting us in that same category. I have no interest in deboning a duck or of making anything with the word 'aspic' in it, however much I respect the great Julia.

This past Saturday it was our turn to host, and therefore, to make the main course. After several emailed communications, our eight guests all signed up for their particular course, and I began to prepare mentally and physically for the big event. A week before I had woken up in a cold sweat, having dreamed that four of our guests had not bothered to show up, and in being kept waiting too long for my entree, Tim had lowered his head onto the table and moaned to his wife, Sue, "I want to go home!" In retrospect, I am grateful for that dream because it woke me up quite literally to the fact that stressing over hosting a dinner party was not only silly, it was downright counterproductive. The idea was to have fun and learn something in the process, so I pulled up my socks and spent the week working hard to enjoy the upcoming event to the fullest.

Not all of our members are still with us, so our table, which with the added leaf sits ten adults fairly comfortably, would do. Having recently inherited a good number of elegant dishes and linens from both sides of my parents' families, I decided that our table would be a thing of beauty. My eldest daughter was eager to help with the setting and design of the table, and my younger daughter got busy on the internet looking up a variety of ways to set the table depending on the number of courses and the available cutlery. We found one that suited both our meal and our stock of tableware and she copied the diagram onto a post-it-note. Elder daughter found our collection of seashells and with four glass candle holders, made a lovely still life centerpiece that ran the length of the table. With my Granny's damask napkins and a mix of old and new wine and water glasses, we finished the settings and were satisfied.

At 6:30 our guests began to arrive, and my husband served them my favourite cocktail, the fruity and delicious Pomegranate Martini. Our first course was an appetizer, a tart made in a crispy shell of filo pastry containing thin slices of pear, pecans and the chef's own Castle Blue cheese, which she sells to cheese lovers near and far: delicious and not too filling. Next came the soup, a hearty, rich and deeply flavoured oxtail soup with orzo. Next came a beautiful and unusual palate cleansing salad made from tender butter lettuce with slices of tart green apple, roasted walnuts, and the chef's own homemade pink saurkraut, tangy but gently flavoured, offering just the right amount of acidity to complement the rich olive oil dressing.

I had planned for months to make a delicious and satisfying entree enticingly called Chicken Asiago, but by Saturday morning was still unsure as to how to plate it, and with what on the side? The recipe suggested serving the dish with pasta and sprinkling everything with fresh basil, so I decided on spaghettini. With no fresh basil to be found anywhere, I remembered my stash of homemade pesto in the freezer and knew what I would do. Each half breast of chicken, coated in asiago cheese, breadcrumbs and finely chopped Italian parsley, and then browned in olive oil, was dressed with my homemade tomato sauce enhanced with the fresh Rosemary from the plant still thriving under the eaves on our sundeck. Slices of fresh mozzarella were then placed on top and the chicken finished its cooking in the oven. I had learned from an Italian friend that the best way to cook a lot of pasta was to pre-cook it, then just before serving, flash boil it again and drain. I did so, and found the pasta much less starchy the second time, and easy to mix with the pesto and a bit of extra olive oil. We plated the wonderfully aromatic chicken with a lovely little twist of pesto spaghettini and placed a garnish of Italian parsley on top. (I had been able to practice plating my course for my kids, who had eaten earlier.) As we served our course, and poured glasses of Italian Merlot, we heard encouraging exclamations from our guests, and Stefan, who sat beside me said quietly after he was finished eating my entree, "That was very good".

After a slight delay due to my daughter coming into the kitchen and turning off the oven - ack! - Stefan presented the most amazing and beautiful dessert: ricotta souffles and blood orange salad with triangles of vanilla semifreddo drizzled in crisp dark chocolate and garnished with a half moon of dragon fruit and served atop swirls of fruit and white dessert sauces. The perfect combination of textures, colours and flavours, and the lightness of the dessert proved, once again, what it takes to make a professional chef.

And then there was the cheese course which made use of the wonderful baguettes from our new local Magpie's Bakery, which we had forgotten to serve with my course. "We didn't need the bread," said our local cheesemaker, Debra. "Bread is for mopping up the sauce when there is too much of it. You had just the right amount of sauce on your chicken." I do not think I could have been any happier at that moment. "I'm learning," I said. Four types of Debra's wonderful cheese, honey from her own hives and rose jelly made from her roses, were handed around the table along with another glass each of Marsala. The clock read 11:45.

Along with course after course of  food and wine went laughter and discussions on subjects ranging from 'Vancouver restaurants, eat your heart out!' to Lance Armstrong and the definition of 'hero'. In one of several group emails the next day, Marilee summed up the evening nicely: "Thank you to (my husband and I) for hosting and to the social gods for making it all come together with laughter and good stories. These kind of evenings cannot be really anticipated...sometimes all the best intentions still don't produce the momentum of fun and camaraderie that we were blessed with last nite."

Still basking in the glow of my first attempt at hosting our foodie group, I have taken a precious organic chicken out of the freezer and plan to make my family a special meal this weekend. We might even use the good dishes again. I hope my grandmothers would approve.

The photo above was taken just before the guests arrived. Wishing you a wonderful weekend.

P.S. We have a new post up at Stella's. Something hearty and healthy for this time of year.

Cooking Therapy

I remember the exact moment when I realized that cooking was integral to my sense of well-being as a parent, as a wife, and as a person. We had just moved after Christmas that year from our comfortable home on a side street of Courtenay's historic downtown district to a draughty summer cabin with a tiny kitchen at an outdoor education center on northern Vancouver Island. We made the best of our situation, which was temporary while we made improvements to another more suitable cabin for our family, and with most of our belongings in storage, got through that first winter, sometimes surprisingly, with our sanity intact. I did not have to do much cooking for the first year. All of the center's staff were on a meal plan which meant we were welcome to any of the stores in the center's kitchen in the off season, and we ate with everyone else, including the other families who lived there, and all the students and staff, during the spring, summer and early fall.

We had three children, aged 13 months, three years, and four and a half years when we moved to the center where my husband was employed as the program director. As most parents will agree, mealtimes with little ones are not always easy. More often than not, one or more of the children must have their meal served a little bit differently than the others, certain foods have to be disguised, and the environment for eating must be relatively calm. Such was not the case in the eating hall of the center. The meals were served buffet style, and we would take our children up to the tables and try to help them select a well rounded plate of food, depending on what was served that particular day. At first, the meals were novel: grilled Ahi tuna, assemble-your-own stirfry, bean burritos, salads - all healthy offerings. Our children were not particularly picky eaters, but more often than not, they would fill their plates with baby corn and rice, then eat distractedly, waiting impatiently for an opportunity to run around with the other children. And, more often than not, we went home and made a peanut butter sandwich to round out their meal. While we were adjusting to our new and very different life I was grateful for the meal plan, but as time went on I became increasingly dissatisfied and could not put my finger on 'why' until we had moved into our renovated cabin in the spring and life was beginning to take on a more regular day to day pattern.

I think I felt rather more like a shepherd than a mother, herding my children into the eating hall at prescribed meal times, to eat prescribed food which someone else chose for them, and it was then that I realized how important the act of cooking for my family was to me. Before these meals in the hall I would feel listless and unproductive, waiting around for someone else to feed my children while we sat around a table which was not ours, noon after noon, night after night. It took some convincing, but we were eventually allowed to opt out of the meal plan entirely, and a few other families soon followed suit. I once again felt that sense of well-being in making a weekly meal plan - we had to, living a forty minute drive from the nearest grocery store - shopping at my usual stores, involving the kids in the process as well, scheduling my days around marinating, simmering, sauteeing, and baking. Our independence from the rest of the community at mealtimes was integral to our ability to stay at the center for five happy years. Our family grew around our table, talking to each other over fairly standard family fare like spaghetti and meatballs, homemade soups and breads, stir fries, and apple crisp with ice cream for dessert. Sure, I could no longer go into the center's kitchen and help myself to a substantial chunk of Asiago cheese in the off season, but my family appreciated my efforts and their results as they do to this day, and they all learned about cooking in the process. Our eldest son would often get up in the morning and announce that he was making pancakes for breakfast, and I always had helpers for every baking project.

Now, ten years on, my repertoire in the kitchen has expanded exponentially, as have my children's taste buds and skill in the kitchen. I own two solidly packed shelves of cook books, and while I would certainly not call myself a full-fledged foodie, I do turn to cooking for comfort and for joy, as does my eldest daughter. Some days when I am feeling disjointed, a bit down or in doubt, I cook a great meal. I honestly find cooking up a roasted chicken with sweet onion and lemon gravy, whipping up a pot of buttermilk mashed potatoes, and a citrus beet salad great therapy. I put on some music and an apron, and with my chef's knife and my wooden spoon I chop and stir my way into a sense of satisfaction so deep in my soul as to soothe whatever has disturbed it. When I put the meal on the table, and we all gather around to enjoy the food together, my day's therapy is complete...especially when someone else does the dishes and I get to put my feet up with another glass of wine.

I found the above illustration on Google Images. When I clicked on it, it was called 'Cooking Therapy' then dash 'Ishiki' dash 'children's illustrator'. That's the best I can do for crediting the image, which I really like!
And speaking of cooking, Stella's Virtual Cafe is embracing winter and serving up comfort food, with a new post coming later this week. Cheers!

Into the Light we Go

When something like the Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre happens, I am left reeling with thoughts of sadness for the children robbed of a future, and for all the families affected. As President Obama said in his sensitive speech following the news of so much slaughter of the innocent, "These neighbourhoods are our neighbourhoods, these children are our children." I could not help but put myself in the place of those parents who have lost their little ones, and all those connected to the adults who were also killed on that day in Newtown Connecticut.

I could say so much more about this senseless act, but I will not. Not today. Today I will focus on the good that I experienced in going for a day trip to Vancouver last weekend to see our son at his workplace and do some Christmas shopping. The fact of how blessed I was to have all my family together and intact has not escaped me, and the knowledge that we will all be together for Christmas is cause for even more happiness and gratitude.

We have had a rainy December at this end of the Fraser Valley. The clouds tend to rest against our high and close mountains and some weeks it feels as though I have been weighted down by a large and somewhat heavily brimmed grey felt hat. My husband, being on holiday for the past couple of weeks, had been checking the weather for a good day to go to Vancouver. Originally, we had wanted to avoid the city on a weekend, but Saturday looked like the best day weather-wise, so we planned out our day carefully and left early.

As we headed west, we drove gradually into the light.

As we approached the newly twinned Port Mann Bridge, her 'sails' rose up into the clear blue sky, reflecting the snowy peaks in the distance. Vancouver enjoys three local ski hills in its North Shore mountains: Grouse Mountain, Cypress Mountain, and Mount Seymour. Our family spent two wonderful winters Nordic skiing at Cypress Mountain, before horses, orchestra rehearsals and soccer took over our lives.

It's challenging to take photos from a moving vehicle.
This was taken while crossing the bridge.

We parked in our usual downtown spot, and walked over to the Vancouver Christmas Market. I've been an admirer of the 'new' Vancouver Public Library since it was built, so I had to take a photo of it gleaming on such a beautiful day.

 And then it was on to the market, where our son Ian is working for the month of December. The market is as authentically German in style as possible for the organizers to make it. It is set up in the lobby and the courtyard of the Queen Elizabeth Theatre. Vendors occupy decorated pine huts, offering everything from hot fresh pretzels and bratwurst, to spiced apple cider with or without a warming dram of alcohol, wooden toys and decorations. For those of us who are attracted by the woodsy charm of a traditional German/Bavarian Christmas, the market is a purely enjoyable experience.

The market was hopping that day, so good photo ops were few. However, we made the rounds with Ian, who met us a couple of hours before his shift at this hut here, serving traditional Swiss raclette and other delicacies made by our local cheese maker, Debra Amrein-Boyes, who operates the famous Farmhouse Cheese. 

I chose hot coffee over hot apple cider, but we did try it last year, and chose to purchase one of these souvenir mugs, which we put in our youngest's stocking to remind her of the happy day she spent with us at the market.

Of course, no German market would be complete without a hot polka band. This is the only shot I managed to get of the band, who were great and so much fun to listen to.

We all had a grand time at the market, Galen and Emma enjoying it for the first time. The day was clear and mainly sunny, but also cold, and after we'd had enough of the market, we moved on to the shopping malls to thaw and split up into pairs for some gift buying for each other. Then we said goodbye to Ian, happy that we would all be together again soon.

This song seems so fitting for my present state of mind.

Wishing you and yours a safe and joyful Holiday Season.

Peace on Earth. Good will towards men.

Rebecca

What's so Great about Martha Stewart?

I am not American, neither am I rich (well, not in money anyway), I am artsy, but not particularly crafty, so why have I, every November for the past twelve years, bought a copy of the December issue of Martha Stewart Living? What do I see in that magazine that is so enticing for me to spend 6 bucks on it, read it cover to cover, and then keep it enshrined with all the others on a shelf in my dining room to be brought out and pored over every year? I will attempt to answer these questions, for anyone who cares, in the following post.

Martha Stewart is an American icon by now. She seems to be an expert on everything from breeds of fowl to how to keep foxing (those brown age spots in old books) out of your collection of First Editions. She speaks with the alto voiced drawl of the more laughable New York Yuppies depicted in Norah Ephron and Woody Allen films, and her hair is forever blonde. She will hand roll her own wrapping paper in a faux bois pattern and curl ribbon to emulate wood shavings to extend the woodland theme she has chosen for all her Christmas decorations of a particular year even to her packaging of gifts. She will hand make all her Christmas gifts, be they delicious puddings or be they begonias produced from cuttings of her own perfect plants, and present them in re-usable vessels, such as terra cotta pots made locally in her Bedford, New York neighbourhood and stamped with the name of her farm, or specially chosen bowls from her collections, all wrapped exquisitely, of course, as mentioned above, and personalized with a handmade, thematic gift tag. I'm not sure how many of these gifts she gives out to friends and family, but I am willing to bet the number is a high multiple of ten - at the very least. I also hear Martha Stewart, like many powerful people, only sleeps four hours a night. Go figure.

I started my interest in Martha Stewart back in 1995, when I was talking to a friend about cooking my first Turkey for Christmas. My friend gave me an edition of MSL magazine with an article entitled 'Turkey 101'. I followed the directions to the letter and every year I use the same recipe because it makes for delicious results. How can it not, when basted in a bottle of white wine and lashings of butter? Martha Stewart recipes make up a large portion of my special occasion recipes, as well as some of my everyday ones. My mother-in-law heard I was getting into Martha recipes and bought me one of her cookbooks for Christmas in 1996. The best chicken or turkey stock, the best chicken soup (with leeks and fennel) to cure a cold with, the best devilled egg recipe, the best pumpkin pie recipe, the best gingerbread cookie recipe, are all to be found in that falling apart book. My husband bought me a subscription of MSL magazine in 2002 and, while I enjoyed receiving an issue per month, I was a bit overwhelmed with a new baby at the time, and one solid year of fantastic gardening tips for my nonexistent garden and advice on where to find the best bookbinder for one's antique tomes was enough for me. Fortunately, 2002 was a great year for the magazine and I still have all my copies and refer to them often for the best recipes for coconut cake, quesadillas with caramelized onions and zucchini, various cookies and punches, and for a delicious recipe for the chicken and corn empanadas my daughter has requested I make for her birthday party tomorrow. Her birthday cake recipe is also coming from a back issue.

I remember a party we had to which we invited a few friends for quesadillas and margaritas. I made a rich, hot fudge sauce from MSL for the ice cream sundaes I served for dessert. Like all MSL recipes it makes an overly generous amount (I have learned to halve some recipes, particularly for dessert sauces and such), but I made the full recipe thinking I would have leftovers to warm for a future dessert. No such luck. Three of the women at the party proceeded to sit down around the bowl of hot fudge sauce and polish it off. There went a pound of good quality chocolate, but also, there lay the proof of the appeal of MSL recipes. They just taste so darn good.

Martha Stewart Living is about more than recipes and beautiful, artistic photos of food. The magazine contains ideas and instructions for craft projects, features on wonderful American artisans, decorating ideas for houses and apartments, and even occasional articles on how to invest your extra money in a seaside cottage or mountain retreat (which I ignore because I already spent all my money on chocolate). What I like about the magazine is that it sticks to these themes, and it knows what it's about - gracious, good and healthful living, which celebrates the home and family and those who care for them creatively. It's honest about its purpose, too: good taste and quality matter. I also like the fact that much of what is presented in the magazine to be created at home is approachable for 'the rest of us' if we have the time, the desire, and the energy to make some beautiful, delicious things from scratch for our family and friends, and for ourselves. To be completely honest, I'm a busy person and I do not have time or energy to embark on a lot of projects. The times of year that I do make a point of doing so is in preparation for the major holidays, and most of my chosen projects involve creating good things to eat. So, in that way, I am not a thorough devotee of the great Martha. I am not always looking for patterns to make my own dog bed, or ways to stencil my furniture. But for a new cake to make for Easter, or a pretty ornament to make for Christmas gifts? Yes, I'm there, studying the Martha manual along with all the well-to-do housewives of Connecticut.

Martha Stewart Living put out a magazine for kids for a few years. I bought several issues and found them to be full of beautiful ideas to do with my children. We made batches of marshmallow fudge for their teachers, personalized gingerbread people with the neighbourhood kids, lots and lots of cut paper snowflakes after learning the real way to do so, and various other projects. I taught one little boy I looked after to make paper snowflakes and he and my daughter wiled away many hours making them and taping them up in my hallway. One year, my kids and I made little ornaments out of pipe cleaners - little skiing Santas and skating snowmen, wreaths, candy canes, stockings and tiny deer. The project was so much fun and definitely inexpensive. We sent one to everyone on our list with their Christmas card and a mix-tape of seasonal music. The kids made those pipe cleaner ornaments the next year, too, and the year after that.

The other night I bought this year's December issue of Martha Stewart Living. I brought it home with the groceries, which my eldest daughter, Emma, nearly sixteen, helped to put away. After the groceries were in their proper places, my daughter went to bed, but not before she had picked up the new issue of MSL and asked me if I would let her take it to bed with her before I had had a chance to read it. Emma is a baker, beginning to be a good cook, is crafty and like her mother, loves pretty things and good food. The next morning she said she had stayed up late, reading the magazine cover to cover and getting all kinds of ideas for projects to make. For the past two years, Emma has made a beautiful wreath from cuttings of cedar and holly for our front door at Christmastime. Every year she also chooses some kind of special dessert to make for Christmas, and just the other night, she came up with a prototype for our annual Christmas card. It was lovely, so I said, 'go to it!' and she has. I think I will end up being her assistant for that project - if I can keep up.

Years ago, a woman who immersed herself in cooking, baking and decorating would be called a 'little Suzy homemaker,' conjuring up images of a 1950's smiling housewife in a ruffled apron and pearls, but now, she might be called something like 'the next Martha Stewart,' which means something different entirely. I mean, does the owner and brainpower behind Martha Stewart Omnimedia look like a 'little Suzy homemaker' to you?  Heck, she's even done time in the big house.

Photos found online. Happy weekend, friends! 

Thoughts of Home

As I look around this 1970's, boxy house with its four bedrooms, three bathrooms, large kitchen and yard, I wonder how long we will need a home of this size. In the not too distant future, with three children grown up, we and our youngest daughter will be rattling around by ourselves wondering what to do with all the space left behind when all of her siblings are out in the world beyond our happy home. But is it wise to downsize? I do not relish the thought of not having room enough for my kids and their friends to stay and be comfortable when they visit, or for grandchildren in the future, if God willing, there are to be some. But is that a good enough reason to hang onto, and look after, a big-ish house with a large yard? I've always dreamed of a three bedroom cottage with a wood stove and just enough room for a few guests around the table. Will there be one of those in our future? (There was one in our past.) Fortunately, I don't have to think seriously about it right now. We have a few years yet.

A cottage in the woods - made of gingerbread by our daughter

Our eldest, Ian came home for the day on Monday. He is able to do that because his home in Vancouver is only one hundred and twenty kilometers west of here and he can very easily hop on a Greyhound bus to make the trip home and back. He came home to enjoy Thanksgiving leftovers - turkey sandwiches for lunch with scalloped potatoes on the side and pumpkin pie - and a late birthday supper of barbecued steak and Caesar Salad ( I supposed you've guessed by now that we are not vegetarians, at least not on the holidays). I turned 43 over a week ago, but despite all his good intentions my husband was not able to cook the dinner he'd planned for me that day, due to a flare-up of his herniated disc. However, feeling much better by Monday, my husband rose early with the girls to cook waffles topped with sauteed apples and whipped cream with a side of bacon - might as well go all out- while I drove to the bus depot to pick up Ian and bring him 'home'. In between the feasting our family of six went for a long walk on the farm roads, visited, drank tea in the afternoon while lounging on the living room couches watching episodes of Community on Netflix, and just enjoyed all being together. The day ended all too soon, and after a bit more visiting in the kitchen while we cleaned up, I drove Ian to the bus depot again, knowing it would not be too long before we saw each other again.

We are lucky that our first born and first to leave home lives so close. He is exactly where he wants to be, taking classes at a small college, living with great roommates in an access-to-everything-in-the-city location, working weekends in the guitar section of a music store, and finding inspiration for his life as an artist everywhere. But yet, he can come home or we can go to him quite easily. There is no guarantee the situation will be the same with our second son. He wants to study music and is deciding on which universities to apply to in this huge country of ours. Even though I want him to be close-ish to home like his brother, I know that he will have to go where he needs to go to be in the best music program for him. Not unlike my niece, who is studying ballet in Oregon...I know my sister misses her terribly, while feeling great pride in her daughter for following her dream.

Our third child wants to go to University right after she graduates from high school in 2014. Will she and her brothers come home for the summers? It remains to be seen and depends very much on the housing and employment they can get in their respective cities. And our youngest? Well, at this point she says she is going to live at home and take the theater program at our local university, to which she can bus or drive. She worries about us being lonely without her.

When I went away to University, I lived at home in the summer, working and saving up for the year ahead. My parents have lived in the same house since I was six years old. There is no danger of them 'rattling around' in their house, though. Theirs is not that kind of house, being built in the 1800's when not only furniture, but people were generally smaller. When visitors come they sleep either on the sleeping porch or up in the converted attic sleeping loft. Some of us siblings have even lived with our parents when in between houses and jobs. There has always been enough room somehow.

I am thankful for this open, large roomed, light filled house that has welcomed our family of six so well. We moved in when our eldest was eleven and our youngest was three years old. We've had bands practicing in the garage, ping-pong in the basement, a troupe of girls performing plays in the downstairs family room, twelve or more people around the dinner table, and four of us cooking at once in the kitchen. We've often had violin, piano, and guitar going at the same time in different corners of the house - ack! Baseball and badminton in the back yard and basketball and hockey in the driveway. Christmas trees that looked much smaller in the field and two rooms to store camping gear, skis and a large freezer, as well as a laundry drying rack which is full much of the time. Our house is often messy, but has never felt cramped. The walls are full of artwork and book shelves. I look at all the new row houses (with teeny tiny postage stamp yards) popping up in our town and wonder how we, a family full of energetic, sporty musicians, would have fared living so closely with neighbours as our children grew up.  I'm sure we would have survived, but I am grateful we didn't have to.

I wonder what our future brings as we gradually enter into this new phase of life as so called 'empty nesters'. This house and yard is a lot to look after without four strapping youngsters to help. Will we stay, or will we go? Just as we've always done, we'll do whatever seems right and fitting when the time comes. I have a strong sense of 'home'. I would like my children to have that anchor in their lives, too, but I know that 'home' is where the people you love are, not necessarily the structure they live in.

Still, there's time...there's time.