it's what we do

How can I justify flying to New Jersey for a week? When I feel so strongly about oil, about climate change, about flying being bad?

I've been thinking about this a lot. I guess I justify it in the same way I justify doing things like driving a car, or eating cucumber out of season, or using Sunlight dish soap - although I feel badly about it, and wish I had whatever it took to find alternatives, I end up not thinking about it, too, sometimes, and I try and cut myself some slack. I also try to consider the good things that I DO do, as being meaningful, and I think about how it's pretty much impossible to escape the oil-driven and oil-dependent economy we live in.

Also I have been thinking - I can justify this trip this way: I love my Grandpa. He is nearly 90. I want to see him. And as irrational and perhaps selfish as it sounds, I guess I value seeing him, more than I do "not doing damage to the environment". That - is not great. I mean, I wish I could say that "not doing damage to the environment" meant the most to me. Certainly I feel incredibly sad sometimes about the damage we are doing to the planet, to the ways we have changed it and wrecked parts of it and the shit we're continuing to do. I feel downright overwhelmed by it, at times.

But I also love my Grandpa. He is the voice that read to me as a kid. He is my elder, my Dad's Dad, the man who built me a dollhouse when I was a little girl, who always told me that I can do incredible things with my life and my talents. And he doesn't tell me that because I'm necessarily a genius, but because I'm his granddaughter and he loves me. And it's been six years since I've seen him. And he's getting old. So I'm going to go see him. Yes, I'll feel guilt about the airplanes, the fuel spent. It's likely going to be a palpable sadness and guilt. But no doubt I'll also feel a rush as the plane pulls up into the sky, and likely I'll also feel like an adult, and capable and strong as I drive myself to the airport, park my car and go get my boarding pass.

Nothing is ever simple. Is ever black and white.

I leave tomorrow. I'll be back in a week. Also, I'm planning to see an opera in New York City! As well as generally have a really good trip. I'll share pictures upon my return!

***

Here's how the last week went.

Several days were just this: me on the couch with Kali the cat and bumming around on Pinterest. (It is seriously addictive.)

The chair I can see from the couch - and the reflection of a big spiky tropical-type plant, on it.

Chickens in their yard, the mountains behind, and the spring sun shining down.

After spending pretty much the entire day indoors, in my PJS and a hoodie, I went outside to tend to the chickens and take some pictures. I am quite happy here. In gumboots (longtime readers of this blog will know of my love for rubber boots!), on a farm. Life IS good.

This is right next to the front door. A little detail that I happened upon and really liked.

Leftover chicken soup and a toasted sandwich. My meals of the last several days.

Ferry scenes. St. Ann's Bay.

That's it for now! I hope you're well. I really do.

the time I almost moved, then didn't

Well, I'm well-rested right now. I had a great night's sleep and the world feels like a solid place again. But that wasn't the case yesterday. I was exhausted.

All night, I'd lain in my bed, not sleeping, turning onto one side or the other, hoping that side would be the magic bullet that would help me turn my head off and go to sleep. It wouldn't, so I'd lie there trying to calm my breathing, then turn onto my other side. The anxiety was there the whole time - thoughts running through my brain. Fears. I'm going to move, and I'll lose all my money and be broke. How will I afford it? All my neighbours will watch my every move. I'll have no privacy in this small town. There are houses all around me. I won't be able to walk outside and just sit and look up at the stars. Or go outside wearing my bathrobe. Or or or...

And so on. Over and over, a cycle without end.

I'd been planning to move. I had an apartment lined up, accounts with the power and phone companies started, friends agreeing on a date to lend trucks and hands to move my furniture. It felt a bit sudden, but not, at the same time. This was an apartment I'd had my eye on for a year or so. The person living in it was having a house built, and these things take a while. The landlord got in touch a few weeks ago to tell me the tenant was moving out soon. I mulled it, I added and subtracted numbers on paper. I figured - I can do it. It'll be a bit tight, but I can do it. I've been wanting to move, so dammit, I will!

The emotions started coming right away. Guilt at leaving my family when we were all kind of getting used to living with each other, sadness at leaving my comfortable home - and my cats! Good lord, I was goig to miss my cats. The apartment wouldn't allow pets and anyway it wouldn't be fair to take a country, outdoor kitty and move her into town. When I wouldn't be home all day. Also, there was excitement - my own place! my own space! a bathtub! and nervousness.

And as it was when I was in university, the anxiety manifested at night. I'd lie down to go to sleep and couldn't. And of course, lying there, thinking: I can't sleep and ohmigod I'm going to be so tired tomorrow, I'll be tired at work, I'll lose my job - it feeds itself. It's hard to make it stop. Make the thoughts lie down, be peaceful.

I took some melatonin. It worked some nights. But I'd feel groggy the next day. And other nights it didn't work, and then I'd lie there terrified. I have no defense against this. Even the pills didn't work. I have to just lie here and take it.

Night before last was the worst. My world felt shrunken down, scary. I felt like I was losing it - tired and out of it. What if I lose my job because I'm too tired? What if I lose myself, again? There is nothing the doctors can really do besides prescribe medication. Not being able to sleep is not something they can operate on. It's entirely internal.

Finally the moment came when I admitted it to myself. This is too much. I'm so not willing to put myself through this. I value myself and my sanity more than showing other people I'm so-called "independent". I value my job too much to sabotage my health.

So, when the morning came, I made some phone calls. I admitted my anxiousness, made myself vulnerable. To my family, with whom I usually set strict boundaries so I don't feel so much like a kid, I admitted I was scared. They said they loved me and they would support me no matter what I did. "Welcome home," they said, though I hadn't packed a single box yet.

I made food that was exactly what I wanted to eat - a toasted cheese and cucumber sandwich. Later, a frozen chicken pot pie, baked and warm, with beet pickles. I took a long walk along a dirt road with freshly fallen snow, hands in my pockets. (I remember reading somewhere, some time ago, that if you walk with your hands in your pockets, it is because you are in a thoughtful mood.) I played card games with my brother, who was also home sick from work. We watched The Office, some of season three. I talked to some girlfriends, who told me, "This is a GOOD thing. You're listening to yourself. Respecting yourself."

Last night, I slept well. I sunk into sleep like a rock into water. And just two days later - two days that feel like they held a whole week - I'm back at work. Taking it one day, one breath at a time. Working on trusting life, trusting that it holds all kinds of good things, and that they'll come along as I'm ready for them.

go! stop, go, stop, go, stop, GO

OK, so here we are. The first picture I took with my camera after getting it back last week. It's a phenomenal shot of... the battery charger. And lo! the camera still works!

Orchids in bloom in our living room. Mum does virtually nothing to encourage their growth. None of this hothouse pampering BS. She waters them and that's it. And they grow, and bloom, every year. Just goes to show you. Not sure what it shows you, but it shows you something.

Oh, yeah... ice, ice BABY. Sometimes I even listen to this, on my way to work. (My car only has a tape player. I got this "vintage" cassette tape at Value Village for one dollar. It's almost worth that much.) (Actually, the amount of laughs Mat and I have gotten from it driving to work in the mornings is priceless. As is Mr. Ice's haircut and clothing.)

Blue sky. Oh my my.

Plus there's something about power lines I really like.

Lupins. These flowers bloom this time of year, and the banks and ditches of the roads bristle with their purple plump sweetness. Have you ever heard of the kids' book "The Lupin Lady"? If not, you should look for it.

Good Lord, I love my job. I think this all the time, as I'm running from place to place in the marina. I love my job, wow do I ever love my job. (This above is the view from the bench where I take my breaks. That is my car parked with those two boats.) (And the yellow house behind is a Bed and Breakfast run by a really sweet lady.)

This is looking the other way from the break area.

I love my job, I love my job.

And this is taken from out on the docks, looking back towards the building. That red building is where I spend most of my time these days!

I was looking up a phone number the other day (to figure out what time Buffy Ste-Marie is playing this weekend) and I just love that there is a Bingo hotline. Seriously! I kind of want to call it, just to see what happens.

I tried making coconut sorbet, from a recipe I got from Haya. (Her blog is in my link list to the right. I'm too lazy to make a link here.) This is the coconut milk waiting to be added to the sugar/water syrup. Then you end up freezing it. It was good - so rich and sweet!


My feet and my Mum's feet.

The pool that saved my sanity in the winter.

I kind of want to make a pun, something like "Don't go off the deep end, come jump off our deep end!"

Eh?


In Cape Breton, when there are three signs saying there's a bump ahead, you better slow the heck down or else you might lose your muffler or your oilpan!

And this is where my camera stopped working, again. (A friend's place down in Tarbot. Isn't this kind of the most idyllic summertime photo? A hammock, a tidy garden beyond, and sunlight on meadow grass.)

So yeah - the camera is having a hissy fit. The battery door, newly replaced, works fine. But now when I turn the camera on, it doesn't actually turn on. The lens moves outward but nothing shows on the screen. I press the button again to close it but it doesn't close, it just moves inward all of 1/16th of an inch. Each time I press the on/off button it moves either in or out, depending on its own whim. Well, that's what I'm going with, that or it might be possessed by the devil, because I can't figure out what's causing it to behave this way!

And so I'm now in the position of trying to decide if I want to bother getting it figured out and fixed, or if I want to buy a new camera, or if I just want to sit and wait for a little bit longer.

Good thing I have things like a great book ("The Time Traveller's Wife," OMG), great music (acquired recently: new albums by Sade, Gorillaz, Royal Wood, Imogen Heap, David Gray), and lots of work and extracurriculars to keep me distracted from camera frustrations. And I'm even writing creatively on a regular basis! The trick: form a small group with other people who similarly need to be forced to write, then give yourselves creative prompts and deadlines. Mercilessly tease anyone who doesn't make the deadline. Make time in your schedule to prepare and to write. (And in making that time, I realized that it's unbelievable how important some things can seem, and how unimportant they really are, in the end. Just - little errands and things I felt I really HAD to be doing, but then you don't do them, and - the world doesn't end. Fancy that!)

Anyway. Enough of my blathering for now. Hurray that I could take pictures for four days! And share them here! Poo on camera busting again! But that's OK because life's busy enough as it is. And not having a camera is honing other sides to my eyes. To the way I experience a moment. To the way I think - Hey, I'm actually here, right now. This moment. Won't ever be again. I think I'll pay attention.

this time I'm the time thief

It's Wednesday evening. I'm stealing a moment to post. That's how it feels these days to take time to do something like write a blog post or an email to a friend: stealing time.

I've got my money binder open on my desk/lap (my desk is rather small, one that someone gave me and I'm making do with), and piles of things all around me that don't feel like they're getting my full attention. Because, well, they're not. And I'm thinking, "I don't have time to write a well-thought out post! All I can really do is ramble for a few minutes and post it the night before!"

But, that just is what it is. "Just enough is plenty," right? I hope so.

I know that things are busy because I planned it that way - my schedule is filled with things that I put there. Which is good to remember sometimes. But I think that even if all I did was work one job, there would always be other things. There would be meals to make, family to be with, neighbours passing away (as one did this week). Food to grow or buy. And so on, and so on.

I've been thinking about multitasking. And the environment. And how we get so busy in our jobs and lives, and then have a consciousness moment where it's like, OH YEAH, holy crap, there is some serious shit going down in the world. And the two realities are side by side, just barely touching, but somehow not the same.

And that's where a lot of the anxiety comes from - from half the time feeling like the world is or could be seriously ending - or at least, you know, the world as I know it, as is hospitable to humans and to my culture - and the other half the time going about my business as if nothing has changed. I still drive a car. I still get stuff shipped to me from around the world. We're still going about our business as if nothing is wrong with the way we're doing things.

Yet some things are changing. And then - are they? It's hard to know - the world is a big place. There are a lot of people doing positive things out there, and there are also a lot of people NOT doing positive things. It really depends on what mood I'm in or on how much sleep I've had, how hopeful I feel.

Anyway. That's where my head's at right now. There and about sixty-two other places! Including but not limited to: all the day-to-day decision-making of work (which I usually forget about ten minutes later and have a hard time remembering - just what DID I do all day?), sailing lessons starting tomorrow, my writers' groups, yoga classes, et cetera. But - my family is now watching a movie and my "office" - the tiny desk and a few other desks and some makeshift shelves - is right behind the couch, and I get terribly distracted by movies playing right next to me. So I'll end it there for now.

Are you busy, like so busy you steal time? Or are you comfortably paced, and wondering what the fuss is all about?

PS STILL NO CAMERA! And that makes me a little bit pissed off. I called them today and asked them what the EFF was up. Well, I said it a lot nicer than that. Apparently the part is in, it's on the camera, I've been billed for it. It was supposed to get on the courier either Friday or Monday, and arrive Tuesday. Nada! So when I called they didn't know whether or not it had gotten on the courier. The girl who would know wasn't back from break, or something. They would call me back. And they didn't call me back.

Mind you, I know what that's like - at work, we're constantly getting calls. And most people have requests that they feel are super important, meanwhile, there are a bunch of things actually more important and ahead of them for attention. So, I'm pretty sympathetic. But still - I guess I was expecting a lot from a small, locally-owned business. And turns out - they're human too. Whaddaya know?

vive montreal!

Mat and I headed into downtown Montreal yesterday. We wanted to walk around, see and hear people, take pictures, and visit a few shops. We walked up and down Rue St. Catherine, which is known for its sex shops and exotic dancers - along with many other shops and bars and restaurants.

(And no, we didn't go in to this establishment. Maybe next time.)


This plaque and poem were at a memorial for all the people in Quebec who died from AIDS - or SIDA as it is known in French. Mat and I both read it, in silence. Then I turned to him and said - "I love you."


Later on, the sun had set. The sidewalks were getting slippery. We were wandering back towards the Mont-Royal Metro station, to have a cafe au lait and then take the train back to les banlieues. (The suburbs.) We were taking side streets and back streets, and admiring the European-cool look of the terrace houses, their metal spiral staircases and bicycles. This one had a balcony with colored lights, and I liked the look of it. That's Mat in the bottom right corner, with a red light above him.

Well. Montreal has been a real trip. I have - get this - 700+ pictures from our week here. That's an average of one hundred photos a day. Food, people, cats, scenes, sights. Some blurry, some not so bad. I'll share some more in the coming days and week(s). Like: our trip to Schwartz's, a famous Jewish delicatessen (or charcuterie Hebraique) on Boul. St. Laurent. Or: the sushi I ate. Or: the trip to Mont Tremblant, or the graffiti I saw in the city. (I have a thing for pretty colors and public graphic design. Hence, graffiti.)

Only three more days of 2009. I'm thinking about where the year has gone, and what interesting and spectacular things happened during it. On the train ride home, I think I'll look back over the pictures of this year, over the events. I'm excited for 2010, though. Bring it!

merry merry merry christmas

Merry Christmas! Here it is, December 25th. Comes around once a year - and we go to excess. Excessive joy, excessive spirits. And, it's all good.

The kids in the house showed restraint - and didn't get up until 8:30. Well, they were up at six but one of the parents made them go back to sleep - or at least let us all sleep. Then they were up and the whole house woke up. I lay on the big leather couch in the basement, listening to the voices upstairs, in the next room, around.

We all put on comfortable lounging clothes and made our way to the living room. Presents to be opened - a chaotic half hour of kids opening presents, bringing presents around to everyone, people hugging, calling across the din to each other - "Thank you for this! I love it!" People going around bunching up the wrapping paper that had in the days before been so carefully cut and taped, crushing it into bunches and putting them in a bag. And just like that - the pile of potential presents that last night had lain like jewels under the tree - were unwrapped, piled around us. Become real. Along with stray ribbons, and chocolates.

Soon after the kids descended in a troupe to the basement to play more XBox. The rest of us sat there, nibbling on les chocolatines and admiring our various gifts. Telling each other the stories of where we found them, how we got them. "There is this store in Peterborough... there is this artist in Winnipeg... when I was in Dubai..."

Now - we are preparing for tonight's dinner. More family coming for that. Dishes to be done, wiped, put away. The tablecloth to be brushed off. Food already cooked in advance to be warmed up, presented. The kids, the little cousins, will jump on our laps and hug us and then run off to another room to stare at a big screen and manipulate plastic controllers that let them be soldiers, or motorcycle drivers.

Merry Christmas to you, and yours. May you have a full and delightful holiday - or a restful one. May it be what you want it to be, and may it be what you didn't imagine. Let it be.

on est en train d'avoir du fun

I brought Christmas lights with us, and strung them up on the train. This way people seeing the train go by would see them.


We stopped in Moncton and I got out and walked along the platform, snapping shots. This is the very last car of the train.

Dining car: the next morning. Snowy Quebec passing by outside.


St. Viateur Bagel shop. I had read about it before going to Montreal, then when my uncle picked us up, we went straight there. A dozen sesame bagels, please. Wood-fired. Yum.


Nuts to this! Once we landed, I had an errand to go run. My uncle's fiancee, whose heritage is Egyptian, took me out to the mall. On the way there we stopped at "Noix Said", a shop that sells - you guessed it!- nuts. And a lot of other stuff. I bought 5 dollars worth of fresh pecans. Delicious.


At last night's dinner, we ate boeuf bourgignon, and the dining table was lit by votive candles in beautiful glass containers. French and English flew around the table in equal measures. My uncle and his fiancee call each other, "Habibi." So there's a little bit of Arabic, too.

We're running off to downtown to have smoked meat sandwiches. Tonight - most of the family gathers for a big dinner. Tomorrow - presents! And soon - more posts! I'm taking so many pictures, and I want to share them ALL.

election hoo-ha

There is a Provincial Election going on here in Nova Scotia. The Election Day is next week, June 9th, but I'll be away, so I've already voted. And - it wasn't for this guy.

Rodney MacDonald, the current Premier, is from Cape Breton Island, but that's about the only thing that recommends him to me. Some people I know say that they know him personally, and that he's a nice guy, and that may be true. However, I have nothing nice to say about his political party or his political record, so I'll say nothing at all.

(That doesn't stop me from talking back to him when I hear him on the radio, and mimicking his voice and being mean.)

Today is a nice, hot, sunny day. I'm taking care of some loose ends - emails and such. My brother Mat is home from school now, which is great. There is a specific kind of silliness that exists between siblings, and it blooms quickly when we're around each other again. 22 years of in-jokes! Yes, we had in-jokes when Mat was just born. We're awesome like that.

Also: he put on John Mayer's album "Continuum" about two hours ago and stuck it on "repeat," and I'm too caught up in my emails and phone calls to change the record. It's my first time hearing it, and it's nice enough that I don't mind leaving it on in the background. But it's getting to the point now where I think this is the fourth time it's on, and my eyes are getting fuzzy. This means: time to get off the computer!

Change the record politically: if you live in Nova Scotia, make sure to VOTE.

This weekend and into next week: a trip down the Province to see dear friends! I'm PUMPED.

BEYOND PUMPED.

two-five

So, it's my birthday! Happy twenty-fifth birthday to me. I can't really believe that I'm actually twenty-five years old. It feels like I was six just yesterday. Twenty-five feels certainly adult, definitely grown-up. And I do feel that I'm at that stage in my life, I do feel grown-up sometimes. But other times - it feels like, "No, wait, other people are this old. Not me!"

Birthdays are special in my family, we always celebrate them in some way, whether it's a dinner out or a cake with ice cream, or a nice outing. I was talking to my brother this morning and he said,

"I'm sorry I don't have a present for you!"

"That's OK," I said, "The older I get, the less I --"

"Care?" He cut in. We do this often, try and finish each others' sentences. As often as not, though, we get it wrong, as he did here.

"No, I was going to say expect. The older I get the less I expect presents. But I still care! I like birthdays, I like celebrating them."

"Yeah, it's nice just to do something different for a birthday."

"Something you can remember later in the year, as having made the day special."

This year, I have a number of things on the agenda, and we'll see what actually ends up happening. I don't want to stress and rush just so I can have "done a special thing". However, the one thing I know for sure I want to do is attend my friend (and fellow member of the writers' group) Bill's book launch. He's launching his first novel, "The Rock in the Water," tonight at the Baddeck Library, and it looks to be a good time.

Oh and by the way, I'm cheating a little - these are photos from last year's birthday.

Today...

...is my Grandmaman's birthday.

...is cool (five degrees Celsius) and windy, but the sun is out, and the sky is blue. The cool air slakes my skin's thirst for spring.

...is going well so far. I've worked from home for my (relatively-new) job, and I've made food for myself for tomorrow's work at my actual workplace.

...I did a bit more work on my blog-printing project, which is going along slowly but surely. (This is the project where I'm re-formatting all six years of this blog so far, in order to print them and bind them into books to keep. I'm rather scared of computers dying and deleting material. I so much prefer having things in hard copy.) Back in the day, by which I mean 2004, I used to write once a week at least, and sometimes every three or four days. Re-reading that work makes me want to write on here more often. I'm aiming for once a week these days.

...I am well-rested after having had enough sleep. This is not unusual, by which I mean it IS usual. Thank goodness. But then, nothing on this list is truly unusual, is it?

...I'm watching juncos peck the ground, hopping around among orange pine needles. The pine tree above them sways in the restless wind.

What are you, today?

seedlings in may

The seeds are teaching me something about myself.

You wouldn't think so; they're only tiny seeds, after all. But there you go: the seeds are teaching me that deep down, I like things quick, I like things NOW, I like to set the pace. And boy, is that not possible with these little guys!

Last summer, I saved the seeds of two different types of cherry tomato, Tumbler and Cherry Grande. (How that is done is a topic for another post, perhaps this coming fall.) I saved them in two small, black film containers and waited for spring. Then when spring came, I planted them into eight pots, four for each kind. I mixed dirt with manure, and loaded each pot up with nutritious, delicious soil. I set them in the oven to germinate, as tomatoes need darkness to germinate, and our propane stove's pilot light provided just the right amount of heat. And germinate they did! After several days, during which I (of course) checked them every few hours, up came little green leaves.

Excited, I set the pots onto a tray and sat them by the sunny windows, rotating them every so often when they would start leaning too much towards the sun. And in a week's time, they put on about an inch or an inch-and-a-half worth of growth! It was fun to watch them coming along, the speedy little dudes. (Or dudettes.)

But now... they've slowed down. They're taking their sweet time, and only putting on a millimeter or so a day. (Not that I'm measuring...) And this is how the seeds, now seedlings, are teaching me about myself. I've realized that I see tiny seedlings and I start thinking ahead, all sorts of grand thoughts about how they're going to grow into big, bushy tomato plants, dripping with little red globes. I see the first rapid growth spurt and I think, "Wow, this will only take a month until I'm eating cherry tomatoes on my salads!" (And I'm only exaggerating my thought-process slightly.)

But, no. Life works differently. Nature works differently. And for sure, tomato seedlings work differently. They work at their own pace. This is only May, they keep reminding me. Relax. Sit back. Have some tea, and watch the rain falling on the sodden garden. We will make cherry tomatoes, but it's going to take a bit of time.

I do still check them often, rotating them on sunny days. But now I look at that checking time as an opportunity to just appreciate the little spunky seedlings, instead of bemoan what they aren't, just yet.

***

In other news, my brother Mat is home now from college, and he is working at his co-op job. So now my "office" is back to its previous function, which is his bedroom, so I'm not online as much, now that I have to dig under piles of clothes to even find the computer. (I'm mostly kidding. Mostly.)

I'm also not online as much for a few other reasons: one being that since Mat is home, I hang out with him more, and when I'm not hanging out with him, I tend to be doing my own thing, but not wanting to be on the Internet. Another reason is that the weather is nice now, or at least, it's not sleeting or snowing, so there is outdoors stuff to be done. And by outdoors stuff, I mean the gardening, but I also mean the very necessary "task" of sitting on the deck with my big sun-hat on, reading or listening to my portable radio. Ah, it's rough, this life.

One more thing: I recently finished two really good books, pretty much one after the other. The first one is "The 100-Mile Diet", a book which has gotten a lot of press over the last year, but which I hadn't yet read. So I requested it from the library, opened it to the first page, and didn't leave until the last page, give or take a few trips to the bathroom, and sleeping. It's a fantastic book, but rather than get into an in-depth review, I'll just say, you should check it out.

The other book really, really worth checking out is "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert. It was also published in the last year, and has gotten a lot of press. Different people have recommended it to me, but it wasn't until I heard the author speaking with Shelagh Rogers on Sounds Like Canada that I thought, OK, I really need to read this book. So I went on the library website and looked it up. The regular-print version had a waiting list 40 people long. The large-print version had 3. Guess which waiting list I put myself on? So that's how I came to be reading "Eat, Pray, Love" in 16. pt lettering, which is a little hard on the eyes after a while, but not so bad if you hold the book far away from you.

Anyway, I inhaled the book. I started it Friday night and finished Sunday morning. I laughed, and though I didn't cry, I did take in an awful lot of an amazing journey to the center of the self, to God, to the bliss that is possible. I found I had a lot in common with Ms. Gilbert, and I also found she had a lot to teach me. So now the book is on my "Gotta-Buy" list, which I'm compiling until it goes over $40, at which point I can get free shipping at the Chapters-Indigo website.

So that's our news of late: it's been raining a lot, the garden and lawn are greening up, Mat is home now, and we're here, breathing and reading, loving one another, and eating as much delicious, local food as possible.

How about you? What are your thoughts? What green things are you watching? Have you read either of these two fabulous books? Do tell.

Isabel Noble 1923—2008

A few years ago I asked my readers to list their five favorite things, with an emphasis on these being simple things, the kinds of things that are so small as to be almost overlooked.

My grandmother, Isabel, wrote these:

1. The smell of Coffee in the morning.
2. A piece of toast with blackberry jam to go with the coffee.
3. Your dear husband of 59 years sitting across the breakfast table [my grandpa].
4. Looking out the window at the spring blooms or the fall colors or a newly fresh snow.
5. Being fortunate to have lived 82 years and to have enjoyed so many pleasures.

My Granny loved the simple things in life, the little things, and this list came as no surprise to me at the time. After all, these were things about which she often wrote to me, and I to her. We would both exclaim about how wonderful the smell of Autumn was, and how the snow looked so pretty, and how uplifting it was to see the signs of spring, at last. But now, looking at her list of five things, it is like talking with her again. It is a comfort to think of her drinking coffee, eating toast with blackberry jam, sitting with my Grandpa in their New Jersey apartment. And these five simple things again take on new meaning as they are now a fragment of my Granny, now that she's gone.


*


My Granny passed away last week, last Saturday, after spending a month in and out of hospital fighting respiratory failure. She had smoked during her whole life, pretty much, and even though she quit in her 80's, the smoke caught up with her. The last few years found her never far from her oxygen machine or her nebulizer, and she was finding it hard to breathe and needing to sleep more and more. But even though things were rough, Granny always seemed to see the positive, urging her grandchildren to live "one day at a time", and finding joy in visits with loved ones, as well as watching old musicals from her youth, keeping up with entertainment news, doing the crossword on Sundays, and of course writing emails.

I must admit that writing this is quite odd. It has been a week since she was alive, and to me, her death hasn't really become reality yet. To write about someone in past tense when your brain still believes them to be as alive as they were a month ago, well, it's an odd sensation. I feel like I could still send her an email and she would receive it, and write back with her gracious, yet peppy style.

It's like my aunt said: "We're all feeling a real void in our lives now."


*


My Granny, to those of you who have read this blog over the years, was a familiar name in the comments box. She was computer savvy and loved reading my blog, and writing comments. Although she took umbrage with some of the swear words we "young people" use, she still kept reading, and encouraging me to write. When I came home last year to take some time off, she called me up one day, and said,

"Now that you have all this time, you should start writing a novel!" Although I knew that writing a novel was one of the last things I needed to do right then, I smiled and said, "Yes, maybe, Granny!" And no doubt I tempered it by saying, "Well, if I do write a novel one day, I'm definitely going to dedicate it to you!" This was an exchange we had more than once over the years.

The next day she called back. "You know, I was thinking, and I don't want you to feel pressured to write a novel, just because I said to."

"Oh, well, thanks, Granny... I didn't really feel pressure, but... thanks for thinking about me!"

"Well, I just thought, you're home to rest, you should do whatever makes you happy, you know? No pressure."

Both Granny and Grandpa have been such wonderful patrons of mine over the years, telling me with grandparental pride how much my writing impressed them, and how certain they were that I will one day be a published author. And who knows? Perhaps one day I will be. When I am, I know to whom I'll be dedicating my first book!

"To Isabel Noble, who always said I should write this novel."

*

Granny, I'm going to miss you so much. Huminbean won't be the same without you—thank you for being part of it.

the parameters of "perfect"

The Christmas hustle and bustle has begun. People are arriving home on break, trees are being sold, lights are going up. Mat is home, so now on the bed beside me, rather than my papers and an old printer, there are piles of his clothes. (I use his usually-vacant bedroom as my study.) In some ways, things are "perfect": there is lots of snow, the cats are cuddly, we have good music to listen to and good food to eat. But nothing is really perfect, so there have been familial conflicts, arguments and the odd snarl, just to make things interesting.

The other day I was sitting in the living room, knitting away, listening to CBC Radio. It was a program of classical music, about three hours long, one of the ones where the announcer sometimes rambles on about things unrelated to music. This particular time he started talking about Christmas, and how much we want things to be perfect.

"We want everything to be perfect at this time of year," he said. "But it never is, there are usually fights between family members, and someone drinks one too many liqueurs, with the inevitable result, and there's some disaster in the kitchen." He went on to introduce a piece of music by Mendelssohn, which a violinist had insisted was the "perfect" piece of music, and as it played, I thought about what he had said.

He's right -- whether because of pressures within society or within our own families or just within our own selves, holidays of every kind, but especially Christmas, are subject to enormous pressure to be "perfect". But we're never really sure what that means, what the parameters of perfect are. Does it mean all the children will be well-behaved, all the presents will be well-received, and the snow will fall just enough to be pretty but not enough to impair driving? If those are our wishes, frankly, we'd all better get over that idea, because it ain't gonna happen.

I know that simple awareness is not going to erase my desire for a perfect Christmas, but it does help, knowing that it's not possible to reach perfection. That way, the next time my family has an argument, (and like every family out there, it's not if but when), even though I'll be annoyed, I'll remember that this is the reality of Christmas. And even though the snow is fluffy in the fantasy, and the children are quiet and cute, and nobody drinks too much and says embarrassing things, that fantasy isn't real. I'll take the real thing -- dirty pajamas, dusty ornaments, arguments and all. After all, it's the only option I have. And despite how it might look, it's actually much better.

herons and seals and geese, oh my!

the heron

A few nights ago, Mum and I were driving home from North Sydney. Rain had started around Boularderie, and came in heavy fits, sometimes drenching the roadside, sometimes scarce. We were coming up to the turnoff for our road, which is by the swampy head of a bay, when Mum squinted ahead through the rain. "What is that?" She said, and I looked, but couldn't see anything.

Then we got a little closer, and Mum slowed down and pulled over. There in the middle of the road was a blue heron, a tall, graceful bird, here standing in the middle of the road, reeling from one lane to the other like a drunk, and sometimes crouching with its wings stretched out, like it was trying to protect non-existent babies. The rain was falling so hard that it bounced off the bird's wings, and the pavement around it. We looked at it, puzzled. Was it OK? What do we do?

Then we saw the lights of another car coming in the opposite direction, and I thought: "Oh no, it's going to be hit!" Well, I didn't think that exactly, but I felt that gut-wrench that you get in such situations. But the car slowed and then stopped, pulled over. The heron was slow to respond, moving in a pantomime of a drunk, only feet away from the car. The rain was falling even harder and Mum and I looked at the other car, from which a person was emerging. Mum put on my rain jacket and went over to see what was going on. The other driver, by luck an ex-vet technician, had collected the scared blue heron into her arms, tucking its long beak under her own head, and was going to take it to the vet clinic, to see if it had been already hit,and what could be done for it. The drunk taken care of by her friends. We drove home, a little more thankful.



the seals

Yesterday, we went out on Monty's boat. It's late November, so this means flurries in the forecast and often, in the air. As we drove into town to meet him at the dock, it looked like we were in a snow globe: the chilly air filled with a literal flurry of snowflakes. Then it passed and the sun was again shining on the lake. As we motored out in Monty's converted lobster-fishing boat onto the Bras d'Or lake, we could see hazy clouds on the horizon, which made the low hills a soft white underneath. Snow clouds. We kept close to the shoreline, checking out summer houses in winter, noticing where the last storm had knocked over trees. Every now and again we'd pass through a snow cloud, and all around us snow would be falling silently into the dark lake.

We puttered quietly along, and then -- "Seals!?" Mum pointed. We looked through the windows of the cabin to a clot of sleek black bodies by the edge of the bay, 200 m away. Monty slowed the boat and took out the binoculars, and we all looked. Seals! Monty put the boat in neutral, and we went out to the back of the boat, and watched as the clot broke up, and some of the seals swam a few feet away, ducking under, then coming up again, looking at us. Two of them were brave and went back to the shallow spot to wallow together, showing us their plump, blubbery bodies. A small flurry started to fall, so the horizon disappeared. Then it was just us on the boat, on the quiet, dark water, watching the small dog-like heads above the water, which were coming in and out of view. We stood on the back of the boat, looking out at them, our breath in white puffs in front of us, a moment just waiting for illustration for a Christmas card. And I mean that in the best way.



the geese

I took my usual power walk today, pounding the dirt road in frustration, channeling the kind of anger that rises up in me every 28 days or so. Some months are worse than others, and this month is like that. I just need to be alone because any interaction seems to beg for a cranky comment, and I know that's not really appreciated. So off I went with my water bottles, wearing my sneakers, my exercise clothes, and my open-tipped bike gloves (it's getting that cold!). I steamed up the hills and then on the way back down, a vicious, biting wind came up and I kept steaming into it, stamping each footstep to a word in "I - will - NOT - give - up! I - will - NOT - give - up!" Finally the wind died down. I was near home, and I slowed a bit. Suddenly an awkward honking got my attention. I looked up, all around, but couldn't see where it was coming from. Then I saw them, a ragged V of geese, and quickly counted in threes: 18, 21, 24, 27! Twenty-seven geese, honking and flapping and moving quickly southward. I stood still, looking up, then realized a vehicle was coming.

It was a golf cart. A neighbor on the hill has a fairly large compound, not big enough for a golf cart, but large nonetheless. I've never met this man, but I do admire his two yearlings who graze in a paddock by the house. And his daughter lives up the hill, so he goes to visit her in his golf cart. Here he was, coming back down, catching me standing still, staring up at the sky. He slowed and I thought he might stop. We waved to each other, and I said, "Geese!" He wasn't stopping, I realized a second later. He gave me a puzzled look, and said, "Geese?" "I saw geese!" I said, pointing upwards, and then he was past me and gone. I laughed to myself, thinking of him wondering about my motivation to tell him this nugget of information.

Whether it was the exercise, the geese, or making a foolish impression on my neighbor, I wasn't as angry going home as when I left.


~

power down, part III

Tuesday morning we woke up with no power. Third day in a row.

By now it was starting to get irritating, and restrictive. The house was largely quiet -- no radio programming, no CDs, no movies. I have realized as a result of this temporary deprivation how much I love to listen to music, and need it, really. Also, the house was chilly except when the sun shone, as Mum didn't want to use the wood stove in case it heated up the freezers.

The house was quiet, the computer didn't work, and doing what used to be simple and easy tasks like flushing the toilet, washing dishes or doing much of anything after dark now came with associated work: hauling buckets of water upstairs, maneuvering around the buckets while in the bathroom, heating water, etc. My initial feeling on Sunday of "This power outage is kind of good in a sense, because it shows us all how vulnerable we are when we lose our electricity," had given way, or worn away, really, to a sense of frustration. Also, I had the sense of being a lot more reliant than usual on sunlight. Until this power outage, I hadn't realized how great a sunlit house really is, until I couldn't cheer up a cloudy day just by flicking a switch.

But at least Tuesday was sunny. I went for my power-walk, which made me feel somewhat normal, and when I got back there was that telltale rough hum coming from behind the house, and Monty's truck in the driveway. The power was still off, but the generator was going full tilt. Monty reported that the crew from New England was working hard, but it looked like it would be late tonight before the power was restored. Mum, tired, translated: "So that means tomorrow, at noon." The original worst-case scenario had come true, day by day: 72 hours without power. Of course, by now there was no longer any trace of the storm, and the sun was shining bright among the leafless trees, but the effects of Post-Tropical Storm Noel lingered on, becoming normal as we did our best to carry on with our lives despite the lack of electricity.

Lunch was, again, potatoes with onions, and again, delicious. I had sliced a few ripe tomatoes and seasoned them liberally with salt and pepper, and had some sharp cheddar on the side. The balsamic vinaigrette on the potatoes gave it all a light kick. I was going to do the dishes after, but decided that I'd rather spend what few hours of sunlight remained, outside, knitting on the deck. After I'd had enough of that, I came inside and started writing out what would become these blog posts, by hand on scrap paper, with the steady, one-note hum of the generator behind me. The rest of the house was quiet. Every now and again a crow would fly silently by the window. I wrote as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, and until it set behind the mountain around 5.

This power outage has certainly got me thinking. We rely on electricity for so many things, and as a result of it, have lost touch, somewhat, with the world outside our houses. This is the kind of phrase you often hear, condemning modern society, but in this case it's my first-hand experience. Not only that, but I've realized that it doesn't really matter whether you consider yourself an environmentalist or not -- having electric lights that you can turn on at night, and that you become used to, will by virtue of their existence cause you to pay less attention to when the sun sets. Similarly, if you have electric heat, you'll get used to that, and won't pay as much attention to wearing wool socks and sweaters, or to designing houses to face the south so the windows capture solar heat.

This unplanned experiment in "off the grid" living, now wearing on into the third day, was certainly showing us the wide use of and dependence on electric power in this community, and the simple power of habit keeping it that way.

(Of course, if you were truly living "off the grid", you would have chosen to do so, and not only that, but you would likely have alternative power sources in place -- small-scale solar, wind or hydro power for necessary appliances. And there'd be plenty of other aspects of your life running on human or animal power, like food production, bringing wood in, transportation, etc.)

For the rest of the evening I puttered quietly: I did the dishes by lamp again, which was, to be fair, very cozy. I played Solitaire and read. Around 7 I heard the fridge trying to start, as the power flickered, then turned off again, flickered, then went off. I realized that when we could turn on the electric lights, I would really miss the coziness of the kerosene lamp! Then, at 7:30, the fridge sputtered to life. "Hurrah!" Mum exclaimed. I flicked a light switch, experimentally. On came the light! Miracle! Mum was excited: "I can warm up a bean bag in the microwave again! I can turn the heaters on!" Having electricity again was luxury. Having become used to not having it, it felt like too much, suddenly. We could flush the toilet, and turn on the hot water tap, and heat the rooms! All using electric current. Amazing! I found, as well, that having electric lights on at night, lighting the whole house if we wanted to, felt a bit garish.

We decided to play one more game of cribbage, to carry on the tradition. I insisted on using the kerosene lamp.

***

It's now been a little over a week since the power came back on. The shock of having power again has worn off, as of course it would, since we've lived much longer with electricity than without it. But writing these blog posts about our 72 hours powerless allows me to remember it in detail, and be that much more thankful for the computer I'm writing on, the music I'm listening to, and the electric light bulb I'm writing by.

There are also the "It Could Be Worse" questions, like: "What if it had been the middle of winter?" Or, "What if there had been no fossil fuels, either, so we couldn't run generators or cars?" These are the kinds of questions I think a lot more people need to be talking about, because there is a very good chance that our worldwide, abundant energy resources will stop peaking and start running out, in this century to be sure. And maybe experiencing power outages for 72 hours would get people thinking?

How about a lighter question -- in the event of a power outage, and assuming you're relatively comfortable like we were, what would you do to pass the time?

power down, part II

Monday morning we woke up with no power.

The sun was shining, the air was frosty, and in the distance we could hear the low hum of our neighbors using generators. We had porridge like we do each morning, but no radio in the background, and washing the dishes was a bit more time-consuming: heating water, or at least waiting for the gravity-fed trickle from the tap -- cold water, of course -- to fill each bowl so we could scrub it. Then we both did our best to make ourselves presentable with washcloths and combs and deodorant, and headed into the village for appointments and errands.

However, all was not well: Mum was starting to worry about our freezers. We rely on two deep-freezes to keep summer garden produce, meats, berries, sauces and soups frozen until we need them. They can sit unopened for 24 hours and stay frozen, but the top layer of each freezer was starting to thaw, so Mum took Monty up on his offer to bring his generator over and give some "juice" to the freezers. When we got back from town there was a rumbling hum coming from the other side of the house, and the freezers under their insulating blankets were working again. Hurrah! A generator, as you probably know, works on fuel, and converts that to electricity, and so it sounds like a souped-up lawnmower.

Monty gave us the news that apparently, the problem had been located on the power grid, and it happened to be right behind his house, in the woods. However, it was a complicated problem involving a new pole and some special wires not readily available, and there were no local crews available either! So it would take some more time before linemen from New England arrived and it could be fixed. The power company people were saying "power will be restored maybe late tonight," but we weren't holding our breath.

It began to cloud over again around one. While we prepared a lunch of onions fried with the leftover mashed potatoes, and cold cuts of chicken on the side, Mum cleaned out the fridge and moved most of the items to the covered porch, where it's colder, especially at night. We were starting to get testy: Mum griped, "I didn't ask for this job!" I stayed silent, knowing that for me to be snarky just now was to get on both of our nerves, which we didn't need. Lunch, however, was delicious. "As long as there's the smell of frying onions," Mum said, "it feels like a home."

Later I called the library to renew some books, as the phone lines still worked. The librarian lives near us and she was dismayed to hear that the power down our way was still off. "Oh ... that upsets me very much," she said in her trademark soft, quiet voice that never sounds upset at all, and didn't now. "I'm sorry!" I said, "Please don't shoot the messenger!" "I won't," she said, laughing. But her household, like many others, has an electric stove, so they couldn't cook food or heat water at all, making the power outage that much more uncomfortable to endure.

An hour or so before darkness fell, we went over to Monty's to take him up on another offer -- hot showers. Using his generator, he got his water heater going, and even though I had only been two days without a shower, it felt remarkably good to under the nice hot water. I went, then Mum did, and while she showered, I blow-dried my hair at the kitchen table, by the light of a bare bulb on a lamp that Monty had rigged up for me. It reminded me a bit of the days when I was a small child, when my parents were together and we lived in the cabin in the woods. During the winter, after a bath, my brother and I would wrap our towels around our small bodies and stand, wriggling with pleasure, by the wood stove, allowing its heat to bake our skin. Roughly 400 square feet contained the wood stove, bathtub and the rest of the house, and the warmth and intimacy of those evenings remain a fond memory.

That evening I called Janice.

"Hi," I said, "I'm calling from the 19th Century!" She laughed, then said, "What?"

"I'm using a kerosene lamp to see, and I'm boiling water on the stove to do my dishes!"

"Oh ... well, I'm using the Internet," She replied, cheekily. Later I thought that this conversation is the closest I'll ever get to time traveling.

That night we again sat around the kerosene lamp, playing cribbage. Monty's generator was again working hard keeping our freezers going, doing double duty and being moved back and forth between his home and ours, an 8-km drive, every few hours. As well, it provided a constant hum in the background. We were all tired and kept miscounting our crib hands, to the point that we started light-heartedly accusing each other of being stoned, two fifty-somethings and me.

When I went to bed that night, again in long-johns and wool socks, I fell asleep even with the generator going in the room next to me. At that moment, I didn't much care if there might be electricity the next day -- the only thing I was interested in was the cozy confines of my bed.

To be continued...


(Photo by Marlo)

power down, part I

Sunday morning we woke up with no power.

This wasn't surprising, as Post-Tropical Storm Noel (known to his friends down South as Hurricane Noel) had hit the Maritimes the night before, brandishing winds between 90 and 180 km/h, and heavy rains amounting to, in various places, between 30 and 90 mm. We were warned to be prepared for the storm, to have emergency supplies, and to be able to last 72 hours with no electricity, worst-case scenario.

I had filled three big jugs with drinking water. We'd readied the flashlights and the kerosene lamp. We moved the two deck chairs in and secured garden things like buckets. Then we hunkered down with the excitement that comes before a storm. Late that night, the storm hit; the winds howled, the rain came down in buckets, and we were safe and cozy inside, though our sense of safety was heightened by the unknown, the real possibility of danger.

So we woke up Sunday morning, safe, ready to investigate the storm damage. No power, but we'd expected that. Mum called the NS Power hotline to report the outage, and a recorded message told her the power would be back on Tuesday at noon. After a bit of a panic, we decided that was probably worst case scenario, and the power would come on Monday at the latest.

We went for a drive, along one side of the bay and then the other. The winds were still fairly high and the waves on the lake made it look like the open ocean. Trees were toppled here and there, some on power lines, so we had to drive slowly. In the village itself, the power was back on, as it's on a different power grid, so we were able to get hot beverages at the cafe, where we met some of our neighbors doing the same, and then made our way back home.

Later that afternoon, Monty came over for dinner, a chicken Mum had roasted in our propane-fueled stove. We talked and reported news, and when it began to get dark around 5:30, we lit the kerosene lamp and a few candles, and played cribbage. Mum was glad she'd bought herself a small headlamp, as it made it easier to do kitchen chores in the dark, and freed up her hands. Of course, in order to do the dishes, she had to heat up water on the stove, but at least we had water. Our well has enough gravity to feed a slight trickle of water to the first floor sink, by itself, but others weren't as lucky -- their water is pumped out of the well by electricity alone.

Even later, I brought out a can of pennies I'd had for years and always meant to roll, and set to work while Mum and Monty talked. Before I knew it Mum was counting the pennies out into piles of fifty, and Monty was rolling them along with me. I said, "I'll take you guys out for coffee with the money we roll!" Later we realized we rolled enough to pay for a whole large pizza -- over $20 in coins, mostly pennies.

Then Mum brought out two bags of fresh grapes from Monty's property, and we set to work once more, picking the stems off, then squishing the grapes with our hands and a potato masher. Having no power felt like a novelty that would end soon, like a not entirely unwelcome trip into the past. I remarked that if we were on an old-time Cape Breton farm, there'd be an old person or two rocking in the background, and I would probably be married with a couple of kids. Somehow I was glad it was only a fantasy.

By the time it got to be ten 'o' clock, I was beat and ready for bed. In order to brush my teeth, I took a mason jar of water upstairs, for dipping the brush in, and cleaning it afterwards. But I still turned on the taps out of habit, even though nothing came out. Then to flush the toilet, we had to bring buckets of rainwater upstairs, taken from the ever-handy 50-gallon barrel that collects water from the eaves, which we then poured into the tank. The inconveniences made themselves clear right away, although the novelty hadn't worn off yet.

My bedroom was chillier than the rest of the house, since it's in the basement. But it wasn't too bad, and after I climbed into bed wearing long johns and wool socks, I was soon toasty warm. One day without electricity was do-able, and over!

To be continued...

mission: dill, part II

So I ended up making dill pickles! Who would have guessed? Considering that I've never canned anything before, I impressed myself, at least! And ain't that who counts? But I'll try my darndest to impress you guys too. Here goes.

I started with obtaining pickling cucumbers from the garden of a friend, as well as dill he'd graciously given, too. I also had two conflicting recipes and the Bible of backwoods cooking, "Mrs. Restino's Country Kitchen", which uses a wood stove as the standard, not a gas-fired or electric range. Hardcore! We don't actually use a wood stove, but her book is certainly helpful for a pickling novice in crisis. So after some deliberation, I decided to use Mrs. Restino's step-by-step instructions, because the first recipe I had was hurriedly scribbled from the dictated memory of another friend who makes dills, but who rarely measures his ingredients, and the second recipe used sugar and I'm trying to cut that out of my diet. So, something plain and easy to follow and not including sugar looked like my best bet.

On Tuesday, after following Mrs. Restino's directions for about an hour, I found myself in the kitchen standing over a pot, in which boiled a mixture of water and vinegar, and which also had peppercorns, mustard seed and garlic cloves dancing in its acidic depths. I was also looking over at a smaller pot which held five new "snap" lids, percolating. On the counter beside me were five pint Mason jars, sterilized, and I had put a dill flower in each, along with five or six bright green pickling cucumbers, small and tough and knobby. Then I poured enough of the boiling vinegar mixture in each jar to come almost to the rim, set a boiled snap lid on top, and a screw lid, but not screwed all the way down.

Had I really done it? The five jars sitting side-by-side certainly made it look like it. I was quite ecstatic, but I had to wait a little longer to see if the jars would seal. In the end, three out of five did seal, and headed for the cold room to live in storage, and the other two went to the fridge. I didn't know how long I was supposed to leave them in there before they could be eaten; Mrs. Restino was silent on that point.

Skip ahead three days, and my brother Mat and a friend of his are home for the Thanksgiving weekend. They've just arrived, it's late Friday night, all the bags have been brought in, tea poured and the necessary introductions made. We're sitting around talking when suddenly I remember my pickles! I jump up:

"Mat! I made pickles!"

I run to the fridge, pull out one of the two jars. Then I grab a plate, a knife and a fork. We unscrew the lid and pull out a now-mild-green pickle. I slice it into pieces and pass the plate around. The moment of truth, and the proof is in the pickle! Amazingly enough, we each bite into a very garlicky, quite vinegary dill pickle. I have the look of a proud mama on my face: I did it! It's like alchemy, at least for a beginner like me. Into the jar: raw cucumbers and boiling vinegar, plus a few other ingredients. Out of the jar: crunchy, tasty dill pickles!

The ecstasy only lasts so long before the agony sets in: in my hurry to eat my pickle, the vinegar has gone down the wrong tube and is making the top of my throat itch and burn. I cough and cough, embarrassed but proud. My pickles may be small, but they're mighty, and I seem to be living proof. Note to self for next year: cut back on the vinegar!

It's hard to top that kind of victory, but the weekend ended up being pretty great all the same. The weather was that perfect Fall blend of cold air, colorful leaves, a high wind and clouds the scud across the sky. All our food and visits were memorable. And I even got the Janice Fuller Dill Pickle Seal Of Approval, and it's not every day she gives that one out!

I'm giving thanks for pickling cucumbers great and small, friends old and new, and for the cozy feeling you get indoors on a rainy Fall day with a good book. Oh and of course loads of thanks for and to Marlo, for letting me use the above photograph. What about you? Best answer wins a virtual dill pickle.

idle scraps for sale

Chloe sent me peppermint in the mail. Not peppermint tea, all dried and ready, but the leaves and a flower from a peppermint plant. I left them too long in the plastic bag and they grew a little moldy, but now they are drying properly. I don't know if I'll make tea from them -- afraid of residual mold -- but the thought is certainly more than enough. Thanks to sweet Chloe.

~~~

My mother's brother and his family were just here, from Ontario. They have two young boys, 10 and 12, and before they arrived we worried how to entertain them in case of a rainy day. We needn't have: on their own steam they motored around the garden picking up slugs and snails, putting them in a bucket and letting the snails make slime trails all over their hands. "It feels like really small teeth, like a cat's tongue licking," said the 12-year-old.

Later, we went out on Monty's boat in the pouring rain. The edges of the Bras d'Or lake were blurred by grey clouds and grey water-top, and the grey was all different shades from white to dark, and the rain pocked the surface of the dark blue waves with tiny needle-sized specks. The rain also got us all soaked, but I wouldn't have worn rain gear even if I had it -- I secretly relished the little-kid feeling of being drenched top to bottom, drops making their way from scalp to chin, a drowned-rat feeling that easily erases when you go home, get in warm clothes and bundle yourself on the couch.

~~~

Earlier today the phone rang. "Hello?" I said.

"Hello," said the caller, which was a long-distance, unrecognizable number, "Is this the party to which I am speaking?"

I thought it was a confused telemarketer. Plus, my brain was tired, too tired to pick up the joke swiftly.

"Well, that depends." I said, wary.

"It depends on what side of the river you're on," the caller replied, confusing me further, especially as his voice was becoming more familiar. There are no rivers forming territorial boundaries here, besides for maybe the North River that marks the difference between the Baddeck and the Ingonish RCMP jurisdictions. I didn't think that's what this caller meant.

"I'm sorry," I said, "But you're calling Nova Scotia."

"I know!" He said, laughing. "This is Herb!" Herb Rosenberg is an artist friend of ours who lives in Jersey City, NJ, and who is eccentric enough to be interesting, but friendly enough to make his eccentricities merely odd, not off-putting. "Ohh!" I said, "I thought you were a telemarketer!"

"Well then, what may I sell you today?" He asked.

Today I'm hawking idle scraps of summer life. Any takers? I'll barter with you.

nice rack!

Just in time for the chef's birthday! (Catriona MacInnes turns 23 on the 27th of this month.)

This photo was taken by my friend Catriona, during her final exam this year at NSCC (Nova Scotia Community College), Ackerly Campus (Dartmouth, NS), a month or so ago. Two weeks later, my mother remembered we had a rack of lamb in the freezer, which none of us know how to cook, so we asked Catriona -- home for a break between school and her summer work placement -- to come and do us the honor, not knowing she'd passed with flying colors on the very dish we were asking her to prepare for us. Serendipity in the kitchen - my favorite kind!

Catriona arrived with an industrial-strength briefcase, filled with culinary art supplies: knifes, spatulas, pastry cutters, molds, a scale, squeeze bottles, a handheld mixer, measuring cups and spoons, pliers (removing fish bones, not last minute plumbing repairs), icing tubes, and an assortment of funny-looking metal tools that turned out to be the melon ballers, a butter curler, a lemon zester, and an apple corer. Don't get in this woman's way! Ever the professional, she also changed into her chef's whites, complete with neckerchief and a digital thermometer clipped to her arm, looking like a more svelte version of Gilmore Girls' chef, Sukie: same gorgeous smile and cheery chatter.

My brother Mat became her "apprentice chef" for the afternoon, chopping garlic, mincing rosemary, mixing the rub (garlic, rosemary, dijon mustard, honey and olive oil), as per the chef's instructions. Catriona herself was involved in preparing the meat: cutting the fat cap off, then cutting spaces or "windows" between the ribs, then scraping the rest of the connective tissue, fat and cartilage off the meat. Her joy in her chosen trade was evident: when she she first cut between the rib bones and pulled away the meat to create a neat square space, she exclaimed, "Ah, look at that window!"

This photo is also from Catriona's final exam, and it's the point at which the "windows" have been cut between the ribs, the unwanted tissues removed, and the rub spread on the meat. Our meat looked a little different from this, as it was grown and butchered at a small farm, not prepared for commercial use as her exam-lamb was. Also, because our lamb lived its life free-range and was fed organic feed, its fat, Catriona noted, was less stiff, and actually harder to handle.

After she had braised the meat in two cast-iron pans, and then rubbed them with the prepared mixure and set them to bake in the oven, Catriona prepared the reduction sauce. Her Scottish ancestry was evident: as she hoisted a bottle of Valpolicella, a red wine, to begin, she said enthusiastically, "The best thing about sauces is there's alcohol in them!" Later, I sniffed the pan, in which was simmering red wine, orange zest and juice, and fresh mint, and it smelled like sweet lollipops, Laura Secord orange suckers, only for grown-ups.

While we were waiting for the meal to cook, Mat wheeled into the kitchen on the office chair, and Catriona "knighted" him with the knife sharpener, a long metal dowel: "I knight you the best un-official apprentice chef ... in the world!" I was on the couch -- all the activity had tired me out -- writing notes and laughing. The house smelled divine: roasting lamb, rosemary, garlic, wine, orange zest. At the last minute we pulled together a salad of garden greens (Turkish rocket and dandelion leaves), with some chopped apple and a balsamic vinaigrette. Catriona "presented" the food beautifully, using a squeeze bottle to make a design on the plate using the reduction sauce, and arranging the lamb pieces on the plates much like her final exam. We all sat down, ready to dig in, impressed, excited, happy, and most importantly, hungry.

After our meal, flipping through the textbook she had brought for me to look at, I found a quote that I realized sums up the delight we all shared in this meal. I'll leave you with it. Also: Happy Birthday dear Catriona, on the 27th! Here's to good friends, and good food.

"Eating is not merely a material pleasure. Eating well gives a spectacular joy to life and contributes immensly to goodwill and happy companionship. It is of great importance to the morale." --Elsa Schiaparelli, Italian fashion designer, 1890-1973).