fullness.

Thursday again. How did that come around again so soon?

Here's what I've been thinking about lately: the word FULL. Things are happening fast these days. Back to FULL-time work, and it's FULL-ON. Hit the ground running, project to get done in five months, lots to do. Well, I should say, I work two part-time jobs, but together they are filling up my week. One is a contract job through a non-profit organization, which runs until March. The other is my (yay!) permanent position with the (yay!) library.


Thanksgiving was ... when was it again? I want to say last weekend but that's actually not true. It was nearly TWO weeks ago. Holy crap! See what I mean? It feels like it just happened. And at the same time it feels like a month ago. FULL ON.

(I made a pumpkin cheesecake and it's pictured above. It was FULL of deliciousness. It "tasted as good as thin feels." Or better, actually.)

My room-mate from back in Fredericton - Marlo - visited me last weekend (which is nearly a week ago now - again I say, Holy Crap.) We had a marvelous time catching up after two years of not seeing each other. I rented a car and we drove to Cheticamp, up French Mountain and over to MacKenzie Mountain, before turning back and coming home again. On the way back we stopped at the ever-tempting Dancing Goat deli and cafe, and had big sandwiches and creamy soup, and of course sweet treats and coffee.

The picture above is of a beautiful fall vignette that we found just waiting for us to take its picture. Seriously FULL of magic.


What else? Well, life is full. I have my job(s). I am organizing square dancing lessons, and getting one of my favorite people in the world to teach them. (His name is Duncan, and he is one of my honorary Grandpas.) I am still the coordinator of the Baddeck Writers' Group, which is going FULL STEAM AHEAD at the moment - new members, old members, submissions, monthly meetings. And I am working hard to make sure that my days are also FULL of time to walk, to write, to spend time outside where I truly feel connected to the world, to the universe, to what some call God. FULL of spirit.

I think that when I moved home two years ago, there was an invisible slot that I FILLED. This is my dream life. Like Marlo said, during a walk we took together, of knowing that you are on the right path, "I don't worry that I'm not on the right path. But, I don't know fully where this is taking me. However, I'm enjoying seeing where the road goes." The twists and turns, the surprises, the unknown of the-moment-after-this-one.

Yes, there are still good days and bad days, "meh" days, anxious days, cranky days, back-pain days, silly-giggles days... I could go on. You get the idea. Meaning: happiness is not a static state. You don't get there, turn around like a cat going to sleep, settle in, and go, "OK, now I am done working on stuff and me and life. I'm done now. I can go to sleep for the rest of my life."

BUT

That doesn't mean that life doesn't rock. It's about balancing as a constant act, like that of waves coming onto shore - the fullness comes on strong, then you have to take time to let it recede, to let yourself feel it, to process it. Then it comes back. Feel the FULL.

falling for fall

This past weekend was Canadian Thanksgiving. At Monty's, I ate a plate of the traditional Thanksgiving meal: turkey, beans, potatoes, squash, gravy and of course stuffing and cranberry sauce. I took some photos of my meal and then Monty's snarky cousin, who shall not be named, but who sat in the corner, said something along the lines of, "Geez, look at her, taking pictures of her FOOD!" As if that was the craziest thing he'd ever seen.

Monty's snarky cousin and I usually trade banter back and forth, so I said,

"You won't be laughing when I'm a famous food photographer!"

He just chuckled.

"Actually, you probably WILL be laughing. You're always laughing, aren't you?"

"No, not all the time, girlie."

This is the way we interact. My banter with him is like a big arm keeping him a certain distance away from me. I'm sure he'd never hurt me; he's not creepy like that, but there are certain boundaries one must keep. At the same time, though, in a small place where everyone knows each other, you can't be icy to people. Hence, the banter.



Then, today, I met up with Janice and we had a very "fall in a small town" afternoon: lattes and cheesecake at a cafe, then walking along the streets, picking up the Sears catalogs for her Nanny, then taking in a quilt show. This photo above is some Virginia Creeper vine growing beside her Nanny's house. Each year when leaves turn red, yellow and orange, it takes us by surprise. That's part of the beauty.



Here is a detail from one of the quilts we saw. This was from a circular tablecloth that was done in shades of pink and shades of green. There is something so wonderful about quilts. The skill they take, as well as the time, not to mention the pleasing textures and contrasts of which they're made. Then there's the fact that they're practical as well as beautiful! Both Alice Munro and Whitney Otto, as well as Carol Shields, and no doubt many other people, have written about quilts, and all that they symbolize, so I won't add to that here. Suffice it to say, I think they're important.

Happy Thanksgiving! May your harvests come in plentiful.

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.

These pictures are testamount to the fact that Laura indeed kept her word--she IS a keeper, that's for certain--and loaned me her webcam. Also, they are evidence of the fact that tomorrow morning I board a bus for my home, the lovely Cape Breton. And I clearly can't take my eyes off it. Love me, love Cape Breton. Eh wha?

Happy Canuck Thanksgiving to you all. Where are you going for it? If you're not going anywhere, what lovely things will you be doing? I'll be back soon. I want to hear all about it.

But first I need to get my fill of Celtic Colours, Tim Hortons homeland, and of course wear an orange toque when I'm out in the woods. Don't want to get shot buddy! No bye. No that's for sure.

Also, there are still some interesting comments being made about Dr. Jagger, I mean Bourassa. Read them while you eat your pumpkin pie.