Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Eat Well and Wise.

July 12, 2015 / boo king / Leave a comment

Girl Warrior. Learn how to cook for yourself and the ones you love. Keep it simple. Get fresh with food. Know its origins. Get the back-story on your fruits and veggies. Do your homework. Read labels. As much as possible, eat the things of the earth and near to their natural state.

Be creative in the kitchen. Don’t be afraid to experiment. Get colorful and crazy. Explore what titillates and tantalizes your taste buds. Make it pretty.

You don’t have to be a Food Fanatic either. Nor a Nutrition Nazi. Make ‘everything in moderation’ your mantra. Think balance. Nurture your body and your spirit. Apply the 80/20 Rule here. 80% healthy and 20% not-so-much. Enjoy your guilty pleasures and sweet indulgences with 100% freedom. Without regret or ruefulness.

Whet your appetite. Savor it all. Go for the gusto. And eat like your life depends on it.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Under the Harvest Moon Soup.

September 14, 2014September 14, 2014 / boo king / Leave a comment

The fall of our hearts

And the light faints.

But the colors

Still stain our eyes.

I wrote that poetic bit to mark the end of summer and to welcome in autumn. As far back as my memory will allow this time of year has always made me sad. With a tendency towards melancholy at the best of times, Labor Day weekend is like a freighter that transports me from the light and easy to the dark and serious. For those first few lingering days afterwards, until my eyes adjust to the changing light, when the large blue skies abbreviate and foretell. The feeling of loss that another glorious summer has come and gone, the lazy hazy days are over. It’s back to school. Or business. Life, without beach sand between my toes. I miss it. Pine for it. Beckon it back. Beg it to stay just another month or two. But that’s not the way of summer, North of the 49.

Goodbye to the pastel evening skies. Oh, but hello to early morning light that shimmers and casts rusty hues on the arcing limbs of the Garry Oak trees.

Back into the kitchen, overlooking my reluctant rocky garden, I prepare earthy vegetables for Under The Harvest Moon Soup featuring our volunteer summer squash.

The ingredients.

It’s a simple recipe that involves cleaning out the crisper and roasting what you’ve got along with at least two squash, any kind. Our little miracles are a-corns. My crisper crop usually includes cauliflower, red and orange peppers, carrots, tomatoes, onions, celery, and garlic. Whatever you’ve got that goes with squash will work beautifully.

The method.

Lay these all out in a large baking dish. I use the spectacular Portmeirion baking dish that E gave me for Christmas a few years ago. It’s big and beautiful and roasts veggies to perfection.

Sprinkle with your favorite herbs and spices. For me, curry and turmeric are the perfect spices for squash soup so that’s what I sprinkle lavishly over the veggies. A little s ‘n p.

Drizzle with extra virgin olive oil. Pop in the oven at 350 degrees for at least an hour, or until the veggies are tender and getting that roasted look.

In no time at all, your kitchen will be infused with a sweet fragrant aroma, like none other. Take a moment to breathe it in. This will make you happy. You will smile.

While enjoying this culinary bliss, remove your magnificent morsels from the oven and set aside to cool. When cooled, blend with a vegetable broth or stock. I just use the Tetra Pak type you buy at the grocery store. But if you’re into making your own, that’s cool. Truth is, water works too since this is already a nutritious and delicious brew. You just need enough liquid to blend the veggies until they are pureed, smooth and creamy. Dump this into a large pot and add more seasoning if you like. I add more curry because I can never get enough. Because the veggies are already cooked, this baby is almost good to go.

Cover and simmer on low heat to slowly warm up the silky smooth veggies. Let them mingle with the sexy spices for a while. Once the soup is nice and hot, I add a tablespoon of butter. You don’t have to do this, of course. I just think butter makes everything better. Except for your butt. But that’s a whole other blog post.

The accompaniment.

Our family likes something starchy with our soup. Like homemade biscuits. Or any kind of crusty Italian bread. E likes Saltines. Enough said.

Neil Young – Harvest Moon

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Garden of Little Big Things.

September 7, 2014September 9, 2014 / boo king / Leave a comment

I’m big on the little things. The small, unexpected delights that make you smile. Or grin like a fool in love. Stand on your head and spit nickels. The unplanned moments and spontaneous incidences, with their elegant perfect brevity, that takes you by surprise. Then there are all those transitory things that are so easily overlooked or often passed by completely. Those are quite simply, the best. When you raise your head and say, ‘thank God I saw that.’

I also believe in everyday miracles. The tiny wonders that make you grateful.

This summer I was fortunate enough to bear witness to the innate generosity and enduring tenacity of the earth, quite literally beneath my feet. It began with a compost box in our backyard. Actually it began before that. With delicious winter meals of roasted squash and crispy green salads populated with grape and cherry tomatoes.

Little back story. Our house is built on a rock. A massive boulder that ascends heavenward less than ten feet from the back door. Steps have been cut and built into the rock so that you can climb it with ease. At the top it levels off into this lumpy grassy knoll in spring that is parched and stripped of color in summer and then mushy from the relentless rains of fall and winter. Always a farm boy at heart, E refers to this as his Back 40, but unlike his Annapolis Valley roots, where food crops grew in abundance, this little piece of paradise is canopied by Garry Oak Trees and shadowed by the Douglas Firs that tower like looming sentinels in the park that butts up against our property. We soon discovered, our first summer living here, that growing things to eat would be a challenge at best. And far too often, downright heartbreaking.

Like the early settlers and pioneers of the New World, E and I persevered. We were inspired by a deep yearning to sow good seeds, tend to them with loving kindness, watch them flourish and burgeon so that by summer’s end we could enjoy the harvest season, nature’s bounty, the abundance of Autumn. Surely this is what Mother Earth intended, even for gardens grown in difficult settings.

E persevered. I gave up.

Through tenacious experimentation with planting various and sundry seedlings, grew understanding, wisdom and respect for what we had in our Back 40. First and foremost, we accepted that it was different from any other garden we had ever grown. It did its own thing, for the most part. It was a maverick. In many ways, it was a mirror to our own natures.

Eventually E figured out what grew. And what didn’t. Blueberries for example, love the rocky ridged beds that E built and filled with enough earth for them to take hold and produce an abundance of juicy berries. We have over a dozen bushes now of different varieties, including pink blueberries. Who knew? On the very top of the rock, where the trees don’t block the sun, big bouquets of petunias grow beautifully in cobalt blue and burgundy glazed earthenware pots. And a variety of tall elegant grasses do well on the sunny slopes that flank the steps. In the long narrow bed that clings to the side of the rock, just outside our kitchen window, a grouping of succulents with tiny pink flowers that bloom in autumn have taken occupancy. I am a blessed woman.

One of the things we have grown to appreciate the most about this wild horse of a garden are all the things that grow naturally, without any help from us. For the rock knows what it needs and what it wants. Like all the wild flowers that grow in the tiny pockets in the rock. Purple things, little mysterious gems that pop up everywhere all year round. I don’t know their fancy Latin names. I just call them beautiful. Then there are the daisies with their sunny smiles that hang out on the side of the fishpond with the orange spiky lilies, red hots, the scraggly fuchsia bushes and overgrown grape vine. And of course, there are the clingers and hangers-on. The pale green lichens, the mossy carpet bits and the small-scale succulents.

The birds love it here too. Plus, they also do their share of planting. Without them, we wouldn’t have the pink and yellow funny-faced snapdragons.

But of all these miraculous things, the most wondrous of all, are what E calls “the volunteers”, a phenomenon of sowing and reaping that occurred for the first time this summer. One that took us by surprise, and delighted us, beyond measure. And to think, it all started last winter with roasted squash and tomato salads. And that black compost box.

In the spring E filled all the rocky beds with the rich mulch that he had been collecting all winter. And from that, six mystery squash plants and three tomato plants took hold. Sprouted and grew effortlessly. Miracle plants. Gracious gifts from God and Mother Earth.

We’ve spent the summer watching them do their own thing. Just doing what comes naturally, I suppose. Add a little sunshine and water to E’s well-mulched earth. And voila! Hallelujah! A miracle.

And we slow dance under the harvest moon.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Saturday Night Spaghetti and Meatballs.

January 26, 2014January 26, 2014 / boo king / Leave a comment

I love spaghetti and meatballs. Always have. In fact, it’s one of the first foods that I remember enjoying. Picky Eater doesn’t even come close to describing my disinterest in food as a kid. But Ma’s S ‘n M was a whole other story. Now I’m no connoisseur, but I have eaten enough to know a good meatball when I taste it. Trust me, her’s were the best. And her marinara sauce? To live for.

It wasn’t so much what Ma put into this weekly Italian favorite that made it so spectacular. But how she prepared it that made the world of difference. Like all good cooks she had her secrets. Her little arsenal of remarkable tastes that you couldn’t quite put a finger-licking finger on.

One of my all-time fondest memories is the smell of Saturday morning at 204.

Fresh coffee brewing, bacon and eggs frying, Shaw’s white bread toasting. Fused with these intoxicating breakfast scents, was the savory smell of Ma’s spaghetti sauce simmering on top of the stove. Imagine waking up to that every Saturday morning. Trust me, it was the top of the comfort mountain. A warm hug from heaven. A kiss sweeter than your first. A gentle breeze fluttering through gossamery white curtains. Quite simply, nothing else like it.

I don’t have a recipe to share with you because Ma never cooked that way. Like all good cooks, it was pinch of this, a dash of that, a dollop and a handful. Everything to taste and talent. There’s a certain kind of genius at play, that’s impossible to describe. Besides, you don’t need the S ‘n M recipe anyway. For it’s not the physical ingredients that made it taste so good.

What made my all-time fave comfort food so lip-smacking, scrumptious and sinfully delicious were these 5 things:

1. Start early. Be the first one up. Breathe in those early quiet and peaceful moments just before dawn. Solitude in the kitchen is a divine gift. Cherish it. Let the whisper of God and the whistle of nature inspire you. Run your fingers over the fresh ingredients that will be the life of the sauce. Let your eyes feast on their colors. Inhale the herbs and spices that will infuse spirit into the sauce. Begin.
2. Good things take time. Never rush the sauce. Honor the process. Allow it to simmer on low. To slowly fill the house with its intoxicating delectable aroma. Room by room. Let it fill every inch with pleasure. Long and lazy that’s the key. Enjoy.
3. Double-dip family style. Let the taste testers dive in. All day long. Let the lid lift and open to an explosion of fragrant Italian goodness. Let the well-seasoned wooden spoon plunge into the saucy depths. Let them sip, sup and savor. Repeat.
4. Anticipation. Things taste better when filled with scrumptious expectancy. The longer the wait, the better the taste. Especially with marinara and spicy meatballs. As the divine bouquet fills the air, let your imagination wonder to the end of the day. Mealtime. Picture yourself there. Lick your lips. Savor.
5. Love. The essence of everything. The heart. The soul. The gist. The marrow of all good things. And all things that taste good.

There you have it. The delicious intangibles. The ethereal ingredients. The exquisite elements. The sorcery in the sauce.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Annual Thanksgiving Jam.

October 6, 2013October 6, 2013 / boo king / 6 Comments

I love Thanksgiving. It’s like Christmas without the retail hook and hassle. In Canada it’s a fairly low-key, somewhat muted holiday. I find this understatement peculiar, since we celebrate in October, which is smack-dab in middle of Autumn’s glory. In most of our country, it’s a month of colorful spectacle. Fall is strutting her stuff. Showing off in every possible way. Crisp days. Big blue skies. All those bold radiant colors. Red and orange dominate the scene.

But in typical Canadian fashion there isn’t a lot of hoopla around this holiday. Perhaps because it falls during a month when we have a fun and flamboyant fete. Creepy costumes and free candy are far more compelling than counting your blessings and gobbling turkey. Maybe having two holidays in the same month is just too much merriment and mirth. Thanksgiving is like the peas of October. You just want to get it over with so you can get onto the good stuff. Have some dessert. Lick your lips. Let it all hang out.

At the end of the day, there’s just none of the fanfare that our southern neighbors bestow on their holiday of the same name. No Macy’s Parade. No colossal pro football marathons. This isn’t our biggest travel time of the year. We don’t flock from hither and yon to be together. That’s what we do at Christmas. Plus, the next day isn’t Black Friday, the American fever-pitched super-sized shopping day of the year.

That’s just not us.

Technically the Canadian Thanksgiving occurs on the second Monday in October. However, I doubt many of us actually celebrate on that day. I bet if we took a poll, we’d discover many of us “do it” on the Sunday. This allows at least one full day for recovery. It’s damn near impossible to fill your face with a ton of tryptophan-laced turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, canned or homemade cranberry sauce, a buffet of sauce-laden vegetables, copious amounts of wine or beer, ridiculous amounts of sweets, not to mention pumpkin pie, all topped off with strong freshly brewed coffee, with or without a hit of Baileys. You can’t possibly expect to go to work or school or daycare the next day. Seriously, can you? No.

The Americans get Black Friday and Christmas shopping. We get an alarm clock catapulting us from our collective Canadian tryptophan comas. It’s a deplorable first world problem.

So in full-out Canadian style rebellion we celebrate a day earlier. It’s defiant I know. I guess to be fair, and God knows I’m all about fairness, not all Canadians do this. But this is the way it goes down at our house. And has, for as far back as I can remember. I’m a real stickler for family traditions. Just the way I roll. Or rock. Bang my head and fall over.

When I was younger I completely overlooked, and took for granted, the “thanks” in Thanksgiving. I didn’t appreciate the earth’s bountiful harvest, its lavish cornucopia. All that was lost on me. Christmas was the shining star, the big holiday kahuna and nothing could compare. It was all I could think about from the moment the Maple trees, that lined our street, turned from green to gold. Yes, the family meal was delicious. And yes, having a long weekend in the middle of October was nice too. But beyond that, it was a lukewarm holiday at best. No matter how hard Ma tried to make it lovely and festive. It was never more than a pre-curser to Christmas. Well into adulthood I was still wishy-washy when it came to Thanksgiving.

But that all changed about twenty years ago.

Something wonderful and miraculous and completely unexpected happened. It began with a casual impromptu jam on the Saturday night of Thanksgiving weekend. It was unplanned. Unrehearsed. Unscheduled. Nothing fancy. No big fuss. Beer and chips. Maybe a crudites or two tossed together. A few bluegrass musicians. And a whole lot of really fine music. Little did we know that this modest unpretentious shindig would blossom into something legendary. At least in our circle, amongst our tribe. That first Saturday night grew into something so glorious and stupendous. One of the highlights of our year. Talked about for days and weeks afterwards. Imagine that.

Quite simply, on that Saturday night twenty years ago, our Thanksgiving was transformed. A new tradition arose from the ashes of apathy.

The following year we planned the occasion. Somewhat. We invited a few more jammers, family and friends to join us for an evening of appies and music. It was still an intimate and simple affair. A kitchen party through and through. But the day after, basking in the glow of an evening done well, we began planning the next one. By year three, we opened our home to even more musicians, family, friends, colleagues and neighbors. There was a generous overflow of musical talent, food, laughter, kindness, joy, love and memories. Beautiful memories.

Thus began B and E’s Annual Thanksgiving Jam.

For over a decade we gathered for these jams on the Saturday night. The morning after, I would wake up early to put the turkey on for our traditional family dinner. This was a smaller, more intimate festivity attended by our immediate family and a few close friends.

We celebrated and gave thanks this way for well over a decade. The Saturday Night Jam and the Sunday Family Feast. Weeks of planning and preparing food followed by two intense days of celebration became too much for this old broad. E and I made the decision to combine the jam with the feast, pare back the guest list to a manageable number and host a less demanding Thanksgiving Jam on the Sunday evening. This has been pleasant and enjoyable. But just not the same.

Last Thanksgiving we had no idea what was in store for us. E may have had some inkling because the cancer was brewing in his body. But the rest of us were clueless. It was a big year. One that took its toll. Drained us both physically and emotionally. We were often in the mud wrestling with the devil. Other times we danced and soared with the angels. We were all over the place spiritually. E has had his recovery to contend with. But so have I. Sometimes I think he’s farther along that road than me. I’m still untrusting of the process of life. Wary and weary at times.

But we’re here. I’m grateful for that.

And because we’re so very grateful, E and I decided that this year we would resurrect our Annual Saturday Night Thanksgiving Jam. We’re doing this thing. Celebrating the past year and all that it has taught us. We’re celebrating our life. Our family. Friends. Music. Laughter. Joy. Love. There will be turkey and ham and all the traditional trimmings. There will be apple and pumpkin pies. Autumn will be showing off. So will we.

And our hearts. Our sweet Canadian hearts will give thanks for the opulent abundance that is all around us.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter. It Smells Just Like Yesterday.

March 11, 2013March 11, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

Certain smells always bring me back. Flood my brain with memories. Ones I thought were long gone and forgotten. I love it when this happens. It’s enough to send me on a scent hunt. Digging up recollections like hidden clues to buried treasures.

Then becomes now in a heartbeat.

I can’t walk into a kitchen where baking has taken place without thinking immediately of Ma’s cookie baking emporium at 204. Oatmeal raisin. Hermits. Ginger Snaps. Sweet and spicy. Rich with love and motherly goodness. One whiff of Italian food and it’s a Spaghetti Saturday Night. The best comfort food smack dab in the middle of a brutal Northwestern Ontario winter. Cold as the Arctic outside but warm and deliciously cozy inside. Turkey roasting in the oven conjures up decades of Christmases enjoyed with our family. This mouthwatering array of aromas reminds me to count my blessings.

I can close my eyes and smell Ma’s Second Debut face cream. Breathe in her presence. Inhale it’s gentle loveliness as my lips brush against her cheek. Just like I did every morning before I headed off to school as a kid. This fine scent not only evokes memories of the softness of her skin but the kindness of her heart. In her later years she treated herself to a weekly hairdo. She would return feeling pampered and pretty, filling the house with the beauty parlor scent of freshly coiffed hair. Set for the week. I’m reminded that although true beauty blossoms from within, it’s also nourished with a dab of cream and a nice do.

When I wash with Ivory soap I think of The Old Man. A grimy bar sat in the soap dish next to the bathroom sink. As soon as he got home from work he washed off the grunge that clung to his face and hands after a long day on the road delivering Holsum bread and Persian buns. He’d emerge from the bathroom a new man. An Ivory man. Pure and simple. Now when I stand in the shower preparing for my day, lathering on this creamy white soap, I am reminded that hard work of any sort is honorable. No matter what you do. Sell bread. Or shoes. Fly to the moon. Or stand on your feet all day. Work, especially in service of others, is good.

Old Spice makes me think of Sunday mornings and going to church. Once a week The Old Man donned a suit and tie, and escorted Ma and me to Christ Lutheran Church on Walkover Street. We drove there, despite the friendly invitation to hoof it. All week he wore his stiff blue twill uniform that smelled of flour dust, sweat, and when I was really young, tobacco. But on Sundays, he dressed for the occasion. He was a stylish confident man with his two favorite girls in tow. Old Spice has always been a feel good scent memory. Yet also contradictory. Like The Old Man, in many ways. A peculiar blend of spirituality and carnal pleasure. Old time religion and hedonism. Fear of the Lord and the folly of the man. Imagine all that in just one sniff.

The mauve lilac bush at 204.

There’s nothing like the perfume from a mauve lilac. One hint and I’m instantly transplanted to the front yard at 204. There, a charming little tree bloomed every year in June. It marked the end of the school year and the beginning of summer vacation. It was a symbol of freedom and carefree days. A simple bouquet adorned Ma’s kitchen table and filled the room with such exquisite inimitable beauty. I’m reminded of the wonder and splendor just outside our door. The natural abundance of the earth. It’s symmetry and grace. And for that I am grateful.

Then there’s the fragrance of first love. I can’t walk in the early morning rains of April or May without thinking of him. Not every time. For the memory to come, the rain must possess a particular scent. A bittersweetness. Sadness in the joy. Longing in the reverie. Then I go back to this love that was beginning to unravel. So new yet tired of itself. Still, all these years later I think tenderly of him. Of us then. I know the smell of him. It reminds me to be inspired by love. To carry on. Love again. And again. Enlarge my heart. Grow it bigger. Until it beats no more.

And oh, the sweetest of all perfumes. My newborn babies. Tender. Innocent. Still so close to heaven in their scent. Still so filled with the essence of the divine. Without earthly tarnish. Nor painful sheaths sullying their pristine souls. Just perfection. I have been blessed to enjoy this redolence three times. Three times I breathed in their beautiful newness. Each time I was reborn.

I’ve read that the science behind this sentimental journey originates with the olfactory bulb in our limbic system, which is associated with memory. Called the “emotional brain” it allows us to conjure up memories in an instant just by smelling something.

I am grateful for this bulb in my brain that allows me to go back. Not just remember. But to be there. Time travel does exist. And the beautiful thing is, we all possess this wondrous gift of uncommon sense.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Search for Meaning.

February 24, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / 4 Comments

E on his throne enjoying the Christmas festivities.

I’m a seeker. Especially at Christmas time. I search for perfect gifts for everyone on my list. Ones filled with wow and wonder. I comb second hand stores for delicate vintage glass ornaments like the ones we hung on our tree at 204. I inherited all of Ma’s and have been growing her precious collection every year for the past decade. It’s my magnificent holiday decorating obsession.

I scour cookbooks, online cooking blogs and recipe websites looking for something new and delicious to bake or cook over the holidays. In the end, nothing compares with the treasure trove found in Ma’s sacred and magical Gurney Recipe Box.

I flip through fashion magazines for inspiration on what to wear for all those festive occasions. This is a silly pastime because E and I don’t attend those kinds of affairs. Yet I do it anyway. It pleases me.

I’m also bedazzled by sparkly festive shop windows. I hunt for the perfect holiday outfit. I daydream about a beautiful more glamorous version of myself that will somehow magically appear like Cinderella at the ball. I wonder what it would be like to knock ‘em dead at our office party. I fantasize about a transformation from drab nondescript woman in the corner cube to glamor girl in the shimmery dress with legs that never quit. That never happens. Even the younger me couldn’t have pulled that look off. Truth is, that’s not me. Never was. Never will be. But it is fun to play that movie in my head once a year.

Pursuit of the perfect gift, recipe, or dress aside, what I really seek at Christmas time is meaning. What’s it all about? This search trumps everything.

With E’s cancer diagnosis hanging over our heads like the Sword of Damocles, the desire to find something deeper, more profound, more significant was intensified. It served to remind us of the fragile nature of this life we live. Teach us to grab onto every precious moment like it was your last. Embrace the ones we love.

We were given a reprieve from the fear and anxiety that brought us to our knees the week E was in the hospital. The Friday that he was released from the RJH was glorious. A heaven-sent day.

The first thing E did when we got home was take the dogs for a walk in the crisp clean December air. It was as though he was breathing for the first time. He could walk unencumbered by the inescapable steel dance partner he had been hooked up to all week. Free from all the medical machinery that monitored his every heartbeat and breath. Free from the antiseptic smell that clung to every cell and fibre of his being. Free to walk upright. Stride. Strut. Swagger. Flounce his new found freedom up the rocky hills that surround our home.

Simply be alive.

For as long as I have known E, he’s been a real crank about Christmas. He would happily take a page from Rip Van Winkle’s book and sleep right through the entire month of December. It was the same old thing every year. Come the day before Christmas, the spirit would finally move him and off he’d go in search of my Christmas present. Some years this was found at the local Shoppers Drug Mart down the road. When M got old enough he solicited her help. This put a stop to the drugstore gifts.

“I’ll make sure he gets you something really good Ma,” she’d say.

And she does.

Of course, it’s not about the quality of the gift. Or even that there are gifts at all. But in our family, we do enjoy this tradition. We like to acknowledge each other in this manner. It’s sounds cliche but it isn’t so much the gift as the giving. As a family we like this and we’re good at. One look at our living room Christmas morning says it all.

This year, the curmudgeon grouchy bah humbug E left the building. Like Elvis on August 16, 1977. Replaced by the new and improved version. Enthusiastic and joyful. Happy to celebrate. Cheerful and charitable. Without complaint nor criticism. No protests. Gripes or grumbling. Beefs or bellyaching. And above all else, the new E, that emerged from the chrysalis on Friday, December 14, was grateful.

Deeply. Profoundly. Beyond words.

Recently, I read a quote by Cicero that really resonated with my spirit. It expressed so beautifully the meaning I sought and found over the Christmas season.

“Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others.”

E and I are consumed with gratitude these days. There is so much to cherish and give thanks for. Starting with our love for each other. For our family, our beautiful children, our granddaughter, our extended family and friends, our good neighbors, our understanding colleagues, the compassionate caregivers and spiritual teachers. Everyone who has touched our tender hearts so sweetly.

Kindness and compassion. Generosity and magnanimity. Big-heartedness and goodness. It’s everywhere. Dressed in the same attire. Cloaked in the fabric of love.

Jesus and John Lennon were right. Love is all you need.

I’m grateful for that.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: How to Throw a Party.

August 12, 2012August 2, 2015 / boo king / 2 Comments

Beautiful birthday cards saved through the decades.

I just celebrated a birthday. Truth is, I didn’t actually celebrate. More like ignored. I’ve been doing my best to ignore birthdays for years. Decades even. It all started with a Eureka moment. The proverbial light went on so I could clearly see this one pivotal fact. The road ahead wasn’t as long as it once was. This was both a frightening and motivating experience.

Either way it changed my perspective on birthdays. I determined that these annual milestones needn’t be marked with illuminated melting candles that no longer fit on a nine-inch round layer cake. No matter how delicious and tempting the icing may be. Furthermore, my ability to blow out that many candles in one go has long expired. It’s mortifying. I’ve lost all my candle-blowing gusto. I am no longer full of wind. I suppose that could be viewed as a good thing. Even Martha Stewart would agree.

Parties are out of the question. Especially ones involving a surprise. The risk of heart failure from shocks of this nature has increased exponentially with each passing year. Who needs that? Shindigs of any sort are frowned upon. And make for an upside down happy face. So does any other kind of hoopla or fandango. A simple card or birthday greeting from my family and loved ones is all that I will ever need. Just another day thank you very much. I’m grateful for them all.

It wasn’t always this way of course.

My first birthday cake. Big sister G shares the moment.

Little back story. A long long time ago and far far away in another galaxy I looked forward to this annual celebration. Waited with bated breath. And bubbly anticipation. I counted the days with irrepressible eagerness and unbridled enthusiasm. This other galaxy existed in a small Northwestern Ontario town on a street lined with wartime houses and Manitoba Maple trees. In one of these little wooden dwellings, number 204, Ma made party plans.

Birthday parties were simple affairs back then. At least compared to the extravaganzas of today. There were no bouncy castles. No rented movie theaters, ice rinks nor gyms with walls to climb. Nothing laser — tag, bowling or otherwise. No party rooms at MacDonald’s or Wendy’s. No zip-line adventures. Nor any combination of these things.

The birthday parties of my wonder years were held in the home. Or in the yard, if you were a summer birthday child like I was. I’m not sure if this is true or not, but I don’t recall it ever raining on my birthday. Even now I am hard-pressed to come up with a birthday that wasn’t warm and sunny. I either have selective weather memory or the sun has always shone for me on this day. I am indeed blessed this way.

Invitations were either purchased at Kresge’s five and dime or made by hand. Before I learned to read and write Ma filled out the invitations for me. After grade two I painstakingly did this on my own. It was a labor of love. Every kid on the block got one hand delivered at least two weeks before the big occasion. No one was left out. Not even those I didn’t care for much. Usually this was a boy. My parties were all-inclusive until I was around 8 years old. From age 8 to 12 there was a no-boys allowed policy in effect. During this brief window of time I believed boys weren’t necessary to have a good time. Before and after that single-gender period boys were a big part of the social scene. And have remained so ever since.

Posing in my party dress for my 3rd birthday.

My upcoming birthday party was the talk of the neighborhood for those two weeks. Chatter abound. I was one of the lucky ones in that no one else had a birthday around mine. There was no one else to steal my thunder. Rob my moment of glory. My day in the sunshine. For this one day each year I was the girl of the hour. Or two. Which was precisely how long these birthday celebrations lasted.

On the day before my birthday Ma baked my favorite cake. Confetti Angel Food. Smothered and swirled in pale pink butter icing. Licking the spoon and scraping the bowl clean of every morsel of sweet goodness was almost as wonderful as the cake itself. These special once-a-year cakes were colorfully happy. Festive. And most importantly yummy. Nummy. Lip-smacking scrumptilicious. Mmmmm. Goodness aside, the other phenomenal thing about these cakes was the hidden treasures baked within. Little silver trinkets and copper pennies carefully wrapped in waxed paper and strategically placed throughout the cake so that every guest received one. No one walked away without a prize. We all felt like a million bucks discovering one of these. Oh the fun we had opening our baked gems. Winners all. Hip hip hurray! Enough to make pirates green with envy over our bountiful haul.

On the morning of my birthday, Ma got everything ready. She baked a batch of my favorite cookies. Shortbread. In the centre of each she carefully placed a red Maraschino cherry. Baking these traditional Christmas cookies off-season was just another way Ma expressed how dear I was to her. Imagine the depth and breadth of her love. One that knew no limits. So great that she was willing to violate custom, even go behind Santa’s back to bake these precious buttery rich jewels. I was thrilled. While the cookies were baking, Ma boiled up a pot of eggs for sandwiches. And not just any old egg sandwiches. These were fancy. The Old Man would bring home special loaves of bread that were cut lengthwise instead of in slices. Ma would then spread her delectable egg filling across the lengths, place a convoy of dill pickles at one end and then roll them up into perfect cylinders. She would place these eggy tubes in the fridge to chill and set until the party began. Then she’d pull them out, slice them into perfect circular wheels, and arrange them beautifully on one of her best china platters. They were exquisite. Divine. Out of this world.

Best friends posing with our favorite dollies.

Everyone dressed up for birthday parties. Only our best dresses and hair ribbons would do. New shoes and fresh white ankle socks. The boys in the crowd looked quite snazzy too. About an hour before my guests were scheduled to arrive Ma helped me get ready. Scrubbed from head toe. Hair curled and brushed to one side. Pretty party dress. Twirl and spin the crinoline.

Group shot. My friend Poo attends with a broken leg.

At the precise hour indicated on the invitations my guests arrived, each carrying a beautifully wrapped gift with a card taped to the top. Ma greeted everyone amiably, collected their gifts, and set them aside on the coffee table for later. Once everyone was gathered, the games began. Drop the clothes peg in the milk bottle. Pin the tale on the donkey. Musical chairs. Simon says. Bingo! Such fun! We giggled and cheered. We clapped and chuckled. Then it was time to open the presents. One by one. Oohs and ahhs. Always a thank you after each one. Ma saved all their precious birthday cards. I still have the first decade’s worth taped inside the pages of the old Scrapbook Ma made for me. Tattered and torn. Kittens and yarn.

Parties were now in full color during the no boys period.

Then the piece de resistance. The moment we were all waiting for. The cake! Candles lit. Chorus of the Birthday song sung. Top of the lungs loud. Out of tune and off-key. Terrible and terrific. Candles were blown out in one single breath bringing a year of good luck to the birthday girl. Ma cut the cake perfectly, ensuring that each guest received the same amount along with their baked surprise.

Two hours passed and it was time for Ma and I to say goodbye to our guests. But not before photos were taken. Out to the front lawn we marched. There we posed before Ma’s Kodak Brownie. Group shots. Singles. Pairs of friends. Squinting into the sunshine. Shy smiles. And big grins.

It was the perfect day. Ma really knew how to throw a great party. Everyone agreed.

Thank you Ma for a lifetime of birthday cakes. I miss them dearly.

The Scrapbook Ma made for me. Kittens and yarn.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: My Mother’s Hands.

August 1, 2012 / boo king / Leave a comment

Long piano fingers so elegant and lovely.

I miss Ma. Sharing cups of tea. Or lingering conversations on a quiet summer evening. Laughing until we cried. Long walks through the neighborhood. Enjoying the pleasure of each others company. Mother and daughter stuff. All such lovely things that I cherish and hold dear. But of all those things, it is her hands that I pine for. Reach out and wish that they were resting next to mine. Hand in hand. Beautiful. Comforting. Tender. Reassuring.

Her touch was my first. My touch was one of her last.

Her fingers were long, thin and graceful. Pulsing with veins. Like indigo rivers across translucent terrain. We used to call them piano fingers because they could easily span an octave of keys. She never played an instrument. Except the music of her heart.

Her hands were hard working. Dependable and strong. They understood the connection between soap, water and a scrub brush. A dish rag and a scouring pad. Intimately. Thoroughly. Hardwood, tile, linoleum and wall to wall. Down on all fours. Scoured and cleaned. Washed and wiped. Polished and shined. Gleaming with pride.

Ma loved clean laundry. Before washing machines were automatic, she filled her wringer washer daily. Pulled her family’s clothes, piece by piece, through the hard rubber rollers. Filled her wicker basket then meticulously hung the day’s laundry on the line to dry. Wooden pegs and twisted wire. Summer or winter. Spring or autumn. The sparkling laundry fluttered and flew and often froze. Board stiff long johns and flannelette nighties. Her magical hands orchestrated it all with ease. Held it close and let it go.

Hands that could cook up a storm.

Her hands were a sight to behold in the kitchen. She cooked and baked. Stirred and tossed. Kneaded and coaxed. Folded and cut. Meals were prepared with tenderness. Cookies were baked with love. Cakes were dressed and adorned for every occasion. Table was set. Dinner was served. Dishes washed and carefully put away. Countertops glistened. The floor was swept. The refrigerator hummed with contentment. Such power in those hands.

A paint brush found its place to dwell. Between her thumb and pointer finger. Strokes and splashes across the canvas. Dabs and feather light lines. Details drawn. Smudges and smears. Oil on canvas. Flowers and trees. Fruit in bowls. The Sleeping Giant. Artistic. Expressive. Imaginative wondrous hands.

Her hands held books and magazines. On topics diverse and sundry. Her hands were eager to learn. To grasp the meaning of life. To find the truth. To seek wisdom. To scratch her head when none of it made sense.

Fabric was transformed in her hands. Curtains from calico. Tablecloths from cheerful colorful cotton. Dresses from wool or the softest silk. Jumpers from baby wale corduroy. Skirts that twirled and flared. Slacks that zipped or buttoned. Shirts were crisp or casual. A surprise dress at the end of a school day. A new wardrobe to start the year. Machine sewn. Hand stitched. Embroidered edges. Guide me home.

Hands that gripped life and love and held on tight.

The exquisite hands that caressed my newborn head. Supported me while I learned to walk. Clasped my hand on my first walk to school. Tended to my scraped knees. Wiped the tears from my eyes when my heart was torn and broken. Touched my shoulder with the language of love. Embraced. Hugged. Carried. Stroked. Hands that gripped and held on tight. To love. To life.

Young hands. Mother’s hands. Old hands. Grandma’s hands. May they reach down from heaven and touch this daughter’s heart tonight.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Countdown to Summer Vacation.

June 24, 2012 / boo king / Leave a comment

We loved to sit on our front porch in pedal pushers.

I like countdowns. Especially ones that lead up to a happy event or special occasion. Like Christmas. The birth of a child. A wedding. On New Year’s Eve I like to watch the ball drop in Times Square. All that glittery optimism and brilliant expectations for the year ahead. A fresh new start in ten New York seconds. Which could be 11 or 12 in the rest of the world given the speed with which a New York second passes. Regardless, it’s out with the old. In with the new. A reason to celebrate.

Even though it’s been decades since I was in school, one of my favorite countdowns still remains that to the start of summer vacation. There’s nothing else quite like it. For me, it even trumps counting the days until Christmas. Despite all the caroling and egg nog drinking. There’s no strings attached. Just easy breezy eagerness. And the joy of looking forward to lingering carefree days and laid-back leisure time.

Gretchen Rubin in her marvelous book “The Happiness Project” talks about the four stages of happiness, with the first one being anticipation. This notion really resonates with me. Because it goes hand in glove with countdowns. As I am counting down, I am also anticipating and picturing that some kind of wonderful about to take place. This in turn releases a bucketful of endorphins. And those make me grin like a five year old coveting an ice cream cone covered in sprinkles.

Little back story. The last month of school was both terrific and torturous. By June in Northwestern Ontario, summer had fully arrived. No longer lurking around the corner. It’s presence was fully felt. From the early morning dew to the humidity that blanketed everything long after the sun had set. The heat was relentless. Refusing to retreat. Even in the darkest hours under a cheddar colored moon. It was ever present. And after a long cold winter, we welcomed it with open windows and screens on our doors.

This time was torturous because no one wanted to be there. Not even the teachers. Everything you really needed to know was already behind you. If a teacher was bold enough to introduce something new, no one was listening. We were a clowder of cats. Completely disinterested. We may have seen her lips moving but we heard nothing. Attention spans were short. And the intake valve to our brains even shorter. There was no way anything education related was crossing the threshold to our brains. Being inside was unbearable. Being inside a classroom even worse. The sun was shining. The birds were singing. The flowers were blooming. We were all itching to get outdoors and be a part of it.

The fantastic part of that last month was the relaxed easy-going attitude of everyone. The teachers did their part. Classroom windows were flung open wide to allow summer in. The sweet smell of heat infused with intense humidity, the divine scent of freshly mowed lawns and ubiquitous odor of freshly tarred roads settled over our desks, the blackboard, the books, the collection of potted pea plants on the windowsill. It was a potent elixir that made us all positively giddy with happiness.

I like to see the world upside down and with a split.

In elementary school it was also the month of outdoor gym classes. Track and field events. Baseball games. Red white and blue hard rubber balls bounced and boinged off sun drenched brick walls. Hula hoops in neon colors sashayed around tiny waists. White chalk hopscotch art filled the sidewalks. Cartwheels. Headstands. Skipping ropes and Double Dutch. Play of all sorts was extended. And clothes were lessened. Bare legs and bare arms showing off the beginnings of suntans. Sandals and rubber flip flops. Pony tales and new summer haircuts.

In high school every opportunity to be outside was embraced. It was a time to start working on the tan. The goal was to be beach-ready when the final bell tolled. Lazy lunches and spare classes were spent languishing on the grass. P.E. classes were all about the outdoors. It was track and field season and whether you liked it or not you were out there. Running or dragging your butt around the track. Horse laughing with your friends. Good nature teasing. Disgusted by the sweating. Complaining at every turn. But secretly loving every moment.

Breakfast at one of the campsites on our Circle Route trip.

I don’t think Ma and The Old Man counted down the days until my school year ended. But they too welcomed the lazy hazy crazy days of summer. Relished the longer days and warm evenings. This meant more time for The Old Man to tend to his vegetable garden. Or umpire Little League games after supper. More time for Ma to pause and relax with a cup of tea. Go for walks or simply watch us kids play from our front porch stoop.

We weren’t big travelers. Especially going anywhere that required a plane, train or boat. But we did have an automobile. A Ford. This was all we needed to get away. The Old Man got two weeks off in the summer which was a big deal back then. During that time we’d often go camping or drive down to Duluth for a few days of shopping and sightseeing. One time we went as far as Minneapolis. And another time we drove and tented our way around Lake Superior. Doing the Circle Route was considered quite the adventure to our family. I’ll never forget the thrill of traveling the Soo Locks. Another favorite summer pastime was driving to Sibley Park, Boulevard Lake or Chippewa for a Sunday afternoon picnic and swim. Oh the picnics. How we loved those. Some planned and some spontaneous. On muggy evenings, Ma would pack up a basket of food and we would drive to Boulevard to cool down and have dinner. Who needed a pool or a summer cottage when one of the best places to swim and hang out was just twenty minutes from our house. We were blessed.

It’s been said that the family that prays together stays together. That could very well be true. But I also think that the family that plays together stays together. At least that seemed to be the case for ours. Especially in the summertime. Everyone just seemed to get along better. A bit like the way we were around Christmas time. Only the rosy glow lingered. For two solid months our spirits were raised and uplifted. Happiness hovered in the clear blue skies over Lake Superior. Washed over us in Boulevard Lake. Splashed us from behind at Sibley. Shone over the Sleeping Giant with a big yellow smile. Echoed across Ouimet Canyon. Shouted from the top of Mount McKay. And giggled inside a tent pitched in the backyard at 204.

It’s June and summer beckons. Calls me back to that place. I count down.

My Thing About God