The Food of Our Families

So the holidays are over, and the steady, but long, slow, and cold march towards spring has begun. I know many of you have been enjoying (or, if you love winter, mourning) an indecently mild season. Here in the far north, we too enjoyed a delayed onset of real winter weather, but the full-on deep freeze did arrive a few weeks ago. It will most certainly remain for months yet.

In our house, we're keeping our spirits high and the mood festive by keeping the kitchen cranking despite the holidays having now passed. I've decided, in these dark cold days, the best thing I can do to help my family feel cozy, happy, and close to each other, is make homemade food that engages them and contributes to them (whether they realize it consciously or not) feeling nourished and cared for.

Who isn't happy when baking cookies????

For me, preparing food is an act of love. The quality of that food is, admittedly and inevitably, also an expression of how chaotic the day has been: "Well, swimming lessons this afternoon, so cold leftovers and dried-out bread tonight kids!" But that's life, and that's okay. Whenever possible, though, our food is made from scratch, with our hands, and with careful attention to nutrition, cost, enjoyability, and overall experience--a conscious and deliberate expression of consideration and caring for each other.

David helping put the bread in the oven.

I'm sure I'm by no means alone in equating cooking with showing love. In fact, I'd guess most people, at least to some extent, must view food and cooking this way. After all, eating is one of those few things we absolutely must do, and ensure those less independently able around us do, multiple times each day. The only other thing I can think of that has this level of necessity and frequency is elimination (yes, I'm talking about peeing and pooing) and, although some people may disagree with me (you're sick, people, sick!) that activity has far less potential for deep enjoyment and communal sharing than eating has. It, therefore, makes sense that, practically from the moment of our birth, we weave highly personal meaning and symbolism into food and eating, much of that meaning relating to love, nurturing, and family.

For many of us, the holidays are certainly when that meaning and symbolism becomes most deliberate and prominent. Burdened much of the time by too-busy lives, time constraints force us into allowing both food provisioning and family interactions to become perfunctory. The holidays give us a chance for slowing down and reconnecting. And many of us do that by, among other things, reaching into our culinary roots and carrying on family food traditions. In our house, for example, we welcomed in 2016 with olliebollen (a Dutch version of donuts eaten on my husband's side of the family) and cider donuts (the type of donuts traditionally eaten on my side of the family).

Happy 2016!

This refocusing and remembering during the holidays is wonderful, important, and certainly not to be diminished or dismissed. But, nevertheless, throughout this holiday season, I spent a lot of time thinking about how fortunate I was, as a child, to grow up in a household where a stream of homemade food wasn't just a holiday event. Special holiday foods most certainly do stand out in my memories: sea-foam candy, chocolate-covered peanut butter balls, frosted and sprinkled sugar cookies, apricot jewels, and powdered hickory sticks, all marched forward from the kitchen in a steady, sugary stream as Christmas approached.

A smaller work space, a greater level of disorganization . . . 

. . . but otherwise just like we used to make with Mom.

Well, almost just like we used to make with Mom: Owen decided it would be more fun to ditch
the cookie cutters and go freehand to make a map of Alberta. Those are Edmonton, Calgary, the major highways,
and the oil sands all represented in Christmas sprinkles. How educational yet festive!

But, although the stream of homemade food was decidedly more sugary during the holidays, that constant flow of creations from my mother's kitchen was a year-round event. Especially in my early childhood, virtually everything, from bread to spaghetti sauce, cookies to fried fish, was made from scratch. As an adult looking back, and as a parent and partner thinking about my own family's daily nourishment, I feel deeply blessed that homemade food was so central to daily life.

And it wasn't just the fact that our food was homemade that made it so special. It was also . . .  adventurous. Not adventurous in a "foodie culture" and frequent-restaurant-goer sort of way. Adventurous in a live-off-the-land, do-it-yourself, homegrown sort of way.

My parents were deeply committed, not just to making homemade food, but to using what you have, making the most of what you've got, rejecting an ever-more consumerist lifestyle and instead recognizing the resources and potential bounty already at your fingertips--and they were constantly putting physical labour and elbow grease into making that potential bounty a reality. Back-to-the-lander and hippie tomes like The Natural Foods Cookbook, The Moosewood Cookbook, and one (I wish I could remember the title!) with recipes for beaver, porcupine, and woodchuck graced our shelves, and creations from these books and from our land graced our table. Like other kids, we were accustomed to things like beef, chicken, and pork (from the grocery store) for dinner. But we were equally accustomed to arrivals like venison, rabbit, goose, and squirrel on the plate. In those early days of my parents "homesteading," if it was available on the land, and it could be eaten, it was likely to appear baked, broiled, or fried.

Cute, right? Also delicious fricasseed.

Of course, some of the live-off-the-land experiments were more successful than others. Family lore tells me there was once a failed ("creepy" is the word my mother uses) experiment with starlings that everyone would sooner forget (something had to be done about the vermin threatening the fruit crops!!!). I was too young to recall, or perhaps I've blocked it from my memory completely, but as far as I know, small birds never arrived at the dinner table again.

Don't be fooled. This guy's apparently nothing but bones.

In addition to the adventurous approach with wildlife, numerous experimental meals came from whatever was the current bumper crop in the garden. This was excellent when the bumper crop was tomatoes (yeah! spaghetti sauce!), not quite as excellent when the bumper crop was spaghetti squash or, inevitably, zucchini. I recall looking askance at dishes like baked spaghetti squash and stuffed monster zucchini. Although we children found these dishes rather non-delicious, my memory (perhaps faulty) is that we ate them, and on some level appreciated them, anyway.

These zucchini have nothing on those of my childhood.
While most people malign zucchini generally, and huge, monster zucchini especially, I strive to carry on the tradition of growing ridiculously huge, nearly impossible to eat, zucchini.
After all, from a kid's point of view, what fun is a 5-inch zucchini?
If it's to be any fun at all, it must at least be the size of your leg.

Other contributions from our land to our table were far less experimental . . . and far more undeniably delicious! My dad kept honey bees, and I remember the amazing smell of hot metal, melting wax, and burning honey that's produced as an uncapping knife slices the top layer of wax from the comb and the dark honey begins to ooze. This smell is seared into my memory beside images of my father looking ready to land on the moon in his beekeeper's suit, smoke puffing from the aluminum smoker, and more troubling but equally fascinating, my father walking up to me in the orchard with foaming blotches of baking soda and toothpaste plastering his neck, arms, and hands (the result of a honey-collection effort going terribly awry) .

A potentially safer method of obtaining sweet stuff was via the plentiful maple trees. One year, when I was very young, a deal was struck with the neighbours. I remember trudging with my father through the snowy forest on a neighbour's property while taps were screwed into the trunks of the big, sleeping trees and white, plastic buckets were hung beneath. Sometime later (days? weeks?), we returned to collect the buckets. My memory wants to add our brown-bodied, black-maned horses, Sixer and Justa, to this image. I see them plowing through the snow, shaking their long manes and pulling a cart filled with buckets of water-clear liquid behind. But I'm sure this is a manufactured memory--a product of years of studying a painting that hung on our living room wall: a flannel-shirted, bearded man leading his team of horses through the snowy forest collecting maple buckets. But, regardless of the means, our real-life buckets were hauled home (probably in the back of a pickup truck) and poured into a giant metal pan that seemed large enough to boil a horse . . . well, a goat at least . . . over a raging fire. I remember a small crowd of adults I did not know gathered round this operation, an operation that was nearly too hot to approach, and hours and hours of that winter day burned away. At the end of all the pouring, burning, smoking, and boiling, a few small jars of dark maple syrup were sealed and, I assume, shared around.

--sorry, no photo here. these were the days of big cameras and kodak film. it's unlikely anyone hauled out a camera to snap a picture, but if anyone did, it's certainly buried in a shoebox and long lost.--

But it wasn't just my parents who were instilling a land-based, do-it-yourself approach to food. There was also my older sister's obsession with foraging for wild, edible plants. She made bitter and zinging salads of dandelions, violet greens, and sorrels. We regularly ventured up the dirt road to pluck the spicy red wintergreen berries from the dark, rambling patch on the far side of the garden fence. She gave me a good case of hives one time with a sumac tea that she insisted was from an edible type of sumac. On another occasion, I joined her on a tuber-digging expedition. The objects of our hunt were the daylily patch by the driveway and the cattails growing in the ditch down the road. The plan was to submerge the tiny tubers and rhizomes in water and pummel them, which we did with a rock in a wooden bowl. This pounding was meant to release the starches, and the water would wash the starches free of the roots' tough, fibrous strings. We would then let the water evaporate, leaving the starches behind. We were making flour of course (of course!), and after a day of hard labour, we had a whole tablespoon of daylily/cattail flour to show for our efforts. I believe it was dumped into the next batch of muffins so all our hard work wouldn't be completely wasted.

All-in-all, Libal dining was not a simple meat and potatoes affair. It was a way of life. Sometimes it was refined. Sometimes it was frontiersy. Sometimes it was scrappy and nutritionally suspect. But it was usually meaningful, often loving, and almost always interesting and engaging.

Now, for my own kids, although I suppose it's good there's no monstrous gander with a six-foot wingspan waiting to attack them as they venture into the backyard, I do deeply wish there were chickens and honey bees outside the back door. I wish there were acres of apple, plum, and cherry trees to pick from, fields of wild strawberries to forage and turn into jam, and forests harbouring secretive edibles waiting to be explored and discovered.

But few of us are lucky enough to grow up with this type of field-to-table privilege. Maybe my kids will have the chance to experience it one day. But, if not, I'm grateful that I at least have the ability to give them the experience of a warm and working kitchen, with homemade food marching out of it to wrap them in love, nourishment, and family tradition. Let this carry us through to the first hopeful shimmerings of spring and new plants ready to creep up from the ground and towards our table.

Boys! Supper's ready!

Engage.

Mom Break - Do It!

I’m on a mom break. How luxurious! And how desperately needed!!! I am sitting blissfully alone (except for the other cafe-goers) at a lovely little vegetarian and vegan cafe, The Clever Rabbit, that I had no idea existed and only discovered as I was walking to check out a different new and promising-looking destination in Edmonton, Barking Buffalo Cafe.

Unfortunately, the Barking Buffalo, awesome-writer's-hangout though its name implies, turns out really to be much more clothing store than cafe, and after waiting a few minutes at the counter listening to a clothing peruser wax long on the buxomness of his wife and his concern for the fit of the article he was considering, and observing the only employee first paw leisurely through shirts then stroll to the back, presumably to look for other sizes, and eyeing the few tiny tables nested between displays of shirts and pillows, I decided this might not be quite the atmosphere I was looking for to enjoy my long-anticipated mom break. I may return at some point to the Barking Buffalo. They had some interesting textiles, and I'm intrigued by the idea of locally produced clothing. But today I'm looking for coffee and food and a peaceful place to blog for the first time in eight months.

And it turns out The Clever Rabbit is just what I was looking for. The lights are a little glaring, but the Winter Soy Latte is lovely, the music has been soothing and enjoyable so far, the very friendly co-owner (I presume) is heartwarming to watch as he walks his two-month-old baby in and out of the kitchen while delivering food and managing the cash one-handed, and the salt and pepper shakers are ceramic rabbits! Perfect!

I am eagerly anticipating carrot ginger soup and red lentil curry . . . to be eaten leisurely, thoughtfully, and alone. This hasn't happened for me since early July. That's four straight months of uninterrupted mom time, meaning that in the last four months, I have not enjoyed one single daytime hour without at least one child present with me.

Awesome guys! But in all good things, a level of moderation is required.

Okay, I'm exaggerating a tiny bit: Last week I did have a fifteen-minute stretch alone as I entrusted the little boys to their big brother and raced down the street to the grocery store for basil so that I could make pesto pasta for dinner. But, you know, I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that running in and out of the grocery store that's two-minutes down the street, worrying the whole time that perhaps you made the wrong parenting call by leaving the four and five year olds in the hands of their ten-and-a-half year old brother rather than pack them all in the car and trek them down the street and through the store for basil, does not exactly qualify as a "mom break" or "time to yourself."

But since I opened the topic, I will also go out on a limb and acknowledge that perhaps this was indeed a poor parenting decision. Chris definitely did not support this action of rogue parenting and was horrified to hear I left the children alone for fifteen minutes. For anyone else who is worried, if it helps, I returned home to find the house still standing, no one fighting, no one injured, and Owen helpfully wiping his smallest brother's bum and leading his middle brother in cleaning up the little pee accident that occurred when an extra-tricky pants fastener couldn't be negotiated quite in time. I had told Owen on my way out the door that he wouldn't get paid for this short "babysitting" stint (an expectation that may have been set when we discussed recently that, once he's a little bit older, he can take a babysitting course and make money babysitting), but I reneged on that as soon as I walked in the door and discovered him managing such heavy lifting as poo and pee clean up with both dedication and good humour. I felt a little guilty for leaving him in charge, gave him a toonie, and told him how proud I was of how responsibly he'd handled the situation.

. . . And the pesto pasta was enjoyed and enthusiastically devoured by all. . . except Christopher, who was out having an after-work beer with colleagues, and therefore unavailable to, you know, run to the store to grab basil.

But, anyway, back to the topic of mom break and my claim that I've had a child chained to me every waking moment for the last four months. Full disclosure again: In early October, we took a week-long vacation to the Okanagan, western Canada's wine country (I know; something sounds wrong about that phrase, but it is an amazing place and worth the trip). In the middle of the week, Chris took the boys out on his own for a whole afternoon. Unfortunately, I was so sick with morning sickness (totally a topic for a different post) that I spent the entire time sleeping. So there. Doesn't count. I wasn't awake.

And of course, there's the one-to-two hours each evening that Chris and I spend in the family room together once the children are all in bed. But, come on, really? The evening hours, when your totally exhausted, and the only thing standing between you and your bed is the knowledge that this is the ONLY time you've had all day without a child present and once you lay your head to your pillow the next thing you will see upon opening your eyes is a child standing beside your bed asking, "Mom, is it morning time yet?" and, looking at your clock, you will be forced to admit that yes, indeed, it is morning time and everyone has to get up: That doesn't count either.

Oh . . . and then I guess there were those two Sundays in early September when I went to UU church by myself. Hmmm . . . I can't really think of a reason why those outings wouldn't count as a legitimate mom break . . .

But regardless! With all those disclosures made, I will declare that these last four months have been the longest stretch of (nearly) uninterrupted mom duty I have perhaps ever endured.

So, what the hell happened? Why, when we currently have no breastfed baby in the house, do I have a child chained to me seemingly every waking moment? Is Chris laid up in traction from a horrible accident? Is a child terribly ill and requiring round-the-clock care? No. It seems to be the simple reality of stay-at-home mom life with a kindergarten and a pre-school age child.

For the bulk of July and August, the kids and I were packed, with Charles the dog, in the Hyundai Elantra on a giant cross-country road trip. Over the course of 6+ weeks we covered over 5000 miles trekking from Edmonton to Green Bay, Green Bay to Muskoka, Muskoka to Ottawa, and back again. This trip, with highlights like Bay Beach, Lake Michigan, Grandma and Grandpa's cottage, underground caves, Parliament Hill, the Canadian War Museum, and more was great for everyone, but after a few weeks, I have to admit the constant togetherness and close quarters of the Elantra and shared bedrooms was starting to get to me.

The Road Trip Crew

Then we returned home, and soon school began. Now, every weekday, Owen and Peter head off to school while David stays with me. Then, since Edmonton still operates on half-day kindergarten, David and I trek off to the school (which is on the other side of the city) and do a switch-a-roo; we fetch Peter from kindergarten, hang around and have our lunch, and then drop David at afternoon preschool. Peter and I pass the hours together until pick-up time, and then fetch David and Owen. The four of us trek back home again, and homework, viola lessons, and general chaos ensue while I make dinner.

With a sixth grader, a morning kindergartener, and an afternoon preschooler,
we are making this journey back and fourth three times a day. Ugh.

This (rather humdrum) routine leaves me always with at least one child . . . always. And, for the last few months, weekends haven't been any better. All week long, while I'm stuck in the car driving back and forth to the school, nothing at the house is getting done. By the time the weekend rolls around, I feel there's no other choice but to spend the entire weekend triaging our domestic situation . . . children present of course.

After a couple months of this, I can tell you, unequivocally, that constant close proximity to your children is a bad idea. I know I'm revealing something really earth shattering here: parents need a break.

I know this because, over the last few weeks, something very troubling has develop. I cannot enjoy my children. Funny antics that should make me laugh, chaos that should make the house feel full of life, questions that deserve an answer, conversations that should be a joy to have -- it's all annoying the hell out of me. I don't want to talk. I don't want to listen. I don't want to be touched. I have no patience. I feel constantly tense, crowded, frustrated, and annoyed. I'm an unpleasant person with no emotional resilience. And, frankly, in such a state, I'm a pretty rotten parent.

And it's my fault. I haven't prioritized being alone. I haven't made the time. I haven't asked for help. There are lots of legitimate reasons, from dirty dishes to piles of laundry to gloomy days to total exhaustion to not wanting to further burden an equally exhausted partner. But those reasons don't change the fact that I'm becoming less and less able to cope as a parent, and it's not fair to the people I'm parenting.

Who can decide to leave the house when the living room looks like this?

But, great news!!! How often do you have a situation where, in order to do the best thing and the right thing for someone else, you have to do something nice for yourself??? Pretty awesome! So I'm going to enjoy the rest of this latte, eat this beautiful, healthy food that has arrived at my table (without me having to cook it), and, instead of feeling guilty and selfish for spending this time alone and away, I'm going to feel a sense of accomplishment for taking the time to do something for myself that, in the long run, is in the best interest of us all.

Worth Waking Up For

Right now, I'm doing something I haven't done in months: starting my day at 4 a.m.

By 10 a.m., I'm going to feel this. And by the 3 p.m., it's really going to hurt. But right now, it's luxuriously peaceful:

Nothing is stirring out there.

Getting up at 4 is something I started when I was still working for Yahoo. At 4 a.m. (mountain time), even the NY office wasn't online yet, and I'd have some quiet time to catch up. But better yet, it was a chance for some solitude before the BHE. That stands for Boy-Household Eruption -- it's an explosive event that begins daily anywhere between 6:45 and 7:30 a.m. and enters it's cool-down phase 12 hours later.

I've now had the little boys out of daycare and been on full-time mom duty for two months. I had designs on being "the best mom ever," but I have to admit, it's hard to maintain one's sanity with the BHE going on all day long. Getting them out of the house to the library, or to rec centre activities, or even just to the grocery store, definitely helps. But right outside our front door, there's a giant barrier that sucks a big percentage of the joy from every out-of-the-house, should-be-fun activity, leaving that activity just a withered husk of we-have-to-do-this-because-it's-good-for-us.

That barrier is called bitter Alberta winter. It requires every inch of child skin be covered, preferably with something big and bulky, before they walk out the door, every kilometre of snow-covered, ice-slicked road be traversed via prayers that you may arrive at your destination without getting stuck or rear-ended, and that a huge portion of daily activities be conducted in the dark.

So, this time of year, especially if you have little kids, virtually every aspect of life outside the house begins to feel like one long, exhausting, unpleasant, and potentially dangerous chore. Many days, we just stay home. And on the positive side, there has been some great industriousness at home:

Mom's Industriousness: 

Building decorative trim for all the downstairs windows.

Peter's Industriousness: 

Sanding under his mother's supervision.

David's Industriousness: 

Waiting until Mom is out of the room, then finding a sharpie he stashed somewhere.

Mom's Industriousness:

Turning spent barley from Chris's brewing into bread.

Peter's Industriousness: 

"Let me help! Let me help!"

David's Industriousness:

"Mom, Peter, look. I'm a zombie."

But, even with opportunities for industry all over this renovation zone, it's hard to keep the boys cooped up all day long. Doing so causes the BHE to become louder, and more violent, and more insanity inducing, as the day progresses.

So over these last two months, adapting to stay-at-home-mom life, there has been no solitude. And no writing. Of course, I've had the intention of writing many times. Blog posts like, "Discovery!!! Good Sushi Exists in Alberta!!!" and "Sooooo . . . They're Actually Picky Because of Me" have begun in the draft folder, and then stayed there.

But, in truth, my lack of writing isn't because I'm too busy or because life with the boys at home is too crazy (although it is pretty crazy!). It's because (in case you couldn't tell from the above) I'm depressed.

Since it's February, I figure many of you can relate. Chris jokes that I'm solar powered, and it's true! Since about December 10th, entering into the truly darkest days of the year, I've had energy and enthusiasm for virtually nothing.

Thankfully, today, the sun will rise at 7:48 a.m. and set at 5:47 p.m. I say "thankfully" because that's a huge improvement from two months ago. On December 21st, the sunrise/sunset times looked like this:

That's a grand total of 7 hours 27 minutes of daylight.

And there are other positive signs on the horizon, too. Today, the temperature is supposed to go above freezing!!! Thank goodness, because in these, the darkest of winter dark days, I've found myself, on almost a daily basis, standing in the kitchen declaring (usually just in my head), "I can't do this again. I can't take another winter. This has to be the last."

Perhaps the lengthening days and promise of warmer temperatures are why, last night, I was finally able to steel my resolve and set my alarm for 4 a.m. Because, I told myself, sometimes you need to take action. You need to do something to break the cycle, to start the day off differently, to force the change you need.

Dear Happy Light,
It's not you; it's me. You've been great.
I just feel unfulfilled somehow -- like I need something more.

I can't force the sun to rise any earlier. I can't force the temperature to climb so I can kick my wild little kids outside, and I can't force those wild little kids to spend two hours drawing peacefully and silently so that I can find some sanity. But I can force myself to get out of bed and create my own space for solitude.

So 4 a.m. . . . yes, it is crazy. But it is also so wonderfully peaceful. And not only am I doing something I haven't done in weeks -- writing -- I'm also enjoying this:

A really great cup of coffee . . . completely by myself. It turns out, that was worth waking up for.

The Importance of the Vessel

Here's something no one knows about me. Chris, if he is very, very observant of my daily patterns might know it . . . but I don't think he does.

Anyone who knows me, does know that coffee is extremely, perhaps unreasonably, important to me. They may know, too, that since Chris became an avid home brewer and undeniable beer expert, beer has become, if not deeply important to me, at least highly respected and greatly enjoyed. A few of you likely also know that I love bowls and treasure a small collection. But here's what perhaps no one but me knows:

If I am kicking off my morning coffee routine with drip coffee, I always drink it from this. This is the only suitable vessel for my cup of drip coffee:

A set of four, given to me by my mother, made at Mud & Fire Studio in Little Meadows, PA, my hometown.

If, instead of drip coffee, I decide (as has been the habit of late) on coffee made in my Italian stovetop espresso maker, then I always drink it from this:

One of two Denby mugs given to us as a wedding gift by friends who now, like us, have three kids, live far away, and who we never get to see.

If Nespresso with cream, this is my cup of choice:

Mass produced somewhere; purchased at a mall in a "mom needs some work clothes and some alone time" outing. It's actually a set of measuring cups, but I thought they deserved to have something wonderful savoured from them rather than just dumping their measured contents and being tossed aside.

But if I'm frothing or foaming milk to turn that Nespresso into a latte or cappuccino, then I will always choose this:

Purchased from Ikea because it was the perfect size for a cappuccino and the perfect simplicity to let something wonderful just be what it is.

Just about every evening, when the kids are all finally in bed, I make myself a hot chocolate--not one of those sicky-sweet-yet-terribly-thin instant mixes. No. Mine is cocoa, milk, and honey warmed on the stovetop, and I always, always, always drink it from this:

Also mass produced and purchased at a mall (the same "mom needs clothes and alone time" outing referenced above). What can I say? The design strikes me as a little bit Russian, a little bit Asian, a little bit 70s Retro, a little futuristic. I love it!

When I paw through cupboards, I can't believe the amount of tea piled in my home. I don't drink it very often, but when I do, I sip it from here:

Two mugs that came to us when Grandma Kay was moved out of her house and downsized to an apartment. Origin unknown, but I love the understated beauty of these and imagine them to be some unappreciated masterpiece that I alone see the greatness in.

Wine is another rarity, but when I do pour myself a glass, it's always in one of these:

Actually, this is sort of a lie. I always drank wine from another set of wine glasses, but the last one broke in a sink full of dishes right before Christmas. This new, equally wonderful set, was one of Chris's Christmas presents to me, and this is now the new wine vessel.

Beer is not a rarity at all, and most frequently, I pour that beer into one of these:

When Chris really got into craft beer and homebrewing, the search for good tulip glasses (that would not cost us $100 for a set of four from The Bay) went on and on . . . and on. And then I happened to walk by a specialty kitchen store on the last day of their going-out-of-business sale. Practically the only things left on the shelves were these tulip glasses. "Chris! Look what I found!" I called as I walked in the door. I was a hero!!!

But if it's a Hefeweisen or a west coast pale or something very crisp and clean. Then I'll pour it into this:

From the first set of beer glasses I bought for Chris in the great beer glass search; it's the soul survivor now, so must never be left to languish in a sink full of dishes.

But this . . . particularity?. . . peculiarity?. . . of mine doesn't just apply to beverages. Even on a busy weeknight, it at all possible, I serve dinner, not from the pans it was cooked in, but from something like this:

From an antique store in Wisconsin.

or this:

From a tree somewhere.

or this:

A wedding gift from another close friend we now rarely get to see.

or this:

Another antique, purchased in Wisconsin.

And even our compost convalesces, and then journeys to its final resting place, in this:

From Lindgren Pottery near Huntsville, Ontario and a decision Chris and I made to prioritize art and beauty in our lives.

I seem to be somewhat OCD about the above (and perhaps a few other things in life, too). It's really not that I just prefer to have drip coffee in a Mud & Fire mug or my hot chocolate in my Russian/Asian/Retro mug. If these things are dirty, I won't just say "Oh well," and grab another mug. I will locate the missing object, wash it, and then proceed with the treasured routine. Even when I am visiting family or traveling, and these chosen objects are not available, I seek out the "right" vessel from what they have available . . . and if there is nothing "right," well, it kind of bothers me. I'll still drink my coffee or beer or whatever, of course, but the experience is just not . . . whole. 

Perhaps I get this from my mother. If you know my mom, really, really know her, you probably know, or have heard someone say, "Well, Joyce is very . . . particular." And its true. She's also very aesthetic and creative and loves beautiful objects and has a close connection with things that are important to her. I love this about her, and I like to think I have some of these tendencies as well.

A few of my mother's more playful things.

It would be easy to think we are this way because we are shallow people, putting far too much value in, and assigning far too much meaning to, goods and products and material things.

Well, maybe. But I really don't think so. Chris and my other family members might laugh at me when they read this, but the truth is, I really don't care that much about things. 

. . . Except for the things I care about. Those things, I care a lot about. And most of them seem to be related to those fundamental pulses that the rest of our daily lives are oriented around: the morning waking ritual, the family sharing of food, the evening relaxation.

Now, I'm not going to go out on a limb and say that the flavor of my coffee or beer or food actually tastes objectively different because it was served in one of these objects I seem to care so much about. But I will say with absolute certainty that my morning coffee, our family meals, my evening hot chocolate are altogether experientially different for the vessels in which they are served.

And this experiential difference is not simply because of the way these objects look, although in all of the above cases, I do think they look very nice and very much enjoy looking at them. Nor is it due to some symbolic value assigned to these objects because of the individual stories of how they came into our possession and the connections to other people in our lives they therefore represent, although that is also certainly important to me and a joy to remember. But (and here you might think I'm a bit on the wacky side--but, hey, I can only drink my coffee out of one particular cup, so maybe so) for me, the experiential difference comes from the objects themselves and something intrinsic, yet mysterious and ultimately unknowable, carried in them from their creation.

Each of these objects--even the mass produced ones--comes from a person, an individual, a creative human. It also comes from a human craft, tradition, history. Someone, somewhere conceived of this object, imagined its design, drawing both on their own creativity and on accumulated knowledge and tradition to do so. In some of these cases, that same person carried out its creation with their own hands, investing, immersing, and expressing themselves in creating the object long before I ever engaged in the experience of using it. I think objects carry something of their creators in them; they are of them, and when using these objects, we are connected in some way to their creators, even though we cannot know those individuals. We are connected, too, to those other creators who contributed to developing that craft, that human tradition, over time.

And for some of these objects, all of the thought and care and tradition of the design is, somewhat amazingly, put forward, not for the object itself, but to pay homage to the creation it will hold and to enhance that creation for the person partaking in it. These are both beautiful in their simplicity and brilliant in their form, form that at once cradles and offers up the beauty and artistry of another. I appreciate this attention to design meant for honoring other crafts every time I look, sniff, sip, and marvel at one of Chris's fermented creations and wonder at his ability to explore, learn, analyze, experiment, and participate in a craft people have been developing for millennia.

I certainly don't consciously think about this every single time I drink my coffee, pass a bowl of food around the table, or lift the lid to drop carrot peelings into the compost. In fact, I'm not sure if I ever really consciously thought about it before writing this post. But I don't think I need to be consciously considering it to be enriched by another human's thumbprint purposefully placed where I will grip my coffee cup, another person's finger tips spun into ridges on the outside of the bowl I grip then pass to my children's waiting hands, another person's consideration and decision on the smoothness of the glaze and the swirling of the pattern across the lid I lift. Whether I'm consciously observing it our not, the experience is better, the pulses of daily life are fuller, connection is deeper, for the human hand that contributed to my small, seemingly mundane, moment of living.

Eating, drinking, breathing, sleeping, gathering our loved ones around us, nourishing them, holding them close, sharing joy with them, and doing our best to secure them: these are the unchanging things that life always has been and always will be. And while there is an impulse to categorize existence into sacred and profane, to view life as important special moments separated by long expanses of mundane, and to assign value to the rare and wonderous but to discount and discard the normal and everyday, this is a limiting and, to my mind, ultimately unfulfilling approach. Life, the sacred, the wonderous, the meaningful, is in the everyday. And those people who put such care and energy, such craft and artistry, into the simple creations we use for the most regular and routine activities, can help us experience something larger than the swallow of that coffee, be connected to something bigger than ourselves and that one routine moment.

So, yes, as my friends and family all know, my morning coffee is extremely, perhaps unreasonably, important to me. And so is the cup I drink it from. The experience, in its entirety, is something I savour every day, day in and day out, and no day would be quite as good, quite as fulfilling, quite as as whole, without it.

The essentials for living.

Need Last Minute Gift Ideas for a Little Boy in Your Life? . . . Also known as "Autumn Writes a Blog Post"

If you clicked on this post to get straight to those last-minute Christmas gift recommendations, better just scroll down . . . way down . . . now. 

Need a gift idea for someone like me?

If, however, you actually enjoy become mired in my ramblings while I make my way (we hope) to a point, start right here!

What? There was a faster way to get there?

Lately, we've been spending a lot more time at our local library branch (I promise this does become relevant to Christmas gift ideas . . . eventually). As some of you know, Edmonton is a boom/bust town, and the last ten years, driven by high oil prices, have been boom years. We're now in our fifth year in this city, and I have to admit, the changes over five years have been pretty dramatic, and some have clearly been for the better.

EPL - Edmonton Public Library - is a prime example. When we first arrived in our new (rather crappy) neighbourhood and ventured out to our local library branch--one of the very few things within walking distance of our two-bedroom, poorly insulated, basement-flooding, formerly drug-dealer-harbouring (or so we were told) bungalow--I can't say I was very impressed. In fact, I'm pretty sure I used the library more than once as one of my examples of why cold, flora-murdering Edmonton was a generally undesirable place to live. Sorry Edmontonian friends . . . if you didn't already know I had trouble warming to this place, I guess the secret's out.

With the library, my angst started with the library card, which cost $18 and had to be renewed every year!!! What???? Even the children's card has a fee? Who ever heard of a city of a million people charging for library cards? Did they want inner city kids NOT to read? I was fairly appalled. Then there was the proof of address for obtaining the library card. Having just moved, I didn't have a qualifying proof of address yet. Ugh, this was becoming an unexpected pain in the ass.

Then there was the children's section. I was used to taking Owen to the library and having him play happily for an hour at a Thomas train table before pulling him onto my lap and reading some new books. This small (but admittedly newly and nicely renovated) branch had a lovely fish tank that captured Owen's attention for 2 to 3 minutes. But after that, he was looking for something to do. We turned to the shelves. Disappointing. I turned to the library catalogue. Also disappointing. I turned to the adult fiction shelves . . . perhaps this experience could be salvaged by finding something good for Mom to read. Hmmmm, no--no line of sight into the children's area, but I could hear the young one running amuck. No time to peruse shelves--just collect the poorly supervised child and leave.

We tried some of the children's programming as well, but after two attempts, didn't bother going back. I complained to Christopher that, if you have to shush children and ask them repeatedly to sit down to listen to the story, perhaps you've chosen a boring and age-inappropriate book and/or have unreasonable expectations for the behaviour and attention spans of the under-five age group. Likewise, if your craft involves scissors and results in the adults cutting and assembling everything while children crawl around poking each other in the eyes, perhaps it was a poor fit for the infant to 24-months program.

Yes -- EPL and I got off to a rough start, which (although I prefer not to admit it) I'm sure had at least as much to do with my expectations as their performance. But regardless, soon after our arrival in Edmonton, something interesting began to happen.

We wouldn't begin noticing it for some time, but the same month that we arrived in Edmonton, EPL launched a new and innovative marketing campaign called "Spread the Words." We took note when the clever marketing slogans took over the city buses. First things like, "We make geek chic," "Information Ninja," and "Chicks dig big brains." Then, as the library's 100-year anniversary approached in 2012, the campaign expanded. In honour of the centennial, EPL decided to offer free library cards for the year. The marketing slogans began to push the card: "This card makes you smart," and:

I like to think I'm fairly immune to marketing messages. Ummm, but I'm not. From the start, the clever, snappy messages had me smiling whenever the Edmonton city bus rolled by, and before long, they had me, I had to admit it, generally feeling kind of warm and fuzzy toward the library. But, as fun as the messaging was, the thing that really turned me around was the free card. "Yes!" I thought, "Sanity! Positive evolution! Much needed change!"

We began returning to the library (by this time, we had moved out of the health-hazard bungalow, so it was a different branch now) and found the changes were more than nice words. The new website was solid and very easy to use. The collection still frequently left me disappointed, and when books I wanted to read were in the collection, they were never at our branch. But the interlibrary loan system proved awesome. With just one click on the new, user-friendly website, a desired book was delivered in just days. And, perusing the catalog, it was clear a huge investment in e-books was unfolding. Personally, I still wanted to hold a board and paper book, but I couldn't deny this was a wise way to exponentially expand the collection, and make it widely available to the inhabitants of a high-sprawl city, on a limited budget.

And now I had not one little boy to educate and entertain, but three!!! We looked again into the children's programming and found options like "Lego at the Library," "iPad fun for Kids," and "Tween Lounge." The only downside to these programs? The demand was so high, many times you had to arrive at least 30 minutes early to get a spot. A bit of a pain for me, but undoubtedly a very positive sign for the library. And other changes that might seem small made a big difference, too. Movies, games, and music no longer required going up to a desk and waiting for the disk to be retrieved from its safe location. These multi-media offerings were now right out on the regular shelves and available for the fast, self-serve check out like the books. And they also no longer had the short borrowing periods that, at least for our family, always resulted in late returns and hefty fines. Due to these changes, we've learned that the boys of this family really like to fall asleep to Chopin, but no one in this house cares much for Vivaldi.

EPL had us back, and now the library is a regular part of our routine. Last week, I decided it was time for Peter and David to have their own library cards instead of using Owen's, and it turns out, even though the library's centennial is now long past, the cards are still free. You can also pick from the various snappy slogans, and the card comes with a bag for carrying your books. But far more important than all of that, was the experiential difference this time around. The last time I signed up for a library card with EPL, I felt like I was being regarded as some sort of criminal as I explained I had no proof of address yet and that, yes, my son is really my son, we just have different last names.

This time, the enthusiastic young man assisting us distracted my crying three year old by showing him he could choose whatever colour he wanted for his library card and allowing him to march his new card to the self check out and play around scanning it while we corrected the card information. "Oh, their last name is different than the one on your account? Woops! No problem. That will just take me a second to change. Sorry about that. How is the last name spelled please?"

A new EPL card then.

New EPL cards now.

Cards all set, the busting-at-the-seams four and three years olds scanned their books and DVDs excitedly . . . multiple times, which did not cause any hiccups in the new and apparently very advanced checkout systems. And as we headed home with our loot, I thought about how different our Edmonton Public Library experience was now and how, it seemed to me, that what started as a small "Spread the Words" campaign had not only inspired library users to think about the library as more than just "a library", but had actually inspired the library employees and administration themselves to look at their library and their jobs with fresh eyes. Ultimately, they did not just rebrand the EPL; they reinvented it. And this year, the transformation was recognized, not just by families like ours in Edmonton, but by Library Journal magazine when they named Edmonton Public Library the 2014 Library of the Year. Congrats EPL.

Now we have a regular routine that includes discovering new books at the library and, upon reading them, taking a boy vote on whether the book was "just okay" or "super duper great"! The super duper greats are chosen for bed time again and again and, occasionally, cause a few tears when it's time for them to go back to the library. And here, dear readers who did not scroll straight to the Christmas recommendations, we finally get to those last-minute gift ideas for little boys. Books make great gifts. Here are some of the "Super Duper Great!" discoveries we've made lately at our local library that we've liked so much, we want to share them with you. Maybe you'll decided to share them as well:

Boy Pick #1: Shark and Lobster's Amazing Undersea Adventure by Viviane Schwartz 

I love kids books that the parents can also enjoy. This is now one of our all-time favourites, so much so that having it at the local library wasn't enough. We had to have a copy for always.

Boy Pick #2: Thelonius Monster's Sky-High Fly Pie by Judy Sierra

Another one that both the kids and the parents can love. We had to read this one again and again . . . and again.

Boy Pick #3: Ugly Pie by Lisa Wheeler

Now if you're slightly dirty minded like my husband and I (apparently) are, you'll probably do a little adult snickering to each other while reading this bed time story to the kids. Luckily, it's toddlers, not teenagers, enjoying this rollicking rhyme, so they won't catch on to why the parents seem to think this story is extra funny. One word of caution, however, if you're concerned for your child's language development. This story has incorrect grammar usage that drove Chris and I crazy and that we felt the need to correct while reading.

Boy Pick #4: My Monster Mama Loves Me So by Laura Leuck

Just plain fun and great.

Boy Pick #5: The Fort that Jack Built by Boni Ashburn

Now as far as parent ratings go, I rated this one as just okay. But, very surprisingly, parents apparently don't always know what kids like. Peter wanted to read this one over and over, and in the mornings, a lot of fort construction occurred in the living room before this book went back to the library shelves.

Boy Pick #6: Epossumondas Plays Possum by Coleen Salley

This one was another surprise to me. The illustrations were super cute, but the book looked so text heavy, I didn't think the boys would stay engaged. Wrong again! Silly Epossumondas turns out to be quite captivating. However, we did make some grammatical adjustments while reading this one to the boys as well.

 Boy Pick #7: Goldilocks and the Three Dinosaurs by Mo Willems

Hahahahaha. Owen thought this one should be rated higher up the list.

Boy Pick #8: The Somethingosaur by Tony Mitton 

Just a sweet story that everyone enjoyed.

Boy Pick #9: The Beasties by Jenny Nimmo

What? There's really something under the bed? The boys listened with rapt attention to the very end.

And if one of the books above doesn't strike you as quite enough for a Christmas gift, we'd recommend throwing in a library card.