Three

Years. And tonight the tears fall cos I suddenly feel a visceral pain tighten around my heart. Hot tears fall for these 3 long years worth of You we’ve missed. Three years of little girl hugs, of little girl laughs, of being able to comfort and love you every day. 3 years is so long. But also it feels like yesterday that I hugged you goodbye and left with tears in my eyes. 

Some say a picture is worth 1000 words. But I’d trade the few precious pictures I have of you for 1000 words exchanged with you. I wish I had a do over of the 5 years I knew you. Not becos I regret a single moment of loving You, but becos I would give almost anything to still have You. 

Three. Years. And when a friend and I commiserate about losing a Sister, or, in my case, Two, both our eyes glisten with tears and our voices kinda choke to a stop as we still try to adapt to our lives sans Sisters.  

Nostalgic, Very

My husband and I stopped at Dairy Queen the other day. You know, the Queen of all fast food restaurants that we systematically avoid at almost all cost, the one with mediocre burgers, mediocre fries, the famous home of Orange Julius, that place. Like I said, we are mostly fast food snobs and will rather pack a lunch than eat at A&W or similar. But this day we stopped at Dairy Queen. 

For ice cream. I ordered a cookie dough blizzard. I know that a commercially mass produced ice-cream with hopefully salmonella-free chunks of plastic-tasting beigeness is actually not that appetizing. But to me it was delicious. I almost always order that same thing if I go to DQ for ice cream, which is, I have to admit, pretty rare. And as we drove down the road silently enjoying our ice-cream I realized why I like this ice-cream. This is the ice-cream of my childhood. Those familiar flavours on my tongue invoke the emotions of my childhood, ones that, at the time, I was not actively aware of or able to articulate. Things like inattention to the worries and responsibilities of adulthood and  visceral joy as yet unadulterated by the sorrows of the world. Things like a deep delight over a simple shared cookie dough blizzard. 

When we were kids my dad used to take us for ice cream as a treat. When we were really little we’d order one blizzard for every 2 or 3 kids and then spend the next 15 minutes arguing good naturedly (as I remember it; contact my mom and dad to confirm) about who was taking more bites and complaining that we weren’t getting enough chunks of cookie dough. 

For some reason it’s small routine moments that bring back memories from my childhood and, with each of those memories, comes a flood of the emotions that went along with the scene . Here’s a few more that I’ve been thinking of lately. 

My 10yo brother in law asked me the other day to tell him about the creepiest thing I had ever heard. Without even thinking, I told him that an elephant trumpeting into the twilight  had to be close to the top of that list. But there’s another thing I’ve been thinking of since then that was also creepy. Or maybe creepy isn’t the word, but, at the time, it sent shivers of fear to my very core. It was the strangest night of my teenaged life when I awoke to the sound of a newborn baby in our kitchen and got up to see my mom pacing the floor with a heartbroken baby boy who had been born hours earlier and immediately left motherless. The moment I heard that cry, before I even stumbled out of my bedroom to investigate the cause, I knew something horrible had happened.  To this day, the cry of an occasional newborn will elicit the memory of what was perhaps the first time I experienced emotions in such intensity: fear, the key emotion, with confusion and awe and heartbreak close behind. 

A certain smoke smell on the air in fall transports me to stolen moments behind the garden shed, covertly stuffing dry leaves into  the coals from Bambi Mavuto’s morning tea fire, trying to coax it back to life for some mud and water baking project. Without my mom seeing me. And when I remember this, I momentarily feel like I did then: sly and carefree and blistered from my carelessness with fire. 

Sometimes the musky sweet smell of a certain essential oil drags me back to sultry African nights when the air in our yard was heavy with the smell of the queen of the night bushes, and my mind echoes with sleepy goodnights of leaving supper guests and the extreme joy of just being a kid growing up in Africa.

 Each of these small awakenings of my senses is so intense it can almost carry me away from reality for a second. And sometimes I let it. Cos it’s kind of nice to remember. 

From Far and Wide

..we see thee rise, the True North, strong and *free*

I grew up on these words. I mean I can’t even remember learning them; I’ve just always known them.

Canada has always been the country of dreams to me. In debates with friends from the USA I’ve never wavered in my devotion to my homeland.

When I lived in Africa as an child/adolescent/teenager I learned about racism, but I never for a second connected racism to my native land, Canada. It angered me when white people, most of whom were from the United States, were disparaging and superior. I took it personally and knew that their behaviours toward and superstitious about people of any colour but their own was stupid and horrible. It  felt like they were treating me that way. I realize now that I really did feel like I was at least somewhat black; my Malawian friends helped me feel that way, often telling me that I had a « black heart » which, to this day, is still one of the best compliments I have ever received. Racism was terrible. But at least Canadians weren’t racist.

Ten years later,  I now know that is absolutely not true. I’ve learned a lot about my country in the years since we moved back to Canada. In that time I officially quit going to school and set foot in the real world. . I became a teacher and was privileged to be able to introduce today’s children to Canada’s history -not only the history of white Canadians, but also the often unacknowledged history of the First Nations People. Unfortunately, I have witnessed racism and prejudice that had been ingrained in their brains since ? birth?

My family who, before living in Africa had been involved almost only with people similar to us, integrated into a Canadian community that involved more than people of our culture and race. Becos of this we have sometimes been held somewhat in contempt by others. I think every person in my family has been witness to unashamedly racist conversations or situations and let our anger take over in an explosive tirade of defence.

This is Canada today. A whole country of prejudice where racism not only exists but also racism against people who fight racism. How many tangled layers is there to the blanket of racism so many of us burrow our heads in ?

I love my country. I feel the freedom spoken about in our beautiful national anthem. But not everyone does. And not everyone has. I’m celebrating Canada Day this year in contemplation and not so much celebration.

Disclaimer. I do not know what racism feels like. I only know that I have witnessed it for years and I am so happy that Canadians are finally starting to acknowledge it.  I want to be part of the solution and not part of the problem.

Tortilla Making = Life Lessons

I supervised 2 small cooks yesterday, One of them my 9 year old brother-in-law, A, and the other our 7 year old niece, N. They are both great workers; A is an extraordinary baker and cook for his age and always begs to bake when he comes over.  N, on the other hand, had never made tortillas before but she does seem to know her way around the kitchen. 

These two are quite the pair.  They are best friends who spend a lot of time together and miss each other when apart. Also, they are enemies. Their unusual relationship dynamic of being the same age but one being the uncle, the other the niece maybe exacerbates their differences.. Every activity they do together is an immediate competition and each one always feels like the winner and the boss, convinced the other is slower/incompetent/a loser.

Making tortillas with them was like a marathon. Every step of the way was an argument about who was waiting on who, about who knew more about what, about what the other was doing wrong. But interestingly, and to their credit, this kept them driven. I didn’t have to stand over them saying « do this! You forgot that! » Their competition kept them on task and working well. They figured out how to take turns and get things done quickly but the insults and criticisms and arrogant boasting flew though between the two of them the whole time. 

I think there’s a word for this kind of relationship these days: toxic. 

In the manner of adults who aren’t parents to the children in their charge I tried to coerce them into slipping accidentally into kindness. I thought if they’d say one or two positive things they’d maybe forget their bitter competition. In the manner of adults who aren’t parents to the children their care I thot I could change them for a couple hours. Guess whether or not I succeeded. 

Last night while reflecting the events of the day in my tired Brain, I realized there were some similarities between their behaviours and some of mine. Of course their child brains don’t have the same filters and shame-settings as mine do so their actions and reactions are less tempered, but I think there are equivalents similar enough. 

Angry words do make things happen and, often, happen quickly. Honestly tho, every time, kindness would have been more effective. Another thing I observed: These kiddies were able to work well as a team while still fighting, arguing and feeling better than each other. In fact, controversy fueled their work ethic. Teamwork isn’t everything but Teamwork together with generosity are two important keys to working well together with people. ´I was wrong’ are 3 short words that can change relationships for me forever. Why are they so difficult for me to say? 

Then. The next day in our morning devotional time my husband and I read this verse which was totally along the same line as my thoughts:

“To speak evil of no man, to be no brawlers, but gentle, shewing all meekness unto all men.”

Words are so important. Tone of voice speaks volumes. Facial expressions trump all of these. Eyes are windows to the soul, don’t forget. This reminds me of a social expriment I enacted in the months before human interactions were deemed dangerous. And that is a story for another day. 

This version of My Day Making Tortillas with Kiddies and the Important Lessons on Cooperation and Communication will go up mostly unedited. Please forgive that becos it gives me an extra moment to linger under the waning midnight sunset

A Recipe

Occasionally I’ve thought of posting recipes on my blog but no food I’ve concocted (and believe me, there’s quite a bit of that) has ever jumped up and screamed ´post me!´ Til this spur of the moment pineapple salsa. Jk. It never screamed. But my taste buds might have. 

First of all. If you’re looking for gourmetness leave this page. Probably a side effect of living in the middle of nowhere, my best food often stems from less than ideal ingredients: a limp bunch of carrots leftover from last year’s harvest, something I stuck in my freezer 6 months ago and forgot about, sad lettuce rejuvenated by a dash of ice water, or the dregs of this or that spice bottle. Another result of this remote living is that my recipes tend to have to be simple or modified to use ingredients I have on hand. 

For example, this recipe has *only 2* ingredients and both of them were in less than ideal conditions when I accidentally created it. Now one more thing. before you read the recipe you need the back story. Also a disclaimer: I’m sure I’m not the first Or the last to come up with something like this but this is all my own Invention. One day I made pico to eat on our tacos and when  it was  to my tastebuds’ satisfaction I still hade a few tablespoons of chopped cilantro left on my cutting board. Becos I really didn't want it to go to waste (in late spring, pregarden, cilantro is still a precious commodity), I had to come up with a way to use it. As I wracked my brain for possible combinations I remembered my bag of frozen pineapple And then this salsa came into existence. When I served it to a crowd, several people asked for the recipe and, altho I felt a cheap telling themhow simple it was, that is the reason I decided to share it here. someone asking for a recipe that is one of the best compliments a home cook can ask for. 

Pineapple Salsa*

•2 cups pineapple (frozen or fresh is best. I don’t think canned would work well)

•3 TBSP cilantro

Chop the pineapple into bite sized pieces. I did mine fairly small which made it  ideal for sprinkling over a taco. Next, sliver the cilantro into small flakes. Mix the two together and voilà! Pineapple salsa! Sprinkle over chicken or fish tacos if you eat that sort of thing. I also recommend serving as an appetizer or party food with homemade tortilla chips. Or maybe just shoving it into your mouth plain and allowing the exotic flavours to make you imagine you’re in a tropical location instead of shivering your way through another Canadian summer. 

*I am open to name suggestions 

My Ordinary Life

An Ordinary Day

It’s a quiet day. There’s a few raindrops lingering on windows when we get up, later than usual. Cos it’s Sunday. No church for us this weekend. Our government has allowed our congregation to gather in larger numbers but we’re still not filling our building to capacity so our turn comes around only every couple Sunday’s. It’s nice that way. A morning of total solitude gives a different perspective to Worship. I wouldn’t say we were as stoic and reverent as we are at a church Worship service but sitting with husband in our cozy living room on a grey cool summer Sunday morning we can talk about the songs, spoken words and our feelings as we listen. And it’s kinda nice. 

BTT cooked a late breakfast/brunch for us today -his own concoction of eggs, cheeses, and (surprise ingredient!) pepperoni And then by the time others in the community were gathering around tables for delicious proper Sunday dinners we were on the road to pick up a friend-also-cousin who needed a lift partway to his New Job. An hour of driving later we met Cousin’s parents at Tim Hortons. The nostalgia one can feel about Tim Hortons after months of being apart from it is actually kind of disgusting. I loved the lockdown. But now I also love the freedoms seeping back into our lives little by little. Maybe the saying « absence makes the heart grow fonder » was invented for these everyday luxuries and their occasional lapses from our lives (ie broken appliances, car at the mechanic, out of cheese again, washer used all the hot water, fingerprints on your newly cleaned <insert word,> these sorts of things.)

After another hour of driving home BTT has a feel of our new (for us) MKX so we drop it at the shop to await some hopefully minor repairs and then, since two full hours in the vehicle wasn’t really enough and the weather isn’t pleasant enough for us to spend much time outside we drive around the community checking on local road construction and potholes and to see how the trees are growing and maybe dodge some deer if we’re lucky. 

We spend the evening playing with little brothers and nieces at BTT’s parents’ place. BTT manages to cajole the GPS on his dad’s sprayer to work. I feed and bathe the smallest niece, bathe the brother who can’t bathe himself, share my plate of nachos with whoever wants (becos my identical dish of nachos is def more delish than theirs). Chat. 

And then before going home we take another drive, this time into the mauve sunset. We pick up another brother who has  returned home from a trip via train. He is full of words and stories about his uneventful train ride. We drop him off and finally return home. We silently celebrate the fact that we could hang out all day and BTT’s phone only rang once when a little brother called to see what we were up to. No towing work all day on a Sunday is something to celebrate!  Like I said. A quiet day. An Ordinary Day in my Ordinary Life. 

Musings on Contrasts

On more than one long drive my mind got lost in the unchangingness of things that seem to go on forever (roads, power lines, forests, fence poles, road trips -becos in my rural world even trip to the grocery store feels a road trip). I spent a lot of time  contemplating the beauty in the contrasts of the human-made vs nature:

•Of the ununique lines stretching unbroken for hundreds of miles of undulating pavement made interesting by the ever-changing scenery lining it. 

•Of a razor-sharp string of power line looped effortlessly over unchanging  pole after unchanging pole after unchanging pole after unchanging pole after unchanging pole across every myriad landscape it meets up with.  

•Of a human-planted neat-and-tidy tree rows around an overgrown dilapidated abandoned farmstead. 

•Of one weedless verdant lawn of perfectly aligned mower stripes surrounded by acres of untamed dandelion meadows. 

•Of straight jet streams bisecting a messily clouded sky. 

•Of sturdy square symmetrical houses lending some stability to squalid prairie landscape. 

•Of neatly parked rows of vehicles on gravel strewn parking lots. 

•Of The carefully slotted seats on an airplane, bus, or subway filled with chaotic uninhibited messy human beings. 

•Of perfectly spaced rows of anxious shoppers lined up against the colourful backdrop of a grocery store’s eye catching displays.

•Of a closet- or cupboard-ful of myriad things, articulately organized (something that doesn’t happen in my house unless it happens to be a closet or cupboard without doors.) 

•Of The stolid shadows of a light pole keeping a stop sign company under a turbulent blanket of clouds.