Yesterday morning I wasn't feeling particularly bushy-tailed. Not a good sign first thing in the morning when it's house-cleaning day. I anticipated that cleaning would take somewhat longer than usual, and that I'd be a little more weary than usual after having completed that chore, and so preparing our evening meal would be compromised by a lack of enthusiasm on my part.

Which thought took me downstairs to our trusty little freezer which we've owned for well over thirty years, to extract from within its frosty interior the last of the tourtieres I'd baked last month. Just pop it into the oven and dinner would be ready. I planned to cook honey-glazed carrots to serve with it, and serve fresh strawberries for dessert; quick and easy.

After the house cleaning was finally done, and later than usual just as I'd anticipated, we embarked on one of our daily ravine walks. A much milder day than usual, with a surprising high of five degrees under an aluminum sky, the walking wasn't bad as long as we stayed right on trail; any deviations would plunge our boots deep into the melting snowpack.

I did go off trail from time to time so I could tuck peanuts into the crevices of old tree trunks for the ravine squirrel population. There were crows wheeling about and cawing, doubtless in enjoyment of the kinder weather. The creek ran full and dark with melting snow and detritus washed down from the hillsides. For a change I was able to make do with only two layers of gloves, no need for mittens atop them. Our progress was slow, because I was tired, but not ever too tired to enjoy the ambiance.

When we returned back home again I plopped on the family room sofa with Riley beside me to indulge in the daily newspapers. And that's when I became aware that my husband was pottering about in the kitchen, banging cupboard doors, rooting around with pots, pulling items out of their neat cupboard array. I had earlier noticed one of our cookbooks open on the kitchen counter but thought little of it; too tired.

When I did decide to ask what he was doing, he casually remarked that he thought it would be interesting to make a gravy to pour over the tourtiere at the table. Ugh, was my response as he busied himself at the stove. The result of his enterprise was a lumpy, nasty-looking sludge not unlike the roiled-up creek, just thicker.

But good-tasting, he said comfortably, as he poured the gunk over his portion of the meat pie at dinnertime.