He has boundless patience with her, far more than I do. Far from that moment when I first brought her home as a puppy, 19 years ago. Then, the sight of the scrawny little miniature poodle had offended him. He had sniffed, he wouldn't have minded a 'real' dog in the house, not a rat posing as a dog.

Before long the little rat was placed on his chest at night when it was tired from a day's play, to sleep in peace, while he watched television. Now, 19 years later, blind, deaf, and her fastidious awareness of everything around her pretty well gone, she is heavily dependent. Even her sense of smell has been impacted. Many of her teeth are gone. She is confused at the best of times, upset at the lapse of her senses at the worst of times, and fretful. For the most part, however, she is resigned to her condition and copes with it fairly well. Even though she has to be physically brought directly before her food bowl, and she has likewise to be physically guided and encouraged to drink water.

We have to make certain assumptions related to experience respecting her need to urinate and defecate, hoping to manage to guide her to the outdoors - actually carry her down the steps of the deck which she can longer see on her own and which she had taken, blindly, to attempting to leap, instead of making her way gingerly down them, lest she come to harm - depositing her in the backyard, hoping she will perform.

She doesn't always; her bodily routines have been just as upset as any other of what were once her routines. Her beloved tennis balls which once meant the world to her have languished unrecognized for years. She has fallen unwittingly down the stairs so often we have had to place protective gates around them, just as one would with an infant.

When she is not sleeping she will pace restlessly throughout the house, without stop. In the process, bumping into immovable objects; chairs, tables, walls, whatever happens to be in the way of her progress. Occasionally, those 'bumps' are loud and wince-inducing - by us, not her - she simply shakes her hoary little head and continues her peregrinations. She will stop only when she is lifted onto the sofa where she has long been accustomed to sleep; only she is no longer capable of leaping there on her own.

At night, she sleeps as she always has, on the little loveseat in our bedroom, across from our bed. Because she kept falling off, no longer aware of physical parameters, my husband built a portable gate to enclose her there, once she was prepared for her long, night-time rest, along with ourselves in bed for the night. Last night, as has happened before, she did nothing, no evacuation, no urination before bed-time. Despite that it was raining heavily, and she was wearing a raincoat to protect her aged body from a complete drenching, she simply wandered aimlessly in circles without relieving herself.

That relief came while we were asleep, while she was up on the loveseat for the duration of the night. As has happened before. My husband awoke, took stock of the situation, changed her linen (we maintain a bedtime 'blanket' stretched taut over the loveseat for her), washed her feet which had become soiled, settled her back down, then took the soiled linen downstairs to the laundry room to wash it by hand in hot, soapy water.

And then, at half-past four in the morning, those tasks completed, he decided to set about using his newly-acquired bread maker to bake himself a sourdough loaf for breakfast. Which was the fragrance that pervaded our bedroom hours later, as the bread was fully baked.

In his book, King Solomon's Ring, Nobel-prize-winner Konrad Lorenz, a renowned animal ethologist and ornithologist, wrote, among other things of his admiration for the intelligence of crows. More recent studies of the intelligence of crows have also testified to their admirable memories of events or threats which can be handed down through generations. These highly adaptable, clever birds are not admired by everyone. I do, though, like them, and always have.

In the Tantramar Marsh of New Brunswick, we saw crows and their big cousins, ravens, in abundance. They are impressive birds. When we lived in Tokyo, there were large crows called Jungle Crows around our compound; around all of Tokyo, actually. These birds were so large and heavy that when they walked on the metal roof of our house it sounded as though a man was up there, traipsing about. They used to prey on the feral cats that roamed the city, living off garbage, and hiding out in the sewer system.

Here, where we live now, in Ottawa, we often see crows in huge, loud cawing gatherings, well-named as a "murder" of crows. And when we hear a commotion of crows, we become aware that an owl is present, with the crows harassing the owl, itself calm and studiously ignoring the hysteria of the crows. On occasion we see and hear passing ravens in our forested ravine. And we have become accustomed to regular crow clients following us to take advantage of the peanuts we leave in caches for the squirrels.

We've noticed of late that some of our neighbours' lawns have become popular with area crows. So popular that the lawns have been completely destroyed. The crows are doing what comes naturally to them; they're carnivores, and will eat just about anything, including the carcasses of dead animals they may come across. What attracts them to the lawns is the presence of hideous grubs, fat and disgusting, the larval stage of June beetles. In their search for the beetles they dig up lawns and leave devastation.

This year must have resulted in a bumper crop of June beetles laying more eggs that morph into grubs than usual. And the crows have taken note, to the immense disgust and distress of proud homeowners. Who, in turn, find nothing attractive whatever about crows.

June Bug

click to enlargePhoto by: George K. Bryce/Animals Animals or Earth Scenes

June Bug, common name for any of several beetles in the scarab family, also called June beetle. The adults are most common in June. In the northern United States, the name is applied to the numerous species that are known as May bugs in the southern United States, where they emerge earlier. The brown, stout-bodied adults are about 25 mm (about 1 in) long and feed on leaves. The larvae, known to horticulturists as white grubs, burrow in soil, feed on the roots of plants, and often damage grass lawns. The larval stage persists for two to three years.

In the southern United States, the name green June beetle is applied to a similar green-and-brown beetle that, in the adult stages, feeds on ripe figs and other fruit. The larvae, like those of the northern June beetle, live in the ground and eat plant roots but do little damage to important plants. The name June beetle is applied in Europe to beetles closely related and similar in habits to the June beetles of the northern United States.

Scientific classification: June bugs belong to the family Scarabaeidae of the order Coleoptera. May bugs are classified in the genus Phyllophaga. The green June beetle is classified as Cotinis nitida. European June beetles are classified in the genus Rhizotrogus.

She must have appeared downright angelic when she was young, with her sweet face, its dainty, regular features surrounded by blond, curly hair. She still has that cherubic aspect about her, at age 50. Her hair is still almost shoulder-length, framing her face with its instant friendly smile. Belying that smile lately, however, are the deeply-etched furrows on her brow, just under her fringe of blonde hair.

She greets us warmly, and we are always glad to see her. As we do in odd places; walking her large rescue dog in the ravine - but not of late, her leisure hours have been truncated by need - and in the seasonal department of large box stores where she works for short periods of time as a clerk.

More latterly, at the produce department of the newly-opened supermarket we have been shopping at. There, she stops briefly to chat animatedly with us. Earlier, she had informed me that she had started off on a kind of employment new to her, which doesn't pay much, but is deeply satisfying for her. It's working with seniors in their own homes, to help them get along on a daily basis, to keep them independent and out of hospitals and nursing-care homes.

The last time we met, a few days ago, she mused, without bitterness or irony, how, in retrospect, her life hadn't prepared her for where she now is. Reinventing herself, as it were, trying at her age, to find financial security when she knows that people who had taken civil service jobs had a secure retirement fund behind them and were already musing about retirement. While she had to concentrate on the dire focus of keeping herself together financially.

She had been working fifty-hour weeks: 30 hours on her growing elder-care business, and 20 with the supermarket, and she was exhausted. It showed, her face looked grey and more lined than usual.

Not complaining, not really. But trying to understand how she got where she is now mired.

Yesterday, being Saturday, a day including time for leisure for many people, combined with the fact that the temperature had risen appreciably albeit under a heavily overcast sky, there were quite a few people from the neighbourhood out in our local urban forest, walking their dogs. Some we recognize and have a long-standing, or alternately short acquaintance with. Others are entirely new to us, and it's interesting to see them with their companion dogs out enjoying the atmosphere in the wooded ravine.

The snow we had experienced earlier in the week has pretty well melted, there's very little of it remaining. What we do have now is fairly wet and mucky trails, given the overnight frost and the subsequently-relatively-mild day-time highs. Nothing, however, much takes away from the pleasantness of being out in the fresh air and watching the birds: woodpeckers, cardinals, chickadees and nuthatches, fly in and around the trees.

There was one little dog, whom we had never before seen. A tiny white mix between a toy poodle and a bichon frise, even smaller than our toy poodle Riley, animated and excited beyond repression; he was up and about, around and under everything, happy to be alive and to be able to experience all the interesting smells, sounds and sights that the forested ravine offers to anyone interested enough to enter its valued precincts any season of the year.

My husband likes to use his mini laptop to listen live to news, debates and other types of programs on National Public Radio out of Boston, considering its international news coverage and quality of programming superior to that of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. There are some programs he particularly likes, among them a rather casual Saturday-evening presentation about cooking. Last Saturday, because American Thanksgiving was fast approaching, there was an item about a type of raisin pie that appears to be a favourite for that holiday.

This pie, and its ingredients - sour cream, sugar, various spices, eggs and raisins - appealed to my husband. Mind, for our own Canadian celebration of Thanksgiving, more than a month before the American one, nothing could replace his all-time favourite; pumpkin pie. But he was certainly curious about the recipe and looked it up, then assigned me the voluntary task of baking it the following Friday. Which I did. The finished product was nice enough and tasty enough, but I still think the traditional raisin pie I bake is superior, though we did enjoy this one for Friday-night dessert.

What I did enjoy on Friday morning was his company in our kitchen. While I set about making an ordinary bread dough - to be refrigerated until put to use the following evening, for a pizza crust - and pie-baking, and putting on our usual Friday-evening chicken soup, he busied himself at the same time putting together the constituents for a pumpernickel bread, to be baked in his newly-acquired bread-making machine. The resulting loaf was plump, moist, flavourful and exceedingly edible, as we discovered on Saturday morning.

She never fails to greet us warmly, in an intimate manner, as though we are quite personal friends. And, I suppose, in a way, we are. From the time we first met when she initiated close contact to the present, she knows some details of our lives, through enquiry, and we know some of hers, although we are less likely to enquire than she is.

She is far more open than we are, perhaps it represents a social part of her culture. We tend to be more reserved in that sense, although we are open to those such as she, rare though they are in our lives, who have no ulterior motive other than friendship.

Her smile is wide and pleasant although there remains an air of gravity about her. She has alive, warm, but tired brown eyes, not entirely unlike our own. And very high cheekbones, a common physical characteristic of Somalians.

There is an easy familiarity between us of equals in society - as it should be, but she still refers to me as "madam", on occasion, and that creates an aura of separation which has me feeling quite uncomfortable. She never fails to enquire delicately about a situation in our family that has been of ongoing concern to us.

We visited the Sally Ann earlier this week, which is where she works. Where she has worked for well over a decade. She lives quite far from this area and travels a long time and distance on public transit, back and forth to her place of employment. She could, because she has seniority, ask for a transfer to another branch, closer to where she lives, but she will not, she says, because she is accustomed to working here, and prefers to continue to do so.

Her husband is out of work and looking for employment somewhere, anywhere, to be busy and to continue to earn a living. Theirs will be a quiet holiday time, this year. Not that this particular holiday has any significance to her.

But they are troubled about the chaos in their homeland, the continuing drought leading to food shortages and dreadful famine. And the violence that continues to conflict her country. One of her husband's cousins, she confided, has been kidnapped.

They have managed to get together the required amount to ransom him - her large extended family. And they hope that they will be successful in trading his life for the sum that they have gathered to rescue him.

The Orbis International Flying Eye Hospital landed at the Ottawa airport Tuesday and opened its doors to the public. Dr. Brian Leonard, above, an eye surgeon at the University of Ottawa Eye Institute, showed visitors through the aircraft's operating room. Photograph by: Julie Oliver, The Ottawa Citizen, Ottawa Citizen

Thirty years ago when I was operating a local branch of the Canadian Diabetes Association, I was first introduced to the humanitarian behind the professional. Little did I imagine, back then, that I would at some future date require his professional expertise, personally. Even back then, in the early 1980s, he was a much-admired highly-skilled opthalmologist who gave of his time and experience in under-developed countries.

He's still at it, as a senior citizen and senior eye surgeon at the University of Ottawa Eye Institute. Long associated with a charitable institute, called Orbis International, his philanthropy and that of many others who have signed on to this very special mission has paid off handsomely in the numbers of medical-eye practitioners that they have trained in Third-World countries (emerging economies, likely more politically correct) over the decades.

"The cockpit is state-of-the-art 1969. Everything after that - state-of-the-art 2011. When we operate in the hospital, it's quiet and serene. We talk to each other in hushed tones, (with) quiet music." I personally experienced that, less than a year ago, when a vitrectomy was done on my left eye. "We have surgeons teaching surgeons, nurses teaching nurses, anesthetists teaching anesthetists, and bio-medical engineers teaching others.

"It's an enormous pressure cooker of activity. the visiting surgeons here have to be gifted surgeons at the top of their game. They have to bring their A-game every time they come. The value (of the aircraft; the fully-state-of-the-art-equipped DC 10 that was flown in to Ottawa for demonstration/education purposes) is educational and development(al). We could have a thousand of these airplanes worldwide and not make a dent in the problem."

Still, the Orbis charitable-educational mission has trained 88,000 opthalmic surgeons and 200,000 nurses in the use of new techniques. And it is reasonable to assume that those who have been trained not only go out into the field and practise their newfound expertise, but they also transfer the knowledge and experience they have gained to other practitioners, thereby expanding the gift to the world that Orbis International has initiated.

Since 1983, this surgical opthalmologist, Dr. Brian Leonard, has been on over 70 volunteer missions with the airborne hospital. He is now president of the board of directors of Orbis Canada, having travelled through much of Asia, Africa, parts of the Middle East, and South America. In the process he has assisted in curing 17 million people of blindness, much of it preventable, albeit common in under-developed countries of the world.

"We do it every day and never jaded to it. What could be more special than restoring sight to a blind person."

I am not blind, not close to it. I still have one eye unimpeded by age-related problems, other than the usual dimming of vision due to lens-hardening. The other, the one that was operated on, well, the operation was a success, although the scar tissue from the surgery at the back of the eye still left me with vision contortion. Which, it was hoped, would ameliorate as time progressed.

But it did not. I was, in fact, informed that the original condition which had necessitated the vitrectomy I had undergone less than a year previously, had re-occurred; another small hole has appeared in the centre of my retina. We take so much for granted, that all complement of organs and natural resources will never be compromised by anything, let alone age.

And then, inevitably, we age.

Finally, the winter transformation has taken place. Overnight we transited from autumn to a winter aspect. One we are familiar with, but do not, on the whole, welcome with huge enthusiasm. At one time in our lives we most certainly may have, but not at this point. The most obvious and visible sign of the times can be had merely looking out the front door onto the changed landscape.

There they are, the fond, admiring photographs of the gardens right outside the front door, at the end of September, past summer and into fall. Everything is lush and green. Sunlight bedazzles on the remaining colours of the garden perennials, bright and perky in their various garden pots, unwilling to even recognize the possibility of vanishing from the scene.
As far as those beautiful flowers are concerned they are there, in living colour, texture and beauty for the duration. Little do they know the duration has arrived. And their time of blooming glory has lapsed.

It did not, in fact, take too much time to ruthlessly, once night-time frosts set in, remove them from their fertile beds of soil and to consign them to the compost heap. Not to make another appearance until many winter months have passed, giving way eventually to a hopeful new spring. That, at least, is eternal.

Overnight, we hosted a vastly different kind of weather. After having the good fortune of continuing mild weather thanks to La Ninya placing itself in an unaccustomed climate spot, we have suddenly become immersed in frigid, cold weather, and the winds that were such a short time earlier relatively balmy, have become downright aggressive.

The overnight temperature plunge allied with clouds fully drenched with precipitation finally brought us freezing rain, creating hazardous road conditions, something we are well and truly familiar with and were grateful to have postponed by nature as long as has occurred.

Hard on the freezing rain came snow. Hours of snow gently drifting down on the sleeping landscape where the soil has already begun its expected deep freeze. And now we bid farewell to the last, lingering remnants of fall.

How we encumber ourselves with possessions. There is nothing particularly new in human affairs and society about the way we go about acquiring desirous objects, for human beings have always done this, as and when they were enabled to. We have collected art for as long as we have been married, and that is well over a half-century. Gradually, bit by bit, whenever we could afford to do so, we would acquire yet another piece of art.

And, over the years, as our inventory of artwork increased, so did the need to obtain larger walls on which to hang them, which led to our purchase of our current house, decades ago. And we continued from time to time to acquire additional paintings and other kinds of art; porcelains, sculptures, clocks.

Of course, possessing these things satisfies a deeply-lodged sense of personal aesthetic. One we share in equal measure. Only one of us, however, is an accomplished artist in his own right. The other is, shall we say, the custodian of the treasures, in the sense that while we take equal pleasure in being able to see these beautiful things, it falls to me, for the most part, to look after the fundamentals of tidiness and cleanliness.

So that, when I take up the weekly chore of house-cleaning, top to bottom, one of the things to be done is the meticulous dusting process, the most time-consuming of all the pedestrian tasks.

Proving, yet again, that as we possess objects, they tend to possess us as well.

It's a northern capital city, the second-coldest, snowiest in the world. In the summer, because it's located in a large valley, in a geographic area once covered by the ancient Champlain Sea, where vast retreating sheets of ice carved out geological anomalies, it becomes stiflingly hot and humid. So people who live in the Ottawa Valley, much less the greater Ottawa area, are beset by mind-numbing chills in the winter, having to shovel out from under great piles of snow, and heat-debilitating temperatures in the summer.

But it is a beautiful area. We have lakes and rivers in great abundance, and old hardwood and pine forests replete with the animals that live there, fish that stream in the waters and a revolving bird population; those who visit from the boreal forests and southern climes during their migratory seasons, and those who remain year around.

It's a fairly quick drive from where we live to downtown Ottawa, taking the picturesque Eastern Parkway, driving along Sussex Drive to the heart of the capital, and on toward the Western Parkway, to our destination. Ottawa is a city with two great rivers bisecting it, the Rideau and the Ottawa rivers. And it is a city whose great area is replete with green space, parks wherever one looks, large and small, repeating the landscape.

Ottawa has its historical and its government buildings. Its great houses, many of which are owned by foreign countries whose embassies are also located here. It's a picturesque, beautiful city with ample cultural institutions, a thriving and vibrant arts community. It is a good place to raise children, a good place for families.

When we set out for the drive, it was a heavily overcast day, a dark, brooding, very beautiful sky. Reminding us, in fact, of a 19th Century European painting we have on our walls, reflecting a farm in the Netherlands, its landscape semi-drowned by flooding, the sky dark, ominous, the farmhouse hunkered quietly into the landscape.

When we first moved to this neighbourhood Imran was not yet born. His older sister Lovaleen was a little girl of about ten, and she resembled her beautiful, dark-eyed, raven-tressed mother. Now, Imran is in his second year of university. And Lovaleen lives in Toronto, not far from where we used to live forty years earlier. She lives there in a house she and her husband bought two years ago, and they have a baby son.

Yesterday, on our way up the street to the ravine entrance, there was Mohinder, raking up the rest of the leaves on his lawn. He hasn't been gainfully employed outside the house in decades. He suffered a workplace accident that left him with an impaired shoulder that caused him great pain. He had two surgeries; the first gave him brief relief before he once again succumbed to the effects of the original injury, and the second surgery simply wasn't successful. He lives with constant pain, but has learned to exert himself doing small physical feats of labour. Mostly, he depends on Imran to do things he had formerly done himself, and Imran is reliable, dependable, and never fails to heed his father.

Rajinder has worked steadily all that time. She is a mid-level civil servant, and she takes her job seriously. She is hard-working, holding down a full-time job and keeping an immaculate house. They drive down to Toronto often to visit with their daughter, son-in-law and infant grandson. And their daughter and son-in-law themselves frequently make the trip to spend week-ends with them, in Ottawa.

Now Rajinder is ill with what appears to be a mysterious malady. She is experiencing dreadful back pain, pain shooting up her right leg, and her right foot too appears impacted. Their general practitioner wasn't much help; he sent her for physical therapy and then she simply became worse. They've seen a neurologist and still the cause eludes detection. She is taking codeine for pain relief and has spent the last week-and-a-half in bed.

Imran too, in the past, has come up with strange symptoms that had him fainting during hockey games, and his heart raced madly. A cardiologist wasn't certain what the problems he experienced stemmed from, nor did a second specialist, and tests seemed to pinpoint nothing in particular. He was, though, finally convinced he could no longer play soccer or hockey, since those strenuous games precipitated these symptoms.

My husband is more than satisfied with the end-product of the new breadmaker he purchased to replace his original device that surprised us when its electronics broke down. The bread that he set to bake in the new Cuisinart breadmaking oven came out perfectly. Perfect in texture, taste and shape. What more could he possibly ask for?

Bread-making runs in the family. Our older son also uses a breadmaker. Whereas the rest of us all rely on putting the ingredients together and kneading the resulting dough, and then forming the breads that we plan on baking, by hand, in the traditional method. We derive our satisfaction from baking bread as we've been accustomed to. We are, one might suppose, creatures of habit.

Yesterday as is usual for a Friday morning, I set about doing some baking for Friday-night dinner. I had picked up a recipe for cinnamon rolls from the newspaper the week before and while I found it interesting, the concept of baking each roll separately, in a large muffin tin, rather than bake up an attached batch of cinnamon rolls as is usually done, I wasn't satisfied with the recipe itself, a no-knead, moist yeast dough. Instead, I repeated the technique using my own recipe for the ingredients, which included sour cream and two eggs in the dough, kneading it, spreading it with cinnamon, raisins, butter and brown sugar, rolling it and cutting to fit the muffin cups.

And while I was at it, I thought I'd do some cheese-inlaid croissants (old cheddar) as well. And then proceeded to do just that. These are baked goods that do not really take up all that much time in preparation; the dough in fact can be done at any time, placed in a bowl, covered and refrigerated to be brought out at any time within the space of a few days for use in a finished baked product.

And they represent a bread form that the breadmaker cannot reproduce.

Throughout my long cooking and baking career I have baked many kinds of breads and sweetbreads, experimented with my own recipes and found great satisfaction in producing nutritious and good-tasting products for my family. Their appreciation of my baking efforts and my interest in formulating new recipe combinations and presenting them at table has never diminished.

Nonetheless, my husband who has a great curiosity that encompasses just about everything, one day years ago succumbed to the allure of purchasing a bread machine. He just cannot resist sales. And this one was on sale. So he bought it with the firm intention of using it. And use it he did. With a good deal of success, so he was enormously pleased with himself. He even insisted on baking special breads for me, to suit my taste, heavy and dense with seeds and dark rye flour. After several years of good use his interest in baking bread waned. So for a year that bread machine saw no use whatever.

Early this week the impulse overcame him to bake a French bread for himself. The technique he used was the old familiar one, with simple, basic, called-for ingredients. When he set the bread machine on, he took himself downstairs to his workshop to re-commence working on his latest project. When the machine finally pinged itself to completion he discovered within its innards an inedible brick. He was puzzled and blamed the yeast, but this was the same yeast I use continuously when I prepare bread-type doughs throughout the week.

He put on another bread, same recipe, same protocol. And watched. This time there was no busy-noise-making from within the machine. It had pooped out, was no longer capable of doing anything, its electronics somehow become inoperative. So off he went the following day to replace it. He brought home a refurbished Cuisinart breadmaker with some additional functions and convection capabilities. And set about to produce another bread.

And with the assistance of his new breadmaker out came a successful, fragrant, crusty loaf of French-type bread.

Roughly a half-dozen years after I had retired from paid employment, I heard on the local news a name very familiar to me. It was that of someone with whom I had worked for many years. This man was married, both he and his wife employed, with no children. They had in the last few years bought a rural home not far from where we live, theirs located on several acres of land, in a high-end community.

They were the kind of people who worked hard and played hard. He was given to almost-extreme sports; a board-sailing enthusiast, they went every summer for a sun-and-ocean drenched vacation to Cape Hatteras. He was also an avid mountain biker, going where no bicyclist in his sane mind would venture. He liked physical exertion with a hint of danger. Such people who court danger often find it.

He found his in an unlikely place; his own garage of his newly-acquired property. Of a spring morning, his wife had gone out for a run. When she returned she found her husband dead. He had been busy changing the oil in one of their vehicles, a van. Something had gone awry, the vehicle raised for the purpose at hand, had slipped off its mounts and crushed him against the garage door.

My husband always chose to change the oil in any of his vehicles over the years, himself. Many men do that. They consider it a relatively easy, useful intermittent task they can take on themselves. Undoubtedly it makes their wives nervous. It always did me. I had my husband promise, after the funeral of my work colleague, to take his vehicles in for such servicing and he agreed, in a sober moment of second-thought.

And he did, for a while, do just that. But then he sometimes remarked on the fact that he felt something had been done wrong, that the materials used by the garages who did the work, were not the right ones. His dissatisfaction led him to resume doing the oil changes again on his own, in our garage. The newer of our vehicles, a Mazda, he has agreed to let their service department do.

The older car, a Honda, was what he set about doing on his own this past Monday. I was most definitely not pleased.

Etymology: French, from Catalan albergínia, from Arabic الباذِنْجان (al-baðinjān), the eggplant, from Persian بادنگان (bâdengân), from باتنگان (bâtengân), from Sanskrit वातिगगम (vātiga-gama, “eggplant”).

aubergine (plural aubergines)

1. (UK) an Asian plant, Solanum melongena, cultivated for its edible purple, green, or white ovoid fruit
2. (UK) the fruit of this plant, eaten as a vegetable
3. a dark purple colour; eggplant.

   aubergine colour:

Is there a vegetable more pleasurable to look at, more sensuous appearing than the eggplant? Its soft curves, gleaming, dark colour and perfectly smooth exterior appear a masterpiece of Nature's aesthetic design. The vegetable comes in many sizes, from the delicately small to family-sized proportions, its colour ranging from pink to purple to purple-brown. And it lends itself to a surprising number of interesting dishes.

I recall, when I was a child, watching my aunt, who was the extended family's acknowledged cooking-and-baking expert, slowly turn a large aubergine over the lowered gas light on her stove top, until the entire eggplant had a crisply-burnt appearance. She would scoop out the interior, mash it with some combination of spices, and the dish would be presented to the eager delectation of her family. It was, I feel I recall, a kind of poor family's caviar.

I've never discovered a recipe that would represent what my aunt had cooked, and never had the opportunity, somehow, to ask her about it, although she lived to her mid-90s. When I was in my teens her family moved from Canada to the United States. My husband too, remembers his mother doing her cooking and baking alongside an aunt with whom the two families shared a house, and this very dish was among those that they prepared also, on occasion.

Yesterday, I peeled a medium-sized eggplant, cubed the interior, placed the results in a glass bowl, sprinkled the eggplant with salt, placed a tight-fitting plate over the bowl and weighed it down, leaving it for hours. Around time to prepare dinner I tipped the bowl and drained it of the liquid that had accumulated, from the effect of the salt on the cubed eggplant; the procedure in the interests of draining away any bitterness.

I set a pot of oriental-style rice cooking. Then I finely diced three garlic pieces, a Jalapeno pepper, and sliced a large leek, and set them to cooking gently in olive oil. To this, once softened, I added a chopped red pepper, a chopped medium-sized zucchini and a cup of sliced mushrooms. Stirring occasionally over a medium heat, I pepper-milled fresh pepper over this melange.

In a separate pan I began cooking the eggplant, also in (extra-virgin) olive oil, and when it began browning after some stirring and cooking, I added two medium-sized, chopped tomatoes, stirring until the liquid had evaporated. To serve this dish (ratatouille), a bed of rice was spooned onto a dinner plate, and then the contents of the two pans piled over the rice. A delicious combination.

Fresh blueberries served over plain yogurt completed the meal. Quick, easy, tasty, nutritious.

Riley, our 11-year-old toy poodle is incorrigibly stubborn. Since he was a puppy we had tried everything we could think of to cure him of his bad habit, including what we'd read as a possible solution to the problem of his nosy curiosity and bellicose reaction to the presence of dogs he has never before met, and nothing has worked. So that, when we're out with him if he smells, sees, or hears the presence of another dog he is instantly alerted, and immediately aggressive.

We must keep him in close view of us at all times. When needed, he's leashed; when we feel reasonably confident he can be off-leash we allow that, but always close to us. Many years ago he was well ahead of us on a winter afternoon on a wooded trail and met an oncoming husky head on, snarling at the dog and leaping toward it. The husky responded by picking Riley up between his jaws and holding him there. Riley was well padded in a winter coat, and the husky had no intention of harming him. I reached them and prised Riley out of the husky's mouth just as his owner reached us.

Yesterday was another of those season-unusual days, very mild, sun in evidence and a light breeze, a day to take advantage of and revel in, and so we did, out for our usual ravine walk. Generally we see no one else taking advantage of this local natural treasure so close to where we live, but yesterday's weather had brought out other dog walkers and we came across a few. One, a young local fireman whom we have the acquaintance of, with his two dogs, and the meeting was without incident for the dogs know each other. Another, whom we know slightly with a mixed-hound who simply side-stepped Riley.

And then much later walking through the forest trails, a pair of women, obviously a mother and daughter walking with their two black terriers. We could hear the terriers a long way off, running amok through the woods, yipping constantly, chasing squirrels. When they caught up to us as we mounted a long hill, Riley close behind while I was depositing peanuts in the usual caches along the way, Riley did the usual, growling when the others approached too close to him for his liking.

The two women were taken with Riley, amusing in his little coat and harness, and bent to coo over him and stroke him. Amused too, no doubt, by his tiny, aggressive presence, telling their dogs to give wide berth. Next thing we knew, one of the terriers had up-ended Riley, and was furiously at him, biting and scrabbling at him. One of the women, closest to them, detached the terrier and I grabbed Riley who was still baring his teeth and growling.

They were appalled and apologized profusely, sincerely concerned with whether he had suffered harm. I was upset and apologized myself for not having monitored Riley more closely since it was clear his attitude had provoked the attack. Yet another reminder that I cannot with any degree of responsibility rely on other dogs side-stepping the challenge that a very small dog presents to their equal right of passage in public spaces.

Needless to say we were much relieved to ascertain that no physical harm had indeed come to the little belligerent.

A new set of stained glass windows has been designed, after much deliberation. And the colours have been assigned, as well, in advance of the actual production. These windows will not be as colourful as most that have been already completed and installed in various places all over this house of ours.

They will rely on their creative design, and the subtle play of light on a subdued palette to present their own inimitable beauty.

The pattern has been sketched out, a copy of the original done, and the numbered pieces have been cut out. The outline of the pattern is now in progress, with the first pieces of glass now cut and subsequently installed in order, like a picture-puzzle.

My husband says he feels good about having initiated another project of stained glass. It's far more relaxing, to be involved in this, than what has taken so much of his time through the spring, summer and early fall months. And more reflective of his deep interest in artistic aesthetic and expression. Nothing is wrought in stone with such creative projects; he can, at any time, make changes when they seem desirable. He controls both the final expression and the medium.

And we're both in full anticipation of the completed project, an almost-living piece of art that shafts of sunlight and the fleeting dim light of dusk and dawn transform to suit their moods, and uplift ours.

We've a wonderful bonus this year, at a time in the evolving seasons when we could most use this break. Represented by warmer-than-normal day-time highs, urging us to take advantage of the opportunity to conclude our fall chores in closing up our gardens.

One of the last things needing to be done, once perennials were cut back and cleaned up, and everything made tidy, the compost spread neatly on the cleared beds, was to plant spring bulbs. Since we have ample tulips returning faithfully and hyacinths, aliums, crocuses and delightful miniature irises, it was time to renew daffodils, this year's choice for fall planting. A few hours of work, using a convenient bulb planter to excavate to the right depth, deposit bloodmeal (helps to keep squirrels away, as well as nourish the bulbs), water, then the bulbs inserted and covered with soil, saw the task neatly done.

Cutting back the rose canes is one of the last chores as well, and that has been concluded. Now, all that is left to do is to string up a number of the ornamental cedars, particularly the globe variety, and to cap the roses with snow cones.

And the job's done for yet another year. Enabling us to look forward with great anticipation to the surprises that spring will gift us with.

Coffee cake is always a big favourite, so how about miniature coffee cakes? Say, for example, producing cupcake-sized coffee cakes, a cross between cinnamon buns and very small coffee cakes? It works pretty well, actually.

Preparing muffin tins-full of yeast-raised batter made with milk, egg, sugar, flour, salt and yeast is quick work. Then spooning the resulting quite loose batter into the greased muffin tins. No need to knead!

The ingredients roughly three-quarters-cup milk, one egg, a tablespoon of oil, and tsp.of vanilla. Dry ingredients three-quarters cup flour, quarter-cup granulated sugar, tablespoon of dry active yeast. Mix liquid into combined dry ingredients and stir briskly until smooth. Then ladle out evenly into six large muffin cups. Sprinkle generously with a mixture of 1/3-cup packed brown sugar, tsp. cinnamon, tablespoon butter.

Bake for about 20 minutes in a 375-degree oven after first resting the unbaked coffee-cake muffins for a half-hour, then introducing them into a cold oven, and turning on the heat. They look delicious and prove to be even more so.

A nice addition is a sprinkling of walnut pieces along with the brown-sugar/cinnamon/butter.

Today was the first time I experienced a twinge of regretful dismay that we no longer have a television set in our home. when the change-over in signal reception occurred in August, both our very old television sets were unable, even with the assistance of a converter box and an aerial, to retrieve those new signals from the atmosphere of crackling electrical transmission.

We decided there was no particular reason to replace the television sets and have been without them ever since. But one of the few times we both watch television is for the Remembrance Day ceremonies at the Ottawa Cenotaph, and I thought how much we would miss being able to see it televised. In the end, we missed nothing; we looked for that same coverage on our small laptop computer instead. We first tried for the CBC and were unsuccessful, but CTV came through with flying colours.

Canada has never been occupied by a malign foreign presence seeking to overturn our sovereignty, although our nearest neighbour, a century ago, did make such an attempt. Since then this country's fighting forces have been involved in a myriad of war events, mostly as part of the Commonwealth, responding to the summons from Britain as a loyal partner in war and peace.

Canadian soldiers have distinguished themselves with their demonstrated bravery, their valorous response to those whose intention it was to destroy the freedoms that democracy has brought to us. Their commanders have an enviable reputation for professional integrity and a high degree of intelligence.

Still linked through the heritage of loyalty and respect to Britain, Canada is now fully responsible for our own decision-making, heeding the call to join conflicts from our membership in organizations like the United Nations and NATO, and responding, when the need is recognized, to requests from our great neighbour to the south, the United States.

Like all other nations on this Planet Earth, Canada is comprised of a multitude of people from various backgrounds, cherishing common values and agreeing during times of great moral and existential threats to come together for the common purpose of defeating tyranny and threats to world peace.

Through peace-keeping duties when appropriate, and through military action when no other option presents itself.

The unprecedented mild, sunny weather we've been receiving of late, breaking all previous weather records for this time of year, has motivated us to act decisively before more seasonal temperatures set in, leaving us to do the final garden clean-up with freezing hands.

No time like the present, to empty the composter that had been cooking away for a year. Since we have two composters into which kitchen and garden waste is dumped regularly (resulting in very little kitchen waste since everything, save for meat and fish and dairy waste ends up in the compost pail), while one is on active duty for receiving waste, the other sits undisturbed by us while it slowly, with the capable assistance of minuscule bacteria and worms, eats away at the offerings to eventually produce the pure black gold of finished compost.

And that's what my husband did yesterday morning; emptied the composter of its finished product, to spread lavishly on various of our garden beds, a yearly fall event. The composter currently in use is ready to be retired for the coming year, since it is almost full. And now the alternate composter stands ready to take over from the almost-full one.

In emptying the composter, and filling up the last wheel-barrel-full of compost, my husband saw something unusual in among the rich compost; the sun's rays shone back from something small, a metal head fixed onto a short white-plastic handle. My long-lost-and-lamented strawberry huller. A replacement for which, after being unable to find where it had ended up, was not to be found.

Which made for a much-appreciated gift. I'm grateful to be able to return it to use. Guess I have to be a trifle more conscious of what I'm doing when I'm slopping peelings and hulls into the kitchen compost.

Years ago our youngest child who is a scientist by profession, a nature lover by inclination, and an accomplished woodworker and occasional potter, made for us a wonderful pie plate. It has withstood the test of time over the past decade, through constant use in our kitchen.

Yesterday, because I often like to get ahead of myself when preparing meals, I made a pie crust early in the afternoon, installing it in that very same pottery pie plate. Into the pie crust I grated aged cheddar cheese, and then chopped green onions, and over that I sprinkled very crisp bacon bits I'd cooked in the microwave oven.

Then I covered the pie dish with plastic wrap and chilled it in the refrigerator, to be brought out close to dinnertime when I would complete the quiche. At that time I beat smoked-salmon cream cheese into three eggs, added milk and some hot pepper sauce, and poured the mixture over the pie crust with its already-prepared initial ingredients.

I thought I would add spinach to the ingredients, but thought better of it, and cooked the spinach on its own, as an accompaniment to the quiche. I sectioned a half-dozen Moroccan new-crop mandarins for dessert, to finish off the meal.

Yum, if I do say so myself...

Totally unexpected, wholly, unreservedly welcome; we're back once again into Indian Summer. A previous week of above-normal warm temperatures for this time of year briefly interrupted by icy cold, only to be returned to even warmer temperatures in the last few days. A lovely interlude between autumn and winter.

Courteously giving of Mother Nature. Enabling us to complete all the outdoor winterizing in comparatively mild weather, unlike our usual rush to get all these things done, with frozen fingers. Giving my husband the opportunity to disassemble the glider on the deck, the furniture, and the overhead canopy, to take it all apart and store it over-winter in the garden shed.

The air conditioner was securely covered, and the gas-fired barbecue as well; put aside and carefully wrapped to endure the cold and the ice for their so-prolonged sojourn into winter; ensuring in the process that the family of tiny mice that have nested at the bottom of the barbecue, too will be warm and secure.

And to rake up another pile of pine needles from our very maturing pine, as well as the thick piles of leaves freshly fallen from our weeping mulberries, the ornamental crab trees and our hugely growing saucer magnolia trees. Getting everything ship-shape for the coming months when our entire landscape will be encased in snow and ice.

Once Autumn has fulfilled its all-too-brief contract with nature in its display of leaf-turning gaiety, the season, the atmosphere and the scenery take on quite another aspect altogether. Fallen leaves, in their fleeting glory of yellow, orange, red and burnt umber, swiftly turn rusty or charcoal grey, crisp and prepared to crumble under foot, whispering on paved streets as the wind gusts them along, 'it's over!'

And it is, actually. Fall of 2011 gradually concluding, never again to be encountered. On the cusp of appearance is Winter of 2011, introducing an entirely other year: 2012.

On the way to welcoming that new year, there will be ceremonies of remembrance. There will be sombre and detailed memories still brought to the public eye and ear by survivors of the Holocaust. Not even time can mitigate that unspeakable horror. Certainly not the phrase "never again", which, while noble in intent, fails when pitted against the ever-repeated commissions of the worst excesses in human nature.

And looming on the horizon is Remembrance Day, when we recall the heroic courage of men plucked from the routine of their ordinary lives and conscripted to do dreadful battle in the name of democratic freedoms.

There is possibly no more attractive and interesting drive in this city than to go along the Western Parkway, along Sussex Drive then to proceed along Wellington Street through the heart of Parliament Hill, viewing monuments, the Cenotaph, federal buildings and those of foreign embassies, and onward toward the Eastern Parkway, following the Ottawa River with all the scenery of various parks strung out along the way. Particularly in Autumn, when the trees have turned colour.

Which was what we did yesterday, on a crisp, cool, sunny day. My husband has designed new windows that he proposes to place over the dining room windows to deliver an additional punch of colour and attractiveness to the facade of the house, joining other windows he has created over the years.

For that purpose he needed to augment his existing supplies of stained glass, with an emphasis on clear, colourless glass, some of which have surface patterns, some not. He is beginning to look toward filling his time during the long cold winter days on the near horizon.

The drive is exceedingly pleasant, and it is always surprising to see, given how cold it is, the number of people out bicycling, walking their dogs, having family trekking outings, along the river parkways. And the numbers of people who are tourists making their way in colourful, warmly-dressed groups of the curious, admiring Parliament Hill's Centre Block with the beautiful library portion and its clock, and the East-West blocks.

So what's a little different in the kitchen? Let's see; yesterday I baked what I feel were the best-tasting raisin tarts (butter tarts) ever. And I've a long record of baking such desserts, from almost sixty years of providing edible goodies for my family.

Instead of using Becel margarine as I usually do, I used a quarter-cup of butter in the filling. Forgot the vanilla, but put enough nutmeg in that it didn't matter. Two eggs, a quarter-cup corn syrup and three-quarters-cup lightly packed dark brown sugar. And jumbo Thompson raisins. Utterly delectable. I use lemon juice when making the crust, along with a very small amount of cold water, and Crisco, never lard. Scrumptious. Did I say that already?

The day before I baked whole sardines for dinner's main course. These are not the sardines we get packed in oil in small tins. These sardines were the size of small-to-medium perch. And they too were fantastic tasting, with a most delicate flavour. They came frozen, caught and packed in Greece. I had used soy sauce on them, just as I had when we were living in Japan and used to shop daily, and the fishmonger's offerings were fresh. They almost resembled mackerel in taste, bringing back old memories. Yesterday I bought frozen whole mackerel and will prepare them later in the week the very same way.

And spices, spices from India, imported to Canada. Excellent spices, the very finest quality at a fraction of the price we pay for spices that are packaged in Canada under well-recognized Canadian brand names. The new supermarket we're shopping at has the most intriguing, wide-ranging new food offerings and condiments, geared at the large and growing immigrant market.

We native-born Canadians (of earlier immigrant stock) can certainly gain and learn from this ongoing exposure to the constituents of other, exotic cuisines.

!Impossible!

She stood there, before me, straight out of John Singer Sargent's huge portrait of a Flamenco dancer, hanging in the Elizabeth Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston. But we weren't in Boston, and she was no museum piece, but a dark, lovely, vivacious beauty, smile large on her face, standing before me. Standing before my shopping cart.

She, I and the cart were in a thrift shop, one of the many operated by the Salvation Army. She stood before my shopping cart, viewing in turn what lay there, then me, and then my little dog in his carry-bag, snug asleep, eliciting laughter from her and the remark that he was guarding my treasure. That treasure not being the tiny dog, but the long dark velvet flounced skirt that lay alongside him.

She was everything I am not; young, willowy, long black curly hair, chatty and overtly friendly. Her zest for life and unaffected words accented as an immigrant's, clearly identified her origins from the Iberian Peninsula. Her good humour was infectious; no one could conceivably be confronted by someone like her without melting themselves into good humour and easy conversation.

She was, she said in the best of moods, happy and loquacious because she was shopping, and she adored shopping. Whenever she felt blue (impossible!) she said, she came along to the Sally Ann, spent a few dollars selectively and immediately felt her mood lift into happiness. Her husband, she confided, was accustomed to her habit, and trusted her to set reasonable limits.

In retrospect I feel so badly that instead of explaining to her that I'd chosen the skirt for warmth, to wear indoors on cold winter days, causing her to exclaim "But it should be worn anywhere in public, it is a social garment...!) I should have been more sensitive. Why it hadn't occurred to me to offer the skirt that seemed so desirable to her, is beyond my reckoning.

A hospital set within any community surely must represent the busiest area possible where people must, of necessity, congregate. It's not the most convivial of places, but one we cannot avoid under certain circumstances. There is inevitably a preponderance of older, and certainly elderly people who hobble through the main gates of hospitals with their various clinics, but there are those who should, judging by their age, be hale and hearty. Ill health and medical emergencies know no age limits.

When I entered the Eye Institute for yet another scheduled post-surgery check, the waiting room for the most renowned of this city's surgical ophthalmologists was packed with people of all ages, patiently awaiting their turn, seated in an orderly fashion. No one really waits too long, despite the number of people present.

The head nurse-receptionist in attendance is skilled at preparatory procedures and wastes little time in administering eye drops to those waiting, once their hospital card has been scanned and their computerized records referred to. Shortly thereafter, ophthalmologic associate consultants, trailed by the occasional student, ushers one into an examination room, where eye-sight tests are undergone, and records further checked and added to.

Finally, the senior ophthalmologist, either the highly esteemed surgeon himself, or an associated colleague, performs the in-depth examination to determine what changes, if any, have taken place. Those findings are relayed to the patient, after being recorded in the patient's records.

If unsettling news is being communicated, there is an attempt to mollify fears. And offers of further surgery; sometimes optional, sometimes stringently advised.

We had never been introduced before, though her brother, one of our near neighbours, has been a friend of ours for decades. She was walking down the street, back from collecting mail from the communal mail box, and we were heading up the street, intent on going into the ravine. Access to the ravine sits right beside the communal mailbox.

Was she Serge's sister? I asked, when we came abreast and greeted one another? She laughed, and said she must look just like him for us to make that leap in recognition. Truth is, she does look like her brother. We, of course, know about her existence through Serge having told us that his sister, who lives in Montreal, has become agreeable to coming down to Ottawa for a week or so to look after his little cat in his absence. Serge is absent on a regular basis; at least two times a year. He's a peripatetic tourist, just loves to travel.

Both Serge and his sister were born in the same year, 1943; he in January, she in December. She is petite and attractive, was wearing a very well tailored wool coat and scarf, both in shades of brown that nicely complemented the dark rich red of her hair. She laughs easily and readily, and obviously enjoys speaking to people.

Divorced for 25 years, left on her own at age 40, she would have it no other way, she confides. She loves her life, her condo in Brossard, a suburb of Montreal, and likes coming down to Ottawa from time to time with this new arrangement between the siblings, to live at his home in a suburb of the city. Her independent lifestyle suits her perfectly. She has dated on occasion, and enjoyed herself, but would never give up the life she now enjoys so much.

It was a pity that Serge's marriage was sundered. Serge, a lovely man whom we like very much is a habitual womanizer, always has been. His wife just had enough of it, it was so blatant, so insulting to her own place in his life, so she left. He pleaded with her to return, but she would have none of it. Now, in the intervening years he has made many brief alliances, none of which have worked out, and he is lonely.

Travel is one way to fill his life with interesting events, and the little cat he adopted from the Humane Society another. In the fall, Serge, his sister and enough members of their extended family to account for 31 people in a tourist group travel to far points of the globe.

Which nicely accounts for her enthusiasm about the multiplicity of ethnic groups that have latterly enriched this country.

Judging from previous years' experience we thought it best, last night, to have an early dinner to prepare ourselves for the yearly front-door onslaught of exuberant children out to collect Halloween treats.

When we first moved to this neighbourhood we could anticipate having at least a hundred children ring the doorbell and themselves chime lustily "trick or treat!" Then moving off in a cloud of colourfully dressed characters to the next house to enable them to fill their various bags with edible goodies.

In the past several years that hundred has steadily been reduced to 60, or 50 children of all ages coming around as those originally moved in as infants matured and the yearly ritual was left behind. We've seen parents, themselves dressed in costume, herding their toddlers before them, shy and hesitant, prodded to say something - at the very least, "thank you", when they'd achieved their goal. And we've seen single children boldly step forward on their own as well as brothers and sisters guiding their younger siblings through the yearly ritual.

Traditionally, it has been my husband who sits there, awaiting the doorbell. And it is the smaller of our two poodles who habitually reacts, barking furiously, then sniffing at the amused children; amused because of our dog's minuscule presence.

Last night, among so many other groups and singles, three teen-age girls came along, dressed in the costumes they saw fit to wear, unable to disguise their having been geared up to have a good time, an evening of fun together in the obvious company of best friends. Unlike boys of a like age who tend to be wordlessly sullen as they stand on the front stoop, these three, like most girls, were happily giggly, a pleasure to encounter.

They were curious about our house, the stained glass windows that my husband had produced and installed. I informed them what an earlier visitor, a knee-high little boy had remarked upon: after having lisped that he liked our house, he then cocked his head and asked directly "are you rich?"