It is not from an excess of arrogance that I feel entitled to nominate myself as a champion, deserving of recognition and a prize. It is simple reality that drives me to express my willingness to accept such a prize. I feel I deserve it. I have, throughout my life, striven, even if against my will, to create situations that enabled me and continue to do so -- to shatter objects.

This is never done through fits of pique or any kind of misdirected anger, selecting inoffensive but very fine and extremely useful malleable or friably delicate, readily broken household things of great use, sometimes prideful use, and quality. It is as though within my subconscious resides some demon whose hatred for whole utilitarian objects directs me, someone who appreciates the wholeness of things, to become its malevolent vector.

I became an unwitting tool. Never have I ever deliberately decided to break something. But often, nonetheless, I do. And when I say often, I most certainly do mean often. And sometimes it comes in spurts when not just one object comes to grief under my care, but a succession of such events, leaving me in a quandary of disbelief.

Cups and saucers, antique oriental vases, decorative pottery, they all cringe when I hove into view. Take teapots, for example; in a period of one single week I managed to break the tops of three teapots in rapid succession. I value teapots. They are hugely useful to me, a devoted tea-drinker. Why on Earth would I ever undertake to smash anything as useful and reliable as a teapot? Answer: I would not.

Yet there is that about me that clumsily manages to smash all these things that make life pleasurable. This morning, after breakfast, in my usual hurry -- wait! that's it precisely ... it is my congenital urge to hurry things along, as though to catch escaping time and re-set it in a measure more convenient to my individual needs, that has led to my sorrowfully long record of breakage.

And as I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself, this morning represented one of those infamously klutzy occasions. I was carrying two of our breakfast bowls to restore them to their place of rest in a cupboard between uses, when I dropped them, and they shattered with a huge explosion of sprinkling china all over the breakfast room floor, which is a lovely checkerboard of contact-unforgiving ceramic tile.

Understand now why it is that I qualify unreservedly for the title of champion klutz?

Persistent inclement weather conditions continue to plague this area. White-out conditions on Monday made for perilous driving. Driving wind, falling snow and more frigid than normal temperatures have all conspired to make everyone fairly miserable. Environment Canada issues frost-bite and wind-lash warnings and area ski hills are facing the most dismal earnings in recent memory.

The Barrie Examiner

The major arterial, the 401 highway was shut down repeatedly this week as a result of massive white-outs causing numerous collisions. The OPP and municipal police have been kept busy responding to road collisions. And yesterday seemed to top it all off when a 75-vehicle pile-up on highway 401near Napanee made for yet another shutdown. An estimated 35 tractor-trailers had jack-knifed and crashed, along with passenger vehicles. There was no loss of life, but a number of people were taken to hospital with serious injuries.

The Barrie Examiner

We've been seeing chickadees, squirrels and cardinals increasingly come along to take their share of the peanuts we've been putting out at the side door and on the porch of our house. It's a delight to see them, but wrenching to think that these tiny creatures are being exposed to such unrelentingly nasty weather.

Yesterday my husband went out to run some errands, and in the process dropped by the bulk food store located nearby, to pick up several items, including shelled raw peanuts, sunflower seeds and birdfeed. We've never wanted to put up bird feeders because of the prevalence of neighbourhood cats skulking about. In the past we've found the sad mangled carcases of tiny rabbits, birds and mice.

There has been a rabbit nestling in a snow hollow under one of the spruces in the back garden, the area full of its droppings. We tried putting out small carrots, but though they weren't to be found later, they do freeze, leaving us to wonder what good they might be.

In any event, now birdseed, sunflower seeds and peanuts are all there awaiting the presence of hungry creatures requiring sustenance.

I've been reading a book, lately on how to influence people without necessarily making friends. It's an intriguing read, some of which I thought worthwhile sharing:

"The aircraft carrier U.S.S. Kitty Hawk, which usually patrols the western Pacific from its home port in Yokosuka, Japan, is more like a nuclear powered floating city than a mere ship. It is more than 1,100 feet long, as tall as a 20-story building and carries a flight deck 250 feet across. This behemoth houses nearly 6,000 crew, pilots, and mechanics along with 70 state-of-the-art aircraft. Wherever it goes it is accompanied by an Aegis cruiser outfitted to knock down incoming missiles, several frigates and destroyers, one or two hunter killer submarines and supply vessels. The Kitty Hawk can steam at more than 30 miles per hour; to support the U.S. attack on Afghanistan, it covered the 6,000 miles from Yokosuka to the Indian Ocean in twelve days. This is a truly awesome concentration of military might.
The United States has thirteen of these carrier battle groups. No other country has even one. And whether it is bombers, working ballistic missiles, strategic submarines, laser-guided smart bombs, ground-hugging cruise missiles, pilotless drones or gun ships, American dominance is more or less the same. Moreover, these forces are scattered at more than seven hundred U.S. installations around the globe, with 120,000 American troops in Europe; 92,000 in East Asia and the Pacific; 30,000 in North Africa, the Middle East and South Asia; and 15,000 in the Western Hemisphere outside the United States. The United States' share of the total defense spending of all countries in the world is at 40 percent and rising; it spends as much as the next nine countries combined. In terms of sheer military dominance the world has never seen anything like this."

"Economically, the United States looms nearly as large. At $10-trillion, the U.S. GDP accounts for more than 30% of the combined GDP of all countries in the world, and is twice that of the number two country, Japan. While the GDP of the combined European Union is about $9-trillion, including the newly joining countries, the EU is not yet a state and acts as a peer of the United States only in limited areas. Even so, the United States is bigger economically than all of Europe and is four times as big as Germany, Europe's largest economy. At market prices, China's economy is only a tenth the size of the U.S. economy and Russia's is less than half that. Even after the loss of $7-billion of U.S. market value as a result of the collapse of the recent technology bubble, the capitalization of U.S. stock markets accounts for 36% of global market value. More significantly, U.S. productivity growth is 50% more rapid than that of other developed countries. Moreover, the numbers are all moving in the United States' favor."

"Nor can we ignore American leadership in key technologies or its intellectual and cultural dominance. U.S. research and development spending accounts for more than 40% of the global total and in the area of medical and biotechnology research, the United States spends more than the rest of the world combined. More than 85% of the world's computers run on Microsoft Windows or Unix and are powered by Intel or Motorola microprocessors. The software and systems integration businesses are dominated by U.S. companies like Microsoft, Oracle, EDS, and IBM and the vast bulk of new drugs and medicines are developed in the Unites States. Close to 75% of all Internet communications globally pass through the United States at some point in their transmission. American films account for about 85% of box office revenue in Europe and more than 80% in the entire global market. In a recent survey of the top ten movies in twenty-two countries, 91 of 220 possible slots were American."

"Being big, strong and influential doesn't necessarily equal imperialism, or if it does, perhaps the imperialism is a matter of seduction rather than coercion. In fact, America's power makes itself felt in at least thee distinct ways: coercion, seduction, and persuasion." 

A most persuasive argument for 'respecting' the United States of America, as the single most powerful, influential country on Earth. Even though this book by Clyde Prestowitz, Rogue Nation, was published in 2003 and world events have changed, much yet remains the same, as far as the above is concerned.

Idle thoughts have a curious trajectory, taking one to odd contemplation of puzzling matters. Such as, for example, what did primitive humankind make of succumbing to periodic episodes of struggling with the equally primitive viral condition we now call colds? Seek solutions to remedy their puzzling illness, resort to pathetic, unimagined attempts to ameliorate their lapse from robust health to miserable condition?

One can only conjecture how more vulnerable the onset of a cold with all its usual debilitating symptoms might present to a humanoid creature whose major concern would always be survival in a raw and hostile world in which predators existed threatening any measure of longevity beyond infancy. We're still here, more developed human beings, confident on the discoveries that millions of our predecessors left as a legacy to us to improve those chances of survival.

We've managed to surmount difficulties challenging our existence through persistent, stubborn DNA-generated resistance to all unkindly sources including efforts from wildly inclement climatic circumstances and exposure to relentless predators, and on to our own fallibilities to become what we are today. A technically advanced race of animal creatures upon whom nature bestowed a multitude of survival gifts but yet no more advanced beyond primeval instincts causing us to distrust, resent, hate and mount conflicts.

And where's that virus? Well, it too has survived and continues to afflict us with seasonal cold episodes that lay us low, from infancy to maturity. I really had no idea that "Adults get, on average, two to three (colds) a year, kids get six a year and elderly people about one", according to Dr. Michael Allan, co-author of a new study on cold prevention and treatment published in the Canadian Medical Association Journal this week. "In the United States alone, direct medical costs through physician care, secondary infections and medications were estimated at $17-billion yearly. In addition to which workdays lost to illness or the care of a sick child accounted for yet another annual $25-billion. Colds are big business.

The usefulness of Vitamin C was studied, and according to the review, provided "no meaningful benefit in the average patient". There is no cure, there are scant approaches known that will meaningfully reduce cold symptoms. Ginseng's role in cold prevention remains "questionable". Antihistamines with decongestants have small to moderate effects on adults and are of no benefit to children including cough suppressants "and Health Canada recommends against their use in children under the age of six years".


Risk factors for adults include stress and insufficient night-time rest. Nasal irrigation, humidified air, garlic, Chinese herbal medicines and echinacea bring hope but nothing beyond that. Three randomized controlled trials on the use of honey for children with a cough demonstrated small benefit in children over a year in age, with the warning that honey should never be given to children younger than a year. One dose (2.5 mg to 10 mg) of honey at bedtime was seen to help improve children's cough and sleep.

Acetaminophen and non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs can be useful with aches, pain and fever and it was pointed out that Ibuprofen is slightly better for treating fever in children.

So why was I surprised over the age-and-prevalence figures? I can understand why children are more susceptible to colds and suffer them far more often than adults and seniors. They are exposed to other children who may be vectors because children to begin with have still-developing immune systems making them more vulnerable to viral onset/presence and communication.

Adults too, are in the workforce and are more active in getting about various places than the elderly, so their exposure to their own children and others they come across commits them to the graceless acceptance of frequent colds.

But seniors experiencing just one cold episode on average annually? Well, they are more likely to stay away from communicable areas, and have fewer exposures to young children, deliberately and by design. On the other hand, they're likelier to pay more frequent visits to doctors' offices and hospitals for treatment, and thus have greater exposure to places where viruses roam about, so that's a bit of a puzzle.

She is our only grandchild. When she was an infant we used to push her in a stroller or carry her in a backpack wherever we went. When she learned to walk, she would toddle alongside us, and daily expeditions to area parks would become a part of her experience of the wider world. She was a stubborn little girl, refusing to share her toys with other children, though we urged her to. Today, at age 17, she is loathe to share what she considers most precious to her with others because they don't, for the most part, share her abhorrence of marking up pages in books; she treasures her books and insists they be kept in immaculate condition.

When she was finally toilet trained we thought about giving her the experience to be had at pre-school, and so enrolled her at a nearby pre-school co-operative, where my husband and I both also volunteered. She has always been a social little girl, and now that she is on the cusp of true adulthood she remains so, with a wide circle of friends. She would rather buy a book for a friend than loan out one of her own; that characteristic remains to this day.

We walked her to the school-bus stop at the foot of our street each morning of the workday when she was in our care, and in the afternoon walked down to the stop to greet her as she stepped off the bus. As she grew older, she would invite the occasional friend over to play with her after school, but she also found some neighbourhood friends of a more casual nature.

When she was nine years old her mother moved quite a distance from us making it impractical for this childcare relationship to continue, and our granddaughter began attending school in a rural community, bused from her home to a school twenty minutes' distance. Now in her last year of high school and awaiting the full results of her applications to four universities, she is anxious to get on with her academic life, preparatory to taking her place in the world as a working professional.

She still calls every day for a long chat. Usually that call comes in when she's arrived home from school. Our conversation today revolved around the absolutely atrocious weather; high winds, snow and white-out conditions to accompany the deep chill of temperatures falling well below normal for this time of year. She recounts to me her day's adventures, as it were.

Today's was complete with the description of the three-and-a-half-hour-long law exam she wrote, resulting in a very stiff wrist, since she had written seven fulscap pages in response to the examination questions. What's next is studying for her history exam to take place on Wednesday, and that will mark the end to this semester of Grade 12, and introduce the following semester.

From years of long habit dating back to pre-retirement when we were still in the workforce, we take things at a somewhat slower pace on Saturdays. We still regard it as our "day off", although why, when we were both working that might have been our perception when so much still had to be done, we always thought of Saturdays as leisure days is beyond understanding. We would awake later in the morning, and still do, taking our time over breakfast, eating it in comfort, later than we would during a working day.

That aside, little Riley becomes decidedly restless when his dinnertime rolls around, even if he's had his breakfast a tad late. If I'm at the computer he wonders what in the world could be more important to me than ensuring he has his dinner on time. So he will wander from wherever he happens to be (usually napping somewhere close at hand), to amble over, and give me a mental nudge. He will sit there beside me looking reproachfully up at me, and remain in that position until I 'take notice', although I've certainly taken notice before turning fully around to confront his pathetic little appeal.

Then I shove myself away from the computer desk and make for the kitchen, and he excitedly, with huge anticipation almost gambolling in glee around my feet leads the way. I haul out his little dishes and begin the usual evening preparations; his chicken soup, his natural-products kibble produced in Alberta, (lamb and Okanogan apple), shredded cooked chicken, and chopped broccoli and red bell pepper; he gets three little bowls presented to him at each meal; breakfasts consist of chicken soup again, kibble and cottage cheese with a tiny dab of organic honey in the corner; three separate bowls. At dinnertime the salad arrives in front of him once the tiny bowl of chicken soup and the one of kibble/chicken has been dispatched. And at breakfast, as soon as his chicken soup bowl and the kibble bowl have been licked clean, down comes the cottage cheese; in each instance the salad or the cheese, they're his favourites.

When he's done, in comes my husband to begin chopping up mushrooms, tomatoes and bell pepper, while I roll out the pizza dough that I've had rising. Onto which I spread tomato paste, then sprinkle herbs and spices, and then grate Parmesan, sparingly. Over that mozzarella, and then the vegetables sprinkled overall. Into the pizza drawer of our large microwave oven it goes. Enjoyed with huge relish as our traditional Saturday night evening meal.

After which we settle down to view a film, borrowed from our public library, the only use to which we put our television screen, since we don't have access to television, refusing to bother paying the toll for the scant return. Since we're fairly put off by the gratuitous violence in most Hollywood-produced films, we gravitate to European ones quite often. Import/Export was the one my husband chose, a Cannes Festival 'official selection'. A more dreary, miserable, viewing would hardly be possible, unless one takes huge joy in becoming a voyeur into the tawdry, hopeless lives of people living on the economic/social margins of European society, the exploitative predation of women, and the social attitudes that heap pitiless scorn on refugees of unemployment despair. Set in Ukraine and transitioning to Austria, it is a desolate portrayal despite that it is described as "absolutely hilarious ... powerful, and surprisingly funny" by Screen International.

To help expunge the sour taste left by its viewing, we decided we'd opt to view another film. This one "winner Sundance Film Festival, and recipient of a screenwriting award, although there must be something awry with our aesthetic taste; we tend to feel like running and never stopping as far as we can get from all such award winners. Nevertheless we watched Combination Platter, and it, in turn was actually an antidote to the misery of the previous film. Basically similar topics were covered; emigration, hopes for lifestyle improvement, unemployment, human relations and  racial/ethnic biases, and associated tribulations. This one, though, really was a winner, produced by the very colossus we had attempted escape from.

A few days back when my husband was roaming around on the Internet he found a few recipes that appealed to him and brought them to my attention. One was a recipe for oatmeal-date cookies, the other for crumb-topped blueberry muffins. I had a cursory look, then returned to quickly scribble down the ingredients list thinking I would try both recipes out simply because they appealed to my husband. I could have printed them out, but preferred to have just the list of ingredients, since any baking I do is the kind that takes inspiration more than faithfully following any recipe as it's carefully designed to be done.

A kind of poetic license, if you will, using the experience of almost sixty years gained in the kitchen as family cook and bake-artist. The cookies turned out very well, the toasted coconut, honey, cinnamon and dates complemented the oatmeal to perfection, the result being a crisp, yet chewy cookie fragrant and with ample taste appeal. That recipe called for
3/4 cup toasted coconut
1 cup butter
1-3/4 cup dark brown sugar
2 tbsp.honey
2 large eggs
1 tbsp vanilla
2-1/2 cups flour
1 tsp.baking powder
4 tsp. cinnamon
3 cups rolled oats (quick-cooking acts best)
1/2 cup chopped dates
The recipe was for filled 'sandwiches' with 6 ounces of cream cheese, 6 tbsp.mascarpone mixed with 3 tbsp.icing sugar and a bit of vanilla, but I passed on the filling, though I might give it a try at some other time.

I baked the muffins on Friday morning, thinking I'd give that recipe too a try. And it was certainly worthwhile. The muffins were light and airy, moist and bursting with flavour. Only they weren't muffins; I had decided to turn them into cupcakes instead. That done simply by the mechanics involved; with muffins the dry ingredients are just lightly mixed into the wet. Alternatively when making a cupcake batter, just like with cake batter, it is vigorously beaten, the resulting texture different by degrees.

This recipe, since it was for muffins, called for a crumb topping, instead of the usual icing that tops cupcakes. Despite that I minimally altered the character of the product, I used the crumb topping, and it perfectly matched the cupcakes I ended up with and which topped up our Friday night dinner for dessert:
Crumb topping: 1/4-c.flour, 2 tbsp.dark brown sugar, 1/2 tsp.cinnamon, 1/4 tsp.allspice, 2 tbsp.butter
Muffin batter:
3/4 cup butter
1/2 cup dark brown sugar
3 eggs
1 cup sour cream
1-1/2 tsp.vanilla flavouring
zest of one lemon
2-1/2 cup flour
2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp.baking soda, 1/2 tsp. sea salt
1/2 pint fresh blackberries, raspberries, blueberries or diced strawberries
Bake in a 350-degree Fahrenheit oven between 25 - 30 minutes

I altered the recipe to suit the fact that I had no intention of baking more than six (large-size) muffins. So I used two eggs, 3/4 cup sour cream, zested an orange, since I had no lemon, used 1-1/2 cups unbleached white flour, added two heaping tablespoons of creamed honey, and diced a cup of fresh cherries. 

He stayed there for the longest time, perched on a branch of the Sargenti crab apple tree. Usually at this time of year it still has tiny bright red fruit which we've often seen errant robins peck at, in the winter months, those who adamantly refuse to depart for the south when winter threatens. We haven't seen any robins hanging around this winter. Perhaps their inner radar informed them that this would be a particularly wickedly cold winter in these parts.

I can recall how delighted I was forty years ago when we were living fairly close by, but in another house, to view those bright red birds flying about in the winter months, their colourful presence an absolute delight on the stark contrast between the white snowpack and the denuded foliage. As a species, originally they were a southern bird, not venturing out of the climate they were most comfortable with. But then they began to migrate at the turn of the 20th Century and entered southern Ontario, where they naturalized.

For southern Ontario, where the cardinal is now well established as a breeding bird, Saunders and Dale (1933) report:
The first record for this species was one taken at London, on November 30th, 1896. . . . They remained of very rare or casual occurrence until 1910. . . . Reports were infrequent during the next two or three years, but since about 1914 they have come to be looked upon as permanent residents, a very delightful addition indeed to our fauna. During the winter of 1916-1917, J. C. Middleton had eight Cardinals feeding at his home on The Ridgeway, London, as well as a variety of other birds. Thirty-one were reported in our Christmas Census for 1929. They often nest within the city in lilac bushes, or other shrubbery, several nests having been collected after the birds had finished with them. . . .

It took much later before they made their way further north, to the Ottawa Valley, where the first sightings were likely mid-Century. And we're the appreciative beneficiaries of seeing them, summer and winter, those gorgeous crimson-feathered mid-sized birds that zip across our range of vision during all months of the year in this climate, now. Their clear, brilliant song not to be mistaken by that of any other bird, its trills and clarity transcendentally beautiful, as lovely as the vision of the birds themselves.

They visit us occasionally in a quite personable way, by alighting close to our porch, then on the porch itself to avail themselves during this utterly frigid winter of 2013/14 of the peanuts we place out for wildlife, to help sustain them against the misery of the winter months. We watched, through the glass panes of our front door, as a cardinal sat for the longest time on the crab tree, looking constantly about him, before finally alighting on the top rail of our porch surround where peanuts had been set out. We looked on, fascinated, as he took his patient time unloosing the peanuts from their shell.

Later, my husband put out unshelled peanuts, and to our surprise, hours afterward he was back again, repeating the performance. Only this time he settled himself on the top of an ornamental aluminum loveseat that sits at the corner of the porch, remaining there for almost an hour, hunkered down, its feathers fluffed over its feet, seemingly at rest. Giving us concern over the potential of a bird's feet somehow sticking to frozen metal, or the horror of seeing one of the neighbourhood cats creeping up behind the resting bird.

None of this happened; once the cardinal decided to take a few more peanuts, he also decided to fly off. Though he's a delight to behold, we're equally fascinated by the appearance of squirrels making themselves comfortable, taking advantage of the invitation to dine. Even crows doing likewise present us with the opportunity to appreciate our closeness to nature.

I had many, many years ago read Konrad Lorenz's King Solomon's Ring in which this Austrian-born Noble Prize winner wrote about his observations as an animal ethicist (ornithologist, animal behaviourist, etc.) and one of his tales was of his pet raven that used to accompany him on woodland walks. Mr. Lorenz would reward his pet bird with pieces of raw meat, since this is a species that is omnivorous. Once, while out walking, he had the urge to micturate, and as he was relieving himself, the bird swooped down to grasp the man's member, feeling it to be a raw-meat offering; another experience in bird logic for this scientist.

We, living on an urban street with its close-by wooded ravine, have taken note of some of the activities of various birds whose environment we intrude upon. Perhaps, on the other hand, it's more of a two-way street, all of nature's creatures intersect and interact in some ways, and crows are known to have made their comfortable presence in all environments, including cities.

Many years back we became accustomed to the presence of what were called 'jungle crows' in Tokyo, larger-than-normal crows that tended to congregate around the water tower located within the small compound where we lived with other non-Japanese in a kind of luxury that ordinary Japanese could only dream of, our house resembling that of any found in Western societies with some typical Japanese touches. Feral cats abounded, finding shelter in the sewer system, evading any attempts by people to tame them. And they were, when not quick enough, meaty targets for jungle crows' appetites.

We've found the crows present in our ravine far more sensitively polite to the small furred creatures in our close woodland, standing back while squirrels take first rush at the peanuts we leave in various caches, availing themselves of what may remain.

When they're about, crows tend to sit atop the light standards on the street. When we daily exit our house to make for the ravine, the crows take notice. If there's only one, while he's busy following our entrance to the ravine, he sends verbal messages to other crows and they too begin to assemble and follow our progress through the ravine, taking advantage of the opportunity to treat themselves during this bitterly cold winter.

They know where we live, or at least some of them do, and they're alert to those times when we place peanuts at the side steps of the house and on the porch. They have become skilled at sharing with the cardinals and the squirrels which regularly come around to collect their due.

This is the reality in Canada. Proof of Canadian-ness is the love-hate relationship that Canadians enjoy with the weather. Quite specifically the weather that bedevils, enlivens, challenges and entertains Canadians from coast to coast to coast. Invariably the first topic of conversation is the weather; how delightful it may happen to be at any given moment, and how utterly miserable it is at others.

We are accustomed, yet still not comfortable with nature's weather challenges to our way of life, our comfort, our opportunities and our yearning for moderation. Climate and atmospheric conditions conspire to give Canadians weather conditions that seem to turn on that proverbial shekel. From one day to the next conditions can be tolerable, or they can become frighteningly awful.

So, there's the conversation topic: the all-encompassing, view-detrimental ice fog, the constant drizzle, the frigid wind tearing through one's clothing, the effulgent day of sun and mild temperatures, the unbelievable snowpack that has accumulated, the freezing rain and allied icy conditions underfoot or undertire, and how it all complicates our lives. Or gives us a sunny disposition, depending on one's outlook on life and momentary attitudes.

When, several weeks back, our youngest son was staying with us for a week's visit, we were in one of those unexpectedly-icy weather systems when the temperature hesitated to rise above minus-20-degrees. He left frozen Ottawa for Yellowknife, NWT, to find it even more icy there, but an experience not to be missed. When he returned finally to Vancouver, the weather was its usual balmy self for that part of Canada, so he hauled himself up to the mountains and revelled in newfallen snow under his skis.

As for us, we've bounced between normal temperatures for this time of year which are around minus-6 Celsius for January day-time highs, and what we're now experiencing; day-time highs resisting the norms to present us with minus-20 in the afternoon and minus-29 during the night. We won't even mention the wind-chill factor other than to refer to Environment Canada's wind-chill warnings.

And while Ottawa is shuddering and shivering under these extreme temperatures sticking stubbornly around where they aren't wanted, it's now milder in Yellowknife at a daytime high of -13, and night temperature of -16 than it is here, by far. As for Vancouver don't even mention its daytime high of 7+ and nighttime temperature of 2+, because it's all very nice for them, but produces envy in us.

Back into the deep-freeze. We enjoyed normal January temperatures and conditions for as long as the weather held out for us, and now we're stuck in an extreme cold trough, and there we will stay for the remainder of the week, at the very least. Tonight we're dipping down to minus-29-degrees Celsius, the high today and tomorrow during the 'warmest' parts of the day will ascend all the way to minus-20.

And whereas once that would never have deterred us from the determination to forge ahead and enjoy an hour in the ravine, admiring the surrounding forested scenery, it most certainly now does. When we were younger we would stride along at a good pace and that activity would ensure we burned enough energy for warmth. I am capable of perambulating about at a pace resembling a vigorous stride only on the flat portions of our circuit. It's a struggle to get uphill and this is, after all, a ravine. The uphill clambers necessitating that I go it at a much, much slower pace. I'm still burning energy, but our inability to progress at a pace that would keep us warm in such frigid temperatures is severely hampered.

And the same is true of our little dog who, at any temperature lower than minus-6-degrees (less if there's newfallen snow) requires that he be geared with boots, otherwise his tender little paws freeze and so does he, halting just where he happens to be, needing to be picked up and carried. In really frigid temperatures with underfoot icy conditions, or deep snow, when he's booted his progress becomes even slower and he's likely under those conditions to keep stumbling, often falling flat on his little face. Looking at him it's obvious how frequently he has fallen by the snow covering his small face whenever it gets planted in such a manner before he picks himself up and begins plodding along again.

Because it's so cold, heartier meals are called for, so yesterday I roasted a little Cornish game hen accompanied by an egg-noodle pudding and a baked acorn squash, with sliced strawberries and pitted fresh cherries for dessert. Today, there's a vegetable-thick pasta sauce simmering on the stove for spaghetti with minced chicken meatballs and a small vegetable salad. I stewed a fruit compote of pears and plums for dessert, flavoured with allspice and cloves; the competing fragrances overwhelmed the kitchen.

And to inject another note of colour, my husband installed the latest of the stained glass windows he had designed, this one primarily of hollyhocks, to sit in the kitchen and remind me of the colour and texture we so enjoy in our summertime gardens. And he's busied himself working on the design of succeeding windows, a series to feature birds. Those panes to be inserted within a series of interconnecting panels he designed and installed between the kitchen and the breakfast room.

It occurred to me that rather than sitting in comfort reading the newspaper, Riley beside me on the loveseat, I could be outside, shovelling the new-fallen snow. Shovelling at the back had already taken place several times during the day, and it was my husband who'd done it, as usual. Despite that he had wrenched his back somehow, several days earlier.

We'd been out in mid-afternoon for a ravine walk and were overwhelmed as we so often are, at the wonderland aspect of the woods freshly wreathed in soft, new snow. It was a lengthy ramble in the woods, as we were loping leisurely along; no point whatever not taking advantage of the milder weather and fully enjoying it, since we knew that another January cold snap was on its way. It was heralded by the wind blasting out on the street as it had been most of the day. But in the ravine all was calm, barely a whisper of wind.

We could hear the Pileated woodpecker busy searching for grubs and creating a mound of new thick wood slivers soon to be covered by snow. We could see squirrels nowhere, imagining them cowering in their nests, reluctant to venture out on a Sunday when people often stroll through the woods, unlike weekdays, with their dogs eager to the chase, and the squirrels vulnerable in the new depths of fresh snow. We could, however, see more than ample evidence of their having been out and about nonetheless, with their little paw-patterns left on the rails of the bridges and elsewhere.

When we arrived back home, the atmosphere was redolent of the green pea soup I'd put on to cook before we'd left. My husband headed downstairs to his workbench and I settled on the loveseat, Riley anxious to catch a substantial nap before dinnertime. Our return home from a ravine walk always signals to him that it's time for me to settle with the newspapers and he to settle comfortably beside me.

But this time I felt restless, and then decided that I could steal myself quietly outside and do the shovelling of the driveway where the all-day snow had accumulated. So I dressed and let myself out the front, knowing that if I went out the back my husband would hear the sliding glass doors and rush upstairs to prevent me from exerting myself. It was just growing dusk, the wind had died down, and the air felt fresh and it felt invigorating to use a snow shovel once again, it had been so long since I had.

Dark fell quickly, and before I knew it, the driveway was shovelled clear; no impressive feat given the delicate, light nature of the fresh snow. Then came the walkways, the porch, the front steps. And then onto the walkway leading from the front to the back, and the backyard walkways to be cleared to enable Riley to trot about without having to do so with snow reaching past his short little legs. The deck was the last, and just as I was halfway through it, the light in the breakfast room came on and there was my husband, opening the sliding doors and anxiously asking me what I thought I was doing?

Enjoying myself, I responded. And said I'd be right in, when he invited me back into the house directly, saying he would go right out and finish up the shovelling, that he didn't want me doing it, and get inside where it was warm. I was warm, and feeling pretty good.

I completed my mission, went back indoors and settled down once again on the loveseat with the newspapers, Riley beside me.

We're on the cusp of collapsing into another cold spell. When the new week dawns it will be extremely cold again. Although the chill weather has not yet reached us, the wind promises to herald it in; it is very blustery out, though the high for this day will be minus-4-degrees, like yesterday.

When we embarked on our daily ravine walk early yesterday just as afternoon set in I realized that the head band I'd put on wouldn't be enough cover, and shrugged the hood of my jacket into place, for the snow was falling, lightly, but it would accumulate throughout the course of our walk, making me look rather like an ambulating snowperson.

The falling snow cradled the atmosphere, making it appear softly delightful. And, as we progressed during our walk the snow picked up its intensity, driving toward us, far fuller, still pleasurable. The squirrels were out in full force, headed toward their usual peanut-cache places. We saw no one else out and about; clearly Saturdays are meant for shopping.

Home again, we decided to take a trip downtown, a little expedition that promised its usual attractive drive along the Western Parkway, edging the Ottawa River. The river is now completely frozen over, and the falling snow accumulates on the river ice, so one might think it was a snow field, not a broad river frozen over for winter.

By this time we were into snowsqualls, beautiful, but giving us a shortened view of everything; visibility was badly impaired, but the snowfall was lovely. Under such conditions, the prevailing light is hushed and mysterious. The difference between the sky and the land, and the snow coming down hard is difficult to differentiate; everything looks white-grey, a light pewter shade.

The odd thing was that though the heavens had clearly closed in gifting us with an abundance of snow, the sun had still managed to get through, and it sat there glowering, gold and insistent that it too be noticed. Hard not to notice it under such circumstances, the entire scene looked utterly surreal.

We could see dimly across the river to the Quebec side as we drove along, the 19th-Century-village aspect that always seems so out of touch with the reality of Gatineau as a modern city. The impression, however, is amplified by the sight of small fishing huts scattered here and there on the frozen river, and the presence of tiny figures around the huts, enjoying winter and fishing through the ice.

Even the view of the Parliament Buildings with their Gothic-inspired design enveloped in snow, conditions clearing out the usual press of tourists in evidence, reminded one of a far earlier era.

We stopped at the Byward Market to pick up a few items, then drove along from Sussex Drive to access the Eastern Parkway, which took us in due time to the stained glass store where my husband picked up supplies to enable him to get on with his newest projects.

When the snow eventually did temporarily stop before ratcheting up again later in the early evening, the sun was nowhere to be seen. The struggle between the sun's insistence and the storm's reality may be thought to have been won by the atmospheric conditions, but they're temporary and the sun's presence is not.

What would Friday night's mealtime be like without being prefaced by a steaming hot bowl of chicken soup and rice? Impoverished mightily. So as usual after breakfast clean-up and newspaper-perusal, I put on a chicken soup to cook. At this time of year we cannot anticipate snipping fresh parsley from the garden to garnish the soup, and I find that thinly sliced green onions do the job very nicely indeed, scattering them atop the soup just before serving.

I decided yesterday also to bake Chelsea buns, since my husband so loves yeast-raised sweet breads. When preparing the dough I used honey as a sweetener, and used a cup of milk and two eggs along with unbleached all-purpose flour (hard wheat), and the raised yeast, a dash of salt. After rising the dough it was rolled to a rectangle, brushed with Becel, and brown sugar, cinnamon, large Thompson raisins, and both pecan and walnut pieces scattered over. Rolling it up, I cut it into sections and placed them inside an aluminum springform baking pan to rise, then bake. (The results are never as good using porcelain or a glass baking dish; the bottom of the buns don't crisp sufficiently.) The results, as anticipated.

Yesterday was overcast, with light snow falling throughout the day, although there wasn't much of an accumulation. When we entered the ravine for our daily walk, it was delightful to see the trees once again being embroidered by falling snow, outlining them with delicate white and the entire scene utterly transformed; lighter, brilliant, even without the appearance of the sun.

We came across a neighbour walking a new little dog, which is to say one we weren't familiar with. She had lost her own dog to age and illness a dozen years earlier and had taken, since then, to walking other peoples' dogs. One of which was a lumpy little friendly schnauzer. The reason for the appearance of this unknown dog was that the little schnauzer had succumbed to cancer; it surfaced suddenly, evidently, even though its owner is an oncologist.

We have enjoyed a pleasant winter week of moderated temperatures. On a few of those days the thermometer edged up slightly past the freezing mark resulting in rain instead of snow, albeit mostly freezing rain which does tend to complicate getting about in the out of doors for people. There have been a sizeable number of people admitted to hospital resulting from slippery conditions underfoot.

For us it has meant that our daily rambles through our wooded ravine have been enhanced by somewhat less cold than we had been experiencing, and since we always pull cleats on over our boots the icy conditions don't present as a liability. On the other hand, if its icy underfoot and extremely cold it means that Riley has to wear boots and the combination of boots and ice makes for an edgy performance in struggling to maintain all four paws from slipping out from under his sturdy little body. Although he hasn't mentioned it specifically, we're confident that he too appreciates the cold-weather relief.

It's also meant that my glove-clad fingers don't become as miserably painful at the end of our hour's ramble, because of doling out peanuts for the squirrels. We've enjoyed the minus-1-degree Celsius bonus. A temperature of minus-5-degrees is considerably different from minus-18-degrees during the afternoon. And it has brought out people into the ravine whom we haven't seen in ages. Yesterday's walk was one of those days when we were surprised to see old ravine acquaintances out in force, enjoying the weather and the ambiance.

Whether it's overcast or sunny the aspects of the environment that we perceive are almost equally fascinating. On sunny afternoons I delight in seeing the sun blazing through the canopy of the foliage-denuded trees.

Strangely, as we exited the ravine to walk down the street on which our house sits, we saw above us in a cloud-streaked sky which didn't completely obliterate the sun's rays, a group of about 40 gulls flying across the sky. Surprising because these birds don't normally remain behind when winter enters; they head for more clement atmospheres.

But as soon as the first group exited the scene, additional, smaller ones kept evidencing themselves. Perhaps some 70 birds in total. And yesterday, when we were halfway through our jaunt we saw a Pileated woodpecker, the giant of the species that we see in this part of the world, busy on a tree trunk. We had heard its piercing, frenzied call in the last few days, and knew it heralded its return, and it was delightful to see it in action. great chunks of bark flying off the dead tree trunk.

We'd earlier seen its much smaller cousins which are always around and about, the downy and the hairy, and as well nuthatches and those adorable plumply tiny chickadees. And the squirrels, red black and grey were out in force as well, happy to be able to scamper along on a firm snowpack, branches in the trees now finally shed of their snow load.

Stir-fry vegetables have become a weekly staple in our diet. It's a quick and easy meal to prepare, and it's quite wonderful on the taste buds. We used to have stir-fries when broccoli was the star of the show. I still like broccoli in a stir-fry, but it isn't my husband's favourite vegetable, though I try to stick it into meals now and again. But we discovered a substitute that he really enjoys eating, and use that instead of the broccoli.

Since living in Tokyo away back when, the vegetables that we most often used then, and the rice that he began to prefer, stems from our culinary experiences in Japan. I really like long-grain rice, but he much prefers the oriental sticky-type short grain rice, particularly koshihikari type, imported from abroad the best, but California-grown calrose acceptable.

It requires far less water than other types of rice; and generally cooks for about 24 minutes. And when it's cooked to perfection, my husband swoons over it. He prefers it cool, even cold, to hot.

The vegetable mix I used for last night's dinner was two cloves of garlic, chopped, one medium size onion chopped and quickly stirred in olive oil; introducing then a yellow bell pepper and half a red bell pepper chopped, a cup of fresh sliced mushrooms, a cup of cauliflower florets, and the bok choy, chopped into rough pieces. When I introduce the bok choy as the last ingredient once the others in succession have had their time in the skillet, I use monosodium glutamate which has suffered such an undeservedly bad rap sprinkled over it, and freshly ground black pepper.

For yesterday's meal, earlier in the day I had cut a turkey breast fillet into small half-inch-square pieces, and marinated them in a mixture of honey, chopped ginger, soya sauce and olive oil. Which I set to await later use, in the refrigerator. I sauteed the turkey breast bits separately from the stir-fried vegetables.

The idea is to pile rice onto a serving dish, cover it with the stir-fry vegetables, then scatter the turkey pieces overall. A colourful, appealing presentation, and an extremely tasty and nutritious one as well. My husband prefers his rice portion to be set aside separately in a wide-brimmed bowl, to cool.

The only oops in the situation is that my husband likes to scatter those oriental dried noodles over the medley, and drizzle sweet and sour sauce over it as well. I demur.

Chiheb Esseghaier is set to represent himself at the judicial pre-trial. (CREDIT: Frank Gunn, CP) 

 

This is a photograph of a Tunisian-born man who came to Canada on a student visa to study in Montreal. He is a doctoral candidate in the field of bionanotechnology, extremely proficient in this chosen profession, and he is also a dedicated jihadist. He, along with a Toronto-area man who arrived in Canada with his family as a Palestinian refugee from Kuwait, planned to destroy the calm and security of Canadians through executing an atrocity, blowing up a regular passenger Via Rail train routed from New York to Toronto. 

They were arrested in April of 2012 on charges of terrorism, after a lengthy investigation conducted co-jointly between the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. In the United States, another suspect had been arrested on similar charges related to these terrorist plans. This case would represent the first time that an al-Qaeda-linked plan to commit a terror act might have taken place in Canada.

Some while back I signed up with Linked In. I've no particular interest in the site, and just ignored a number of invitations I received from friends and acquaintances to sign up, but when one of my nephews repeated that invitation I relented and did sign up to become a member. It's mostly meant for professionals in a wide spectrum of areas to link up with others who share their interests and affinities and can without doubt be useful to many people, myself excluded.

Although I exercise no active presence on the site, I am listed on it. And as such what I take to be entirely automatic messages are emailed to me on a fairly regular basis inviting me to become involved, to peruse what my links have been up to, in their progress within the site, linking up with new contacts, citations of their activities, that kind of thing. What I also receive notifications for via email are others whom I might find interest in, and might appreciate linking up with. Tangential?

There is a recurring invitation that I receive from Linked In  on a surprisingly frequent basis, inviting me as a Linked In member to get to know some fascinating individuals whose patronage/acquaintanceship/links might be advantageous to me: And here's a sample:

• 

  Mark Leahy 3^rd

  President at MergentaOttawa, Canada Area

   ConnectAdd a personal message
• 

  Paul Peterton 

  Civic & Social Organization ProfessionalOttawa, Ontario, Canada

   ConnectAdd a personal message
• 

  Frederick Matern 3^rd

  A/Assistant Director at Citizenship and Immigration CanadaOttawa, Canada Area

   ConnectAdd a personal message
• 

  Chiheb Esseghaier 

  phD student at INRSCanada

   ConnectAdd a personal message
• 

  Richard Hopkins 

  Owner, Hastings Street Books/Hourglass BooksVancouver, Canada Area

   ConnectAdd a personal message
• 

  Shujaat Hussain 

  CEO at MEGA InternationalAligarh Area, India

   

  Could these completely innocent and presumably enterprising people be unaware of the fact that they have been linked through Linked In with Chiheb Esseghaier, jihadi, languishing in a Canadian prison awaiting trial on terror charges? I am, why aren't they? 

  
  

  Doesn't anyone have the impression that this situation is downright ridiculous?

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.

On Saturday night I soaked about one third of a cup of dried chick peas, intending to use them the next day. I know it's much faster to use canned chick peas, but I prefer to use the dried ones, even though the excess canned ones are useful to sprinkle on salads throughout the week, kept in the refrigerator for that purpose. I thought I'd try out a recipe that was published in the newspaper for cold-weather meals.

And so on Sunday afternoon I put together the ingredients for Asian Chickpea Soup. Of course the amounts given are to produce a finished product to be shared by six people. Since there's only two of us and I don't like freezing portions to be used at a later date, and don't much like leftovers since I prefer my food preparation to take place the day it's meant to be eaten, I just roughly estimated amounts required for two servings, and the end result was extremely palatable.

Recipe for Asian Chickpea Soup

• 2 tbsp olive oil
• 5 garlic coves, chopped
• 1 onion finely chopped
• 1 tsp. cumin seeds
• 1/2 tsp. red pepper flakes
• 1/2 tsp. turmeric
• Leaves of 2 sprigs fresh thyme (dried will do well enough)
• 3 tomatoes, diced
• 1 stalk celery, finely chopped
• 3 cups boiling water
• 3 cups cooked chickpeas
• 1 cup cherry tomatoes (optional)
• sea salt and freshly ground pepper
• 1/4-cup chopped fresh coriander

I heated the oil to quickly stir the garlic, onion, cumin, red pepper flakes, turmeric and thyme until the onion was limp and the mixture was very aromatic, then added the tomatoes and celery, and water, and the chickpeas. And I added a chicken bouillon cube for good measure, then left it all to simmer while we went off for our hours-long ravine walk. On our return the fragrance of the cooking soup greeted us, and I just left it to continue slowly simmering.

The finished product was much to our taste, and it is joining our winter-soup repertoire consisting mostly of lentil-tomato, bean-vegetable, green-pea, and other variables on old favourites.