An established routine makes life easier. And we've all got our routines. They're comforting, because we've established a pattern, which means decision-making is simple, all we've got to do it follow what's been done before. Our lives are full of all kinds of routines that become automatic. Important things and unimportant, but all of them steer us in a direction we've become accustomed to and we accept their utility. Less to think about, and easier to reproduce something we've already done countless times. Certain days of the week  you do certain things. At specific hours of the day it's time to do something else that's routine.

On Thursdays, our family has had fish for dinner for as long as I can remember. The kind of fish and how it's prepared can differ, but fish it is. So yesterday I decided we'd have fish and chips. Last week we had fish chowder. The week before we had breaded oven-baked Haddock fillets. And today I decided on baking a half-side of salmon. I coated the non-skin side-up with a layer of mayonnaise -- after seasoning the salmon with lemon-pepper -- to keep it moist while it baked.

And with it I made fresh potato chips. After cutting up the potatoes into 'chip' shape, I soaked the chips in a bowl of cold water for an hour, drained them, tossed them lightly with olive oil, spread them on a baking pan and put them in the heated oven. When the chips were halfway through baking (at which time they have to be turned over), in went the fish and I prepared a fresh vegetable salad to preface the main course. There, dinner done! Oh, right, peeled and sectioned Clementines for dessert.

This morning I asked my husband what he'd prefer me to bake for tonight's dessert; lemon squares (my favourite), or Chelsea buns (his favourite). The question was fairly redundant, and the buns won out. So I decided that I'd use lots of walnuts as well as raisins, cinnamon and this time, cocoa powder in the filling, along with brown sugar and butter. The thing is, it's a time-consuming concoction; once the sweet bread dough is prepared (consisting of yeast, honey, milk, sour cream, eggs, salt and flour), it has to rise for at least an hour.

Once it rises, the dough can be worked, rolled out to a rectangle, the butter spread over, then the dry ingredients, one after the other, so the rectangle with its filling can be rolled from one end to the other, then sliced into sections and carefully placed within a prepared baking pan on the bottom of which has been spread butter, brown sugar, cinnamon and walnuts. Then another hour or so wait for the dough to rise again before the product can be put into the oven to bake.

Which meant that our timing to exit the house for our tramp through the ravine with Jackie and Jillie had to fit into that schedule. It's turned out to be a really bright day, but quite cold for October; another pattern that nature appears to be comfortable with. It was cold during the night, at -6C, and by morning it was 0C, the high for the day. There was wind, but a gentle wind, so with sun and a breeze, the ambient feeling of the atmosphere was very pleasant. We just had to dress accordingly.

We've got to watch Jillie's weight. She's sturdy where her brother is lean. Everything fits him, nothing fits her. So we've got to be on the lookout for a new winter jacket for her, a little looser than those she had been wearing. When they get really energetic out on a walk, the old jackets tend to become somewhat detached, they're too tight and the fastenings tend to open under strain of movement.

Off we went up the street, into the ravine, then descended to the forest below. The fallen foliage crackling under our boots, now well dried and desiccating into pieces where they've been trod on. Some accumulations of foliage on the forest floor still retain vestiges of colour remnants of their freshly-fallen state, but the distinctness of discrete colour is fast vanishing into a colour-pool that is turning a muddy brown on its way to black. All of it adding to the generation upon generation of leaf mass that has seasonally enriched the composted soil of the forest.

There is absolutely nothing left of the once-green and ubiquitous vegetation that comprises the bracken of the forest floor. Aside from a few fronds of really hardy ferns that can withstand any cold, even poking their brazen green out from under snow during the winter months, all others have been absorbed back into the soil from which they emerged, covered now by a fresh layer of fallen foliage in the endless routine of nature's recycling plan for all growing things.