By the time March finally rolls around, we begin thinking we've been in winter an awfully long time. The pleasures we take in winter, a literal change of scenery as it were remain, but though we've become accustomed to feeling the cold creeping into our very bone marrow, we long for its end. Conjuring in our mind's eye the long, languid days of summer. And wondering when we were in those summer days, did we adequately appreciate them?

Did we, perforce, take them for granted, accustoming ourselves to the freedom of movement, spontaneity, tension release and pleasures like the sight of freshly growing vegetation, the bright insouciance of flowers throughout the season, their fragrance and the delightful sight  and smell of spring rain washing away the last vestiges of snow, warming up the thawing soil....

 

One thing we can appreciate about these cold winter days; the food we tend to turn to to warm ourselves and placate our hunger. We do, after all, have to burn more energy to keep warm. And keeping warm is what we focus on when we take Jackie and Jillie out for their daily hikes through the forest trails. Trying to recall when the snow begins to recede in the forest, the pack slowly melting away, while some trails remain firmly mired in thick ice that will take its time despite a warming atmosphere, to melt.

Irving suggested we have matzo-meal dumplings in our chicken soup last night, and I was happy to comply. The traditional view of chicken soup is never without rice, but occasionally a change is welcomed. Robust, warming and a much-touted solution to whatever ails one. Irving likes his soup to cool off, while my preference is for it to be piping hot. Soup that isn't blazing hot disappoints my taste buds and my expectations.

 

What pleased both mightily last evening was the butter tarts I had baked. True, I sidestepped butter and substituted it for Becel margarine, my top preference for butter in baking, but one, as far as I am concerned, is as good as the other. Plump raisins, as usual, but this time along with the vanilla flavouring, I used a good sprinkling of nutmeg, and it was excellent in the finished product.

 

(Oops, Irving came upstairs from his workshop where he was doing his latest glasswork, to pluck me away from the computer, and dance with him to the golden oldie tunes of our teen years -- Frankie Laine, Giselle McKenzie, The Ink Spots, Dean Martin, Nat King Cole --. He had been listening to his favourite Saturday-evening program on Radio-Canada, an hour of songs from the 60s, 70s, earlier and later. So we danced around the kitchen island, good thing it's a large kitchen. We danced until the program was over, on the floor tiles that Irving had laid 15 years ago.)

 

In the early afternoon we were out in the ravine with Jackie and Jillie. The morning had begun sunny and relatively mild. When we were out clouds had moved in, and while it was still mild at -1C, it felt very cold. The effect of the season's snowpack surrounding us everywhere; little wonder it felt so cold, since frigid air radiated up from the snow to ensure we weren't pampered by a milder temperature.

 

 

So the cold was 'bracing', something we've become well accustomed to, over the years. Still, we took our time, glancing here and there at the countless little 'landscapes' that present from time to time, with hints above in irregular brightening over the forest canopy that the sun was valiantly trying to regain its previous position, assailed by stubborn clouds.