There was an article a few days ago in our local newspaper which has focused lately -- unsurprisingly, since Canada has a very large Ukrainian-Canadian population, and the paper has been including items linked to the Russian invasion of Ukraine, the horrible loss of life and civic infrastructure, on what the Ukrainian community in Canada is experiencing and doing. An Orthodox Ukrainian Catholic church organized a group perogy klatsch, where women of Ukrainian heritage and other volunteers would make thousands of perogies, and they would be sold to the public to raise funds to be sent to Ukraine to aid in their existential struggle.

The accompanying photographs brought back memories to me of when I was a young child, watching my mother make verenishka. That's what she called them, a leftover from her early life growing up with her family in the Pale of Settlement, Russia. When my mother came to Canada as a very young woman not yet in her 20s, she could speak Russian, Polish and Ukrainian. And then she learned to speak English; haltingly and heavily accented when I was very young, but perfectly by the time I was considerably older.

Her cooking and baking reflected her European background as a diaspora Jew. Wherever Jews lived in the world -- and that was everywhere -- they included dishes reflective of the country they settled in, among their Yiddish-flavoured panoply of recipes. When we were first married, Irving thoughtfully went out to procure for his wife-and-cook a tome that would prove helpful over the years to come: The Jewish-American cookbook. About 65 years ago.

That newspaper story brought back memories. Of my mother making verenishkas and of my own efforts later, when our children were young. I had completely forgotten -- it's so long ago -- that I had made them myself. So I hauled out that old cookbook and looked to find the recipe. Quite unlike anything that ethnic Ukrainians might recognize, given its Yiddishe twist. But the more I thought about it, I realized I had also used a recipe more akin to the original, which had gained credit with the children fifty years ago. I'll have to give it a try again.

This morning we were confronted with a heavily clouded sky, much colder temperature and snow flurries. No question in the shape the ravine trails were in yesterday they'd be treacherous today. In the interests of preserving life and limb, it would be an untenable proposition to hie ourselves over there to test our luck. So no ravine hike today. The return of -4C, an icy wind and no sun makes for a miserable spring day, one that would harden the ice-slushed trails making them too dangerous to negotiate.

Last night we had enjoyed our dinner with a piping-hot vegetable soup warming our bones. The comfort food theme we embraced during this return to winter included French toast for breakfast, a favourite with Jackie and Jillie. For this evening, I've got a lentil-tomato soup simmering and baked a whole-wheat-cheese focaccia bread. So the kitchen is warmly redolent of good eating fragrances.

The temperature keeps falling, to an expected -16 overnight. And flurries of snow once again dapple the emerging dusk of early evening.