Irving puts together a very useful combination of herbs and spices that we keep in the pantry and which he renews when required. We use it mostly for pizza-making, but it does have its uses in other dishes. Yesterday, for example, when I put together a casserole featuring eggplant, spinach and goats-milk cheese. Here's the ingredient list in tablespoons: 2 oregano, 1 basil, 1/2 fennel seeds crushed, 1/2 dried thyme, 1 garlic powder; 1 cayenne flakes.

I was looking for some kind of platform I could use that would be built on those ingredients [eggplant, goat's cheese/spinach]. I found plenty on line featuring either eggplant and cheese or spinach and cheese, but among the features in those recipes were eggs, and I wanted to make something with no eggs included, since Irving had eaten two eggs with his breakfast already that day.

It was he, actually, who found the basic recipe I would alter, that had eggplant and cheese in it. I just added the spinach. He went through one of the cookbooks in our kitchen library of cookbooks; this one titled Cooking in Colour, 700 recipes for every occasion. It has an excellent vegetarian selection. I wanted to focus that way on yesterday's evening meal because the evening before we had a small sirloin roast, Yorkshire pudding, steamed green beans prefaced by a small tomato/cucumber/avocado/snowpea salad, and this was to make amends.

I started off with the eggplant, slicing it into rounds, placing them in a glass dish, salted them and covered and weighed them down, while we went out for a ravine walk. On our return I tipped out the resulting moisture, washed the slices free of salt, dried them and dipped them in fine breadcrumbs. And then they were fried brown-crisp for a few minutes on either side in olive oil; finally placed on paper towelling to remove any excess oil.

I washed the spinach leaves and steamed them until they were limp. Then chopped up two garlic buds and a medium-size onion and stirred them until almost transparent in more olive oil. I chopped up six medium-to-small tomatoes and placed them into the pan with the onion-garlic, added plenty of dried sweet basil, and Irving's herb mixture as well, stirring it all until the tomato was stewed and the fragrance divine.

I cut up a small log of goat's cheese into crumbly pieces and then began assembling the casserole; spinach on the bottom, eggplant over, and Parmesan sprinkled over the eggplant. Then came the crumbled goat's cheese, and over it the onion-tomato mixture. Remaining spinach was sprinkled over the tomato, and the top sprinkled again with Parmesan. This was refrigerated for a few  hours, and at dinnertime the cooled casserole was popped into a toaster-oven for about a half-hour until it was piping-hot and bubbling. 

The verdict? Absolutely perfect. The melding of flavours and textures was indeed superb, a recipe I'll repeat time and again. It deviated from the original with the use of Irving's mixed herbs, and using fresh, not canned tomatoes, goat's milk, not mozzarella, and we were more than pleased with the results.

With fresh, excellently moist and flavourful peaches from Chile (!) sliced into dessert bowls, dinner was lovely.

They are impressively stoic and patient, those two impulsive little black imps sharing our household. Not when it's time to eat, mind, but when we're preparing ourselves to venture out for our daily ravine ramble. We ask them if they're ready to set out, and Jackie picks up his ears in anticipation, while Jillie runs for cover, hiding from easy reach. Why she does that remains a puzzle to us, since she enjoys being out and all the more so on a woodland trail.

We're stuck in a spate of cold, windy days. Days when it often snows in a desultory manner; not enough to cause havoc, but just enough to ensure that driveways and walkways must be shovelled. Windy enough that the excesses of snow are blown off rooftops and tree boughs. And certainly sufficiently windy to make the already-frigid air exceedingly uncomfortable. It takes no time at all for unprotected flesh to begin the process of being frost-bitten in moderately prolonged exposure.

I regretted not wearing a scarf when we ventured out this early afternoon, and a light second sweater under my down-filled jacket. Irving is far more sensible in extreme cold, layering himself adequately to prevent the discomfort of cold and wind creeping beneath inadequate layers of clothing. When he recommends that I follow suit, he usually comes up against my insisting that I'm adequately prepared. Today I certainly was not. We've certainly been out in much colder weather, but the wind chill quotient is what made the minus-12-degree Celsius feel utterly miserable.

Today we needed to put boots on Jack and Jill. Otherwise they wouldn't have lasted five minutes out in that icy atmosphere. Even in the backyard if they're out too long, the exposure swiftly chills them and we can see them lifting their delicate legs, puzzled at the discomfort, and speedily racing up the deck stairs for the haven of the house interior. When Irving carefully fits each boot onto each little leg, ensuring the paws are snugly ensconced before tightening the boot strap, they patiently lend themselves to the ordeal.

And then, when we're out on the trails they can be as happily engaged in racing about as they wish, protected against the elements, coated and booted. They're in fact, even more inclined to buffoonish antics with boots on than without them, propelling themselves at breakneck speed, their long, wiry legs comically splayed in an exercise of speed and carefree propulsion, giving us the opportunity to both laugh and admire their puppyish pleasure in life.

It's now the dead of winter. We expect it to be cold. We know it will be, but we complain bitterly anyway. It's too cold, it's too damp, it's too windy. Too much of everything to be comfortable. Nature is trying us. Mostly we've no option but to submit to these wintry days since that's the way things are. It is winter. Winter in Canada.

These mornings when we descend from our bedroom and look out the front door, we're greeted with the sight of area wildlife making the most of their options. These small feathered and furry creatures manage, miraculously, to survive the rigours of our winters. Which have been, we are assured by environmentalists, becoming milder. Last year's winter was anything but milder. This year, however, it's a different story. And it's all in gradations, after all. When you're in a minus-ten day that's damp and windy it seems just as cold as a minus-20 day without the wind. The effect is the same.

In the ravine we often see groups of robins wintering over, spending their time down by the creek looking for live prey. We're assuming they will also eat any berries they find. And perhaps they're able to fish out caddis-fly larvae, since the creek has plenty of those. Even last year when it was so cold, there they were, flitting about looking for food, and you wonder why they haven't responded to their natural inclination to fly south?

When we stop at the glass panes of the front door we stand awhile and watch the squirrels and the birds have their breakfast. In the mornings it's the purple finches and juncos and chickadees mostly. Redpolls as well. Afternoon brings the doves, sometimes a few crows, goldfinches and nuthatches, cardinals and chickadees again. And in the twilight hours cardinals tend to come around, as well as doves, lots of them. As for squirrels, they're around all day, greedily stuffing themselves, and chafing at the presence of other squirrels.

Of all the birds, the crows are the most flighty, and they're also the most civil, standing back as it were, to allow others to take their fill. The doves take no mind of the presence of squirrels and the squirrels seem to return the compliment.

It will be very cold tonight, and that concerns Irving a great deal. As it does when light snow events that come down continually cover the feeders. He's always worried that the birds in particular won't be able to access the seeds. So out he goes and cleans things up, and puts out more feed for them.

He also likes to empty the kitchen compost pail frequently into the backyard compost bins; no problem there, since we fill it up pretty fast. He wants to make sure that when the raccoons come around their efforts are worthwhile. The raccoons seem to think so, since their nightly presence is fairly well assured.

The Historical Future

"On the day after the German occupation I had the most disagreeable of business to do in Vichy, accompanied by Maurice Brener because I never go to the ministries anymore without a witness. The day before I left Marseilles, the evening of the 7th, Darquier de Pellepoix put out on TSF radio a racist bulletin that made me dubious about the future. For a moment I was hesitant about leaving ... But we have to keep fighting and not desert the fort of the agencies the moment they are in danger. I cannot become now what I have never been, someone who runs away. So Daruier, with all the eloquence of an excited street vendor, announced new measures against the Jews who have not yet been neutralized by the Statut ... So should we now come out powerfully, or be so assimilated as to escape notice? ... 

• 1. Stamping the word "Jew" on our identity cards; 
• 2. Measures to be taken against Christian accomplices; 
• 3. Dissolution of the youth organizations in the UGIF. ... 

In the future we are promised further threats: wearing a badge, as in the occupied zone, administrative and political measures, legal action against mixed marriages. ... Anxiety swells in our circles. Will this war last long enough for all of u s to be deported to Poland? I hope it won't. From now on no one can hold a grudge against the Jews of France since we must live as if we were suspects during the Terror."
Raymond-Raoul Lambert: Diary of a Witness, 1940--1943; The ordeal of the Jews of France during the Holocaust

Deportation of Jews holding foreign citizenship from the Austerlitz station in Paris, 1941: Yad Vashem

The Terror has returned. And yes, Messr. Lambert's fears were most certainly realized; Vichy France took with huge alacrity to the Nazi Final Solution, going out of their way to accommodate the most vital work of the Third Reich in annihilating six million of the Jews of Europe. Their numbers have been more than replaced all these generations after Europe chastised itself and promised it would "never forget", with greater numbers of Muslims from all around the world of Islam [the ummah] who have brought with them their own viral brand of anti-Semitism.

Now, French Jewish life has been disrupted by fear as the community has been reminded that no one can predict the future with any degree of accuracy. The head of Marseille's Israelite Consistory, Zvi Amman has with heavy heart recommended that Jews of Marseille  abandon their traditional custom of wearing kippot in public in the interests of not bringing immediate attention to the fact that they are Jews. Attacks against Jews by raving Jew-haters from the Islamist tradition of detestation and violence have once again risen.

The base of the Statue de la République is defaced with a swastika as a protest in support of Palestinians turns anti-Semitic, Paris, July 26, 2014. By Etienne Laurent/EPA/Corbis.

"As soon as we are identified as Jewish we can be assaulted and even risk death. But faced with an exceptional situation, we have to take exceptional measures. It causes me such pain to come to this conclusion but I do not want anyone to die in Marseille because they had a kippah on their head." But many other Jewish leaders among whom stands out Haim Korsia, the chief Rabbi of France have raised their objections that the removal of kippot is "tantamount to admitting that wearing a kippah is a provocation". Jews, stated Rabbi Korsia firmly, must present a "united front".

A French soldier stands guard at a synagogue in Lille, France, January 12, 2015. From PhotoPQR/Voix du Nord/Newscom.

Infamously, the Jews of Germany who had assimilated into the culture could not believe they would be singled out for criminal racist discrimination resulting in death camps, their ashes rising from the crematoria to make the fields and agricultural products of the continent fecund with their attributes as human beings.

Historically Jews, united in fear at the prospect of the bleak future before them in Europe, presented that kind of "united front", but as numerous as they were, those who were enthusiastic about ridding the world of the presence of Jews were far more numerous, equipped militarily, politically and socially to proceed with their genocidal intent, and they prevailed. Jewish emigrants from Europe to Israel have now increased in a measure reflecting the new realization that their lives are in increasing peril, that their children's futures no longer can be assured in Europe.

Two men perform a quenelle in western France in 2014. Jean-Sebastien Evrard/AFP/Getty Images

In France there were a documented 7,086 anti-Semitic attacks against French Jews in 2014. That number represents 51 percent of all racist events registered, according to the French Interior Ministry of an ethnic demographic that represents a mere one percent of the population at under 500,000 population as compared to a Muslim population in France numbering about five million. French President Francois Hollande had taken umbrage at the sentiment expressed by  Zvi Ammar, stating it is "intolerable that in our country citizens should feel so upset and under assault because of their religious choice that they would conclude that they have to hide."

Indeed it is intolerable, and sometimes religion is not a choice when it is an integral portion of one's inheritance, ethnic group, culture and intellectual makeup. So, then, 75 years following the unspeakable dystopia of a fascist France eager and willing to fall into step with Nazi Germany's plan of Jewish extermination, French Jews are once more on the alert, and they are beginning to leave France as an expression of their deep existential concern. Perhaps there really is nothing new under the sun, and history does indeed repeat itself.

A demonstrator at a pro-Palestinian rally throws a rock toward riot police during a protest in Paris, June 19, 2014. By Thibault Camus/A.P. Images.

Our kitchen is always a busy place on Friday mornings. It's when I tend to do the pastry baking for the week. Nothing spectacular, just one choice of a dessert for Friday evening dinner. A big pot of chicken soup is prepared, and I make a bread dough to be used the next day when Irving and I make our usual Saturday-evening pizza for dinner.

This time he wanted to do something on his own initiative. Years ago I used to also make croissants for Friday dinner. But I figured that what with a potato pudding, the chicken soup and rice, baked cauliflower and chicken breasts in a tomato/onion sauce, that was enough for one meal. Irv's idea was that  he wanted to make bagels.

Long ago, when the children were  young I'd sometimes bake bagels. They're time-consuming since the risen dough shaped into loops must be briefly cooked in water before they're brushed with eggyolk and baked in the oven for the finished product. But it's been ages since I made them, and  he decided he would do so himself. I offered to produce the bread dough for him, but he insisted this was to be his project.

So he looked up some bagel recipes and using his bread machine, made a suitable dough for the bagels. While that was doing we went out for our ravine walk. And what a miserable day that was ... damp with an icy wind that made it seem far colder than the minus-9 Celsius the thermometer had told us it was. Jack and Jill wore their boots which meant we didn't have to worry about their tiny feet freezing. The result was mad dashes and hysterical romps along the trail, as they enjoyed the snowy atmosphere, so amusing to watch, that we almost forgot how cold it was.

When we got back home, Irving set about the final stages of his bagel-making. I'm impressed by his determination; whenever he's interested in any type of process he tends to immerse himself in an information-gathering, experiential-protocol that invariably produces good results. His bagels were, in my opinion, pretty damn good. He'd gone out to a nearby bulk-food shop to get malt syrup, not wanting to miss any bets.  And we enjoyed them at breakfast, this morning.

By the time the anaesthetic had begun to wear off, it became clear to me that despite having anticipated that I would sail through the aftermath of the procedure without any pain, I was going to be disappointed. The local discomfort soon edged into pain but that's hardly surprising. After all, what else can be expected when a surgeon takes a scalpel to scoop out skin and the flesh under it somewhere on your body?

That 'somewhere' for me was on my upper stomach wall. When I'd first become aware of the appearance of something peculiar there many years ago, I'd attributed it to a spider bite, occasioned while working in the garden. It was infected and required medical treatment. A doctor at a walk-in clinic drained it, bandaged it, gave me a prescription for anti-biotic and sent me on my way. It wasn't diagnosed as a cyst until it had, over the years, returned once, twice. Sometimes the recurring infections, years apart in occurrence were quite awful, and sometimes more tolerable, like the last time it happened.

When I decided it had occurred often enough. My general practitioner referred me to a general surgeon. It was she, many months later, who removed the cyst yesterday at the Montfort Hospital, the closest medical facility to where we live and just incidentally a hospital that once had a miserable reputation but which has re-invented itself over the past decade. Besides the surgeon, there was a nurse and another, younger nurse who took active part in the procedure, while the more mature one set up the instruments. The intern stitched me up after the surgeon had extracted the cyst.

The whole thing took well under an hour; my wait at the hospital was brief. Irving sat out in the parking lot in the truck with the puppies, waiting for me to return. I returned sans cyst with instructions to leave the top bandage, waterproof, in place until Sunday. Then to leave the remaining one to disintegrate on its own. The stitches, the surgeon said, would take quite long to disappear, up to six weeks.

That was a little surprising, the length of time before the stitches would be gone. On the other hand, the application of the anaesthetic resulted in almost immediate effect; quite amazing. Administered subcutaneously, the needle and its contents provided the pain quotient in the procedure, and it seemed to take forever before that part of the process was completed. But immediately afterward I was completely anaesthetized, allowing the surgeon to proceed. When the surgery was completed and the stitching was being done, unfortunately, before the last stitch went in, I could feel what was happening, necessitating another application of that miraculous anaesthetic.

Sleep eluded last night. I had no intention of taking any kind of painkiller. The site was painful, quite beyond uncomfortable. But I did manage to fall asleep, feeling pretty exhausted for some peculiar reason. And today the pain is absent, for which I'm grateful. There's just discomfort where the cyst had been if there's even modest pressure applied. Since our kitchen counter edge is right at that vulnerable level, if I forget and press myself against it, as for example while I was preparing pie dough and bread dough after breakfast, I'm swiftly reminded.

People have their private lives, their regrets, their sorrows, their need to find temporary ease, and some of them seek out the comfort of our natural surroundings to drown themselves in solitude, fleeting peace, and the visual pleasure of nature's indifferent beauty. Yesterday was the first time we'd ever encountered the strange reality of one of our ravine friends leaning against a tree, his breath reeking of alcohol.

Who might have guessed that this man who waxes poetic about his memories of growing up happy in rural New Brunswick where he would happily move back if it were not for his wife's disinterest, has such a burden to bear that immersing himself daily in nature is just not enough relief. He adores his sloppy, shaggy dog for whom he would do just about anything. Were it not for that dog, he tells us time and again he would miss the comfort and loveliness of ambling along in the ravine.

He never speaks of his children, only occasionally of his wife, sometimes of his brother still living on the family plot that he himself is part owner of, back 'home'. But we do know that one of his children, an adult, will never leave his own 'home' because he was born with Down Syndrome and remains a beloved burden on his parents. We know that not because he has told us himself, but because another friend informed us.

And likely this was disclosed to the other friend because he too -- a perennially cheerful personality dedicated to ravine hiking as a health measure as he has no dog -- must cope on a 24-hour basis with the infirmities of a wife who can do little physically for herself, completely debilitated by rheumatoid arthritis. This second friend, a wisp of a man physically, underwent knee replacement surgery rather than plant himself in a wheelchair as his wife did years earlier, rather than living with the pain of constant movement, vowing to himself that he would never deteriorate as he had witnessed his wife doing.

On the other hand, there is the ravine friend with three high-physical-need dogs who himself is motivated by personality type to be constantly on the move and active, finding himself a perfect fit for his dependents requiring three-times-daily romps in the ravine but who has suffered great physical handicap in a dislocated shoulder when he fell from his racing bicycle, but a far more grave condition when he was diagnosed with water on the brain.

Bouts with excruciating headaches, dizzy spells, memory loss were all explained with that diagnosis. The solution for which was to implant a pump from the base of his brain to drip off the water through a hose that draws it away internally through the length of his body into a bag collecting it constantly. The pump must be carefully calibrated and that in itself proved yet another dreadful hurdle, but finally the headaches have left, the dizziness greatly abated, and his short-term memory has returned. Another surgical procedure removed the plate in his shoulder that was causing him additional pain.

This is how people endure the trials and tribulations that life has given them.