Little wonder Canadians are so fixated on the weather. It turns precipitously from mellow to maddeningly inclement. Yesterday we basked in a mild 14 degrees, the sun sailing blissfully through an ocean of blue, no wind to speak of, and it was deliriously wonderful. Except for the unfortunate fact that the ravine is drenched with the fallout of all the rainfall we've had and ricocheting from freezing temperatures at night, bouncing back to moderate day-time temperatures averaging in the 7-degree range makes for a freeze-and-thaw cycle that ends up leaving forested areas slick with muck.

Which wouldn't be so bad, actually, if it were not the fact that contracted crews now returned to work there in our wooded ravine were once again busy with their tracked vehicles over the natural woodland trails they've widened considerably, and plowed, through the weight and action of their constant to-and-fro-ing to churn up the clay surface to a gooey mass of slippery gunk.

Now, traversing those areas still open to us which we access through a series of scramblingly alternate feints and manoeuvres comes with the added entertainment of slipping and sliding as we attempt to mount the hills bushwhacking, then slip and slide back down again.

When we set out last Saturday under heavily clouded skies it was clear we'd soon be receiving something from above. Shortly after entering the ravine confines the snow began and throughout the course of our meandering circuit it picked up tempo until horizontal surfaces hosted an icing of white.

Overnight last night clouds returned with a vengeance that dropped rain throughout the night, ensuring that our perambulation through the ravine today will be full of challenges, without the pleasure that yesterday's sun and moderation brought to the expedition.

Never before did it seem that rooftop snipers and the presence of an enlarged police force was necessary when Canadians annually recognized the sacrifices of our Armed Forces in a November 11 tribute at the National Cenotaph. It is a sobering reminder of the world we now inhabit.

The murder of two members of the Canadian Military two weeks ago reminded us of the menace that lurks not only outside the country, threatening to topple human rights enshrined in all democratic countries of the world, but within the country with members of our own civilized majority choosing to ally themselves with the nihilistic creed of Islamist imperialism.

Envisioning a totalitarian conquest that will install those fundamentalist religious pathogens throughout the globe they are wreaking death and destruction wherever they go. While Canada commemorates the courage and dedication of our military men and women who are assigned to global danger spots even now throughout the world, from eastern Europe to the Middle East, our dream of a world united seems to have evaporated into the mists of the future unknown.

Meanwhile, here in the nation's capital, nature smiled benignly on this auspicious day of venerated ceremony and remembrance which usually as the gateway between fall and winter is miserably cold, windy and overcast, if not giving us one of the first snowfalls of the impending season. Not so this day of moderation, with the sun smiling in a clear blue sky, gentle breezes and mild temperatures.

The panoply of the ceremony, in its solemn devotion to recalling past wars and sacrifices among the unspeakable carnage drew out tens of thousands of Canadians of all ages, a colourful and touching display of youth becoming engaged in respecting the history of their nation and its place in the world of yesterday, today and tomorrow in defence of freedom and democratic values.

There were 40,000 Jews left in the ghetto on that fateful day in January 1943, when the first armed resistance took place. Only 7,000 could bear arm. Through ingenuity, bribery and raids the Jews had built a small stockpile of arms -- World War I rifles, machine guns, and a collection of Molotov cocktails (bottles of gasoline with flammable wicks for use against tanks). 

The uprising took place when four companies of storm-troopers -- 800 men -- under the pretence of looking for factory workers, arrived in the ghetto to escort their next haul of Jews to the concentration camps. But this time they were met with lead instead of supplication Shocked, the black-booted S.S. men scurried for cover. For three days the battle raged. In the end it was not the Jews but the Nazis who were forced to retreat.
 
The Nazis were outraged at this rout of their S.S. troops, but not beyond prudence. The campaign to crush these rebellious ghetto Jews was put under the command of General Jurgen Stroop, who was rushed to Warsaw at the head of a special combat group with attached artillery units.
 
The Jews feverishly prepared for the German counterattack, converting cellars into bunkers, mining the streets, and establishing a maze of connecting passages through the sewers. They expected to hold out a week at the most; so did Germany's propaganda minister, Herr Joseph Goebbels, who noted in his diary,

"The Jews have actually succeeded in making a defensive position of the Ghetto. Heavy engagements are being fought there which led even to the Jewish Supreme Command issuing daily communiques. Of course this fun won't last long." 

 But both Jews and Goebbels were wrong. The Jews resisted for six weeks.

General Stroop, after careful planning, launched his counteroffensive in March. From a safe distance his artillery batteries laid down a barrage over the ghetto. Block by block the artillery fire raked the buildings, forcing the defenders to take refuge in cellars and sewers. Then the black-uniformed S.S. men attacked with automatic rifles and machine guns, mortars and tanks. Armed with rifles, a few machine guns, hand grenades, and Molotov cocktails, the Jews first fought the Nazis to a standstill, then slowly forced their retreat. Jewish youths gave their lives to smash burning bottles of gasoline against German tanks, and Jewish partisans fired point-blank into the frightened faces of the S.S men as they tried to escape their burning tanks.

The shelling of the ghetto was resumed. It became a hell of exploding shells, crumbling buildings, and moving walls of flame. In desperation the Jews appealed to the Polish underground for help, but in vain. The Poles hoped the Germans would solve their "Jewish problem" for them. 

Little did they realize the surprise that history had In store for them. When, in July 1944, the Polish underground staged its own uprising against the Germans, the Poles begged the Russians to come to their aid. But just as the Poles had refused to come to the aid of the Jews, so the Russians refused to come to the aid of the Poles. The well-armed Polish underground army of 150,000 men was annihilated "The "Germans had solved Russia's "Polish problem" for her.

Jews, God and History: Max I. Dimont

The entire Jewish phase of the 'final solution' was placed in the hands of one Adolf Eichmann, a slender owlish failure-prone salesman of oil products, who, through a rapid rise within the Nazi hierarchy, had become a cynical, boastful, sycophantic S.S. lieutenant colonel, with a frumpy wife and a glamorous mistress. When apprehended fifteen years after the war by Israeli agents, Eichmann modestly disclaimed any credit for his achievement, but we must not underestimate the enormity of the task that faced him back in the exhilarating days when German armies were victoriously slashing their way into Russia.

The old concentration camps had to be modernized for mass murder. Additional camps, large enough to handle hundreds of thousands of Jews at a time, had to be built. Means for transporting millions of Jews from all over Eastern Europe to these camps had to be provided. New railroad spurs had to be built, as these camps were off the main arteries. Corps of special camp attendants had to be recruited and trained, records kept.

Soon, a sizable segment of the German population was diverted from the war effort for the planning, building and staffing of these murder camps. Generals on the Russian front complained that winter uniforms for the troops were arriving late because trains had been diverted; industrialists complained they were being pirated of skilled labor. But nothing was allowed to interfere with the 'final solution'.

Though there was a shortage of steel for tanks and airplanes, there was no shortage of steel to build furnaces for the disposal of the cadavers. This excerpt from a business letter from the director of the Didier Works in Berlin gives proof of the knowledge German industrialists had of the use of their products:

For placing the bodies into the furnaces, we suggest simply a metal tray moving on cylinders. Every furnace will have an oven measuring only 24 by 18 inches, as coffins will not be used. For transporting corpses from the storage points to the furnaces we suggest using light carts on wheels, and we enclose diagrams of these drawn to scale.

With German efficiency, chambers for the administration of Zyklon B gas were built to resemble large shower rooms. Arrivals were informed they would have to take a shower, were ordered to undress, and then were herded into the 'shower rooms'. Small children were often thrown in after the adults The steel doors to the gas chambers were shut. Then the amethyst-blue Zyklon B crystals were funneled through the large-holed shower nozzles into the hermetically sealed room. The hydrogen cyanide gas released from the crystals slowly rose to the ceiling, slowly gassing the people in the room, slowly turning the gasping, retching bodies into bright pink, green-spotted, convulsed corpses. 

Peepholes in the walls and ceiling, protected by safety glass, were provided for Nazi officials who had a compulsion to view the agonized writhings of naked men and women choking to death. Through these peepholes they could watch, entranced, several performances a day.

Max I. Dimont -- Jews, God and History

There are those occasions when perusing Thursday's edition of our local newspaper which publishes an interesting food section, when a recipe presents itself that looks appealing and holds promise that it would be worthwhile using. And that's what happened when I looked at a recipe for an apple upside-down ginger cake on Thursday.

So on Friday morning I set about baking the cake intending to present it for dessert on Friday evening. I adjusted the recipe slightly as I'm wont to do with most recipes, and it came out very nicely. When we enjoyed it on Friday evening, it was for its moist flavour, its spicy delicacy and apple-enhanced taste.


Here's the recipe:
It's from Foodland Ontario ...

1-1/2 cups all purpose flour (I used unbleached)
1 tbsp. ground ginger
1 tsp. baking soda (I dislike baking soda, always taste it in a finished product, used baking   powder instead)
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
1 tsp. cardamom
1/2 tsp. salt
1/3 cup vegetable oil (I'm not fond of oil in baking so used Becel margarine instead)
1/3 cup molasses
1/2 cup unsweetened applesauce (instead of applesauce I grated a raw apple, skin included into the batter)
2 tbsp. finely minced fresh ginger (instead of fresh ginger I snipped bits of candied ginger)

A: In a medium bowl combine flour, ginger, baking soda, cinnamon, cardamom and salt.
B: In a large bowl beat together oil, molasses and brown sugar; beat in egg, stir in applesauce and minced ginger.
C: For the topping, pour melted butter (1/4 cup) in a 9-inch round cake pan, brushing up the sides. Spread 3/4-cup brown sugar evenly over butter. Arrange two cups of sliced apples on top.
D: Stir the dry ingredients into the egg mixture just until moistened. Spread over apples in pan.
E: Bake at  350 F for 35 to 40 minutes or until toothpick inserted in centre comes out clean.

The reality is that some people are simply disinterested in driving. It holds no interest for them. Famously, the science fiction writer Ray Bradbury, I recall, as well as one of the world's brainiest men, Albert Einstein, didn't drive. They saw no reason to. So, I guess I could say I am in some luminary company that I don't.

Not that I don't sometimes wonder why I balked at learning. My husband urged me to, and years ago did his best to try to get me involved in learning how to drive. I rarely lasted after one lesson's worth. But when I reached the age of 60 I thought it really was time to get myself behind the wheel of a car. I took a driver's education course and with it driving lessons. My husband, when he went out driving with me so I could practise my driving skills before heading off to do a driver's test, thought I was an excellent driver.

But then, pffft! I just couldn't bother any longer, and gave it up. My husband tried to convince me to continue but the impetus to proceed simply had vanished. And so, I've never really driven. I do have my original, temporary driver's license, and I felt confident behind the wheel of a car. I was never nervous or uncertain, knew what to do, how to do it, and when. At times it seemed enjoyable, but never enough to prod me to continue. And so I didn't.

When our granddaughter turned 17, for her birthday gift we paid for driving lessons for her. She thought this was a skill that would be useful for her, and we agreed. The driving lessons went well, and so did her driving comfort, although she expressed some concerns about driving that I don't recall ever feeling myself. I told her those feelings of insecurity would vanish once she had more experience and had her driver's license.

Her schoolfriends not only had achieved their goals in getting their permanent driver's licenses, but several by then had their own cars. To that end, we promised our granddaughter that we'd give her our silver Honda coupe with the sun roof that she was so fond of. It had a mere 9,000 kilometres of driving, though it was a 1998 model. It had been babied by my husband, never driven in the winter.

She had that car in her mother's garage for a full year. With a mere several occasions practising driving it, her mother sitting beside her, throughout the summer months. And then her interest lapsed entirely. She never did bother trying out for her permanent license. And now she is living in residence in Toronto, attending the University of Toronto. What need is there in Toronto for a university student to own a car?

It was returned to us, and now it'll be sold; no point continuing to pay insurance on a vehicle we don't need, after all. Her eighteenth birthday gift from us, after all, is comprised of paying for her residence and university attendance.

Now that cold weather has well and truly set in and winter is fast approaching, the work related to preparing the house exterior for weather to come finally completed, and the gardens have been bedded down for the winter, winter comforters put on the beds, and the clothing in our closets changed to reflect the need for warmer cover-ups, all that is left is to wrack my memory for winter-appropriate meals.

It's the time of year when more substantial, nutrition-packed hot meals answer our daily needs. And invariably my thoughts turn to soups, hearty, flavourful and packed with energy. At this time of year I tend to have a tendency toward tomato-lentil, bean-vegetable combinations to augment the usual chicken-rice soup we always have on Friday nights.

Sometimes I peruse the many cookbooks I've acquired over the years and maintain in my kitchen library; admittedly little-used, but there for reference from time to time. Early this week, though, I turned to the Internet as I do more often now, for different meal-preparation ideas. Not that I come away inspired necessarily, but occasionally a recipe does click for me and I give it a try.

As I did a few days ago with a black bean vegetable soup I found there. When I'm cooking soup I prefer, if using beans, to start from scratch; rinse and soak them overnight, then begin the cooking process, a long, time-involved process that strangely enough, pleases me. This recipe called for canned black beans, and I do have them in my pantry, so I prepared the soup.

1 tsp. olive oil
1 chopped onion
1 clove garlic chopped
1 carrot, chopped
3/4 tsp. chili powder
1/4 tsp. ground cumin
2 cups vegetable stock
1 can black beans
2/3 cup frozen corn kernels
1 (small)  can stewed tomatoes
pepper

The oil, onion, garlic and carrot gently stirred and cooked until the onion becomes soft; chili powder and cumin sprinkled over and stirred until savoury, then stock added, and half the beans. The other half reserved to be pureed with the stewed tomatoes before adding to the soup. The corn, pepper added, and the soup simmered for about 40 minutes.

I didn't, as it happened pulse the stewed tomatoes, but left them as is, as my husband prefers them, in chunks. And I used unground cumin seed. And the concoction came out extremely well, beautifully flavoured, thick and mouth-watering.  In fact ....

... Delicious!