I tend to think of Tuesdays and Saturdays as my 'days off', in the sense that I have no real pressing things that must be done on those days. All the more serious tasks around the house, cleaning, laundry and whatever else must be done has been done. On those days it's only a matter of tidying up the kitchen and the bathrooms and preparing meals that take my attention.

Before heading out to the ravine for our daily ramble in the woods with Jackie and Jillie I thought I'd devote a little time to some baking.

So yesterday I decided it was time again to fill up empty cookie jars. I had several egg whites stored in a jar in the refrigerator, as left-overs from a different recipe days ago that had required only yolks, so I though it would be appropriate to bake coconut macaroons. That's a simple recipe, only requiring beaten egg whites, two cups of sweetened shredded coconut, 1/2 cup granulated sugar, 2 heaping tablespoons of sifted pastry flour, and you're done, once the small mounds are baked for about 20 minutes in a 325-degree oven.

But I thought that since I was at it, I might as well bake another batch that looked intriguing, called Le Killer Star cookies, a recipe from someone named Dyan Solomon that I took from our local Lifestyle sections in Tuesday's newspaper. The ingredients sound improbable, and the methodology is certainly different, but I felt curious and that I'd give it a try: 

• 1 cup all-purpose flour
• 1/4 tsp. baking powder
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1-1/3 cups milk chocolate chips
• 3/4 cup bittersweet chocolate chips
• 1/2 cup white chocolate chips
• 1/2 lb. semi-sweet chocolate, chopped (8 oz.)
• 1/4 cup unsalted butter, diced
• 1/2 cup granulated sugar
• 2 room-temperature large eggs
• 1 tsp. vanilla extract
• 1/3 cup icing sugar

1. Line cookie sheets with parchment paper, preheat oven to 350-degrees F.
2. In a small bowl sift flour, baking powder and salt (I barely used any salt).
3. In another bowl mix chocolate chips together until evenly distributed. Place chopped semi-sweet chocolate and butter in a heatproof bowl over gently simmering water. Stir until melted and smooth (I melted both in the microwave). 
4. In a stand mixer fitted with whisk, beat sugar, eggs and vanilla until pale and fluffy, about ten minutes. (I decided to forego the mixer and mix by hand, repeatedly, repeatedly, repeatedly.) Using a spatula, gently fold melted chocolate-butter mixture into the eggs/sugar. Fold in the flour mix, and then add the chocolate chips.
5. Use a teaspoon to form walnut-sized balls of dough, placing them on the baking sheets, with room to spare between each. Bake in oven top shelf until dry in appearance, nine to ten minutes. (I used both shelves in the oven for the two cookie sheets and just exchanged their places halfway through the baking process.)
6. Use the icing sugar to sprinkle within a decorative star-shaped stencil in the centre of each baked cookie (I chose to omit this last step).

Both cookie types came out well. But the coconut macaroons are an especial favourite. The chocolate cookies came out nicely crisp and very chocolaty, though we didn't find them too sweet at all. After sliced persimmons for dessert, we tried out the cookies and declared them palatable, indulging perhaps more than we should have.

Dinner last night, was a fresh vegetable salad followed by French onion soup. It too was palatable.

By noon yesterday the total snow accumulation was 14 centimetres. And that was when Environment Canada had noted the snow would stop for the day, after having fallen throughout the previous night and on into the morning. A thick veil of snow was continuously enveloping the landscape, at some times hesitating briefly, at others increasing in volume.

But noon came and went and it wasn't until four in the afternoon that snow finally stopped falling and left us with a 20 centimetre total for the day. Which is when residents began emerging to clear away their driveways. That is, those people newly home from work and attending to first-things-first, and just as many awaiting the arrival of the snow plows they had contracted for.

By that time, our driveway had already been cleared several times by the contractor we had hired. And by that time, my husband was out with his own snow thrower to clear the paths in the backyard and around the front of the house. It was a test for him, to determine whether he could handle the mechanical beast now that he's recovering. I had earlier interrupted my house-cleaning to clear the backyard paths which my husband had shovelled at seven in the morning. And he was rather angry with me when I ventured to the front of the house to begin shovelling the large open area from the driveway to the paths leading to the house.

The snow was light, and falling without interruption at that time. And it was surprising how high it was on the ground. It was the result of the prevailing wind that day, throwing the snow toward the front of the house when most often it's in the other direction.

The trail leading from our street to the ravine hadn't been much used, so it was thick and high with snow and the municipal plow cleaning the street had shoved a heavy, thick layer of snow against the ravine ingress. So, it took a bit of effort for me and Jackie and Jillie to plod through to where the main trail begins, where we found it to be in far better shape.

We managed to do the ravine circuit, and saw only a pair of 30ish women unknown to us walking a Nova Scotia Duck Toller. The dog was wearing its leash, but it was free because the women were struggling to descend a hill without slipping. Our little dogs ran toward the other dog. And knowing that this breed isn't quite friendly I wished they hadn't. Its reaction to them seemed to give them pause and they returned to me, making my way up the hill as the two women were coming down.

We were passed brief pleasantries and then when I was close to cresting the hill, I realized that though Jillie was beside me, Jackie wasn't. He had run back down the hill and over the bridge, the Duck Toller in hot pursuit. Jackie was afraid and though I called him repeatedly, the presence of the other dog deterred him. I went back down the hill, and he came toward me as one of the women caught her dog's leash and tugged him away from Jackie.

I picked Jackie up, the skinny little tyke, and with him under one arm, repeated my trek back up the hill again, waving goodbye to the two women, and continuing our walk. They were the only people we saw out while we were traversing the trails. And once Jackie relaxed again, he and Jillie made the most of their white environment, racing after one another into the thickest areas of the forest floor, where the snow engulfed them, and they looked as though they were swimming in it.

In the spring you can walk through our neighbourhood and enjoy the sight of spring bulbs with their bright and cheeky flowers welcoming admiring glances. In the summer it's the gardens come to full bloom that invite one to glance over and assess their coy invitation to gawk. And then, comes fall, when trees on front lawns reflect the colours that nature bestows in autumn drawing your admiration. And there's something else that begins to sprout in autumn; stout wands at either side of driveways alongside the road advertising the services of various local driveway-clearing services.

My husband has always been adamant that he would never require such a service. His sturdy workaholic snowblower always more than capable of clearing any amount of snow our property would attract during episodic winter snowstorms. Last year I told him that I would vastly prefer us to sign a contract with a snow-removal company once he turns 80 years of age. That time is upon us. True, my husband is a vigorous, energetic man but he is also a man who less than three months ago underwent open-heart surgery and is still in recovery mode.

Several weeks ago after a ten-centimetre snowfall he was not yet in any condition to exert himself to clear the driveway and walkways to our house. Nonetheless he had steadily set aside my constant urging that we obtain the services of a snow-removal contractor, insisting he would soon be prepared to continue what he had always done.

But something happened between that previous snowstorm and the one we're currently experiencing, this morning. My husband did not quite enjoy the sight several weeks ago of his wife shovelling their double driveway of the ten centimetres that had fallen. I didn't mind doing the shovelling, in fact, I found it rather enjoyable. At the same time recognizing that this was a light snowfall, of feather-light snow, and it isn't always like that. Even so, lifting shovelfuls of snow to heave them off the driveway is no light task for someone like me whose own 80th birthday is two weeks' distant.

So that convinced him that we were indeed in need of the services of a professional snow-removal company. And it took little time to contact a company whose wands have sprouted on neighbourhood driveways to represent the majority of those in our neighbourhood and whose work one of our closest neighbours praised mightily. We registered on line, paid on line.

Last night snow fell in respectable quantities, and has continued throughout this morning. When the snow has finished falling this day the accumulation will be between ten and fifteen centimetres. It felt pretty good, looking out the front upstairs windows this morning to see a large plow making quick work of the accumulated snow on our lengthy double drive. When the snowfall is over, that plow will return and clear out the driveway for a second time.

As it was, my husband had arisen from bed at 7:00 this morning, while I was still fast in sleep, to take himself out to the backyard and clear the pathways for our two little dogs when they would be taken out an hour or so later. The snow, he told me later, was light and fluffy, no problem with weight at all. This time around.

The Blitz was Nazi Germany's sustained aerial bombing campaign against Britain in World War Two. The raids killed 43,000 civilians and lasted for eight months, petering out when Hitler began to focus on his plans for Russian invasion in May 1941. Photo: People in Coventry walk to work past smouldering piles of rubble after a bombing raid in 1940. (Getty Images)

London, 1941

Blitz landscape     Westminster City Archives

I run up and down Baker Street. There are fires all around me. I can't see through the smoke. I turn into George Street, and there he is. He's with another man, running toward a smoldering heap of rubble that moments ago was a house.

The sky is streaked with reddish-gold specks. Large grey flakes, high up above the fire, dance, twirl, twist, and sail down slowly, vanishing as they touch the ground. The flames are greedy beasts, beautiful and wild. The crackling and hissing makes them vicious.

Ambulances and first-aid vans start to arrive. Doctors, soldiers, and civilians try to help. Cups of tea appear. A baby lies on the pavement, crying. I run to him. His mother is digging and digging in the rubble. To find the father? Blood and dirt on her hands, tears running down her grimy face. Her hair sticks to her cheeks. She won't let me pick up the baby. A young man climbs out of a window, hangs on to the sill as the wall of a neighbouring house collapses. Buildings cave in, as if crushed by a giant foot. Clouds of dust and smoke burst into the air.

Walter is digging in the rubble, looking for people who are trapped. A tall young girl stands in the middle of the road, paralyzed. I grip her arm, try to move her, but it is as though she is riveted to the road. I try to persuade her to come with me, but she can't hear me, and her eyes don't see me. I stroke her dusty, blond hair. Tears fall down her frozen face. "Mother", she whispers. Has she seen her mother, trapped, pinned under wreckage, dead?

Eventually she moves, and I lead her along the burning street to the church door. I ask the man in the blue jacket to take her down to the shelter.

I run back along George Street. Walter is still digging. In Baker Street, people lie buried under beams and floorboards. A hand sticks out of the rubble, the top of someone's head. I'm going to be sick. A boy lies pinned under part of a roof. He is in agony; he tries to smile. An old woman, grateful for a mug of tea, jokes about the missing sugar.

The bombers are coming back. I rush back to the church and go down into the shelter to see if my parents are all right. It is packed. Mother struggles through the crowd toward me. She is crying.

"I was so worried. Why have you been so long?" She flings her arms around me. "Where's Walter? What a terrible raid. Just look at all these people." Father, tears in his eyes, grips my hand.

Walter joins us, his face and clothes black with grime. His left hand is bandaged -- he tried to pick up some metal rods that were too hot to handle. I stroke his hair.

"It was terrible, darling. Terrible" Walter says. He gropes for my hand. I am proud of him.

More and more people crowd into the shelter. Some have to sit on the flagstone floor. They are dressed in their nightclothes. There is a huge unexploded bomb in Portman Square. We don't know if our houses will still be there when we go outside. If we go outside. We are safe only from blast -- not from a direct hit.

A huge man with ginger hair is standing in front of my father, poking a thick finger in his chest. "Bloody enemy aliens! You have no right to be in here -- your planes are killing our people. Go home!"

Walter leaps at him. The man shakes him off easily and knees him in the stomach. Walter punches him in the face. Mother covers her eyes. Father has gone white.

The shelter marshal, a slim young priest, shouts, "Stop this at once! These people have every right to be here."

The man carries on shouting: "We need their places. Bloody traitors!"

"Look at him", says the priest, pointing at Walter with his bandaged hand. "He's bleeding. He's exhausted from trying to rescue people. You -- what have you done to help?" He pushes the man into another room.

From: Some Girls, Some Hats and Hitler, Trudi Kanter, Scribner, c.1984

Fifty years ago when the children were young I would often prepare chocolate pudding, or individual dessert 'chocolate volcano' cakes (small chocolate cakes floating on a bed of chocolate pudding) because the children and their father enjoyed them so much and they were healthy enough fare. Their father still favours chocolate pudding and chocolate pie, and although I like chocolate, I don't care for it at all in pudding form.

Despite which, when I saw a newspaper article in the 'lifestyle' section of our local paper featuring a recipe for a white chocolate desert, I thought I'd give it a try. So yesterday morning I set about making the dessert, with a few alterations. Instead of white chocolate which my husband doesn't care for I substituted semi-sweet baking chocolate. And I used graham cracker crumbs, (adding cocoa powder) for the crust instead of chocolate cookie crumbs. I also used brandy flavouring instead of brandy alcohol. And I halved the recipe. And didn't prepare it in tart form but as squares.

The recipe clearly states that preparation time is 50 minutes, a considerable length of time as it is. But as you can see from the instructions below, that's not quite accurate, since the recipe instructs that the tart cannot be put together until the filling has 'set' in the refrigerator for 90 minutes, never mind the rest of the preparation time. You be the judge:

Here's the recipe for White Chocolate Cranberry Mousse Tart:
1. Cranberry compote:

• 2 cups fresh or frozen cranberries
• 1/2 cup water
• 2/3 cup granulated sugar 
• 2 tsp. finely grated orange zest
• 2 tbsp. brandy
• 1 tsp pure vanilla extract

2. Chocolate crust:

• 1-1/2 cups chocolate cookie crumbs
• 1/4 cup unsalted butter, melted

3. Chocolate mousse:

• 8 oz. chopped white baking chocolate
• 2 tbsp. unsalted butter
• 1-1/4 cups milk
• 3 large egg yolks
• 3 tbsp. granulated sugar
• 2  tbsp. cornstarch
• 2 tsp. unflavoured gelatin powder, softened in 3 tbsp. cold water
• 1 cup whipping cream

1. Simmer cranberries with water, sugar and orange zest in saucepan over medium heat, stirring occasionally for about 20 minutes until cranberries are tender and 'popped'. Remove from heat, stir in brandy and vanilla, and cool to room temperature before chilling until ready to use.


2. Preheat oven to 350 F. Stir cookie crumbs and butter and press into 9-inch fluted, removable-bottom tart pan. Bake for ten minutes, then cool.

3. Mousse: place white chocolate and butter into large bowl, place fine mesh sieve over top; set aside. Heat milk in saucepan over medium heat to just below simmering. In a separate bowl, whisk egg yolks, sugar and cornstarch together. Pour hot milk into egg mixture gradually, whisking the while. Return liquid to saucepan and continue to whisk over medium heat until glossy and thickened, about four minutes. Remove pan from heat and stir in softened gelatin. Pour custard mixture into fine mesh sieve and strain over white chocolate and butter. Whisk together until chocolate and butter have melted completely into custard. Cool to room temperature.

4. Whip cream until it holds a soft peak, then fold into cooled chocolate mixture for chocolate mousse. Cover with plastic wrap and chill until set slightly but still soft, about 90 minutes.

5. To assemble tart, spread half of mousse over bottom of tart shell. Stir chilled cranberry compote to loosen and spoon over the centre of tart, spreading gently to edges. Spoon remaining half of mousse into a piping bag fitted with a large star tip and pipe around the edge of tart. Chill until ready to serve.

I had my own ideas of finishing the tart and they didn't include a piping bag. By the time the tart was ready to assemble I just wanted to get it over with. My end product didn't reflect the beautiful photograph that had accompanied the recipe in the newspaper. And I wasn't certain, as I am so often when I prepare a special dessert to cap off our Friday evening meal, that this one would be as delicious as most others are, most of which I prepare from memory or inspiration.

But when I did serve it at the finish of our meal last night, my husband's enthusiasm for it made the effort well worth while. And though he seldom asks for second helpings of dessert, this time he (gratifyingly for me) helped himself to another serving, and that made me feel pretty good.

Did I like it myself? Not so much.

Now that seasonal snowfalls occur with the regularity they are appreciated for at this time of year in high expectations for a white, very white-mounded Christmas, the forested ravine abutting our street has become a magical atmosphere once again. Far more impressive and appreciated than what light-technology can conjure up when people decorate their home exteriors in Christmas celebration.

And you never know what you can encounter in the woods, as you perambulate along looking here and there for micro-landscapes that delight. Our companion puppies delight in this environment even more than we do, judging from their exuberant antics, lending a comedic air to the awe-inspiring change we witness year after year in our natural surroundings at this time of seasonal change.

Watching them challenge one another to races up and down the trails, into the woods in chase of squirrels and in Jackie's case, anything that moves, including wind-driven dried foliage, would lift anyone's mood from pensive to hilarity. Jackie's light-weight frame carries him further, faster than Jillie, although she does her best to keep up with him, and cannot. His frolicking leaps of joy and expressions of liberty from the bonds that keep us fully anchored to the forest floor have him leaping gracefully into the air covering amazing ground. Despite which he never gets carried away to the extent that he isn't aware where we are, looking back regularly to ensure we are still in sight.

Several days ago I came across a vision of winter-beauty owing more to human perfection than the snow-bowered trees. A young woman, no more than 17, I would judge, walking with grace and elegance despite toque, mittens, scarf, knee-high boots and snug winter jacket. Her dark-blond hair descended in endlessly long curls around her angelic face, her perfect lips wide in smiling greeting, her eyes sparkling with mischief and life. She looked like a Norman Rockwell rendition of a Winter Faerie, but it would have embarrassed her to be told this, though later I regretted in our conversation not remarking on her appearance.

A day later, an even more remarkable sighting that made my heart leap with joy. As we exited the ravine, there was the most beloved sight in the world waiting to greet us. My husband, concerned that we were longer than he thought was usual to traverse our usual circuit, came out wearing his season-red jacket, cap, gloves, boots and scarf to meet us as we approached the street.

And yesterday, after a lovely walk shuffling along the snow-laden trails and coming across friends and acquaintances similarly engaged in their daily routine of outdoor pleasure, Jackie and Jillie suddenly broke away from their near presence to me to leap across the last of the bridges over the creek and up and over to the last long hill to ascend before leaving the ravine. My eyes followed and there, halfway down the hill was a large red smudge in the distance, slowly edging downhill.

I met him halfway, since he halted when he saw me hurrying to come abreast, while still at a considerable distance and he wanted me to stop rushing toward him, to take my time, as the uphill effort required. We were both rewarded with a long, warm hug suffused with the love we have for one another, before trudging up the rest of the hill, and home.

I can barely keep up with the grooming that Jackie and Jillie require, their hair grows in so swiftly. A testament, I would imagine, to their general state of good health. So yesterday morning, after assembling all the various-sized and -tasked scissors I use in the effort, both received haircuts, a time-consuming and sometimes difficult task. Jillie more or less cooperates with patience, while her brother tends to be skittish and creates every kind of impediment to progress that he can muster. But finally, the job was done and they appear neat and presentable once again. At least for the remainder of that day.

Turned out that hair grooming became a family affair, yesterday. I must have felt inspired after cutting their hair, to view my own more critically and I must admit that the same element of quickly growing-in hair that I see in them, is also reflected in my own hair. So I took scissors to hand and a mirror, and did the same with my own mane. And I guess I was a little too impatiently enthusiastic with myself, since I ended up snipping more than I should have, ending up with a too-short cut.

Which in turn inspired my husband to trim his beard and his hair. So all of us have now been groomed and look  --  well, we look just fine. Jackie, after the torment he underwent through his  hair-cutting process, became madly animated directly afterward, racing about the house, leaping over his slower sister and generally rambunctiously cutting up. That continued when I had them out soon afterward for a ravine walk which was considerably brightened by the snow that had fallen the day before, augmented by that day's lighter snowfall.

The snow seems to energize them, excite them into leaps and bounds of exuberant reaction. And it's a treat to watch them acrobating their way through the trails, happily deep in snow, cavorting and disporting themselves in an excess of appreciation of life and liberty.

Can there ever be an excess?