Canada Day Celebration!

                              (The beach front at the cottage.)

Monday, July 1^st, we celebrate Canada Day here. Shortly, my husband Gem and I, along with my mother and stepfather, will be heading to Sorrento, B.C. to a friend's cottage on Shuswap Lake for the long weekend. It's about an hour's drive from Kamloops, where we live. Temperatures are expected to soar, reaching 36 degrees by Monday!

I have spent the last few days cooking and baking in preparation; a big smoked, glazed ham, German potato salad, red cabbage and apple casserole, broccoli salad, Greek salad, lemon biscuits for the strawberry shortcake which will be dessert on Canada Day, a rub for the ribs, Morning glory muffins and Banana/blueberry muffins, two kinds of homemade salad dressings. The picnic cooler stand in readiness by the door. Lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and sundry other vegetables await in aerated bags. We plan to stop at a fruit stand on the way for peaches and strawberries.  Gem came home from work yesterday with a big bag of fresh B.C. cherries.  Beer and wine were purchased last evening.

                                               (Red cabbage and apple casserole.)

Living here in Canada, I am thankful for so much ....

Thankful for the ebb and flow of the cultural diversity and spiritual traditions which cover Canada like a blessed wave from the ocean to the mountains, to the rainforests, to the tiny prairie towns, to the arctic, to the urban cappuccinos being sipped in dozens of cities.

For the First Nations peoples dancing and singing to the plangent sound of the drums.

For the elegant women wearing jewelled saris.

For the Asian men and women gracefully engaged in Tai Chi by the river’s edge.

Thankful for the voices I hear in English and French and Cantonese and Hindu and Dutch and Ukrainian and Italian and German and Afrikaans and Spanish and  Greek and Norwegian, and for the friends who speak those languages, embrace their ethnic culture, and are also proud of being Canadian.  

Thankful that I understand that grief comes to human hearts of all colours and creeds and ways of being.

Thankful for the connections that let me know the kindred in human beings who are different from me.

I am thankful for the fact that in Canada, we’re a cultural mosaic rather than a melting pot.

(My grandsons celebrating!)

If you are Canadian, Happy Canada Day! I hope you are celebrating with those you love.  To my American friends, Happy Independence Day on July 4^th. May you have a joyous holiday.  

May we all be thankful, in every country, for the sense of belonging given in the ritual of celebration.

 

Discovering Dutch Food

Instead of staying in a hotel, for our first week in the Netherlands we rented an apartment in a 17th century row house along the Bloemgracht (Flower canal) in the Jordaan district in Amsterdam.


The house boasted twenty foot ceilings, beautiful chandeliers and wood sconces, wide windows overlooking the canal, a modern kitchen, and wood floors worn beautifully smooth and uneven with the years. The street breathed romance, like old songs and old books.




The front of our apartment had a window seat which overlooked the canal. In the evenings we liked to sit there and people-watch, an activity we really enjoyed. Another activity we embraced with much enthusiasm (too much, perhaps!), was our quest to sample and discover Dutch food.

Vincent van Gogh may have been on to something with his portrayal of his kinsfolk as Potato Eaters in his famous painting, as there is an abundance of hearty potato-based dishes in the Dutch diet. There is still often this utilitarian approach to eating: two slices of brown bread, a slice of cheese and a glass of buttermilk is a standard lunch. This is frequently eaten on the go, without much ritual or reverence. However, humble, honest food can be a good thing. The beauty and simplicity of the root vegetable mash and the thick pea soup, the sublime cheeses and smoked sausage, the to-die-for apple cakes ... well, all I can say is 'lekker' ... delicous!

We also discovered a universe beyond potatoes and it was, indeed, good.




As we had a very nice, fully equipped kitchen in our apartment, we cooked most of our breakfasts and dinners there, eating them at the diningroom table overlooking the small courtyard terrace.

We shopped for fresh vegetables and fruit at outdoor market stalls, of which there were many. Each day we bought the most excellent strawberries and raspberries, blackberries, fresh figs, tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers. For meat, milk and eggs we usually went to the Albert Hejn, a local supermarket which was a five minute walk from our apartment.

              One of the numerous market stalls just steps away from our apartment.

Here I am choosing bread at a fabulous bakery nearby.

                                             De Kasskamer

De Kasskamer, a cheese shop in the Jordaan, also near us, was amazing. It's name simply means 'cheese room', and a room full of cheese it most certainly is ... piled from floor to ceiling. For cheese lovers, like Gem, A and me, it was kaas heaven.

For our first meal out in Holland, which happened to be lunch, we walked to a Dutch Pannecoek Huis (Pancake House.) Our granddaughter, A, had poffertjes which are puffed mini-pancakes. They were smothered with whipped cream and chocolate sauce! Dutch pancakes are traditionally served with poedersuiker (powdered sugar) and stroop (a sugar-syrup similar to light treacle), and with the addition of freshly squeezed lemon,  this was my choice, and they were delicious!

A's Poffertjes, which delighted both her eyes and stomach.

Gem's strawberry pancakes, to which he added whipped cream.










Traditional Dutch croquettes have long been a favourite in Gem's family. He grew up eating them and his father's handwritten recipe is one of Gem's prized possessions. Croquettes are comprised of either chopped beef or chicken stirred into a thick seasoned sauce and then allowed to cool. The mixture is molded into shape, dipped into beaten egg and rolled in bread crumbs, and then deep fried until golden brown. Gem makes them for St. Nicholas Day every year, mailing a frozen batch to each of our children in time for a special December 6th treat. Now our grandchildren love them, too, often asking when it will be time for Papa's croquettes.




Dutch Croquettes. which we usually ate served with chips and salad.









Our darling A began a love affair with the croquette. These she asked for every day ... in restaurants, at street carts and even out of the wall! (A term Gem started using as a little boy when his father would take him for a treat to the automat, which is a wall of self-serve ovens containing hot snacks.)



Papa picks a croquette from 'the wall' ... something he hadn't done since he was a child! I loved seeing the boyish excitement which shone in his eyes.















We made a deal with A that we would visit McDonald's once while we were in Holland, and once only. Here she discovers MacDonalds, Dutch style ... the McKroket! ... and pronounces it yummy!




        The McKroquet!

Gem discovers McDonalds, Dutch style...
the McBeer! ... and pronounces it yummy!












A loved the Dutch hot chocolate. Here she enjoys it in a special cup at an outdoor cafe near the Rembrandt museum. As always it is served with whipped cream, and this time also with a chocolate filled waffle stick. Her Nana and Papa share a slice of our favourite appel coek (apple cake), also with whipped cream. I think Dutch people must bleed whipped cream!



French Fries called Frites were a popular street food. We ate them out of paper cones, perfectly golden and crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. In the Netherlands they are traditionally served with mayonnaise, not something I particularly enjoyed, although both husband and granddaughter did. These they shared one afternoon as we wandered the myriad stalls of the Albert Cuyp markt.



As we were on-the-go, lunch was the one meal we had out every day. Often we bought fresh bread or buns and paired them with the most gorgeous array of cheeses I have ever seen or tasted. We also sampled wonderful street food; Frikandels which are a sort of hot dog smothered in curry ketchup and raw onions, croissants filled with melting cheese and mushrooms. Another wonderful lunch was a cheese plate with spiced apple dipping sauce and black currant rye bread.


An array of fresh breads and buns boasting an assortment of savoury fillings.



A inspects her ham filled bun because she is worried that it may contain a few surprizes ... like hot Dutch mustard or raw onion. (Of course it's Papa's teasing that caused the apprehension in the first place!) There were no nasties, and she ate every bite. Her palate grew more adventurous as the days passed.


A strawberry sandwich, anyone?

















Or how about some pickled herring?



Although pickled herring is supposed to be eaten as the poster shown below demonstrates, only Gem was brave enough to try it!



Gem and I also really liked the traditional Uitsmijer, an openface sandwich consisting of a layer of bread, spec (ham) and Edam cheese with sunny-side fried eggs on the top. This dish can be found in almost every Deli or Lunch place in the Netherlands. The granddaughter was not so taken with it. She did, however, enjoy the Dutch version of a grilled cheese sandwich.


An Uitsmijer sandwich.

On our last evening in The Netherlands, we went out for a spectacular dinner with Gem's three cousins and their spouses in Zanvoort, a quaint seaside town about a thirty minute train ride from Haarlem, where we had spent our second week. At the restaurant, which faced the North Sea and was surrounded by acres of sandy dunes and beach, over three laughter-filled hours, we feasted on a dizzying array of delicious courses; oyster gratin, tiny spinach tarts, dates wrapped in bacon, smoked salmon on toast, suddervlees (stewed beef), red cabbage baked with apples, garlic mashed potatoes, and a magnificent speculaas (spiced ginger cookie) ice-cream that I still dream about. All was washed down with Jopen beer and Gem's favourite Tilburg's Dutch Brown Ale.

The sunset view from the restaurant in Zanvoort.

As you can discern, we certainly didn't go hungry during our holiday ... and I haven't even written about the chocolate or the stroopwaffels ... yet!

The Remains of May

I believe that our ancient and innermost will desires metamorphoses, kaleidoscopic transformations of ever-shifting beauty. Such, I found today.

As a child in England, the end of May in our village was celebrated with a yearly ritual; an old-fashioned fete which involved simple delights such as old-fashioned games, picnic fare, music and a May Pole Dance. The high point of the event was always the May Pole Dance.

I remember it as a shining moment of ease and freedom as children danced, and then slowly, tentatively, the adults joined them. The ribbon bedecked pole became a symbol of shared communal joy.

There is always a continued need for rites of renewal, ceremonies of innocence and awareness, for celebrations of the spirit. I think we owe it to our children and grandchildren to create a space around them that recognises this truth.

Poor Little Lamb

Fifty-one years ago today, I was a bridesmaid at my uncle's wedding. I was five years old, and thrilled, nervous and somewhat baffled (what exactly was a wedding?).

The wedding took place at the imposing Roman Catholic Westminster Cathedral in London (not to be confused with Westminster Abbey). The first time I saw this commanding 1895 Neo-Byzantine structure, I was awed by its magnificence. Inside, the holy scent and hush filled my bones with what can only be described as reverence. I felt a communion with a mystery I didn’t understand, but nevertheless absorbed as a benediction of something sacred. No one had to tell me to be quiet as we practised for the ceremony. The desire to be so, breathed itself to me, without communication.

I was to walk down the aisle side-by-side with the bride’s young niece, Amelia, who was seven years old, and thus, in my eyes, a world of knowledge, older. We were to be attended from behind by my cousin, Christopher, a few months older than me, and at the time, my best friend. Both he and the groom were to wear traditional Scotch kilts and accessories, as a salute to our Scottish ancestry and last name.   

The afternoon of the wedding found the three of us sitting importantly in a row of velvet chairs in the lobby of a London hotel, waiting for the big, black car which was to take us to the cathedral. Dressed in a long cream silk dress with a gold sash, be-ribboned satin shoes, a wreath of yellow and white roses in my hair, a small gold silk drawstring bag looped around my wrist, I felt like a princess. My nervous excitement built.

Earlier there had been tears when Amelia realized that her brand new white silk panties with lace trim, bought especially for the occasion, had been inadvertently left at home. That crisis dealt with, a small new one occurred when Christopher was scolded for playing with his sporran, and then smacked for fiddling with the tartan kilt flashes designed to keep the socks up, which he claimed were itchy.  Now a storm threatened. I literally felt unable to move, paralytic with fear. Tears flowed down my cheeks. Threats and bribes in equal measure, nothing could cajole me.

Then, suddenly a gorgeous vision in white appeared on her knees before me; the bride, my soon-to-be, Auntie Prue. “Poor little lamb”, she said. She kissed my tear-soaked face between her hands, and then wiped them away with her very own hanky. I can still remember clearly the perfume scent rising from that fine white linen, the lace of her veil brushing against my dress, the softness of her hands and voice. The gentleness of that "poor little lamb", a term I had never heard before, stuck me and I was infinitely comforted. The awful feeling clutching my insides started to abate. Clinging to her hand, I allowed myself to be escorted outside.

Nothing more untoward happened and the wedding and reception proceeded in all its traditional pomp and circumstance. I mostly remember it as a whirl of gold and white; the church bathed in candlelight, whispery white silk, golden strains of music, starched white snowy tablecloths, fragments of crisp white royal icing melting in my mouth.

Half a century later, grace and kindness still defines my Auntie Prue.

Smoothing the Way

Theme Thursday - Smooth

 

I can't think about the word smooth, without reflecting on the action of smoothing; soothing, gentling, quieting. For me, there is one person who epitomizes that action in my life, and that is my mother.

Nearly eighty, my mother has a dainty, special way of doing things. She sprinkles lavender on the sheets as she makes the beds, smoothing them over and over until not a wrinkle mars the pristine snowy whiteness. She always sets the table with her own gracious knack for beauty whether it be for a splendid Christmas dinner or a simple snack. She takes scissors and a basket and goes outside to gather flowers; snipping each gently in a glorious mix of domestic and wild. She squeezes lemon oil onto an a piece of old cloth and rubs down the furniture until it gleams. She pegs as much of her laundry as she can to the clothesline. She is small, dwarfed by the mountains and the summer sky, her hands lovely and meditative as she expertly applies each garment to the line. Her fingers move fluidly, like music.

Even her most ordinary actions reflect the smooth, fastidious beauty of her soul; the whiteness of her linen, the garland of parsley with which she wreathes the pink slices of ham, her perfectly scripted lists of tasks to be completed, the single rose placed at each person’s place-setting, her hands tenderly cleaning the collection of crystal snowflakes hanging from the mantelpiece. She exudes a living prayer; a purity and sweetness about her things, her person, her life. She is one of those who can hear the singing of the seas in a shell.

The above photograph, which I have always loved, was taken on her 19th birthday. Her gown was a rich, smooth olive green satin. She exudes loveliness from every pore of her body. Her creamy, flawless skin had the texture of silk. My mother still carries herself with the same regal elegance, and her skin is just as luminous. Her eyes, still beautiful, are more sentient now. They contain the joy of her almost eighty years of living, but her pain and grief also. She has at times dwelled in Gethsemane, a place of passion, where the agony of love and death come together.

All my life, her soft hands have smoothed my journey. They have tended my bumps and bruises, soothed the tears from my face, stroked my hair, cooked and baked my favourite foods, written notes of love and encouragement, sewed me dresses, turned the pages of the many stories and poems she read to me, tenderly rocked my babies and grandbabies.  My mother has reassured me when I have been anxious and fearful, cried with me during times of sadness, laughed with me during times of joy. She has loved me during my worst moments, and during my finest. Without her smoothing presence, the pathway would have been unbearable at times. Through the medium of her human love, it is she who first taught me the power of God's love.

I know that each moment I have left with her is infinitely precious. My fear of losing her rises up and chokes me. I ache with unbearable sorrow at just the thought of it. It is my fervent desire, hope and prayer to caress, ease and smooth the last years of her life's sojourn, just as she has always smoothed the way for me.

Kinship

During the packing and unpacking process, I have been spending a lot of time looking at old photo albums and boxes filled with pictures. Some contain the ghost faces of people whose name I will never know. The known and unknown alike, speak to me. Their blood flows beneath my skin in a transmission from the past. Not just my blood, but in the bone memories of stories which have remarkably somehow led up to this very moment.

When I find an unknown among the treasures of the past, I always wonder about the life its image holds and the connection to the person who kept it. I want to know their story, to speak their name, to seek out their place in history.

Amongst my twin great-aunts’ old pictures, sent to me after they died three weeks apart last summer at the age of ninety-five, is the above photo of an infant dressed in a lovely white scalloped-edged gown. The back of it contains only the words, “Our darling Freddie”. No date. No location. No last name. Just little Freddie in his baby beauty, obviously much loved and cared for. If you look carefully at the top of his little head, it even appears that an attempt was made to part his sparse hair straight down the middle in the male fashion of the time. I’m guessing it was taken somewhere around the end of the nineteenth or the very beginning of the twentieth century. There is no Frederick, Fred or Freddie in my maternal family ancestry that anyone can recall.

I can see a wee spark of future mischief in little Freddie’s eyes, a glimmer of humour in his expression. Where did he play, I wonder? Who did he grow up to become? I hope he did grow up and is not one of the countless little ones slumbering in an old graveyard somewhere.

We all have favourite photographs of our children. I would like to share a couple of mine here now in memory of the unknown Freddie who may or may not be related to me, and as a tribute to childhood everywhere.

My oldest son Nicholas, who will be thirty-four in August, was the kind of little boy whose pockets contained fragments of his love for the outdoors ... small rocks, shells, little pieces of wood, a bird's feather ... collected by his own hands, scoured for uniqueness, pocketed for remembrance. Many times during dinner, he'd eat with his small treasures laid out in a ring around the edge of his placemat. Their possession gave him a wonderful sense of satisfaction. Always a keen observer of natural life, there came a day at aged six when he showed his twenty-two month old brother, Joshua, how to blow a dandelion clock. I was fortunate to capture that shining moment on camera.


My other favourite photo is of my daughter Sarah-Beth, now aged twenty-seven. She was nine years old and we were on holiday on Vancouver Island at the time. I saw her standing facing the ocean as the waves surged and kissed the shore below. She had both arms raised and a feather clasped in one hand and was using it like a baton conducting an orchestra. I captured her in that blissful moment; a little girl poised in beauty composing her own symphony of the sea.


All these photographs speak of those things which form our roots and sense of belonging. I want to nurture the connections, find the stories, and weave them into that place in my soul which honours kinship.

(This is a Sepia Saturday post.)

Secret Colours

Magpie 91
Secret Colours

In lavender mist where shadows creep
A young girl's dreams green and weep.
Her yearning glances can't fill the chairs
with flesh and purple and curtain prayers.
But hope cannot be contained, so
ashen grey sings a rose red glow.
Immortality, a summer blue
enrobes her heart with silver dew.
And faintly golden chairs now gleam
for passion in rainbow buds unseen.

Waning Summer

I have read that the song cycle of the nightingale lasts three minutes whilst that of the whale lasts twenty-four hours. Once slowed down and sped up respectively, they are apparently very similar. Maybe as human beings we are simply on varying frequencies of song. Perhaps the way we use language ... to speak, to write, to dream, to think ... is like a sonic map of our personalities. I am a woman who needs solitude at times.

As summer wanes and the drowsy, full-blown ripeness of August comes to an end, I look forward to crisp the September days.

(My grandson J, contemplates a butterfly.)

Canada Day Celebrations

Full bellies and daylong feasting, sipping iced lemonade, a study in red and white, the boundless, permanent summer of Canadian multiculturalism. Today we celebrated our first Canada Day here in our new home. Gem and I meandered through Riverside Park ... thronged with hundreds of people absorbing the food and colour and music which erupted in a kaleidoscope of scents and sights and sounds.

I indulged in a henna hand tattoo.


Gem bought an original watercolour from the Art Fair.


Living here in Canada, I am thankful for so much ....

Thankful for the ebb and flow of so many cultural traditions which cover this country like a blessed wave.


For the elegant women wearing jewelled saris.


I am thankful for the giggling, exuberant First nations children dancing to the plangent sound of the drums.

For the Asian men and women I saw gracefully engaged in Tai Chi by the river’s edge.

Thankful for the voices and laughter I heard today in English and French and Cantonese and Ukrainian and Italian and Afrikaans and Greek and Hindu.

Thankful for the connections that let me know the kindred in human beings who are different from me.


Later, candlelight anointed the table as Gem and I ate our barbecued salmon dinner and the homemade pavlova I made for dessert.


I am thankful, too, for the sense of belonging given in the ritual of celebration.

Treasures

Gem and I love to while away hours poking around thrift stores and garage sales. This weekend we went on one of our treasure hunts. Some objects reach down to the marrow of my bones. I trace my fingers along them and something in me responds. They are endearing, inexplicably comforting. There is a meaning, an indwelling of connection which enhances my sense of belonging.

This week’s finds:

A Crown Clarence Staffordshire sauce boat - $1.50.
I love its summery, shimmery blue, just the colour of a Robin's egg.

A retro, hinged tin - 50 cents.
I’m going to keep my collection of teaspoons in it.

A Japanese calligraphy set - $3.00.

This was Gem’s find. He has long dabbled in the art of pen and ink drawing and sketching, and plans to use it.

And perhaps my favourite find, this 1970’s knitting book in immaculate condition - $1.
Although I did a fair bit of knitting when my children were small, I haven’t had much time in recent years. Now, though, I have a few knitting projects planned and hope to make good use of this book. My granddaughter, Ariana, who will be nine in August, will be the first beneficiary. She is very excited and has requested a purple poncho and a pink sparkly sweater. After speaking with her, I was reminded of the year my mother-in-law knit my three children sweaters for Christmas. They were all beautifully made, but I still remember the look on my eldest son’s face when he opened his gift. His expression momentarily reflected his thoughts: No eleven year old boy would be caught dead wearing a sweater with a huge yellow image of Sesame Street’s Big Bird on the front of it! His eyes flew to mine, startled, unsure of what to say. Thankfully, he swallowed his chagrin and thanked his Oma nicely.

Objects can be saturated with spirit, imbued with the layers of life from the places where they rest, the people they touch. They are remnants, the bearers of our fragile being, our mortality.