Too much of too much

Well, so much for posting everyday throughout winter. I should have known that was an impossible task considering the presence of Christmas holidays and all the preparation and post holiday discombobulation that accompany it this time of year. Having the chance to finally clear the post-Christmas fog, and reflect on the last several days, this morning I came to the conclusion that the birth of  the idea of the "seven deadly sins" must have taken place at this time of year. At last count, I could account for at least five out of the seven being displayed in plain view within the last several days.

People, usually kind, motivated, restrained and charitable, are now transformed into greedy, slovenly and glutenous creatures, seemingly overnight. ( I use the collective "we" here) The overabundance of food and free time has played to our lowest common denominator and transformed us into the kind of human being the bible has long warned us about. This, of course, is on a level that only hints at the what is possible if left unchecked. I, as well as many others, already feel the nagging longing for life to "get back to normal." We've had enough of staying up till morning, sleeping till the afternoon, eating till we feel we will burst and scouring the flyers  for yet another electronic gadget .

Don't get me wrong. I would never deny any one including myself, the pleasure of a tryptophane fog, the sweet and spicy heaven of a gingerbread cookie or the anticipation of opening that shiny package under our bejeweled tree. It's the quantities I object to. Too much shiny, too much sweet, too much of too much for my liking. Bring on the New Year and the slow but relentless build up to Valentine's day.

Can I pay you to read this?

What greater wish could a parent harbor than to have their children living a life that they find fulfilling and one that brings them closer to their desired goals? I can't think of too many. Even if our personal wishes come to fruition, they can't shine as brightly when the children are struggling, when their path is strewn with quick sand or pot holes.

Today, one of my and my daughter's Christmas wishes came true. As she so aptly put, "Kids, Santa is real!" All she, and in turn I for her, wanted for Christmas was to get a job. Any paying job would have been good, but a "big girl job" is what she really wanted. A full time job, in her field of study, that allowed her to "be paid to read." Since this has been a goal of hers for a long time now, albeit, a goal she considered very unlikely to meet, in the near future anyway,we were all "over the moon" when "the call" came this morning.Yes sirree, 9-5 of reading book manuscripts in final preparation for print. This is a girl who would read if she had to pay to do it. And here, they were offering to pay her. How is that for a Christmas miracle?

That brings me to the question of wishes and the miracle of having them come true. The way I see it, we might as well set our sights high. I mean, wishing to get something totally within reach, never results in a miracle, but going for a goal that seems like a "pie in the sky" is what miracle workers specialize in. Whether your miracle worker's name is God or Santa, or good old fashioned Perseverance and Serendipity, there is nothing like the feeling of putting your faith in something beyond yourself and just "going for it" with every fiber of your being.

This Christmas will be a special one at our house. Both the kids are working hard on their chosen paths and I know that miracles will continue to pop up for them just as surely as the pot holes that are are a part of every road. Look how far they've come already. They are fine examples of all that is good in the world and why it's always a good idea to plan for the miraculous in our lives.

Jamaican Me Crazy

The thing about flavoured coffee is that it smells much better than it tastes. I know. I've tried many a caramel, vanilla, fudge toffee varieties with and without dessert and in my opinion they are just not coffee. They may be a confection similar to coffee, or a hot coffee-like treat, but the act of adding any flavour to the coffee bean immediately negates it's "coffee"designation and enjoyability factor, or so I used to think.

Walks in friend and unassuming coffee saboteur Bonnie, a few years ago at book club, and in one fell swoop changes my previously held views on the above position a full 179 degrees (all other flavoured coffees are still taboo as far as I'm concerned). After spending the last hour or so, gushing over the genius of Abraham Verghese's Cutting for Stone, the book club contingent sat relaxed in the afterglow of good conversation while she innocently slipped an unassuming looking cup of Jamaican Me Crazy to our unsuspecting taste buds.

That has been at least two years ago. I can not count the number of times I have stopped by every Winners and Home Sense in my path just to check out their coffee section to see if this ground gold was sitting on the shelf. It appears a few times a year and then again performs a disappearing act for several months at a time. I have been known to empty their entire supply on occasion and stash it in my freezer for safe keeping.

Here it was two weeks before Christmas and several months had gone by without a sighting of Lansing Michigan's own Paramount Coffee's, Jamaican Me Crazy. Perhaps this is one reason I have found myself rather stressed of late. I asked the elfish shelf-stockers about it on more than one occasion as Christmas drew closer and was met with a smirk and a rolling of the eyes. Apparently a few employees in the know had their antennas set on Jamaica as stock came into the store. A couple of days ago, my coffee addiction received it's early Christmas present. Two pouches of the Jamaican gold sat waiting for me as innocently as sprinkles on a doughnut. I snatched up both and rummaged through the entire shelf just to make sure the elves were not up to their irritating tricks. Two, just two 340 gram packages to do me through the holidays.

My name is Eva and I am an addict. Thanks a lot Bonnie.

Hot Tamales

I made Mexican tamales today. I know, it's the last thing that I'd thought I'd ever be making, especially at this time of year. But the opportunity landed in my lap and considering that I 'd never get the chance again, I welcomed the chance. My little sister, technically a cousin, who's been spending a considerable amount of time in Mexico, arrived home for Christmas with a big idea under her belt. Tamales, a staple of that culture, are apparently available on every other street corner regardless of the village or town. The fact that they are not a part of the menu at most of our local Mexican restaurants or available as a ready to assemble kit on our grocery store shelf, probably has something to do with the fact that they it took us two afternoons as well as several ingredients, that are not usually present in my cupboards, to make approximately 30. I understand that once you know what you're doing, and you have all the necessary things on hand, you can probably churn out dozens per hour. Fortunately for little sister, she is willing to do what many in our fast paced, fast food society are not. We used duck confit, a few different varieties of chillies, tomatillos, several kinds of mushrooms, cilantro, lots of cilantro, a specially treated corn flour and reconstituted corn husks to hold it all together. And here, I'm just naming a few things that passed before my eyes on their way to or from the fry pan or food processor.We were her official taste testers and pass the test she did. The beautifully wrapped parcels of yumm are now resting in my freezer waiting to be brought back to life when the entire family has gathered. The foodies in Toronto are going to be licking their chops when tamale chef extraordinaire unleashes her creativity and tamale making energy on them. Check out the info on this amazing dish and the chef who's going to make it her business.


https://www.facebook.com/#!/tasteyourfreedom

Pass the borscht

Since I'm feeling uninspired at the moment as I have been the entire day, but feel determined to post every single day, I have come up with another recipe for a staple at our Christmas Eve dinner. Easter European barszcz or more commonly known as borscht is enjoyed by Poles, Ukranians, Russians, and Hungarians as well as many North Americans of that ethnic heritage. I must say, since I have never been a soup eater, it has taken me almost 50 years to participate in this Christmas Eve ritual. Last year I distinctly remember having a few spoon fulls as many others oohed and ahhed around the table. Here's a look at a simple way to make this traditional soup. My mother always adds red wine as well as pickled plums and only serves the broth, plums and dumplings (uszka) but I'm sure there are as many ways to make it as there are families who enjoy it.

A place called Christmas

Christmas seems like a place entirely of its own. It is a town we live in from mid November till New Year's day. It's a place we create that has constantly sunny skies, smiling, congenial neighbours, pleasant holiday music, a crisp chill in the air that warrants the use of a colourful scarf, hat and matching mittens. It is a place where everyone gets what they wish for, Christmas is spent with the ones we love and the whole experience is tied up beautifully with a coordinating ribbon. Try as hard as we may, we can not always remain in this place but we do everything we can to get back there with fierce determination. Like a dream that we are strangely aware of dreaming, we fight to succumb to it's delicious abandon even though we know we can not stay asleep for ever.

Reality of life has a way of punching through that dream now and again to remind us that mittens get holes, sunny skies turn to rain, neighbours get cranky and loved ones are not always able to be with us even though the annual Christmas card picture would have been more complete with them by our sides. And yet we feel compelled to decorate our front doors, light the mantle candles, baste the turkey and don our finest and brightest in preparation for the big day.

How do we live our lives in the moment, acknowledging the fact that friends get sick, our parents are graying and forgetful, children are facing issues in their lives we did not have to deal with, while at the same time allowing the sweet smell of fresh cut Christmas trees to take us to that place that only your favourite Christmas carol can?

Finding this balance is not only the answer to how to reconcile Christmas in our very real lives, it is also the answer to how to reconcile the good and the ugly of every single day. The welcoming of new possibilities, of nurturing innocence and promise among cynicism and despair, of allowing hope to take root in our hearts and to celebrate each day for the chance it affords us to make these choices is the prescription given to us by sages and enlightened minds. The trick is, finding a way to do it that has meaning to us.

While I shop for those last minute gifts and bake those last batches of cookies, I will think of those who will not be with us this Christmas while I listen to their favourite carols, I will hope for new beginnings for those starting down new paths and I will keep reminding myself and all those that will listen that Christmas is a state of mind and you can visit there even in mid July.

Home made pierogi

In preparation for making the annual Christmas pierogi, I looked through some recipes to see the different methods and ingredients people use when making this traditional Wigilia staple.  I can't say I make pierogi any other time than Christmas, so every year it takes a bit of organizing to get all the ingredients and implements ready. Usually we make two types of pierogi. Potato and cheese are the most widely known and are also available at most supermarkets these days in the frozen food section. The other type of pierogi that we have made on Christmas Eve for decades are the sauerkraut and mushroom kind. These are a little harder to find if you are looking to purchase them ready made but can usually be found at specially food stores that feature ethnic dishes. Locally they can be found at the European Deli on Walker Rd. at Ottawa St. We, of course, will be making them by hand. My daughter has already asked if we will wait for her to get home before we start the yearly tradition. Here is a look at one way to make Potato and Cheese pierogi. It is very close to the way we make them. This year, however, I will have to scout around for some different recipes for fillings that do not include cheese. The effects of lactose intolerance are not a pleasant thing, especially at a time like this.
My grandmother used to make meat filled ones when I was a child but those won't do on Christmas Eve. She also made all kinds of fruit filled ones in the summer. I still remember the strawberry ones my aunt made a couple of years ago when we visited Poland. These are served with sweetened cream or sour cream insted of the fried onions which usually accompany a dish of pierogi. The warm juice that spurts out of the pierogi and mixes with the cream as the fork pierces the dough is something everyone should taste at least once in their life.Maybe this is the year to add the sweet version of pierogi to our repertoire.This may be an opportunity to come up with yet another non-traditional tradition.

Anticipation

As well as the usual presents one can wrap and place under the tree, I have the additional, although happy task of shopping for a box spring mattress. An odd time for an odd purchase, you might think. But, that's the way life is. It sees you juggling a dozen balls and it it sees it as a good time as any to throw in a few more.
The recent trip to Toronto, meant to bring bedroom furniture to our daughter who is now in her own apartment, has left her old room empty outside of the colossal dust bunnies that refused to move out with her. Luckily we kept a bed and mattress she used several years ago as a back up but the foundation and new mattress made its way up north with practically everything else she owned. I had visions of taking leisurely strolls through post Christmas boxing day sales to pick up just the right things in order to make the now empty space into a guest room extraordinaire. It occurred to me shortly after our arrival back that the room will need to be functional again way before the red tags hit the merchandise. And, to make matters even more urgent, the prodigal daughter will need a place to sleep, not just one that looks pretty. Luckily, there doesn't seem to be that many people concerned with box springs at this time of year and the sales person at the local discount furniture store almost seemed euphoric when I entered the store. I left the place relieved that they will be able to deliver the box spring later on in the week and the delivery will be free of charge.
It hit me as I was recuperating from the several hours of madness among last minute shoppers, that we will now have the happy task of waiting for our daughter to make her way home every holiday season. Until now we looked forward to seeing cousins that we often only see at this time of year but now we will add the anticipation of seeing our girl to the many things we look forward to at Christmas. Can't wait to have you home again Alex!!

Too sick for Christmas

After whining all day yesterday about not being able to find my favourite brand of lemon tea, I picked up a grapefruit flavoured one today at the European Deli and Paul came home with one I have never seen before. Lemon is it's main ingredient. Just goes to show you, you whine loud enough and someone will make it a point to shut you up. As it turned out, it's a good thing we have all that lemon tea on hand. Both of us are feeling under the weather and hunkering down with a steaming cup of the citrusy  brew. Figure skating and hockey over with, Sherlock Holmes is playing on the television while the last batch of cookies is cooling in the freezer. A busy day considering that drinking tea is all I had planned on doing all today. Here's hoping it's curative powers do the job by morning. Two weeks before Christmas is no time to call in sick.

I Love Lemon

It was cold today, colder than it's been in some time. I spent most of today driving around town dropping in on some old and new advertisers just to say hello. Did I mention it was cold? The only thing that kept me going was the thought of a lovely cup of lemon tea when I got home. Not just any lemon tea, oh no, not for me, I Love Lemon by Bigellow is what was going to be my just reward. I have tried many teas in my life and many of them are still in my kitchen cupboard. But the one tea that I most look forward to, especially on a cold winter day is I Love Lemon. The only problem was I was out; out of doors on a cold sun-less day and out of the one tea that could make it all better for body and soul.
You would think that picking up a new box of tea would be an easy task, so did I, at the beginning. After leaving the second store empty handed I was starting to have my doubts. Determined to stay positive, I stopped at store number three, and headed over to the designated tea/coffee section. If the shelves did not hold every imaginable flavour of tea, besides lemon that is, I would have been hard pressed to think of one. Everything from Green tea with ginger to Mellon Mango and Chai were present and accounted for. But where was the lemon? At this point in the day, I would have been happy to find any brand of lemon tea just to keep my taste buds from salivating and my toes from freezing. We are talking simple lemon tea here! Back in the day when there was only coffee or tea, Orange Pekoe and Lemon were the only choices one had in tea if one did not count Camomile, and Camomile never counted according to me.
But, there I was, cold, tired, cranky and in dire need of the only thing that would now do. I drove home, tore apart the tea cupboard, yes I have an entire half cupboard dedicated to tea, and just as I feared, came out empty handed. It would have been easy enough to brew a plain cup of tea and put a slice of lemon in it but you see, I Love Lemon is an herbal tea and the English or Irish Breakfast or the always tasty Earl Grey would not make a good substitute. Never one to give up easily, I remembered once drinking a delicious cup of hot water steeped with lemon peel. It was apparently a common southern Italian drink and lucky for me, easy enough to make. I peeled half a lemon, placed the zest in a mug, poured boiling water over the lot and immediately felt my self start to relax.
There is nothing like a hot drink on a cold winter day especially if the drink is a steaming cup of tea. If that tea is I Love Lemon, all is right with the world. The lemon and hot water substitute is a darn good stand-in, but just in case you need a more potent facsimile here's a recipe for home made Limoncello, with just enough time to make it in time for Christmas!

Can you say Sledz?

Since it's just a few days more than two weeks before Christmas, I have been finding myself thinking about Christmas Eve dinner more and more often. Having the piernik already made and frozen allows me to focus on the main part of the meal and all the special ingredients that need to be purchased. At our house, Christmas Eve is celebrated the traditionally Polish way. It is called Wigilia.
According to a very old custom, Wigilia dinner is served right after sun down and is usually comprised of 12 meatless dishes. We've always stuck to the meatless rule but have never served the 12 dishes. I guess you can consider this another non-traditional tradition, but we are full enough with the five or six we make every year to consider adding any more.
Every family has their favourites but we have been lucky enough to have my mother make, red barscz with uszka (beet root soup with little dried mushroom-filled dumplings), Greek fish (a white fish served with a carrot, celery and onion sauce), two kinds of home made pierogy, potato and cheese as well as sourkraut and mushroom ones, breaded shrimp and breaded calamari rings with sea food sauce( this has become a custom to appease my children who didn't like the barscz or fish), a fresh salad and usually a hot vegetable or two.  Since all that cooking has been getting too difficult for my mom to do on her own, I have been getting more involved over the last several years. Last year, my daughter and I made the pierogy. They were not exactly up to my mother's par but I'm sure they will get better the more often we make them.
The one traditional dish that our family shares with most Eastern Europeans and Scandinavians is sledz.(shle-dge) or pickled herring. I didn't mention it till now because it's a dish we normally put on the table and soon after take back to the kitchen. It is one of those things we feel compelled to keep preparing even though I can't think of a single person at the table who eats it. I must admit, I did eat it as a child and even enjoyed it. As the years went on, it became less appealing and went the way of other foods I no longer eat such as smoked eel, headcheese, blood sausage and galareta (pig feet aspic).
There are countless stories of my husband Paul first joining the family for Christmas Eve and feeling obligated to at least try the dreaded stuff. I should have known he was a keeper after he tried more than once to acquire a taste for something that I think you have to grow up eating in order to appreciate. It is pickled in it's raw state, it is cold, it is salty, it is vinegary and fishy. There are many recipes available for trying to make this delicacy palpable but my earliest memories of sledz are of men eating it straight out of the jar and following it up with a shot of vodka. Even the promise of Vodka didn't make it worth trying the third time around. He is now an unabashed sledz hater and not afraid to say so. You, however, may be one of the lucky ones who will welcome a new reason to drink a shot of good Polish vodka after every bite. Here is a look at how others enjoy it.. Cheers!

Christmas Oranges

As the saying goes, we all sooner or later turn into out mothers and fathers. The way we laugh, what we feel compelled to laugh at, our love of music or sports, our dislike of rutabagas or our love of water. It is all mostly genetic. Once we get to that certain age, the age where we tend to notice things like this, we will often catch ourselves saying something or responding to something exactly as our mother or father would have. Often when we are young, we are aghast when something like that happens and vow to never let it happen again. But being the creatures of habit that we are, we will find ourselves being like our parents more often than we are not. There have been many times, that I stopped mid sentence almost, to swear the words that just came out of my mouth could have come from my mother's. That is also true when I'm cooking or shopping, cleaning or crying. My mother and I both have the misfortune of our nose turning red and our eyes almost disappearing in our faces when the tears start to flow.
I should not have been surprised then, when my daughter, who has never shown any particular enthusiasm or interest in being crafty, posted a picture of some Christmas decorations she crafted for her new apartment. The picture was not that of a store bought Santa, a preassembled Christmas tree or anything else that would have been convenient for a young girl, short on cash, and busy making her way in the big city. It was a picture of a pair of clementines studded with whole cloves the way I used to embellish them when she was young. I do not claim that embellishing clementines is a genetic trait, but it says a lot about how we feel about home and the things that we find comfort in when we need to make a home of our own.
Just out of curiosity, I will have to ask my own mother whether my grandmother studded oranges when she was young. I have a feeling I know what she'll say. Maybe that is the reason I always associated the smell of citrus with Christmas and still do to this very day.

After a week or so of thinking that the next day would be the day that the Christmas tree would finally go up, we decided that there was no better day than today. We hauled up the box and assembled the evergreen in its intended spot. As usual, Paul spent the next hour trying to remember which lights we had used last year and why we hadn't thrown out the ones that did not work. Grumbling as he plugged in one string after another and finding only two that lit up, he threw the entire bunch back into a box and declared that he was going to buy some new ones once and for all. Deciding that I should probably pick up a few things at the grocery store while he was going out, we both headed for the door with a list in each of our pockets. This was 7pm.

We arrived back home just before 8, I with six grocery bags and Paul with several new strings of lights. Soon after I had started too put the groceries away I heard my husband declare that he needed another string or two. By now it was 8:30pm and my enthusiasm was leaning closer to the comfortable couch than another trip to the store. I asked Paul to spread out the lights while I opened one cardboard box after another. Ribbons and garland, glass bulbs and angels, feathered birds and hand drawn pictures affixed to cardboard by little hands twenty years ago, stared up at me from within.

I pulled out one object after another and placed the shiny loot on branch after branch. The fact that I had to stop several times to inspect each piece as I tried to remember when we had bought it or who had given it to us or how old the children were when they made it, might have had something to do with me finding Paul on the couch asleep.The next time I looked at the clock it was 10pm. I wound some ribbon around the tree and finished off some branches with little wired bows I had made several years ago. I stepped back, took a look and decided that the deed was done. Tomorrow I will tackle the mantle.
Here's a look at a professional decorating a tree. Don't let the weather in the video fool you, decorating Christmas trees is serious business, even in California. It doesn't look like she used any hand made ribbons or children's art work but you may get some ideas for when it's tree time at your house.

So, I'm back from Toronto. Delivering bedroom furniture from one city to another, a four hour drive away, is not as effortless as it sounds, especially when it involves the actual planning, disassembling, packing, carting into the truck, unpacking, and hauling it up the stairs into it's new home. The effortless turns quickly into daunting when you're well into your fifth decade. At one point close to the end of the two day process, it suddenly occurred to me that I had done this before. Twice, as a matter of fact. I was birthing the daughter into her new life.
Looking out the window just a few minutes ago, I was relieved to see that the two day rain had finally turned to snow. The process, though not unexpected at this time of year, seemed prolonged and anguished, unable to settle on it's preferred state for any longer than an hour or two. The scene outside changed from a light drizzle to heavy rain to a mixture of rain and snow and back to rain within minutes at times. The birth of a new season, I thought. Profound thoughts or weather-headache induced delirium?. The latter is the most likely explanation. But, when things are  a struggle, and enormous effort is needed to just get through the hour, most often our thoughts turn to all kinds of self-reflection. But the reality is this, all change is the birth of something new. Whether it be a new address, a new season or a new life. It is always messy.

Screaming down a mountain side

So it seems that many, many people all around the world like to strap long, thin, slippery pieces of wood on to their boots and launch themselves from steep, snow covered hills and sometimes even treacherous mountain tops. So many people, in fact, like this winter time activity so much that it was given a name and a whole industry has developed around it. You can now participate in the sport of alpine skiing anywhere the presence of snow meets adequately hilly terrain. Considering the fact that I live in Canada, you would think that skiing is something I learned to do right after I mastered the skill of walking. That may be for many Canadians, especially the ones living in the northern reaches of our country but as for me, it took some 16 years before I had the pleasure of screaming down a mountain side.
 When I say I screamed down a mountain side I mean it literally, sort of. I did plenty of screaming but the mountain part isn't exactly accurate. I happened to be on a "bunny hill", or what can also be described as an almost imperceptible dip in elevation. That should have been everyone's first clue as to the mismatch of  my temperament  to this particular sport. I also have to brag that I actually made it past the "bunny hill" and onto a tow rope and eventually the chairlift. But, since I'm being honest, I should also mention that the screaming part remained a constant part of the entire experience.
I was 16 then, and being the eternal optimist, I returned to the mountain and strapped on those dreaded planks of wood at least two or three more times. Unfortunately, not much changed with each experience. But, as I couldn't help but notice, many, many others managed to refrain from screaming and actually seemed to enjoy the experience. It wasn't till a year or two later that I discovered the sport of cross country skiing. It was more my speed but the snow and the slippery lumber were still part of the deal.
What can I say, it seems that I just wasn't meant to be a winter girl. Even though the sport of skiing did not become a part of who I am today,I can't help but laugh when I think back to those days and way I enjoyed sipping my hot cider as I watched the rest of the skiers from the comfort of the lodge.
Here are three looks at the sport of skiing. One sensible one and two fit for much more adventurous sorts.