The Wall Came Down

You know last week, when the kids were away at cub camp, and I had the week more or less to myself...the week I was going to read and swim and make gourmet meals in between edits...yeah, that week.

Something happened to it. It was hijacked by a random thought that I had on the Thursday before the kids went to camp.

Do you think, I asked my husband, if we knocked down that wall, we could turn out bedroom into two rooms for the girls while they're away?

The short answer was yes.

The long answer involved a pile of things to do. I had to sort the room they were in, tossing and packing and organizing, taking down beds and storing desks and toy boxes and shelves in their brother's room. Then I had to clean their room. There was no way I was living with a pepto-bismol pink room, so since we were moving into their room, I had to prime and paint, and then move all our furniture across the hall.

Next the wall had to come down. Enter Andrew and a crow bar. Our farmhouse was originally a stage coach inn, so his closet was once an old inn room. By taking down the closet wall, we expanded the room by 8 feet, thus allowing us to create two rooms with windows and one room without which will serve as a den/spare room. What he realised and I did not was that the wall was original, which meant lathe and plaster, which meant mess. I realised it as I cleaned up century old dust.

Then we framed. And drywalled. And mudded. And primed. And painted.

And by the time the kids were home from camp on Saturday, our three bedroomed farmhouse was a five bedroomed one and the girls had their own rooms. Small. Unfinished (they still need trim and doors; we still have half their stuff in our room; and the new den is appropriately named-it looks like something animals would live in because I haven't quite finished cleaning it out of all the debris).

But their own.

Real World

The first week of summer was low key and full of possibility, then we escaped to the cottage for a fabulous week of relaxation (I did some work, but editing doesn't feel so much like work to me - it's so much fun), followed by a day out with friends at a battle re-enactment and rounded off with a dinner party at another friends where we swam in a lit pool until midnight and ate filet mignon with a lovely Cabernet Franc.

But today, reality hit once more in the form of piles and piles and piles of dirty laundry; a kitchen in dire need of cleaning after we were away for a week and my dear hard-working husband had to juggle mowing 30 acres of hay and work despite nursing a serious gastro virus that laid him low all week; and weeds that I swear were not here before we left but which are now three feet high. I washed, wiped, and weeded, saving tomato and basil and tomato plants as well as my asiatic lilies, all of which were greatly at risk from the creeping charlie and dandelions and one bizarre weed I don't recognize but which takes over as soon as I turn my back.

Got most of it done. Or at least started. Then swam with Grace and Erik. Then sat on the veranda with a Smirnoff Ice. Oh yeah. Now dinner awaits Andrew and Anna who will be home soon, and I think we are settling in to watch Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

Ah, Sunday.

Montreal

I'm a country girl, no getting away from it. Boots by the backdoor, morning tramps through the misty fields with the dog bounding at my heels, gravel lanes and overgrown hedgerows where the last of the fading summer wildflowers nod their heads: these are the things which fill my world and offer me sustenance.

But occasionally, even a country girl craves something different. And with Montreal being just a short drive from my back door, it's not difficult to achieve.

The kids were at a birthday party in the West Island on Saturday. So I traded in my usual weekend wardrobe of jeans, wool sweater and corduroy jacket for my version of chic: black pants, crisp shirt, polished black boots, and-gasp-jewellry, dropped the children off at the party, and went shopping.

Shopping. There's an experience. Normally I hate shopping. We don't live near malls so I don't have to worry about it much. Which sometimes means we do without because it seems too much trouble to head into town. (Erik, for example, has worn pj's that were too small for the past two years, because I just never hit the right stores.)

The downside to never shopping - or the upside if you prefer - is that on those rare occasions when I do go and am in the mood for it, I tend to spend a lot of money. And Saturday was no exception. I finished the back to school clothes shopping that I never quite managed to do in August (including two sets of pyjamas for Erik), picked up the stuff we'll need to hit the slopes come Winter (feeling smug and organized as I did so), and browsed through Brault & Martineau's lovely furniture showroom, drooling. Patisseries, boutiques, specialty stores, crowds and crowds of people - it was a full day, a busy day, an exhausting day. By the time we had hit Toys R Us for a couple of gifts and had our  mandatory wander through Chapters, I was done. So we had dinner out and drove home.

Yep. Once in a while, shopping in Montreal is just what the doctor ordered.

But boy, was I glad to get back to the slower pace of the Glen. Where, if you stand still for a moment, you can hear the earth breathe.

Bittersweet

I like to enjoy a glass of red wine on the veranda as the sun sets. The Linden Tree is in full bloom, the scent of lime drifting by on the breeze, and red-winged blackbirds chase each other in and out of the small copse of trees beyond the wild roses. The sights, sounds and smells of early summer make it a nice way to wind down on a Friday night.

I took these pictures on the weekend. My Linden tree with its sweet-smelling blossoms, hanging over me like a bower.

It's a bittersweet remembrance now. My van spontaneously caught fire yesterday. Luckily the fire was caught before it spread to my new veranda, but not before the heat of it had destroyed the vehicle and scorched the surrounding trees - my growing Ash sapling, a mature Pine, and my beautiful Linden tree.

We knew some branches would have to go, but today I noticed the curled leaves on the veranda side of the tree. Brown and fragile, the leaves and blossoms are just a shell of what they were, and I cry not for the van - which can be replaced - but for my trees.

There is hope. We may still be able to save the tree as it is not damaged all the way up.

But I write this with sadness in my heart.

A Drizzle Of Olive Oil

Let's face facts. Life sometimes goes pretty fast. There are parties to plan, bikes to ride, dinners to cook, books to read, calls to make, blogs to update...and that's just the fun stuff.

It can be hard sometimes to remember to slow down, to take pleasure in the moment.

But with the help of a bottle of olive oil, it's a lesson I remembered the other day.

It was the middle of the week, that time in between weekends when everything is in motion, when it can sometimes seem that one mis-step will have major repercussions on the subtle balance of the household (though I hasten to add it isn't actually true: we're a family not a covert military operation, and nothing is that important - it just seems that way).

I was making a quick salad to go with the banquet burgers we were having for dinner. And I was making salad dressing. With my new bottle of good olive oil at the ready, I made to mix up the ingredients. I turned the bottle of oil upside down and watched as it drizzled, slowly, out. Slooooowly.

My first thought, I admit, was I don't have time for this. We had a guest arriving, homework to finish, and a pile of laundry sat waiting to be folded.

Squeezing the glass bottle was futile - yes, I tried - so I had no option but to stand there and wait.

And something wonderful happened. I watched the oil drizzle slooooowly out into the cup, and I felt my shoulders relax, the world slow down, and the kitchen become suffused with peace and tranquility.

The only thing that mattered right then in that moment was the golden olive oil, the smell of garlic, the roasting cashews, the sunbeam that floated through the window bathing the red tiles in rich colour. Time stood still.

And it felt good.

Mad Hatter Tea Party

Grace wanted a Mad Hatter Tea Party for her 7th birthday. We had visions of setting the table outside under the maple trees, but Mother Nature had other ideas (rain, flurries) so we bought the party inside.

Yes. 12 kids. In my house. For three hours.

And it was amazing.

We set two tables end-to-end, laden with dishes: sandwiches, sausage rolls, veggies and dip, tri-coloured jello, jam tarts, berry tea, iced tea, and pink lemonade.

We made a cake in the shape of a hat. Well, sort of.

The White Rabbit showed up.

As did the Knave and Queen of Hearts.

Jam tarts were stolen, mad hats were made, croquet was played, food was devoured, fun was had.

The birthday girl was happy.

Mom was exhausted, but that's another story.

Sure Signs of Spring

Wellingtons and Cleats in the Mudroom.

Cherry Blossom Budding

Muddy, Dirty, Tailgate

Garden Waiting To Be Tilled;

Wood Waiting To Be Stacked & Dried

Maple. Ash. Come Back To Me Now.

(This was me channeling Treebeard)

New Grass Seeding. New Path.

My Darling Spirea Shrubs. Hmm. And Weeds.

Pastoral Sheep

One of them on the wrong side of the fence

(Because they truly believe the grass is always greener.)

Sometimes You Just Have To Be A Pirate!

"In your message you said, you were going to bed

But I’m not done with the night.

So I stayed up and read, but your words in my head

Got me mixed up so I turned out the light.

And I don’t know how to slow it down.

My mind’s racing

From chasing pirates."

~Norah Jones, Chasing Pirates

Spring Cleaning (and a touch of vanity)

The windows are all flung wide open today and the curtains are gently billowing in the breeze. Afternoon sunlight dapples the wide pine planks making them glow golden, and the red tile of the kitchen floor is cool and smooth underfoot. There is a cold ham, potato salad and grilled vegetables sitting on the oak counters in pretty dishes ready for dinner and two types of pie for dessert on the windowsill next to wilting daffodils and sprouting alyssium. And the kitchen table is empty save for a glorious cream-coloured lily in full bloom.

Freshly laundered linen is folded on the edge of my bed ready to be put away. Every piece of clothing in the entire house is washed, dried, ironed and hung in closets or placed in drawers. Every surface is dusted and the house smells faintly of lemon. Winter gear is stowed away in labelled totes, and soccer cleats are lined up ready for a new season of use. Birdsong filters through the house, trills and whistles and cheery chirping making every room brighter. A line of pots filled with soil and seeds sits next to a trowel by the back door - the promise of fresh herbs, broccoli and tomato and other summer culinary delights.

With the help of my house elves (see house elf #2 at left), we are ready for spring. We decluttered with a vengeance in bedrooms, laundry room, family room and mudroom. Unused, unwanted, unworn clothing was bagged and sent off to the St Vincent de Paul society; we were ruthless about stuff, filling garbage bags with anything broken or unloved, and finding a place for every single piece of paper in the house - filing cabinet, portfolio, or trash; and we stashed movies and books in the library on shelves, with the caveat that when we ran out of space we had to start weeding out the ones we no longer wanted.

It feels good. To be this organized, this uncluttered. It won't last, I know. But for a moment, allow me to bask in the reward of a hard Friday and Saturday morning's laour.

It was a very productive day and a half, and we finished in time to shower and change into pretty easter dresses for a family dinner.

Yes, even me. Mostly delighted because while decluttering my own rather large, horribly disorganized closet (four bags to give away, two bags of junk), I discovered this hidden away from my pre-mom days. And it still fits. Jubilation.

Not Adding Up

The Bank of Canada is recommending that Canadians put aside 20% of their gross income for retirement.

Those same experts suggest spending up to 30% of your gross income on a mortgage is acceptable.

Let's say taxes average around 35%.

That leaves most of us around 15% of our gross income for other minor things. You know, bills, food, extra-curricular activities, cars, gas.

And what is left? Not much.

So when I read that if you want to get ahead in business you need to dress the part, and spend 5-10% of your gross income on clothes, I just laughed.

Something doesn't add up.


Maybe the talking heads who come up with this stuff should try living in the real world for a bit first.

I have never in my life spent $3000 a year on my own clothes, let alone double that. I'm not sure I spend that much per year on clothes for the entire family!*

Of course, I hate shopping (except for books) so perhaps that has something to do with it.

*although with Erik growing approximately an inch a week (hyperbole), it doesn't feel that far off sometimes

Mouth Watering

My mouth is watering. Partly because I forgot to eat lunch (so busy and excited was I about completing the final stages of the marketing project I am doing) but partly because there has been a shift to the season.

It's still winter, and I've lived here long enough to know we can still expect more snow yet. But the mornings brighten earlier, dusk falls later, and there is a definite springiness to the world.

I'm a compulsive menu planner, always planning two weeks ahead and fitting in new recipes among the tried and true we all love. And menu plans, like the seasons, have a natural flow to them. Summer grills yield gracefully to the soups and harvest fare of fall, which in turn gives way to the hearty casseroles and slow-cooked meals of winter.

This spring-like shift in season speaks to me of a new food palatte. Lighter, greener, more delicate, like the spring snowdrops which will be popping up in the next month or so. And I've started to think about lightening the menu a little, switching it up. I've been tossing around some ideas, such as:

• Taking out Chicken Pot Pie and replacing it with Chicken Crepes in Chardonnay Sauce;
• Switching Cream of Cauliflower and Cheddar Soup with Cream of Asparagus with Parmesan or (heaven) Fiddlehead Soup drizzled with creme fraiche and pepper;
• Taking the Salmon en croute out of its pastry crust and serving it sauteed and herbed on a bed of minted peas;
• Swapping decadent chocolate brownies for a light cream cheesecake topped with lemon and blueberries (a recipe stolen shamelessly from Chez Piggy in Kingston).

I have to go now before I drool over the computer.

Bwa-ha-ha

I may need to get a television after all.

The poor children are so deprived that the height of entertainment for them is watching me slice carrots in the food processor.

Can we slice some more carrots next week, Mom? Pleeee...ase! This was an actual quote from Erik over the weekend.

Of course we can, my darlings. And maybe, for a real thrill, we could shred some cabbage too.

Money, Money, Money

So here I am feeling sorry for myself because one of the cars blew up the other day and it’s going to cost four times more than I first anticipated because of damage to the motor.

Yeah, that’s a bite. And yeah, it’s going to hurt a bit.

We could buy a new one, I suppose, but one of Andrew’s endearingly eccentric traits is that he prefers old cars, and in fact in the 15 years I have known him has never had a new car. An ancient Jeep, a practically classic Bronco, a series of old VW Rabbits, a collection of vintage trucks, and now the 12 year old Golf he currently drives.

We live in the country and we need two vehicles, and either way, we pay: Either payments on a new vehicle or repairs on an old. In the end, we come out more or less at the same place. The difference is that with a new car the payments are more or less scheduled, whereas with the old car they hit you with unpredictable vigour.

I admit, the news was enough to make me a bit glum. I’m a bit of a scrooge when it comes to money. Not in terms of everyday expenses - no holds barred when it comes to food and wine, or kids’ activities for example. But in terms of saving….different matter! The first thing I do every paycheck is divert money into the savings account, and once it’s there, I hoard it. Theoretically we do have a short term savings account especially for emergencies like car breakdowns, but I don’t actually plan to spend it. This drives Andrew crazy. We are diametrically opposed in our approach to savings. I want to keep it, keep it all, and he feels if it is there, it is there to spend.

Of course, when it comes to the car, there’s little choice. So when faced with having to pay out money I’m not anticipating, I have a bit of an anxiety attack, then I take out my excel budget and retool it so see how to replace the money I have to spend and how quickly I can do this.

Then I start to throw crazy ideas around. Like We’ll stop having Pizza Hut on Friday nights, and We’ll cancel the cleaning lady, and (craziest of all) We’ll stop drinking wine. And Andrew ignores me because he knows I’m all talk – none of those things are actually going to happen.

Finally I realize (as any sane person would have right from the start) that it’s not in fact the end of the world. So we have to spend money on the car….at least we have a car. So we have to take some money out of the savings account…but we do actually have a savings account. In a period of economic uncertainty we have rewarding jobs and good incomes. When 800,000 families are forced to use foodbanks, we eat like kings every day and have two freezers stocked with every kind of food imaginable.

I started off feeling sorry for myself. That has evaporated now. We may not be rich, but we're doing okay. I am off to the grocery store tonight to pick up a week’s worth of groceries in canned and dry goods, and I’m going to take them to the local foodbank. I’m sorting out a bunch of kids’ snowsuits and boots for the Salvation Army. We’re going to put together some Christmas Boxes. And perhaps best of all, I’m going to take the opportunity to count my blessings.

This Old House

The women who used to live in our house 20 years ago (10 sisters and 4 brothers) showed up today. Andrew found them at the end of the laneway taking pictures of the parts of the house they could see from half a mile away behind the forest that is our driveway, and he invited them up to the house to take a closer look.

-

They were visiting from Alberta, and Andrew - home sick today - said that when they saw my flower garden on the east side of the house, they collectively burst into tears.

This is the garden our mother always wanted, the weeping women told a rather uncomfortable Andrew. She could never get flowers to grow here, and she'd have loved this.

Obviously discomoded by this display of emotion, Andrew let them into the house to see the massive stone fireplace hearth that we just finished restoring. More tears of joy.

And the kitchen...!

If our mother were alive, she'd be so happy to see this, they told Andrew.

Which made him feel pretty good as he did most of the work.

It was an emotional visit for them, as nostagic trips are wont to be. And when I got home I was happy that they'd seen it, and oddly happy that it would please some long dead woman that I have never met.

But underlying all of that was one thought running relentlessly through my head...14 children! Here? And I stopped feeling so guilty that Anna and Grace still share a room.

Uncle Dave taught Anna to use a drill last Saturday. She was helping build the veranda with Dave, Andrew and Klaus. Anna really likes her Uncle Dave.

Liz, Bronwen and I hung out sipping pinot gringio and ensuring a steady supply of sandwiches, nachos, burgers and beer got to the work crew outside.

Dallas chased Lady around until she flopped down in exhaustion. Erik - home after 3 days away - retired to his bedroom to reacquaint himself with his Lord Of the Rings action figures and lego castles. Grace and Orria played really well together all day.

Meanwhile the guys pondered and debated and built.

Good day.

What's In My Purse?

What do you have in there? asked Andrew the other day as I was rummaging through my purse looking for a pen.

A pen, I said.

And what else...?

I get defensive about things like this. Just stuff I need, I told him.

Stuff I need.

Like a pen (or five), my wallet, a paperback novel (mystery) in case I get stuck somewhere.

A hairbrush, some hair ties and kids hair clips for emergencies.

My Ipod, some tylenol I never use, a notebook.

Some scouting forms that need to be filled out. Some scouting badges that have not yet been sewn onto sashes.

My cell phone.

A list of books I want to read in case I find myself near a bookstore.

A Magic marker (aka Tide To Go, which I'm not convinced really works, but which I feel more responsible for carrying).

My Toastmaster's name tag. A small mirror. A lipstick and a chapstick.

Some gum. My two flash drives. Some old grocery receipts. Another hair tie.

A corkscrew. Never leave home without one.

And today, a DVD that needs returning.

Maybe Andrew is right. Maybe I could clean it out a bit.

There.

I tossed out the old grocery receipts and returned the DVD.

That's better!

Lemonade On The Verandah

We don't actually have a veranda - yet. I have wanted one since I first heard Stuart MacLean talk about them on the Vinyl Cafe one rainy Sunday afternoon a decade ago up at Cape Croker Park where Andrew and I were camping.

It's coming - and for now we have a deck. Doesn't sound like much of a difference - just add a roof! But the veranda is so much more than just a deck with a roof. To me a veranda is a metaphor for the way I want to live my life.

A veranda is speckled sunlight and shady nooks. A place to hide with a book and a place to socialize with friends. A place to daydream with my spouse and snuggle with my children. A veranda says sit yourself down in that deep cushioned wicker chair, and relax, because the world can wait.

Sipping lemonade or iced tea on a veranda in the late afternoon, peeping out through a curtain of clematis and climbing honeysuckle, gently swinging (all verandas need a swing) in the breeze - this is the vision that keeps me grounded when the pace picks up. This is to what I aspire.

Girls and Food

As a pre-teen and teenager, I never had any hangups about food. I never dieted or worried about my weight, and any image-awareness I had was just the regular self-consiousness of your average teenage girl.

As a mother, however, I am a lot more conscious of some of the issues that girls (in particular) have, and although my oldest girl is only turning 8 later this summer, I am on alert. Girls - even girls who live in rural area - are growing up faster these days, and it shocks me when I hear of girls in junior grades talking about their weight and who is thin and who is not. Particularly as their notions are driven in part by a media-obsessed society.

Anna has a naturally slim build. She is lanky and fit and healthy and seemingly un-self conscious. But I've noticed recently that she is "not all that hungry" at dinnertime more than usual, and while I'm not alarmed (it's quite possible that she just isn't that hungry), I am watching just a little more closely.

I'm taking the opportunity to talk more about food and healthy choices. Anna already likes to cook, so I make the effort to involve her more - my rationale being to encourage her to forge a good relationship with food, one that she controls - and while we're in the kitchen we are also communicating which is paramount for any number of reasons as we head towards the pre-teen years.

She's only 7, I hear you say. But those 7 years have flown by, and in 7 more it will be too late. I've spent the past 7 years raising her to be the confident, healthy child she is, and my job now is to nurture that child so that she becomes a confident, healthy teen, with the tools she needs to navigate the minefield of adolescence.

N0-one said being a mom was easy!

Get Up & Go

One thing I'm loving about my Ipod is that I can set playlists. Music to run to. Music to study to. Music to cook to. But my favourite by far is the one I created last week: 8 songs that have made my life better, my mornings less chaotic, and my days more organized.

It's pretty hectic in the mornings at our place. Andrew is out by 5 some mornings, and I'm left to make sure the kids are dressed, have had breakfast, have packed lunches and homework and notes in their bookbags, have fed the dog and cats, and somehow get to the end of the lane to meet the school bus at 07:30 am.

And some days - okay, many days - it sounds something like this:

No time to dawdle. Finish your breakfast. Have you put the milk away? Don't forget your homework. Where did you put your mittens. The bus will be here in 5 minutes. Let's GO!

Until this week, when I put my brilliant Get Up & Go playlist into action. 8 upbeat songs over 30 minutes. When the first notes of Who Let The Dogs Out start blaring at 0650, they know they need to be getting dressed. Green Day and Coldplay songs are good for eating breakfast, and by the time Blackie and the Rodeo Kings roll around, the bowls are being loaded into the dishwasher. Three more songs to go - lots of time to load up bags and run back upstairs for whatever it is we've forgotten. The rule is that when Great Big Sea begin to belt out End of The World, you'd better be wrapping up whatever else you're doing because when the song is done, it's time to put on coats and boots. With a 10 minute post-playlist window, we have time to find that missing mitten, grab the recycling box, rebraid messy hair, toss in a load of laundry... and still make it to the car and down the lane with minutes to spare.

I confess I get tired of the same songs in the same order every morning. But the kids love it. They thrive on it. And it works. The best part is that I don't have to say anything at all - the songs set the pace, and mornings have become a lot easier.

Little Chef

Anna likes to cook. She calls herself Little Chef and is a whiz at whipping up spaghetti (as in the picture), other kinds of pasta, cupcakes, and gravy. She even invented her own drink - a warm sugar infused strawberry confection that she makes for special occasions.

Of course, I encourage all of this. With all the kids, not just Anna - although she has the most interest right now.

Shouldn't we be starting dinner, she'll ask. I'll get my cook book.

That was how I discovered where my Joy of Cooking had gone - Anna had put it in on her reading shelf.

She'll sit at the kitchen table, leafing through recipes.

She convinces her brother and sister to try things I'd never expect them to agree to.

She makes recommendations to her siblings based on a secret ratio of randomness, uniqueness, and how cool the name sounds, and then they write down the key ingredients on my grocery list.

We had roast duck one weekend.

Lamb curry another.

But much as I admire her willingness to try new things, the line must be drawn somewhere.

Let's have Osso Bucca, she called out yesterday, her finger resting on the appropriate page of the Joy.

Um, sorry honey, we don't have any marrow bones.

She looks pensive. Okay then, let's have...

There is a pause. I imagine her filing through a list of incredible recipe ideas in her head.

Hot dogs! she proclaims with joy.

Hot dogs we can do.