Letter to 2016

Dear 2016,

It's been a tough go, hasn't it? You really didn't make it easy for yourself, which I sort of respect, but you've taken a lot of flak from a lot of people, mostly Democrats and pop culture fans. To be fair, they aren't wrong. I mean, damn. You took Ziggy Stardust, Professor Snape, Princess Leia, Admiral Ackbar and R2-D2. You gave us President Trump, the Holocene Extinction and Pen Pineapple Apple Pen. People were bound to talk.

In light of this, you really can't blame us for drafting plans to transfer Betty White and the last of the manatees to a bunker in the Cheyenne Mountains, and star-gating the whole mess to a safe and distant corner of the universe.

But that's not why I'm here. I'm not here to sling mud and point fingers or to shrug and say fuck it and light some tires on fire. I'm here to celebrate you, 2016. I'm here to give thanks. Despite all of the many irreplaceable things that were taken and in spite of the many disturbing things that have been given, 2016 was still a pretty great year. 

An okay year. 

Oh, thank goodness it's over.

So.

Thank you for reminding us, repeatedly, that life is fragile and finite, a thing to be treasured. It seems hard to think of a world without our favourite people in it, whether it's our heroes, our loved ones, or my sweet Jesse girl. Nothing focuses our attention on the things in our lives that we love as effectively as loss. Nothing will ease the sting of their absence but time.

On the topic of stinging, thank you for Sriracha, the number one food trend of the year, and for Tums.

Thank you for the fading trend that is the Man Bun. It's been hilarious. Now stop it. Ditto on the gym selfie, the bathtub selfie, the just chillin' selfie, all the other kinds of selfies, Instagram photos of artfully lit and carefully grouped possessions, the "nofilter" hashtag, and the selfie stick. Please. People. Know that you are valued and loved by someone, probably lots of someones. Now just...just go read a book to a senior, or mow a neighbour's lawn. Do something genuinely "likeable". And then don't tell anyone you did it. You'll feel better than that time you got 38 likes for posting a picture of your sunglasses and an eos lip balm on a beach towel #lovethebeach #butnotenoughtotakeapictureofthebeach.

I've lost the thread, but obviously hit a nerve. Where was I? Right.

Lastly, thank you for the discovery of a ninth planet (not Pluto, get over it) in our solar system, for Earth's second moon (we have a second moon!) and for the scientists, stars and heroes of the next generation who won't stop creating and exploring, who will never give up. 

It's Getting Hot in Here

Husband, whose heartbeat is the steady beacon by which I navigate, is the sunny yang to my broody yin and without whom I would be adrift in an endless sea of emptiness, has finally left the house and gone for a cross-country ski by himself, thank the stars.

I love that man to distraction but we nearly had a spat over soap foam on the clean dishes this morning. My friends, we have achieved Cabin Fever. 

It took a 3-day Manitoban snowstorm to do it. After days of snow, blowing snow and snowed in streets, we have de-evolved from a loving unit into a pair of sweaty-eyed maniacs, each grappling for the axe in an attempt to smash through the bathroom door and empty the cat box on the other's head.

Thankfully, it turned up sunny today. We desperately needed the solace of doing something damn else, and thus it was with great relief that we gave each other a Look. Without a word spoken, Husband and I had the following conversation.

"Sweetie, I love you and it is vital to the continuation of this love that I love you, passionately and completely, from the mezzanine overlooking the Polo Park Chapters at the junction of Empress and Maroons, by the mall. For, like, at least three hours. Don't worry about the road conditions, it's only a 45 minute walk. I'll snowshoe there if I have to."

"Ditto. Meeker and I are going skiing."

When I moved to this gorgeous province, I thought it was a charming quirk that all the locals seemed to be so moody whenever the sun was blocked by a passing cloud. The wee dears, with their Vitamin D tablets and their UV lamps and their homicidal road rage. So sweet.

I get it, now. 

For Husband, whom I love completely, but never more than at this moment, as I sip a decaf tall flat white with skim milk, easy foam.

All Netflix and no sunshine makes us both crazy people.

All Netflix and no sunshine makes us both crazy people.

All Netflix and no sunshine makes us both crazy people.

All Netflix and no sunshine makes us both crazy people.

Levelling Up

I rely on hope when it comes to recipes. It's about trust, really. I trust the instructions will, if followed, result in a pan of stuff that will at least in some way resemble the photo. I'm successful enough, often enough, to consider myself a half-way decent cook. There have been some epic failures, The Incident of The Purple Stew being chief among them, but on the whole I can be counted upon to follow a recipe and produce something which, while it may not exactly match the photo, at least matches the definition of 'food'.

Unless the recipe came from Mother, who is crafty and leaves things out. She changes small ratios, which cause Yorkshire Puddings to fall. She omits important tricks, like chilling bowls. She fails to impart the arcane secrets of cold vinegar in pastry. She writes in hieroglyphics. She is sly.

Which is why I am always so pleased when I catch her in the act and why my Chocolate Oat Delights this year will finally be as glossy and rich as hers. 

Use large flake oats. Cool at room temp.

She is sly.

It's Coming On Christmas

As I write this I am listening to a podcast given by Commander Hadfield, one of the few Canadians, indeed, one of the few humans, who have passed Christmas in space. He explains that Christmas is well kept on the ISS. They hang a wee tree on the ceiling, and stockings above Pod 3. Each astronaut celebrates in their own manner, as they pass over their respective home time zones. They all open cards and gifts and hope that they don't wake up in the morning to find a suffocated Father Christmas floating outside the main bay doors. 

I think that's quite a lovely thought. Not the suffocated Father Christmas, that's just wrong. Obviously, he'd be a frozen, suffocated Father Christmas, but I do think it lovely that the traditions of Christmas have made their way out into the stars.

On a much more modest scale, Husband and I have brought traditions with us as we travel across Canada. When we started out, as fresh-faced marrieds, we tried to do all of the things that our two families had done for all of the reasons that things are done, because that is the way they have always been done. As we've moved from place to place, we've packed with us the more portable bits and left behind the bits that, for one reason or another, either weren't the meaningful  bits to us, or were impractical given the regional geography, or just tasted weird.

What's left is a sort of Christmas concentrate and I think it has become a wonderful expression of who we are, as respective representatives of our families. Husband must have a stocking filled individually wrapped surprises. He likes eating an assortment of homemade cookies, although not necessarily baking them. He likes going to Mass with his mom, if the occasion allows, and really glows with joy when he watches me open all of my individually wrapped stocking things. 

I am a creature of the senses, in that I trust the things I can touch and see and understand to be true. So...I enjoy the smells of Christmas, of pine and sweet treats...berry scented candles. I like the special quality of light you get when there is snow on one side of the window and twinkle lights on the other. I like the feel of being warm on the inside and cold on the outside, whether it's in my big puffy coat or my snug little house. I only like the taste of candy canes during the month of December. Of course, I also like the way my heart feels, when I see Husband skip like a startled puppy down all the stairs on Christmas day, to stare in wonder at a tree under which we both placed gifts less than 7 hours earlier. 

We haven't just taken things off the Christmas list, we've added things too. We like spending a lot of time outdoors on Christmas day, to ski in the crisp air, or snowshoe with our dogs. We like to have a house full of friends at some point over the season, because Spoons and Flip Cup are hard to play with only two. We send earnest and glittery cards across the globe to family, and friends who have become family, and then wait by the mailbox for the reciprocals.  We like toboggan races. We like Bailey's on Cheerios. We like Buddy the Elf, Snoopy, and John McLean.

We like Christmas, our way. Light on materials, heavy on cheer.

Merry Christmas, to our families and friends.We weren't kidding about the cards. 

Charlie Brown Was An Amateur

I have a great idea. Let's PRETEND I spent 5 hours decorating a tree, moving furniture, dusting, sweeping up needles, rearranging the furniture some more, dusting again, sweeping up more needles, and finally moving the furniture one last time because I forgot to water the tree the first two times and now it's totally blocked in...

...and instead, I'll go snowshoeing with Meeker. Mmmm-kay? 

I get it, I do. Christmas trees are suppose to be the something something of the season. For we secular folk, I feel it's historical symbolism has become watered down enough for us to feel comfortable having one in the house, without allowing the tinnitus of our own hypocrisy to drown out the sound of the cat slowly destroying Nana's antique ornaments.

It also smells great. 

But I'm not decorating it. I mean, I put some lights on it and there's a lovely glow in the room of an evening that for once doesn't come from a phone screen. It certainly looks more festive now that it's dead in my living room, than it did when it was alive on the farm and exchanging carbon dioxide for oxygen. So there's that.  

I just think having a lovely fir tree visit for a few weeks is joy enough for me for the season. I've named our little Christmas tree Red, because my father would find it funny. I've decorated it only with lights because it drives my mother crazy to know that somewhere in my house is a giant bin of unused ornaments and there's nothing she can do about it. I have a tree at all because Husband smiles so big when he looks at it that I feel as though my heart will burst.

Now if you don't mind, I have to see a dog about some snowshoes.