Brrr… Culinary Comfort Brings A Warm Embrace

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Chill temperatures have finally dropped into the Okanagan Valley, a frosty parachute jettisoned from the northlands.

Late summer miraculously held on and on, grasping tight to a steadfast overnight +10ºC until… last night when… it didn’t.

BOOM! Winter! -6ºC this morning.

Birch and cherry trees shivered like they had a COVID fever and immediately began rapid-fire chucking of their still-green leaves to the emerald grass below.

Childish chickadees and juvenile juncos huddled noisily around the feeders like itinerant depression-era hobos surrounding a burning barrel, gorging on black-oil sunflower seeds, little ADHD nomads flitting back and forth from the cedar and yew hedges on the yard’s edge.

Safely ensconced behind my window glass I clasp a steaming cup of tea to my chest, vicariously absorbing signs of winter chills that bring on the inbred desire for fireplace coziness and … comfort foods.

Bears hibernate, Monarch butterflies wing south, hares and ptarmigan turn white, and we humans… turn to the desire for comfort foods that is sewn into our DNA.

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We all embrace an individual set of edibles that constitute our comfort food… for some it’s stews and shepherd pie, for others, Yorkshire pudding and baby back ribs saturated in thick, sweet sauciness, yet others crave a spicy curry or steaming vegetable-laden soup.

I’d happily dive into any of those choices as temperatures take a dive of their own.

Something I’ve noticed is that comfort foods largely tend to go by passionless names (eg. meat loaf, lentil soup), what I might call “diner” names, not Michelin 3 star restaurant descriptors that dazzle us with colourful imagery and unpronounceable titles.

OK, enough talk… lets head for the warmth of my kitchen where I’ll share just a few of my own preferences of the delectables that are like a cozy pillow to embrace within my inner guts.

I’m putting on my apron and sharpening my knives. Let’s cook up… some good old northern comfort…

(NB. While almost all of these contain meat or animal products, any can be quite easily customized to accommodate the vegan palate)

1. Chicken and Dumplings – one of my Mom’s go-to’s, simple fare with down-home farm ingredients.
2. Grilled Cheese and Tomato Soup – a lunchtime staple on snowy days, even if the soup comes from a can (although I’ll be using San Marzano tomatoes from my garden, ripening in the cold room).
3. Chili Con Carne (o sin carne!) – this was actually one of my Dad’s favourite things to make after he retired. Silly me – I didn’t know he could cook anything until he hit 65!
4. Sloppy Joes – many comfort foods fall into a “sloppy” category, does this say something about winter blues perhaps?
5. Pastitsio* (see recipe at bottom of post) or Lasagna – anything that is topped with caramelized cheese is food for the gods in my book.
6. Slow Cooker Rogan Josh or Butter Chicken (served with fresh naan) – I have a lot of immigrant friends and families to thank for the food scents that permeate my home in recent years. How did I live my first 40 years without cumin, fenugreek, or turmeric?
7. Blueberry Bread Pudding – simple breakfast (dessert) fare that covers all the major food groups, AND the extra one that nurses my major addiction …. sugar! (Of course, any fruit can be subbed, fall apples are a great choice)
8. Pad Thai – it took me a long time to come to a realization that peanut butter goes well with something other than chocolate or bananas (and shockingly, that fish sauce is a fantastic umami contributor to lots of dishes)
9. Pierogi and Sausages – I grew up in a heavily ethnic Hamilton neighbourhood where many Ukrainians settled after World War II, bringing their unique foodstuffs along for the ride to share.
10. Wor Wonton Soup – broth with everything included except the kitchen sink… shrimp, vegetables, mushrooms, egg… sesame oil and ginger combination at its best.
11. Cinnamon Buns with Maple Cream Cheese icing – is any dessert item more enticing and winter’ish than tender-as-marshmallow dough laced with warm cinnamon, brown sugar, and cream cheese? ME ME… I’ll answer… NOPE!
12. Pork or Chicken Schnitzel – fork-tender meat sautéed in a lightly-seasoned crumb coating. Delectable with or without a mushroom or tomato sauce.
13. Beef Stroganoff – more fork-tender slow-cooked meat in a mushroomy sour cream sauce. I’m not at all pleased with the Russian government but I love this contribution from their kitchen.
14. Boston Baked Beans – we all know that legumes (so many beans, so little time) are great for our bowel and general health, so why not enjoy it with a tantalizing smoky tomato sauce. For those worried about contributing to global warming via flatulent methane production, humans produce a paltry 1 L of flatus per day, only 7% of which is methane… which is less than 1% of what a single cow produces daily. So nosh as much on beans as you like and the only one who can reasonably complain is your nearest neighbour.
15. Chicken Cacciatore – my good ole Hamilton friend Denise made the best chicken cacciatore I’ve eaten when she gamely visited me in Yellowknife over 40 years ago… the memory and great flavour of that dish still lingers.
16. Irish Beef Stew (with Guinness) – I’ve always loved stews at this time of year… and there are so many variations… one of which (see below) I gorged on in Dublin just this summer at the The Girl and The Goose Restaurant.

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Of course, our food tastes are constantly evolving, and with the availability of ingredients from around the world throughout the year… well, we can keep on adding to our comfort menu for chilly days and long nights.

OK gang, let’s put down our knives and mixing bowls now and cheer on the shorter, colder days from which we draw culinary warmth.

I don’t know about you, but, just thinking about all of this, I’m famished!

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*As promised, some comfort goodness for 4… I made this dish this week…OPA!!

Pastitsio (Greek Pasta Bake)

Greece’s answer to Italian Lasagna! This traditional Greek dish is made with layers of pasta topped with a rich meat sauce perfumed with a hint of cinnamon and clove, topped with a thick layer of cheese sauce.

For neat layers. arrange the pasta so they’re all going in one direction, and rest the baked Pastitsio for 15 minutes before slicing. Excellent for making ahead (keeps for 4 to 5 days in the fridge) and freezes very well!

Prep Time 30 mins

Cook Time 2 hrs

Servings: 4

Calories: 597cal/serving

Ingredients

Meat Sauce:

• 1 tbsp olive oil
• 1.5 garlic cloves , finely minced
• 1 red onions , finely chopped (sub yellow or brown onions)
• 0.5 kg / 1 lb beef mince (ground beef)
• 0.38 cup dry red wine
• 400g / 14 oz canned crushed tomato
• 1 tbsp tomato paste
• 0.5 tsp white sugar
• 0.5 bay leaf
• 0.25 tsp cinnamon powder
• 0.5 cinnamon stick (or extra 1/2 tsp cinnamon powder)
• 0.13 tsp ground cloves
• 0.38 tsp salt
• 0.5 tsp black pepper

Greek Bechamel:

• 50g / 3.5 tbsp butter , unsalted
• 0.38 cup flour , plain/all purpose
• 0.5 litre / 2 cups milk , whole/full fat best but low fat ok
• pinch nutmeg
• 0.25 tsp salt
• 50g / 1.5 oz Kefalotyri Greek cheese (sub. Parmesan or Romano), finely shredded
• 1 egg yolk (egg white is used in the pasta)

Pasta:

• 200g / 7 oz Pastitsio No. 2 pasta / Greek bucatini (sub. small ziti, penne or normal bucatini)
• 60g / 2 oz feta , crumbled
• 1 egg white (yolk used in Béchamel)

Topping:

• 37.5g / 1.5 oz Kefalotyri Greek cheese (sub parmesan or Romano) , finely grated

Instructions

Meat Sauce:

• Heat in a large pot over high heat. Add garlic and onion, cook for 2 – 3 minutes until onion is softened. Add beef and cook, breaking it up as you go, until it changes from red to brown.
• Add wine and and cook until the wine has mostly evaporated – about 3 minutes.
• Add remaining Meat Sauce ingredients. Stir well, bring to simmer, then reduce heat to medium / medium low so it’s simmering gently. Cook for 45 min to 1 hour until liquid is mostly gone, stirring every now and then. It should be a thick mixture with little liquid, not saucy like Spaghetti Bolognese.
• Remove from stove and cool. Preferably to room temperature, otherwise for at least 30 minutes before assembling (lid off).

Greek Béchamel (Note 5):

• Melt butter in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add flour and stir for 1 minute.
• While stirring, slowly pour half the milk in. It should turn into a wet paste. Then again, while stirring, pour in remaining milk – the paste should easily dissolve so it’s lump-free. If not, just whisk vigorously.
• Cook, stirring so the base doesn’t catch, for 5 minutes or until thick enough so it coats the back of a wooden spoon thickly and you can draw a path across it with your finger.
• Remove from stove. Stir in nutmeg, cheese and salt.
• Leave to cool for 5 minutes. Then whisk in egg yolk quickly. Place lid on and set aside. If sauce cools and gets too thick to pour, just reheat on a low stove until pourable.

Pasta (Note 6):

• When you’re ready to assemble, cook the pasta per packet instructions, minus 1 minute.
• Drain, then return to the pot. Leave to cool for 3 minutes, then stir through egg white. Gently stir through crumbled feta.

Assemble and bake:

• Preheat oven to 180°C/350°F (all oven types).
• Place pasta in a baking dish (33 x 22 x 7 cm / 9 x 13 x 2.75″), arranging them so they are all going in the same direction as best you can (for visual effect when sliced). Make the surface as level as you can.
• Top with Meat Sauce, then smooth the surface.
• Pour over Béchamel Sauce, then sprinkle over the cheese.
• Bake 30 min or until crust turns golden.
• Cool for at least 15 minutes so you can cut neat slices with the layers neatly visible. Serve!

The Mirage of EXPECTATIONS!

W TH is that bright… light?

A few hours after I woke up this Brrrrr-isk February morning here in British Columbia’s Okanagan Valley, I was jump-up-and-down excited and surprised to see… SUNSHINE!

Big deal… right? Sounds like a normal day…

Well, it’s about expectations.

Moving to the Okanagan – a semi-arid desert – 30+ years ago, I cheerily envisioned this bucolic, dry, sunny, Arizona-North sort of existence.

In my imaginings, the thoughts of a mere 15 inches of annual rain/snow meant year-round sunshine and mild-by-Canadian-standards temperatures.

Well, I nailed it on those expectations… EXCEPT… for the part about … year-round sunshine!

I quickly discovered that little rain doesn’t automatically imply oodles of sunshine, and that clouds don’t HAVE to rain!

To be fair, it does mean exactly that in the summer months, but come October… the grey gloom settles in here like a set of blackout drapes in your bedroom. It’s 50 Shades of Grey-land.

Surprise… this scenario was not a part of my expectation. I hadn’t done my homework ahead of time. My expectation was shattered and I had to learn to adjust and accept.

Statistics fooled me just as we know they do in many areas of our intricate and convoluted world… “There are three types of lies — lies… damn lies… and statistics.”

Yes, my expectations based on weather statistics fooled me.

I really should know better given that I spent the last 10 years of my working career engaged in medical statistical analysis and reporting.

Expectations are closely bundled with HOPE and FEAR, and finally… and hopefully… GRATITUDE.

Expectations walk alongside and guide us throughout our lives… expectations of how we’ll do in school, what our love life will be like, how much money and how many consumer trappings will surround us, how our children will turn out with our perfect parenting skills(!).

Many of our expectations are based on realistic thinking and are justified. You study extremely hard for the Organic Chemistry exam and expect a good mark? That sounds realistic.

You bought 10 tickets for the lottery instead of the one you normally buy and expect your chances are 10 times better and that you’ll surely win a bundle? That sounds fanciful.

Or… the photo of the studly guy on your Tinder app looks appealing until… he enters the restaurant? Expectation crushed!

Think about it… when a woman becomes pregnant, we describe her condition as “EXPECTING”. The unknowns of parenthood are balanced with panic and exhilaration of the that which is to come. A world of expectation. Scary vs euphoric. Known vs unknown.

Many girls and boys, women and men grow up with the perfectly normal expectation of having children. If, for any number of reasons this doesn’t happen, then a series of mental accommodations has to happen to deal with the unexpected reality.

No More Cloudy Days – Eagles

Sitting by a foggy window
Staring at the pouring rain
Falling down like lonely teardrops
Memories of love in vain
These cloudy days
Make you want to cry

Today, in line with my – unexpected – view of the world this past year, expectations are a blessing and a curse.

When it comes to my earlier outlook on the local weather, I was filled with the blessing of hope that winter would look much the same as summer in this Okanagan region ie. sunny, but with cooler temperatures. Expectation denied.

More realistically, if we had stayed in Yellowknife, or moved to Saskatchewan or Manitoba, a dreamy expectation of days filled with winter sunshine would have been fulfilled, accompanied by the burden of bone-chattering cold temperatures.

However, I reframed my thoughts after the fact and came around to an appreciation of the curse of grey days positively counter-balanced with the blessing of milder temperatures (by Canadian standards). GRATITUDE…

I guess what I’m saying here is that our heads are often filled with rosy expectations… expectations of how future days, events, our lives… will unfold.

It’s magical thinking perhaps. (In my case I was convinced I’d be a millionaire and retired by the age of 35… Muddled thinking… HA!!)

Reality shows us that life usually has a way of giving us something(s) we desire, but not always everything.

I love and appreciate sunlight in far greater measure today than I did years ago.

My expectation has changed and I don’t take something as simple as sunshine for granted. No more cloudy days…

The mirages in our heads can slam us face-down into the dirt or lift us upwards into the clouds… it’s all based on our expectations.

How Do You Solve A Problem Like Winter…

I loved winter as a kid.

As long as my scuffed hand-me-down skates and hockey stick were sitting by the back door, and a frozen rink – made through frigid late nights by my Mom – waited in the backyard or in the park across the street by Glen Echo School, I was one happy pint-sized Canuck.

Getting my Mom to drive me and my friends to Chedoke Ski Hill for some night schussing under the lights was also a perfect way to finish up a winter’s day… accompanied by a comfortably singeing hot chocolate reward at the end.

Winter was:

• Scotch Pine Christmas tree scent and Santa Claus

• Apple crumbles and Mom’s sweet Christmas sticky pudding

• Pine logs crackling in the fireplace

• Watching snowflakes drift lazily past streetlights at night

• Licking long icicles that we broke away from house roofs

• Kids with snow-caked mittens hanging by wool threads from coat sleeves

• Jack Frost lacy patterns on windows in the morning

• Nutcracker and Johnny Mathis music (but NO Boney M!)

• Snow Angel making and tobogganing

• Snow drifts that necessitated “Snow Days”… NO school days

• Christmas lights on houses and trees… LOTS of lights!

My sister Betty finds her inner “angel” child in this winter’s Ontario snow…(I hope she’s OK, I haven’t heard from her in weeks!)

And I love winter now… if… and especially if… it lasts only about 1, maybe 2 months, tops.

Nope it’s not cold weather that creates problem status here.

OK, sure, it is cold weather a bit but it’s much much more than that. (Honestly, by Canadian standards, we don’t even have cold weather here in Summerland)

And yes, it is a pain to have to put clothing on, layer over layer, latex over lycra, wool over fleece, only to find that yes, like Robert Munsch’s children’s book (I HAVE TO GO) you really do need to pee.

And the problem isn’t jogging on sloppy, slippery roads, feeling your finger and toe tips growing more numb by the frosty minute.

Nope, the real problem with winter is DARKNESS.

In my first professional lab job in my early 20’s, I lived in Yellowknife, NWT (above the Arctic Circle) for a couple of years. It was a fabulous place to live for awhile… but…

… in the winter:

Did you know that DARKNESS is the only thing you see when you go to work in the morning? … when you slip down for a coffee break mid-morning?… SEMI-DARKNESS… and when you’d head home later in the day? … Yup, DARKNESS! Bloody Hell…

I don’t think human eyes are genetically built for darkness the way cats’ eyes are. We humans are meant to live our days in… well… daylight. Lots of it.

Did I hear you say you want proof?

• We cry for our Mommy’s when we’re little because we know that monsters live, thrive, and eat children in the dark. (Also, we know that spiders crawl in our mouths while we sleep in the dark)

• We get frightened when we wander streets and alleys in the dark of night, despite the glow of red lights (wrong streets do you think?)

• We put windows in our houses to let light spill over us, and so our neighbours can spy on us walking around naked (you’re making people nauseous Larry)

The solution is and should be simple: TECHNOLOGY!

We can outsmart Mother Nature and the Laws of the Universe with technology.

Light is simple for us ever since we discovered fire and our ability to harness water power…. we brighten our homes and buildings continuously.

We should be lighting our outdoor world year-round – north and south hemispheres – using a human-made “fix” when needed in the winter months.

We have in the neighbourhood of 6,000 satellites orbiting our globe currently… 6,000!

I believe that Elon Musk and Richard Branson and Bill Gates could set aside their Mars habitation plans for a wee bit, and put their science genius hacks to work today at reflecting sunlight, or creating powerful solar lights that illuminate us to daytime brightness during the dark days of winter. Spotlight please.

It’s a small request. All I ask is that you give me 16 hours of outdoor brightness every day and I’ll take the ravages of winter storms with a lunatic Joker grin on my face.

Finally and totally unrelated to winter darkness… I’m popping in a song I recorded this week here in my songwriter’s lair.

Six or seven years back, I wrote this song about unfulfilled longing and desire between a waitress and a travelling salesman.

It’s simply titled THE WAITRESS. I hope you enjoy it…

The Lamp Is Burning Low …

Winter almost ghosted us here …

As we creep alongside the start of a new month, there is finally a tiny white cupcake frosting layer on the ground.

Typically by this point, the Okanagan Valley has reliably weathered through a bum-chilling cold snap (or two) where the temperature slips downwards to -15C, occasionally even -18C or so.

Even though the temperatures haven’t dipped much below -5C this season, and snow has been virtually non-existent, the vistas outside my windows are at long last those that resemble true winter. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas….

It’s in these greyer days of winter when my mind absorbs the darkness and wanders to the family and friends and acquaintances whose footsteps can no longer be heard treading the halls of real life.

In many ways, it’s surreal, like maybe they never truly existed, like whispers in the forest.

I know they did, but it still feels dreamy, water slipping between my fingers.

I had grandparents and parents, aunts and uncles, in-laws, neighbours and friends; real fleshy, imperfect people who lived the same as me, ones that breathed and worked and fucked and worried and laughed and shit and sweat and dreamed…

I dreamed of my boyhood friend Frank the other night.

When Frank died in a motorcycle accident in 1989 (age 32) I sobbed my memories and smiles and worries as I read the mournful letter his Mom sent me.

Her writing was a grief-laden waterfall of tears in words.

I washed over that painful parapet along with her in the bittersweet memory of youth lost. Heartbreak poured across the page from her pen.

I once saved Frank from the certainty of high school suspension when he was falling down drunk at a Grade 11 dance … we played touch football in the summer and street hockey beneath winter street lights … he and I shared a strange enjoyment of growing Venus Flytrap plants … he trounced me regularly at chess and ping-pong matches … we ate up the love in his Mom’s Hungarian cooking whenever – day or night – we walked through the door to his house … we consoled each other when our hearts were broken by pretty young attractions …

Thirty years on, and he, and others, still live inside me, the laughter and the tears.

We all carry an inner vision of those who mattered to us and are gone, those who were a part of shaping us from rough pieces of clay … I never met 3 of my 4 grandparents and yet I still envision them as components of my real world … a puzzle piece in my creation.

When I play my guitar quietly in the dim light of wintry evening darkness, my mind and heart wander the bygone roads where so many have travelled, where so many have faded into the fog.

These lives are the profusion of faces and voices I’ve known or known of … those whose memory lamp is burning low but not yet extinguished … within me.

 

 

 

The Sunshine in Artistic Endeavour

Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows… do you thrive on sunshine and luxuriously lengthy days like me?

Know what? I’m really missing them. I do every year at this time.

I’m addicted to bright, long sunlit days as thoroughly as I’m addicted to smooth milk chocolate and cheesecake. It’s all soothingly warm yumminess inside.

But at this time of year the sweet chocolate is frozen solid and hard to bite; I realize that those chocolate warming rays must come from a different star when the days are so damned short.

Over time, I’ve figured out that the sun radiates in my world when I participate in a kaleidoscope of new and old experiences, a clutter of things.

Just this week, I’ve had lots of sensory input to excite my eyes and ears and tastebuds and make me partly forget about the hulking, smothering darkness.

Sitting here in the early morning 50 shades of grey, I hear an occasional Canada goose honking in the distance over Okanagan Lake. I’m pondering how all this input ties together in some sort of seamless fabric, even though on the surface, it appears tattered and fragmented… like thin sheets of fragile ice on the small puddles perched at the end of my driveway.

So, here’s a sampling of my week’s inputs:

1. Musical harmony practice with guitar and voice. We’re working on pieces like this and this.
2. Volunteering at the soup kitchen with a crazily productive chef and a large crowd of chilled and hungry lunchers.
3. A night of salty popcorn munching at the theatre while absorbing Charles Dickens’ world in the flick, “The Man Who Invented Christmas“.
4. A college inservice for volunteer tutors like myself, all about knowing and understanding the “Highly Sensitive Person” (HSP).
5. A saintly church visit for Christmas Musaic choral harmony for my heathen ears.

Shake it all up and whaddya got? Hmmmm….

Are there gossamer webs and connections in the things that we do and interest us at our core?

As a person trying to be curious and understanding of the relationships between seemingly unrelated events i.e. Idea Sex… I’m sitting back, looking for commonalities in these occasions, a lovely ribbon that ties and makes some sense on a scale of creative output.

Using that concept of Idea Sex, I’m seeking glimmers of order in the chaos.

Music… volunteerism… cinema… learning and new insights… more music.

Yes, it’s a random muddle but the mere fact that I’m writing about it here I think shows some blend of creative thinking, where I jostle and mingle ideas looking for connections.

For instance, suppose I’m wanting to connect “music to learning and new insights“, or “volunteerism to cinema“. Rather than asking how they can be connected, I picture both of them in my mind and ask, “How am I feeling, seeing them together?”

“Does playing and listening to music build my childlike enthusiasm for general learning and growth and vice versa?”

“Are there moments when I’m volunteering that make a dramatic or comedic impact within me like a well-crafted movie?”

OK, maybe there isn’t a correlation here at all.

I could, and usually do, arrive at a minimalistic solution to this question that contains the least baggage and explains the most (otherwise known as, and I love this term… Occam’s razor). 

Occam’s razor would likely come up with a simple trashy response like, “it’s a random jumble much like Billy’s walk across the yard in The Family Circus.”

Really, it makes sense.

Some thoughts and ideas belong in the shitty cesspool. Do you think the correlation graph below is a keeper?

 

Maybe not, but some correlation is important.

It really comes down to the creative process. Writers, musicians, and artistic sorts of all types need to find fresh approaches to their craft, uncovering metaphors that smell like fresh bread arising in the heat of the oven, drawing the consumer of their art to the alluring scent.

Idea Sex or finding connections isn’t easy. It’s friggin‘ hard.

Art, like life, is hard.

Done with an attitude of enthusiasm and gusto, art, of any sort, like life, can be deliciously pleasurable.

In my seething brain I’m seeking beauty and sunshine in the darkest days of December because the sun adamantly refuses to give it to me directly.

I have to make my own brightness through writing and music and cinema and volunteering.

Occam’s razor had it right. That’s a simple correlation.

Sunshine… on my shoulders … makes me happy….

Canadian Winter and Snow Music…

SNOW DAY!

This morning I awoke to the first snowfall of the winter season here in the Okanagan Valley… Car windows coated with a duvet blanket of white cotton… Pine and spruce tree boughs lightly sugar-dusted like shortbread cookies at Christmas…

Snow is dreadful, frightening.

Snow is exhilarating, cheerful.

Canada and snow are inseparable like Gretzky and hockey… Favre and the Green Bay Packers… coffee and Tim Hortons (or Starbucks)… Messi and FC Barcelona… U.S.A. and apple pie…  you get the picture.

Falling snow can be like the gently bobbing sea: warm, inviting, a comfortable friend… but like a revolutionary turncoat it can swing vicious, all gnarly and nasty and powerfully scary, a demon in downy disguise.

I’ve seen human corpses frozen blue-toned stiff and lifeless in snowbanks in Yellowknife, sad remnants of alcohol-induced sleep on a -40C night under the emerald dancing blaze of the Northern Lights.

I’ve inched my old Rambler American cautiously towards a January intersection in Hamilton, Ontario, lightly tapped my brakes to obey a red light, and unheeding she kept on rambling, rambling, sliding, right into the middle of the skating rink crossroads … luckily no other cars decided to tango … or tangle with me on the slush-laden icy street.

I’ve motored along through whiteout blizzard conditions on midnight highways near Brandon, Manitoba and 100 Mile House, B.C.  Unable to see 10 feet in front of my headlights, I hoped, I prayed like hell in my very best heathen form that no other car or 18-wheeler truck would suddenly materialize out of the ether – the snowy fog – where I’d have no chance of stopping outside of plowing into their personal space, a twisted mess of metal and bone and blood.

I’ve tumbled ass-over-teakettle unexpectedly to the hard ground, and watched (while snickering guiltily) others nose-dive dangerously from the slickness of snow-ice underfoot.

Yes, snow can be dangerously terrible.

But I’ve also felt an icy chill on my cheeks and heard the wush-wush glide of my cross-country skis on hard-packed trails under glorious sunny skies, vistas of snow-laden conifers lining my way, grey whiskey jacks laughing and squawking down at me from their branches.

I’ve sipped steamy hot chocolate around a bonfire as Charlie Brown fluffy snowflakes flittered and danced in the mandarin-orange glow of firelight.

I’ve taken a bow saw to the trunk of a bushy, snow-covered Scotch Pine tree in the frosty wilderness to drag it back as a celebratory Christmas tree in William’s Lake, B.C.

I’ve watched in serene fascination at the feathered airforce: dark-eyed juncos and quail and pine siskins – an occasional hungry hawk – winging and dipping and chirping in my yard as they devour as many seeds as they can to fill their high energy needs for a cold cold day.

I’ve sat in the evening darkness listening to one of my favourite guitarists Bruce Cockburn play his melancholy song of snow and winter chill and missing a lover on “The Coldest Night of the Year“.

I’ve savoured the child-like delight of listening to a caffeine-hyped CKOC radio announcer utter my two very favourite words as a 10 year-old…”SNOW DAY!“… no school.

Yes, snow can be invigoratingly wonderful.

Part of that wonder and pleasure is snow music.

Bundled warmly in parka and mukluks you can eavesdrop – silvery breathe fogging the still air – on the crunchy sound of intensely cold snow beneath your toasty feet.

Snow walking is snow music with a steady rhythmic beat. Swoosh-crunch-swoosh-crunch… the metronome ticks time to your motion… Swoosh-crunch-swoosh-crunch…

Have you ever noticed how Charlie Brown’s (Vince Guaraldi actually!) music “Christmastime Is Here” has an insistent incessant snow-drifting brushes-drumbeat at its base. That’s snow music.

I don’t hear snow music often anymore. I don’t immerse myself in snow the way I once did. I miss it sometimes even though I’m growing more cold and snow-phobic than ever. That’s the curse of aging. I think Leonard Cohen sang about such things.

By Canadian standards I live in a tropical enclave – Canuck Hawaii – where the pain of Arctic chilblains lasts only a few weeks before mild springlike breezes and green grass and daffodils materialize once more.

My kids never had the delight of experiencing a snow day here in mild’ish B.C. I feel sorry for what they’ve missed.

Ice and snow continue on for months in places like Edmonton and Saskatoon and Hamilton and Halifax. Children in those and many other chilly cities are able to wake up, stretch little kiddie limbs, then smoosh their noses against their windows and smile excitedly.

Smile because a thick blanket of fun white stuff has smothered their yards and streets overnight.

Smile because they can put on their coats and boots and scarves and toques and mittens and instead of sitting at their school desk, they can slide down hills and build snowmen and throw snowballs.

Smile because it’s a SNOW DAY!

And they can also smile because they can turn off their iPods and iPhones… and listen in to the brisk seasonal tunes of SNOW MUSIC.

A Canadian Boy’s Wintry Night …

Early December was an exciting time for me as a kid.

Sure, Christmas was coming soon.

Christmas tree lots jettisoned broad, bright beams of light into the dark night sky to announce their Scotch Pine locations.

Mom mixed and baked multi-coloured fruitcakes, punched out warm, buttery-scented shortbread in Santa and bell shapes, and Food For The Gods squares were layered with sweet pink icing.

Black and white versions of Charlie Brown’s mournful Christmas tree and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’s stop-action encounter with Misfit Toys were the latest TV phenomenons.

But even more important than all of that Christmas magic? MORE important!

I could finally put on my hockey skates once again.

Ice formed on the rinks, in the ponds, and Mom flooded the backyard rink after we went to bed.

I would lace up my hand-me-down, beat-up leather CCM skates and transform into Davy Keon, or Jean Beliveau, or Bobby Orr or Boom Boom Geoffrion. I’d fold newspapers into a long narrow bundle and slip them under my pants for shin pads and I was ready.

I was a star on ice.

Nothing … I mean nothing … was better than feeling those skate blades come into contact with ice for the first time of the year as I stepped through the rink’s gate. It was a full blown kiddie orgasm.

To feel the slide … to hear the intoxicating swoosh of a freshly sharpened skate blade on hard ice. Wushhhhhh ….. wushhhhh … getting ever faster as you swooped around the corner of the rink.

Chill winter air rushed over my ruddy pink cheeks, a Montreal Canadiens toque kept my head toasty.

School would let out at 4 o’clock, and I would deliver my Hamilton Spectator newspapers to my 35 customers. Then I was free.

Remember how summers lasted for years when you were a kid? Two months would go on and on and on … it was fabulous.

Just like that, winter evenings lasted hours and hours.

This allowed oodles of time for under-the-streetlights road or playground hockey with my neighbourhood buddies.

And if we were lucky and the city workers were active like midnight elves, an ice rink would miraculously appear out of nowhere in the park across the street, complete with old wooden boards fashioned into a hockey arena structure.

With or without ice, most times we would just set rocks or pieces of wood on the ground to mark the goalposts.

And occasionally, just occasionally, one of our group would come into a shiny red-posted goal complete with netting as an unexpected gift. We were terrible opportunists too. We’d invite someone to play with us just because they had their own net. No other reason.

Such a treasure. A real goal to shoot balls and pucks into.

With a real net, when you scored a goal there was no need to run 50 metres down the road to retrieve the wayward tennis ball “puck”. It stayed inside the net. Luxury. 

School homework and projects had to wait until 8 or 9 pm so that the last slapshot – the last slapshot that scored the settling goal, aimed at Dave or Hugh or Larry or Jerome playing goalie – could be enjoyed in the chilly night air.

When it was time to wind up the night’s play, we’d all agree that the next goal would be the winner. Didn’t matter if the score was 7-2. “Next goal wins!” The excitement of scoring that winning goal was intense.

And finally, when the cold weather had settled in with determination in Southern Ontario, there was ice on the outdoor skating rink at Parkdale Arena. Organized hockey could begin.

The Parkdale Steelers, my hockey team for the season, would contact me and I had a schedule of upcoming games.

In my really young years I was a hockey star.

This was mainly – solely actually! – because few kids had spent enough time on skates to stay on their feet for more than 5 or 10 strokes across the ice.

My Mom’s homemade backyard rink and a couple of season’s skating help from my sister Betty and brother Gord had me well trained for remaining upright and also to hold a puck on my stick blade for a trip the length of the ice surface.

I had done my 10,000 hours of preparation with icy-frozen toes to show for it.

Hockey Stars in backyard training… brother Gord and me in my CCM’s and newspaper shin pads dropping the game puck …

By default I was the “hot” scoring ace for a few years. Nobody could stand long enough to stop me. To this day I still possess and treasure my MVP patch as the Wayne Gretzky of my Atom hockey league.

With each passing hockey season, the magic drained from my skates and I became just another body on the team. Other kids grew bigger than me, stronger than me, faster than me. I loved playing still but my “star” turn was over.

I stopped playing hockey a few years ago.

Nowadays I only skate a couple of times each winter, usually indoors but sometimes I get up into the Okanagan hillsides where outdoor skating is still a winter pleasure.

When my skates come into contact with the frozen water and I hear the cutting, swooshing sound beneath my feet, I feel the same elation I felt as a kid.

The ice rises up and gives me a warm sentimental hug and says… “get out there kid and score some goals“.

And for a few moments in my mind, I hear my friends’ echoing voices shouting under the streetlights with snowflakes rushing past, I see the satisfying swish of a tennis ball in the back of a net, I smell my Mom’s vanilla-scented shortbread.

I feel a happy December warmth inside like James Stewart returning to Bedford Falls after his fateful winter’s night with Clarence the Angel.