Holy Hannah! What a wild ride the markets are on. Yes, Wall street but also the one where we get our food. You see? You see? I have been saying for so long that we need to cook at home! It saves money, calories, time. All those who figured, nah, I have enough money to eat in restaurants forever are singing a different tune. One from Fiddler on the Roof, dadle, deedle, dadle, diga, deedle deedle dadle dum.  Cooking is a skill that those who have been through hard times know.

How to stretch a chicken, how beans are cheap, excellent protein. How growing tomatoes and roasting them takes pennies and adds way more nutrients, flavor and pleasure! The good news is when we do these simple things we are actually saving the world and ourselves.  The impact of a less expensive, vegetarian diet on the planet is well documented and leaning (no pun intended) toward vegetarian is better for the body too!

How our perspective changes when the paradigm shifts.  I sound less like chicken little now and more like  Tevye wishing for chickens to fill my yard. But I will always dress a little better.

Spring has sprung. I am in awe yearly that the maple knows to wake up as a maple and the chives know to grow just for me and my scrambled eggs. Yes, I have studied enough science to know that the secret code is all in the DNA but who made the DNA? I remember doing a project on “what makes a flower bloom” in grade three and the grade three answers I found were no more satisfying than post secondary Bio-Chem. I prefer to think this plant renewal a miracle no less than the one of the birth of a child.

To take full advantage of the earth’s knowledge I have been working on my front and back gardens bit by bit, year by year, sale of plants (that are almost dead) by sale.  I have been careful to work in perrenial herbs and edible plants wherever I can but I am almost ready to start a Victory garden in my front yard.

I am as optomistic as they come but I do think that we will have a need to grow our own food in my lifetime. I was a huge Mad Max fan in my formative years and this world hasn’t gotten any simpler since then.  Chatting about such gardens with a client, she shared the story of a woman in Rosedale who did plant a vegetable garden in her front yard. Much to the suprize, chagrin and helplessness of her neighbors!

I want to meet that woman. The one who had the courage to buck the trend and do something sensible rather than simply beautiful. The one that the neighbors will be asking for help or advice when the garden produces. That woman who puts her own two hands in the soil to produce food that is more nourishing and delicious than anything she can buy at the grocery store. Does she wear high heels? Cause that’s another thing I’m working up the courage to change.

This year, I’ll grow my cherry tomatoes up the front trellis as I always do but I’m looking for things to add to my tiny space in subtle ways…blackberry bush? fruit tree? I suppose I’ll make my changes one at a time and hope that time is my friend.

I hate winter. The only thing that seems to cheer me up during the sub-zero, grey days of January is hot cocoa.

Now I am not talking about the trans fat laden crap that is available. I am talking about the stuff of the Mayan gods. Here is how I make it.

1 Tbsp cocoa powder *

2 tsp  maple syrup

6 oz boiling water

2 oz milk

*cocoa powder is dried ground dark chocolate if you buy the right one. “Dutch processed” means that it uses an alkaline to remove the bitterness. Guess what? The bitterness is the good for you part. You need to search to find a cocoa powder that is not Dutch processed. I found one and it isn’t the high end organic fair trade brand, it’s the no name brand. Go figure, the cheap one is better for me.

Use a whisk or a fork to blend together the cocoa powder and the maple syrup in a large mug. This step takes a little bit of work but it is crucial as it will make the final product frothy. Pour boiling water into the mug and stir. Stir in milk.

Take mug in two hands (cause your fingers are freezing, too, admit it) and inhale. Take a break and enjoy knowing that you are doing something good for your body and soul. Then book a vacation to where the real Mayans lived if only in your mind.  

Ah, the day after Christmas, tea in hand, carnage behind and garbage underfoot. “Let’s just stay in our jammies and read the paper” “Oh shoot, is that the sound of garbage day?”

Out of his seat in a flash, dashing cross the lawn, green bin in hand. The sacrifice of modern husband whose morbid fear that anyone (other than I) should see him in pajamas long forgotten, this brave soul makes it in time to see the guy on the back of the truck just as it pulls away. Blessed must be this man’s heart for he waves with a work-gloved hand to said husband to a spot across the street where such bin may be safely laid for pick up on the way back.

Mortified is our teenaged daugther that a photo of her dad may end up on facebook or her mother may post the story for the world.  She was settled with a “hush now, dear” neither shall happen, there, there, put your earbuds back in, surely music will soothe.”

The garbage at the end of such a festive season used to signal  to me such waste, such North American blatant overconsumption. Until my Vietnamese Hairdresser (and trusted advisor) helped me see otherwise.  He, who floated amongst the dead and dying of his fellow refugees for days and days with nothing in sight but water. But, not unlike the story of Noah and the dove with the olive branch, one day, did arrive a sign.  A sighting of civilization so profound that it gave them hope.  A visual reminder that others did indeed live and may take them in. Finally….garbage. Floating upon the water, refuse, discard, junk.

The sign that they had become close enough to the promised land to see another day was so simple as this. This stuff that my warrior ran to the man with the gloved hand who showed us where to leave our junk. This reminder that me and mine have lived another year as ecologically aware as we could be but still producing junk.  We are us, we are a civilization who have collectively, to varying degrees, generated our share. Thanks to the man with the gloved hand, we aren’t drowning in it. Thanks to the man with the gentle hands who makes my hair look pretty who helps me see that we may be doomed but it isn’t all bad. Thanks to the man in grey pajamas who carried it across the street. And, thanks to the holiday that is behind us. I shall read the paper in my jammies, now, and discard it later for recycling.