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.

I was just with a group of women who all work from home and all have kids. Each agreed that they feel tired in the afternoon and have to grab a coffee, diet coke or other caffeine containing beverages. I don’t need to preach the dangers of caffeine here, you’ve heard it before.

What you may not have heard is the other fatigue solution.  Vitamin B Complex.  I keep a bottle of the b’s on my desk, the formulation has at least 100mg of each B. This is a much needed and much safer way to get that energy boost for the afternoon.  Gotta B.  

It is a source of constant amusement to my family that I like crappy, grocery store birthday cake.  For all of my high falutin, foodie fetishes like salt from different places in various forms, I am a simple girl at heart. Sure, I love my darkest Belgian chocolate but when it comes to my birthday cake nothin but the worst will do.

It has to be chocolate cake with chocolate icing and it should come from Dominion, simply because it has since I was 8.  It will likely have the worst of the fats and the lowest of the grades of cocoa. It will be gooey and goopy and leave guk in my throat. It will be eaten with a cold glass of milk with 2 ice cubes.  If it can have those crusty cookie crumbs on the side that is a plus but not a must.

This year I will eat it with reckless abandon. I shall not monitor the pieces nor their size and I will certainly not feel guilty afterward.  The rest of my life is meted out in such careful and considered ways, this, at least with be mine. Not my conscience’s.  I shall lick the plate to soak up every morsel just as I do with all the other good things in my life. 

Why is there ordinary food and special food? What imparts the difference between two relatively common meals, one holds a higher place in our hearts than the other? Spaghetti and meatsauce vs Roast Beef with Yorkshire Pudding.  Tacos vs Barbecued Salmon.  The answer could lay in the cost of the food, or in the time it takes to make it or in the perceived difficulty level of preparation. But I don’t think that is strictly it.

For example: my birthday looms. My family would be inclined to take me out for a treat.  I don’t want to go to a restaurant for my birthday, I want it to be a private affair (this year!) I want to wear my fuzzy socks that make my feet so happy in the fall and curl up in a floppy T shirt on the couch with a glass of wine. Then I want a “special” home cooked meal.

For me that meal would be chicken and dumplings. Plain and home-y enough, so what makes it special? Is it special to everyone? It isn’t hard nor expensive. It isn’t fancy at all, quite the opposite.  It is directly from my mother’s repertoire, a childhood favorite, made in the fall after months of burgers and sandwiches.

Perhaps it is due to the flavours of all my fav’s put together, potatoes, carrots, parsnips, chicken, salty broth thickened with stodgy steamed biscuit dough floating atop. Perhaps it was the magic of seeing the dough go in wet and gloopy and exactly 11 minutes later puffing up to a glistening orb. Maybe it was the fact that we got to drizzle molasses ( sugar at dinner?) over our dumplings and I was a sugar freak.

All are pieces of the puzzle of why chicken and dumplings are special but the truth is it had more to do with the people.  My mother seemed happy when she made this dish.  She, too, was awed by the magic of the rising dough soaking up the excess broth. Her life was (it is much better now) one of work and strife and responsibility. Maybe it was a good month when we had the cash for a pot of stew. Maybe she knew that dad would be happy with this meal and therefore her too. One less stress?

Any way you slice it, this particular meal meant peace and comfort. Sure it was drippingly delicious but it also had a cottoning effect on our souls. I’ll have to ask my sisters if they feel the same way about it. I know my daughter does.

I shall make myself a pot of chicken and dumplings for my birthday and pass along the magic of my happiness to my family. (I’ll make it in the slow cooker so it won’t take up my whole day) Special food comes from special moments, not special taste buds.