Things that deserve the stink-eye:

Let's be honest, learning to spell is hard, but adorable, and perhaps unintentionally awkward? Ask any seven year old, especially this one who has a good grasp of the letter sounds, if not technical clarity. A+ for phonics, 'not yet meeting' for orthography. :)

This young writer responded to the sentence stem, "Peace is...." 

Do you, ahem, agree with her? Or how would you complete the sentence? 

Oh, and peace be cwit you, ha.

(If you're struggling to solve this, unscramble these letters: etqui.)

....

source

(I've been trying to write about the world for weeks and I'm still struggling to find the words, but currently, this is it.)

One June I discovered them. About nine feet high, our deck looks out over our backyard, more of a balcony. Walking along the deck to our back door, I was startled by a robin that flew from what seemed like directly under me. Looking downward through the narrow gaps in the floorboards, I glimpsed movement. Startled, there were three newly hatched, featherless, and blind baby robins in a nest just centimeters from my feet, their mouths open, silent. 

Anyone arriving at our back door would be unaware their feet walked over a nest. It made sense to be excited by this discovery, by this intimate window into nature, but those three robins troubled me. 

Master nest builders for millennia before me, who am I to question the bird's nest, its design, its location, its anything? But there was a better choice. That fragile, hidden nest rattled me: why would a bird construct a nest it should know is unsafe? What prompted this mistake? Were resources scarce? Did some other danger prevent the bird from choosing a better location? Or was this something I couldn't fathom? Whatever the reason, I couldn't shake my doubt for those birds' safety.  

That feeling is the feeling I'm feeling: confusion and an unsettledness. And that nest is the current state of the world. 

I don't want to sound irrational. All over the world, (despite the news), parties continue to be planned, pregnancies are announced, concerts continue...plus, at the moment, my own little nest seems secure: we're healthy, we're finding meaning in new work, we're preparing for Christmas and a holiday, we're reading compelling books, savoring chocolate, playing Dutch Blitz and laughing with dear friends, and enjoying our grandchildren and yet... there's something else in the ellipses... something like those birds once under my deck. 

I don't aim to ruminate, or dampen spirits...but those birds...it feels like we're those birds.... One day they were gone: did they survive?

Perhaps though, there is another perspective to consider? Robins don't exist if they don't take risks. Nor do we. Why continue building a shaky nest? Because the risk is worth it, friends. Perhaps that's a lesson to live by in this shaky world. Whatever risks we face, we face them until one day we can, hopefully, fly away and build anew, more sturdy than now.

Fingers & Toes Crossed

I, M, & L

My three grandkids were together recently. I is almost 11 months, M is 3 1/2, and L is almost 18 months. 

Like my grandson in this pic, I grew up with cousins, two girls close to my age, one older and one younger. 

Gen X kids, we mostly raised ourselves. It wasn't easy. We knew how to fend for ourselves and how to disappear, but we filled our hiding places with music and candy and pretend and stories but mostly laughter, that sort of laughter that makes breathing sporadic. (You'd understand what was so funny if you watched us perform The Most Beautiful Girl in the World in a freezing cold unfinished basement for an audience of one bored and one bewildered cat.) 

With much to learn and no one safe to ask, we figured life out together, without judgment or shame—so relieving for a group of offbeat oddballs. Uncertain about ourselves, but relying on each other, our promises were kept: we crossed our hearts and hoped to die. We forgave each other's mistakes, all of them, I hope? Throughout childhood, there were few people I trusted more than those two. 

Inevitably, life led us in different directions. I miss them. I'm grateful for the cushion we constructed between ourselves and the world, and so of course I will foster this bond in I, in M, in L. And perhaps someday, fingers and toes crossed, my cousins and I will spend an entire sunrise to sunset with each other again. And since we no longer have to sneak whiskey shots, perhaps karaoke? 〵(⌒˽⌒)〴

Dear friends, did you grow up with cousins? 

Take Hold

I's hands

Ten-month old toddler hands rarely cease. 

Curious, her hands examine all things in her path from the stuffed bunny's button tail to the start "button" on the dump truck. Chewing a toy then dropping it and crawling to the next, climbing up the coffee table and inching her hands to one coaster, then the next, and the next. 

She absorbs this life hands first, then into her mouth, her eyes darting from one pursuit to the next, her ears perked by toys that beep or spin, then kitchen noises, then my voices. I wonder, what does she smell? Perhaps smell develops slowly, thankfully unadvanced until post-diaper life? 

I use ASL to encourage her with my own hands: yes and yes and yes. 

Oh to be a new human again, and take hold of the world. 

Coining it?

Perplexed, I discovered these coins in our kitchen sink. Literally, money down the drain?

My wife was away, so I texted her this pic. Later, she explained, "while cleaning our vehicle, I found the coins in the console, dusty, so I tossed them in the sink and ran water over them."

My (Dad) brain: 

1. Ah, so dirty money? 
2. Like nickel and grime?
3. Perhaps we should have laundered this money?
4. A penny for your "pots" (and pans)?
5. If only we had more than two nickels to scrub together....

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Don't forget.

October 2024, Northern Canada

 Decades ago when we bought our home, I noticed something that made me love it even more: walking up the staircase, we have a window from the main floor to the ceiling. It's like having a skylight visible from the lower floor. As I walk up the stairs, there's a fairly clear view of the sky and occasionally, the northern lights are framed there above me like garments of light. 

As a northern Canadian, I can't imagine a sky without them. Years ago, while traveling in Scotland, locals told us how they longed to visit Canada someday to see the Rocky Mountains and the northern lights. The Scots helped me understand that we Canadians—even though we've literally grown up with them—must avoid taking the northern lights for granted. 

As a young boy (when seatbelts barely existed), I recall lying across the backseat of the family car staring up through the rear window at the northern lights, my Mom driving us home from somewhere. I recall telling her that I thought the northern lights "might be the bottoms of God's curtains?" 

Even as a preoccupied teenager, I remember driving on backroads with my friends, pulling over, all us jumping around like Walt Whitman, "yawping" into the night sky as it shimmied like a woman dancing, her colourful dress twirling in slow-motion. 

And as a parent, I never missed an opportunity to point them out to my children, to teach them to wonder, to awe.  

Our modern world boils over with distractions and strife (there's a sort-of numbing creeping into life), but the northern lights remind us we are alive and more in sync than we realize. Mary Oliver said it better: the northern lights remind us to pay attention, be astonished, and tell others. 

Dear friends, notice, celebrate, share. Don't forget. There's a comraderie in any sky: whether it's a lingering sunset, a shooting star, or a sheer-costumed sky, these experiences mean more collectively. The northern lights are unifying, and today, for me, there's a longing in them too, a longing for those no longer here to share the sky—those good friends who forgot or those whose pain was too overwhelming to remember how we celebrated being alive, together, astonished, our feet on the ground, looking up, clapping, whooping, laughing, loving this one short, extraordinary life. 

Things one should never outgrow:

"Music can change the
world because music can
change people." Bono

making music, even if the best you can do is the washboard-tie aka musical instruments made for people like me. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Do you play a musical instrument, or perhaps some sad substitute, albeit with absolute glee? 

(Whatever your response, I hope there's an abundance of music enriching your life.)

Sheesh or Yeesh?

I noticed that my blog tag widget displays both "sheesh" & "yeesh." I did not realize I was using them interchangeably, so I researched these interjections and discovered they are indeed related. 

Several sites declare they are both used to express "annoyance, disapproval, dismay, surprise, impatience or distress." The urban dictionary explained that yeesh is "yikes" and sheesh combined and etymologically they are variants of the exasperated expressions, geez/jeez (and their profane origin)...or, at least that's the hypothesheesh. ;)

Either way, I love them. 

I checked my tag stats and discovered I use "sheesh" far more often, and this made me wonder if this interjection is regional. Do you use sheesh or yeesh or both, or something a little more spicy to express your irritation? 

September

September is such a slow burn in Western Canada. Until it isn't. 

Among the greens, hints here and there of new colours, mostly yellow, and then all at once everything's yellow and those leaves flutter away like ash.  

Even though they are still fruiting, our strawberries are ignited too, showing off with so much (fleeting) beauty. 

Let's be honest:

Spotted in this restaurant (5 stars)

 

Things one should never outgrow:

gallivanting. 

The Spot

Niagara Falls, Ontario Canada
aka the Horseshoe Falls

This is the spot. 

My wife and I attended a wedding north of Toronto recently, so we used the opportunity to visit Niagara Falls. Since she had never been to the Falls, we did everything we could in an afternoon: rode the funicular down the escarpment to the river, took the boat tour (so much fun!), braved the thongs of tourists tasting maple syrup, bought the requisite t-shirts, and paid $15 for a small bag of chocolate almonds at a store I'm sure was named The Tourist Trap. It was a lovely day. But I was waiting to get to "the spot."

With my parents and older brothers, I visited Niagara Falls decades ago when I was 11(?) and snapped a photo in this spot. Although I don't recall much from that first visit, I do remember it was early on January 1, and thus a thoroughly different tourist experience. Essentially we were the only people there that morning. 

I remember how it felt, for me: powerful, beautiful, alive. Yet my Dad looked over the edge and said in his characteristically deep and slow voice, "it's just a bunch of dirty water falling off a cliff." My Dad was often reductive, but I suspect his particular disdain that morning was due to the fact that he had just spent a week with his older sister, a person I observed during that visit (from afar) with equal fascination and fear. She was scary. 

So what was so special about revisiting this spot? Reflecting on it now, I have no idea. Before we arrived, I guess I was hoping to feel something...special? There's an alchemy that sometimes occurs when revisiting childhood places, reinhabiting sentimental spaces, a kind of emotional time travel experience that can be especially meaningful and deepen those experiences. Right?  

Nope. Not this time. My tone may seem negative, but that's not my intention: just being honest.

I wanted this spot to say something, mean something, signify something (explain something). Despite my magical thinking, there were no voices from the past or explanations about long-ago hoped-for happiness, nor new connections or understandings. There were better feelings though: gratitude for this experience with my wife, gratitude for the time and resources to travel, gratitude for my life now. Being able to unapologetically marvel at life!

The Falls have changed and so have I. Erosion is inevitable and the Falls have been reshaping themselves for thousands of years. All progress is typically upstream. 

I think longing for "the spot" was about discovering something that never was. It's one of my romantic default bad habits: revisiting the past hoping to write a better narrative. Although I often continue searching there, happiness is not in the past; it's right now. Shakespeare may have said "what's past is prologue," but a happy epilogue makes for a great story too. 

That Time

source

Thinking about Jasper. 

Shedding some tears. 

I love that corner of the world. It's special. Nestled in Canada's Rocky Mountains, reports say the wildfires destroyed almost 30% of the town yesterday, a one-of-a-kind community so beloved to Albertans and visitors from around the world. And it's still burning. 

It's probably insensitive to say I know how Jasper's residents are feeling, because I've never lost a home and community to fire, but there are growing numbers of Albertans who have been terrorized by wildfires, me included. 

A few Junes ago, I recall taking video of everything in our home before we flew to a celebration in Montreal. Why? For insurance purposes, I needed a video record of our dwelling contents; there was a definite possibility our home could be ash when we returned. Then we packed our most important keepsakes into our vehicle and drove it to another community to park in a friend's yard, outside the evacuation alert zone.

Amongst all your cherished possessions (knowing you cannot take them all), contemplate having a few hours to decide which ones are the most important to save. You can take as many as will fit in your vehicle. Which ones would you be okay with never seeing again? 

That was a tough month. Unlike many Albertans who've lost homes and businesses, we were spared. That time. 

Our family has collected so many happy memories visiting Jasper. It's difficult to summarize why they are so special, so I won't try. If you'd like to read about a few of them click here, or here, or here, or here. 

But one other memory keeps bubbling up, one I didn't write about. It brings tears; it shouldn't but it does. After skiing all day, just the four of us visited Jasper's movie theatre. The crowd was small and our kids were a little young for Blades of Glory but happy-tired from all the fresh air and mountain scenery, we settled in with popcorn and candy like that movie was made for us. It was. We laughed the loudest and longest, all at the same time. We were that family. Hilarity filled us to the brim and we watched until the very end of the credits, basking in the "Iron Lotus" induced endorphins, bahahahlalahaha. Remember that film?! "Spandex. Glitter. Egos. Ice blows." Clever satire, top tier improv, and goofy characters.   

I don't know why but this memory feels so poignant today. It doesn't make sense. But what does in a world where one of the four seasons is now fire season? 

And where next?

Things one should never outgrow:

a large dipped cone from Dairy Queen (especially when the temp is 36 degrees). 

Wordfuse

(adj) foofaraw + awesome = appreciation heaped on what some might deem no big deal, but said deal totally does it for me

My examples?
1. random bagpipes
2. a really good orange
3. my chocolate-chip cookies (small cookies are stupid)
4. children's drawings
5. taking off my socks
6. my own bed
7. grandchildren grins
8. feeling healthy

9. flat caps

10. making up dorky words

Dates or Days?

I once remembered important dates with ease, especially birthdays. Nowadays, I forget a few here and there. Some dates are burned in my memory, oddly unexpected ones. Does anyone else remember their driver's test? 

I can recall almost everything that occured during that hour on Thursday, June 3 the year I finally turned 16. It seems my pea-brain decided to scan the driver's test details along with the date and file that information in forever. But why store this memory?

The answer is anxiety, or as I refer to it, my inner narrator's default mode. He and I disagree on how to perceive any situation: where he (typically) sees a horror movie, I (attempt to) find the comedy. If you've struggled with anxiety, you know what I mean: THREATS are EVERYWHERE; I MUST PROTECT YOU FROM IMMINENT DEATH while rational reality begs to differ. Yup, my inner narrator is a drama queen. I have known this forever. But my (unreliable) inner narrator does not give a rat's pizza about what I think, some days. He can be soothed, but the process is fraught and he rarely leaves the building.  

For example, during my road test—I can recall this with absolute clarity—while I waited to turn left at a red light, a pedestrian began to cross the street, but not just any pedestrian MY GRANDFATHER OMG IT'S MY GRANDFATHER PLEASE DON'T NOTICE ME PLEASE DON'T NOTICE when he noticed me in the driver's seat he stopped, smiled, and waved frantically. I remained (externally) calm, barely nodded, and waited for him to continue, THE LASER EYES OF THE DRIVER TRAINER BURNING INTO THE SIDE OF MY HEAD. When the light turned green, I casually proceeded left INTO AN ABYSS OF WORRY AND SHAME AND IRONY OR COINCIDENCE OR SOMETHING WRONG WRONG WRONG AND HOW IS THIS MY LIFE? Soon after, I parallel-parked perfectly, but by then I was convinced I HAD FAILED THE TEST and would never get my license, plus ALL MY FRIENDS WOULD LAUGH AT ME AND NO ONE WOULD EVER DATE ME, but in reality the outcome was decidedly neutral: I passed. And later, my grandpa laughed until he had a coughing fit. 

Fusion horror-comedies can be stressful, so whatever, inner narrator, I passed. Neener neener. 

Anyway, this (finally) leads to my question: do dates matter? Thanks to anxiety, sometimes dates are useless brain storage. We can get stuck by dates, especially those dates that challenged us, or those that commemorate something painful: regret, loss, grief. So in the grand sublime scope of our lives, which is more consequential, more meaningful, more precious: dates or days? 

Friends, I choose days.  

Decades ago, my wife and I got engaged on a sunny, warm Spring day in April. We visited a glass conservatory with a wishing pond situated among a sea of Easter lilies and tulips. We made a wish, she opened the box and there was no ring inside. I tricked her; she looked up at me and laughed so I pulled the chain out of my shirt and there it was, a marquis diamond ring we chose together. It was a very happy day for both of us. Later, when people asked us if there was any significance to the date, we explained that no, it was just the right time and the right place. Curious though, I looked up the date's history: the anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. 

Even my anxy inner narrator had to laugh at that. 

Whatever the Sport May Be

My oldest grand-
daughter, M. 

Maybe keep this on the downlow, but I'm not a hockey fan. As a Canadian, it's a controversial declaration. Feel free to judge me if so inclined, but it isn't just hockey: I have no allegiance to any sport or sports tribe. Okay, one exception: I love Scottish Highland Games. Fight me. (And my kilt.) 

So this begs the question, why am I currently obsessed with the Edmonton Oilers?

If you are a long-term fan in these last days of June, 2024, YOU KNOW WHY but it's not just that they are finally in the Stanley Cup Finals; it's that they are continually on the PRECIPICE OF DEFEAT and yet continue to RISE AGAIN, LIKE PHOENIXES, which is probably the name of some other hockey team, I have no idea, but anyway. THIS TEAM. THEIR DOGGEDNESS. After losing the first three games, it's like they had a much-needed Rosa Parks moment: no, I belong here! (This is definitely a false comparison logic fallacy because Rosa Parks is way more important than these bearded, bleeding millionaire-dudes chasing a puck around, but as I said, when it comes to hockey I don't know what I'm talking about, okay?) One hardcore fan told me the Edmonton Oilers often impress, then shit the bed, but these last two games?! Let's just say that despite their history of stench, they are currently quite a lively clean-up crew. I have such high hopes for them and I am glued to my seat...okay, let's be honest: I read a novel while watching game 4 and in fact, I didn't watch Game 5, just nervously googled the score, my Grinch-heart sizing-up each time I did. Truthfully, I have no idea when the next game is scheduled, but I can't wait. 

Why?

Lots of reasons. Sure, I love an underdog story but I'm just happy that my Albertan/Canadian friends and neighbours are surprised how joyful they feel. Kids everywhere are proud to wear their jerseys, including my grandkids who mimic their parents' excitement although distracted by snacks and Lego. I love seeing Oilers flags on vehicles everywhere. They are such a sight for my sorry eyes after years of seeing various other flags protesting issues inspired by Fox News propaganda. I encounter strangers wearing Oilers t-shirts and we chat, both revved up on optimism, finding common ground. This hasn't happened much since 2020, has it? Right now, I can't recall my last positive culturally-collective experience. Can you? 

This tired old world needs a few wins, doesn't it? The odds are still against the Oilers: apparently, the current scenario hasn't been successful for the underdog since 1942. It's likely they will be unable to deliver the win, yet they are reminding anxious old me to still hope for better things to come for us all, whatever the "sport" may be. 

AND IF THEY DO WIN?! 😂

Dust

My grown son and I enjoy texting our Wordle and Canuckle scores to each other. 

We both love all things words: precision, connotation, word-play, the power of words, etc. If you're wondering about this post's title, it's one of his favourite words and it's an apt choice for the entire narrative that is this particular wordle, including a plot twist.  

If words were people, I'd be polyamorous, but what I truly love is that my son texts me his scores, daily. Hmm, what word describes the feeling this generates? Toast. 

Here's hoping someone in your life surprises you with toast. 

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

My son gave me a battery-powered chainsaw for my birthday. I LOVE IT. 

There's just one problem: I MUST CHAINSAW EVERYTHING. IMMEDIATELY. 

Whoa: the dopamine hit from this thing?! *chef's kiss*

I am like that annoying semi-retired superhero next door, sawing sawing sawing while wearing my yardwork Grandpops flat-cap and sketchy hole-in the knees superhero pyjamas, saggy everywhere, except for (of course) my biceps. 

Although I am characteristically a gentle man, pshaw, Chris Hemsworth. 

Anyway, if I am unable to find more things to saw, you should know, dear neighbour, that I will begin chainsaw-light-sabering the most evil force of all: spruce bugs. You're welcome.

Let's be honest:

"They tried to bury me, they did not
realize I was a seed." Sinead O'Connor

If you pay attention, flowers whisper.

I suspect most of you tulip gardeners already had your mesmerizing tulip moments earlier this Spring, but I live in northern Canada so this photo is from Sunday. 

This is my first time growing tulips. My friend provided them for my adult English class. Developed by the good people of The Netherlands and distributed globally, they are named, Peace for Ukraine. 

Ecologist Thomas Berry said it so well: "the universe is a communion of subjects, not a collection of objects." If only the world operated this way, eh? 

What did this flower whisper to me? Lift up your heart. You are not alone. Have courage. 

Point B

source

When I was a kid, one of my favourite plot points in the original Star Trek was when they used the transporter: "Beam me up, Scotty." 

That sci-fi technology was a seed-starter in my childhood imagination's soil. Nearly 50 years later, I still yearn for the experience of teleporting from one location to another. Don't we all? It would be so damned convenient and save so much precious time. 

But now, at this oldish man life stage, I think about something else: the disassembling and reassembling aspect of the transporter—the weightless notion that in seconds I could become pixels, disappear, and then reappear in a better future without even a nod to that in-between space—a complete escape. 

Older now, I know this in-between space all too well, this liminal space, this threshold between past and future—it is not weightless and it won't be ignored. Unlike Star Trek, life affords few effortless escapes. A guy can get stuck in between.  

Sure, sometimes we might not even attend to this in-between space, might not even notice it, or conversely, consciously court the in-between to help us live in the present, ignoring past troubles and future worries. But let's be honest: we grown humans struggle to live in the present.  

Unlike Star Trek, between life's point A and point B there is lots of waiting, wishing, and wondering. Transitions can be hell. And what's disassembled at A is never quite reassembled so well by the time we reach B. If you've ever had to put down a pet you know what I mean and there are 100 other just-have-to-get-through-it-experiences. 

Although everyday life has little in common with Star Trek's idealistic transporter, dear friends, please hang on: perhaps Point B is out there, somewhere? 

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

Subtle, Canadian Tire, real subtle.

Canadian Tire stores have served Canadians for over 100 years now, overflowing with any sort of hardware you'd ever need. 

Well, "need" might be inaccurate word-choice. 

So why has Canadian Tire become obsessed with massive display objects and humongous lawn and garden statues? Are people really jonesing for a nearly life-sized lawn dinosaur or say, a garden astronaut? 

Canadian Tire seems to think so. And is spectacle really a lucrative marketing strategy? 

Wait a minute. I took a photo and blogged about it here. I just answered my own question, didn't I? 

*facepalm* As Spongebob would say, "all I know is fine dining and breathing." 

That Time

That time it was my granddaughter's third birthday and she and her Pops (me) got to spend the entire day with each other:

1. Before she left for work, her Mom made us morning birthday smoothies. Yum! 
2. Our new 3-year old asked for cereal for breakfast. 
3. We played Velcro catch.
4. Her Dad played the piano and we ate a few (begged-for) left-over Easter bunny treats.
5. Dance Party! The only song she approved was Taylor Swift's Lavender Haze, the Remix and "no pics, POPS, just dancing!" (I got one pic.)
6. Next she chose a movie: The Fantastic Mr. Fox (aptly named, but her Pops still fell asleep for nearly 30 minutes). 
7. We had pancakes with peanut-butter and strawberries for lunch.
8. We opened ONE of her presents (a balancing game I knew she'd love), and when the pieces fell over she laughed and said, "nana nana boo boo" so we named this new game, "Nana Nana Bonk Bonk." We played it 1207 times.
9. (There may have been one little time out that involved her little brother. Oops.)
10. Outside on the deck we blew 1207 bubbles and she tried to catch each one. 

And this was only half the day! To quote Taylor Swift, dear M, "I love you bigger than the whole sky." 

Let's be honest

When the oh-so-precious wifi craters (Gollum reference intended) and an Internet technician is unable to visit your home until after the weekend, one must pretend it's last century and make a puzzle. 

Let's be honest: puzzle-making is delightful. 

Plus, as you likely know, puzzle-making is such good exercise for our brains: visual-spatial reasoning, short-term memory and cognitive load flexing, problem-solving, concentration, flow state, stress-relief....

Dear friends, do a jigsaw puzzle; stop procrastipuzzling. (Sorry.)

Some people, eh?

Two powerful images from my day:

• outside my living room window, a grandfather walking hand-in-hand with his toddler grandchild, following the boy's pace, both wearing matching orange toques.

• a nurse holding hands with an elderly man as he navigated the hospital hallway with his cane. 

Real heroes? Good examples aren't that hard to find. 

Either way, delish.

Coconut Ginger Scones
Scone pronunciation debate: I say scone 
rhymes with Post Malone, not Elton John.
But who cares? Either way, delish. 

I make scones now. Why? Honestly: baking makes me happy. 

It reminds me of travels to heavenly little bakeries and coffee shops in Edinburgh, Galway, London, Montreal and more. And that bakery smell? C'mon. It connects me to friends who bake, people I admire, creatives I want to emulate. It's mindful; it helps me achieve flow. It shifts my mind from melancholy. It makes me simultaneously smile and feel nervous: in baker form I'd say my inner critic is more Swedish Chef than Gordan Ramsay but who knows who will show up? It's sensory: I know when the dough feels ideal for baking and that dopamine-hit-moment is niiiiiiccce. It's creative and lets me communicate something I was never properly taught how to be (but want to be): a nurturer. It feels great to share baking with others: people damn near melt. Baking spreads love. 

Dear friends, I suggest you make scones. 

Honestly, they're dead easy: especially here in Canada (during Winter). I realized early in my scone-making how important cold butter is to the recipe's success. So, in a nod to my grandparents and this country I love, I freeze my butter outside my back door (no metaphor intended), plus I chill the batter out there too (again, no metaphor). Not in Canada or a weirdo? Just use your freezer. And if not scones, bake whatever salts your butter (metaphor intended). 

Chop 

• 1/2 cup unsalted butter & set outside the back door (or place in the freezer)

Mix dry ingredients in a large bowl

• 2 cups flour
• 1/2 c granulated sugar
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1 tbsp baking powder

Mix wet ingredients in a small bowl

• 3/4 cup coconut milk (substitute heavy cream or milk, if preferred)
• 1 large egg
• 2 tsp vanilla

Set aside

• 1&1/2 cups shredded unsweetened coconut
• 1 tbsp ground ginger (or equivalent chopped fresh ginger)
• (substitute chocolate chips, berries, nuts, dried fruit, spices, lemon zest, etc.)

Combine ingredients

• add frozen butter to dry ingredients and combine using two forks or your fingers until partially integrated
• drizzle wet ingredients and mix by hand until it comes together (sticky more than shaggy)
• add 1&1/2 cups coconut & ginger (or substitute) and mix; avoid overmixing
• if needed, add more coconut milk or flour to make dough more sticky than shaggy
• press dough into an 8-inch disk and set outside back door to chill (or refrigerate)

To bake

• cut 8 inch dough disc into 8 wedges
• brush with coconut milk & sprinkle on brown sugar
• bake in pre-heated oven at 400 for 20-26 minutes 

Pull

"The Murder Hole" at 
Blarney Castle, Ireland

Last summer while visiting Ireland, my wife and I were delighted that we did not skip what we thought might be a more cliché than must-see tourist destination: Blarney Castle. Sparsely attended thanks to a classic Irish rainy day, we adored the poison gardens, the secret caves, and the unexpected "murder hole," a nod to historical warfare both menacing and macabre—likewise, a nod to Irish mettle. Who knew Blarney Castle would feature so many ways to die? 

But that's life isn't it? In the middle of all the immense beauty is a hidden and worrisome murder hole. 

Today I recall a favourite story: the young elephant whose trainer tied his leg to a post. This act restrained the young elephant's development, curiosity, and freedom. His world shrank to the circumference of that rope. Despite multiple escape efforts, he was stuck. Years ticked away. The young elephant, now grown, remained confined by that small rope—by that embedded ideology—unaware he had the strength to pull that rope and post out of the ground, unaware he had the power to roam freely, to live unencumbered. 

There's an abundance of ropes in our lives, unexpected and deadly dangers, various things preventing us from living fearlessly. But mindset is a rope, my friends. Don't give up. Pull. Pull. Pull.

"One must imagine Sisyphus happy." Camus

Things one should never outgrow:

Click here to read more about
the above tragedy.

How did I not know about ICE CREAM FOR BREAKFAST DAY?! Apparently, it's TODAY (the first Saturday in February) and as I write this, IT IS CURRENTLY PAST 4 PM. 

I feel like Eeyore. 

Nevertheless, I recall Eeyore's famous words, "This is bullshit."

Truth be told, let's be honest, even perhaps (dare I say?) woke. Capitalism invented all of these and other types of days to sell us something and exploit us mercilessly and I am absolutely here for this particularly delicious and hopefully chocolate instance. Why? Because ice cream is the answer to all life's problems. Am I right?

Therefore, my friends, I wish you ice cream for breakfast TOMORROW, or for supper tonight (a great idea) or whenever. Scoop, there it is! 

(P.S. Thanks to Kathy G for inspiring my alarm, and this blogpost.)

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

this sad (Calvin & Hobbes-like) snowman.

The neighbour kids—those adorable little Oilers fans—assembled a snowman, but climate change is why we can't have nice things anymore. It was 15 degrees Celsius in parts of Alberta yesterday (!) thus, his head fell off, as did his scarf, arms, and carrot nose (zoom in).

Years ago I would have rejoiced at another Alberta chinook, but the extreme temperatures this January are unprecedented. Sigh. It neared -50 C in Alberta just two weeks ago. As I look forward to real Spring, I wonder about drought and fires and smoke. You're not alone if you too feel the climate anxiety, or solastalgia, a term new to me, but so 2020s. 

Three!

Happy New Year (baby)!

Our third grand baby has arrived! 

I love being Grandpops to 

M (flower girl) & L (baby boy in the carrier)

plus that little one in the stroller 

on the right: welcome baby girl I. 

Fave Reads 2023

My reading criteria remains the same as last year—the shorter the better. Nevertheless, several longer books captured me this year. 

All my life, books have been my life-is-a-classroom seat-partner, ally, playmate, collaborator, pal, and sidekick. I can rely on them. They both calm my tendency to overthink and stir or stretch my thinking. I feel a little lost when they are absent. Perhaps among these faves is your newest companion? 

You might think
you know her story...
She never
wanted to be a 
pop star. I was
in Ireland reading
her unflinching,
humble, brazen 
life story when
she died.  This memoir
felt like a gift. 
Read more here. 

It's so beautifully-
written. It's as if it
were written all at
once by someone
with a broken heart.
An Irish girl
unlocks love from
grief and no one
is ever the
same again. 

A farmer friend asked
me to read this. The
title made me reluctant.
But this modest,
nostalgic and somewhat
broken young farmer
reminded me how
fragile non-corporate
agriculture actually
is in the 2020s, and also
how vital. Touching
funny, important. 

Like her other book,
(Quiet,
about introversion) 
Susan Cain asserts that
those typically moved
by pain & sorrow often
possess a sharpened 
perspective. Essentially
melancholy might
just be your superpower.

Much-needed in-
sight into 
"limiting" 
(not toxic)
masculinity
and how we boys
are sentenced by
patriarchal norms
into rigid roles
that undermine
becoming loving
and caring men.