Into the West

Annie Lennox

Lay down,
your sweet and weary head.
Night is falling.
You have come to journey’s end.

Sleep now, and dream
of the ones who came before.
They are calling,
from across a distant shore.

Why do you weep?
What are these tears upon your face?
Soon you will see.
All of your fears will pass away.
Safe in my arms,
you’re only sleeping.

What can you see,
on the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea,
a pale moon rises.
The ships have come,
to carry you home.

And all will turn,
to silver glass.
A light on the water.
All souls pass.

Hope fades,
Into the world of night.
Through shadows falling,
Out of memory and time.

Don’t say,
We have come now to the end.
White shores are calling.
You and I will meet again.
And you’ll be here in my arms,
Just sleeping.

What can you see,
on the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea,
a pale moon rises.
The ships have come,
to carry you home.

And all will turn,
to silver glass.
A light on the water.
Grey ships pass
Into the West.

Blast from the past

Rain again today. After days of blue skies, cold, and bracing mist.

Annie Lennox - Here Comes The Rain Again

Fog

- Boxing Day, 2009. Somewhere in New Westminster.

Merry Christmas!

The holiday season is always a busy time and so it was for H and I. It's just been a marathon of cooking and a few rush-rush freelance projects (for me) and work (for H). Oh, plenty of food was made but no photographs taken! Suffice it to say there have been cookies and loaves and frosted cupcakes and hearty roasts and meals galore. And no doubt there will be many more of this in the coming days.

Merry Christmas to one and all!

When life hands you limes...

You make lime-date muffins, of course!

The other day H brought home a couple of limes, knowing how much I liked them. He calls them my "special lemons".

Why yes, I guess they are special. Limes carry so much of the tropics and hot places where they form an integral part of the cuisine. In the Philippines, we have the unique dayap (best flavouring, in my opinion, for leche flans). A lot of Mexican and Southwestern dishes make use of limes. But did you know that limes originated in the Malaysian peninsula, spreading outward from there to the Americas? Here's a more comprehensive description of how they "migrated."

I zested one of the limes using my wonderful microplane grater, and used the zest to make muffins. The juice went to a marinade for baked chicken. Nothing was wasted, the price of limes being what they are out here.

Date-lime ginger muffins
This recipe was adapted from Epicurious. I subbed the vegetable oil for butter, honey for molasses, and I also amped up the spices quite a bit. These are some of the best muffins I've ever made. The ginger and the lime combine beautifully, the dates add a complex sweetness. Delicious!

1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tbsp lime zest (from one lime)
2 tsps grated fresh ginger
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt
1 large egg
6 tbsp honey
1 3/4 cups packed pitted dates (about 200g or 10 oz)
1/2 cup vegetable oil (or 3/4 cup unsalted butter, softened)
6 tbsp packed dark brown sugar

Preheat oven to 350°F. Line muffin tin with paper liners.

Into a bowl sift together flour, ginger, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. In a small bowl whisk together egg and honey until combined. Coarsely chop dates. Combine the oil and sugar and beat until light and fluffy. Beat in flour and egg mixtures until just combined (do not overmix). Stir in dates. Divide batter among muffin cups and bake in middle of oven until a tester comes out clean. Mine were done in about 20 minutes.

The tree

We put up the Tree two weeks ago. It's an old tree that H inherited from a friend and rather than buy a fresh, cut tree or a potted one, we are using it to save $. We're on a very limited budget. Still, somehow we managed to pick up a few lovely additional ornaments and plan to do so every year. A local antique shop is a favourite of ours as it stocks characterful trinkets.

I just put the phone down. I was talking to a close friend, in Hong Kong, who lost her Dad recently. A week ago, there was news about a family member that came as a shock. Christmas this year will not be the unalloyed joyousness of last year. It will require much strength, for my family and friends, for H and I. But like the Tree, we're still standing. And we plan to stick around.

The Tree glows in the dark, a bulwark against winter's cold and greyness, reminding us how precious life is. Maybe it's not a very Christian symbol of Christmas. But I think: A tree that is metaphorically renewed every year, that bursts with light and joy and beauty -- how can it not capture the essence of the season?

First snow

We woke up this morning to find a thin dusting of snow on the ground. It looked magical. So, in honour of the event, I donned my snowprint/animal print winter dress (and my Santa elf hat -- I bought it yesterday along with a Santa hat for H) and hoisted Patsy up for a souvenir shot on the front stoop. Patsy is a beautiful furball who likes being photographed. She turns her head this way and that, affecting a Greta Garbo "I vant to be alone" pose, but otherwise keeps quite still and cooperative, even when you can tell she's gotten fed up with the flashing and posing.



View of the garden and up the street:







Maggie looking out the window and probably hoping to play outside.

Moroccan chicken with eggplant, tomatoes and almonds

Recipe was adapted slightly from Bon Appetit. Slightly time consuming, but worth it. Make sure you cook it down -- you don't want an overly watery soup. And take the time to roast the almonds; it's the complex mix of textures and flavours that make this special. The crunchiness of the almonds contrasts beautifully with the soft luscious melting-ness of the eggplant, the tart tomatoes and the heartiness of chicken. Oh, as is my wont, I threw in a red chili pepper to give it a subversive, non-Moroccan kick!

I made this the other night at the same time as a seafood chowder, in a paroxysm of cooking.

Seafood chowder

Last night's easy peasy dinner. I also made some garlic croutons to go with it (cut up some old bread into rough cubes, saute in a mix of olive oil and butter, and toss in some garlic when the bread is done and crisp).

Doncha just love the sunny golden colour?

I basically used this New England seafood chowder recipe. I didn't have squash or kale but I can imagine how more complex the flavour would be if I had them to throw in. I added a bit more cayenne pepper, and of course a bit of crumbled bacon and bacon fat were must-haves!

Lime-orange bars

Lime, essence of summer, floats through my kitchen like a saucy kitchenmaid sticking her tongue out at Old Man Winter. I grate its deep grassy skin into zest. The fat navel orange's turn is next. Zest is microplaned off, and the juice squeezed out into a tumbler.

I am making lemon bars. Or rather, lime-orange bars in the absence of lemon. But lime may actually be my most favourite citrus of all. It is so utterly tropical. My Mom used it often to flavour the many Philippine desserts that emerged from her kitchen. Lime-scented leche flan (coconut milk reposing on a caramelised sugar base) and sweetened fruit preserves pop into my head, full-blown and vivid. I can almost taste that unique herbal note that touches everything with a tangy, vibrant freshness.

In our zone (zone 8) limes can only be grown in greenhouses, but Mexican limes are widely available in the local supermarkets.

(You can substitute pure lemon juice and lemon zest for the lime and orange in this recipe)

Lime-orange bars

You'll need:

For the shortbread crust
1 stick / ½ cup (113g) unsalted butter, room temperature
1/4 cup (25g) confectioner's sugar
1 cup (140g) all-purpose flour
1/8 tsp salt

For the filling:
1 cup (200g) granulated white sugar
2 large eggs
1/3 cup (80 ml) fresh lime juice (from 2 limes, or you can use a combination of lime and oranges )
1 tbsp (5g) grated zest (from 2 limes or a mix of lime and orange)
2 tbsp (25g) all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp baking powder

Preheat oven to 350 F and place rack in centre of oven. Grease an 8 x 8 inch pan with butter or cooking spray (I prefer butter-flavoured Pam spray), or line with foil.

For the shortbread crust: Using an electric mixer or a hand mixer, cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add the flour and salt. Beat until the dough just comes together. Press into the bottom of the greased pan your greased pan and bake for about 20 minutes, or until lightly browned. Remove from oven and allow to cool.

Meanwhile, make the filling. Beat the sugar and eggs until smooth. Add the lime and orange juice and the zests. Stir to combine. Fold in the flour and baking powder. Pour the filling over the shortbread crust and bake for about 25 minutes, or until the filling is set. Cool on a wire rack.

Dust with powdered sugar and cut into 2-inch squares. You can eat these straightaway but they can also be covered and stored in the fridge for a day or two. Although in this house, cakes and muffins seem to disappear overnight!

H and I've already attacked this creation. This was my breakfast today:

Turning

The year, it is ending. Space-memory pulses, remembering
the scorching summer that followed a fecund spring.
The sun, in fact, ran wild in midyear.
Tomatoes were explosive orbs hanging heavy
on the vine. Lettuces ran exultant. The dandelions
marched, in numbers enough to make wine.
Cottonwood went airborne. Grasshoppers napped and
monarchs (haughty in obsidian and cinnamon) hovered in
royal languor. There were noons without number, fleets
of parasoled cocktails, endless tumblers of Coke.
Summer, you were a dream. You were fission heat and nuclear
light, a solstice without surcease.
Now, sleep begins. The squirrel scales back
his high-wire act. The wheels of the year
are turning. He, furled on his drey, gorged with seeds,
cares not. There is plenty of time to sleep
to dream. The world contracts around hearth and home.
Too soon (or not soon enough?), it will be spring.

Lou

Underwater

After the nearly nonstop rains of the past two weeks the ditches and creeks are clogged up and this has caused some serious flooding in our front yard!

Behold, our very own homegrown lake! Or a green lagoon.

When trees make lace

One mild afternoon in early November, H and I took a walk in the woods near our place. We were recovering from bouts with the flu, and needed to get some fresh air. The sky was that peculiarly brilliant blue of autumn, which while lacking the glare and white hot heat of summer, possesses extraordinary clarity. The air was sparkling fresh, it was like drinking eau de vie or a very crisp, green cider.



The thing about autumn is the first part is such a riot of glory: all those trees that look like they're on fire. The middle part, when the windstorms rise to buffet the leaves off the trees, has a quiet beauty all its own: this is when the trees reveal their bones, which are like tracery against the sky, or a particularly robust filigree of twig, branch, bark and trunk. Towards winter, their bare outlines against grey skies are even sparer. And it is then that you long for spring.







The image below reminds me of Robert Frost's Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, though of course we don't have snow yet.



Whose woods these are I think I know.



The only other sound's the sweep / Of easy wind and downy flake





The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.

Red leaves

Windstorms have dropped most of the gorgeous leaves from the trees. Winter is truly on its way.

Warm corner

Flame-coloured curtain, and a dog as dark as sin.

Light on a rainy day.

Mike Lake Trail

H and I drove up to Mike Lake Trail today as part of my twice weekly workouts required by the learn to run clinic that I joined recently. H is also preparing to run a half marathon in February, so it was a good workout for us both. The trail goes up all the way, but at a gentle grade (hence its name, Mike Lake Incline). We set off at a brisk walking pace and that got my heart pumping good. After about 50 minutes of walking the Incline Trail we took the Fire Access Trail, and that took the better part of an hour to negotiate. At first it was quite easy walking, the ground was springy and soft with fallen leaves. Then there were small gullies, easily negotiated. But after a short time we saw that there had been several minor landslides that virtually erased the hiking path in places -- no wonder there was an "ongoing ground stabilization" notice at the entrance to the trail. We had to pick our way gingerly on the sloping ground to avoid falling off; in places the drop was 10 meters, maybe more. Too late to retrace our route; we decided to go on, though I was quaking. Heights have never been my thing. Anyway, we made it through safely and the path widened again.

All this time the dogs were having a grand time, sniffing and bounding away and chasing each other. Occasionally Patsy would stop and look up at me, as if asking "What's taking you so long? What's so hard about this trail? Look how easy it is for me." Cheeky monkey.



The trail itself was quiet, we didn't meet a soul. The trees made a tall green canopy, and with the wind pretty high they made a soothing soughing sound. The air smelled fresh and ozonic.



H "communing" with Patsy.



Maggie had boundless energy.

Falling into Fall

It was a gorgeous, crisp autumn day yesterday, so H and I jumped on the car to do a little exploring in Coquitlam and Port Coquitlam, two districts near to Maple Ridge and potentially places we could see ourselves buying a house one day.

I scramble to find the words to tell you what a lovely day it was. Better writers than I have done so. All I can do is to say that the leaves were red and gold and russet, the air smelled of dried grass and a whiff of bonfires. That the river babbled on and fish swam by. That the beavers were still trying to drop trees along the lake side. And that it was a perfect day to give thanks for one's blessings.



As I write this, thousands of homes across Canada will be celebrating Thanksgiving. Myself, I have much to be grateful for too. Family, friends, my guy, health, well-being. I am grateful for the many years that have been granted to me so far and hope that there will be many more.

I was telling P yesterday that the past four decades of life, for both of us, have been very rich. Sure, there were losses along the way. But into each life, much as we struggle against it, some rain must fall. Rain has fallen. But it has served to strengthen, to encourage dreams, to foster love.

And days like yesterday, and a Thanksgiving like today, are days that remind us of our wins as well as losses, and all the dreams that, whether they come true or not, make a life that much richer and sweeter.