The Lasts

I saw the most beautiful expanse of grass and trees the other day as we were driving to the doctor, a view not usually seen in these parts at this time.  Sure, England does Autumn, but not quite to the same extent that Ontario does.  There's something rustic and old-fashioned that this side of the pond, as hard as it tries, has never really captured.  That said, the green was so vibrant (and grass still so lush), the trees were turning, some had turned, leaves fallen to the ground, casting a crunchy blanket over the pavement.  The sun was cascading through the foliage with such a bright ferocity, it was hard to believe this is mid-October.  






I started to think about lasts.  What if this was the last autumn?  What if this was the last time you'd see the magnificent changing of the leaves from crisp green to warm yellow and fiery red?  What if that glimmer of sunshine, turning the sky that magnificent September blue, was the last you'd see, as it would be gloomy all the rest of your days?  What if that sound, that blessed sound, of leaves crunching underfoot were the last steps of their kind?  What if you couldn't walk in your boots again?  What if these were the last hours spent outside?  

What if that swim in the lake that you begrudged was the last time you'd dip into Northern waters?  What if that was the last time you'd be on a boat ever again?  What if the summer you hated hauling out that bather was the last time you'd don a swim suit?  What if this was your last July? 

What if that was the last time you'd see so-and-so?  Last time you'd talk to them on the phone, last time you'd feel how strong they were when they hugged you goodbye?  What if you'd never sleep beside the person you cuddle into at night?  And you know that feeling, that feeling you get when the day is long and cold, your toes are numb, and you've forgotten your umbrella?  That hopeless feeling that leaves you thinking that perhaps THIS is the worst day yet?  No, not that feeling...the feeling that overwhelms you at exactly that moment when you remember the person waiting for you at home: the one who has the heat on, the dinner warm, and that face...oh that face.  What if the heat was off, dinner wasn't made, and that face...oh that face, wasn't there? 

This isn't a plea to carpe the diem.  It was really a simple observation of the beauty around me that made me grateful for the moment.  I suppose as long as we stay thankful for what's around, who is around, and what remarkable experiences have brought us to this exact place, we'll constantly remain present, and enjoy all the now as if it was the last.  

Have a great weekend.

First image is mine from Salzburg and the second, from Maple Lake this summer.

Thanksgiving in England, Year Four

Though a 16-pound turkey didn't seem all that large to me, it certainly did monopolize the fridge and oven.  And it certainly did well to serve all 11 of us.  I brined the turkey for the first year ever.  I soaked it for two days in a mixture of water, salt, sugar, onions, lemon, garlic, and thyme.  

When I told Steven I was going to decorate the table with leaves, pumpkins, and candles, he thought I was crazy.  Nevertheless, he was out there in the pouring rain, picking the brightest leaves from off the ground.  He came in with a huge handful of them, beaming at me: were they okay?  Sweet, I tell you, he's sweet.

I used Martha Stewart's recipe for cornbread to make this cornbread pecan stuffing.  So amazing.  Though it did fall apart a little after it was in the bird for the morning, it was certainly tasty.  So tasty in fact, I ate it for breakfast this morning.  Go figure.

I'm so happy to have my knives now in the UK.  Imagine I went three years without a proper cutting utensil?!  It's nuts!  Oh, this was for glazed carrots which were so easy and so delicious!

Everyone arrived at about two.  I had been off work for three days and felt decidedly rested, until I got into the bath on Saturday afternoon.  I could have slept there all weekend.  Washed my hair instead, put on my game face, and had a lovely time.  We were in bed by 9, but that's besides the point.

Steven's brother Tony, and his niece Abbie.

Steven's mum and her partner, Ted

The chef, a little worried about how it will all pan out (in the tiniest kitchen you've ever seen...those are literally the parameters of the space.  Sigh...how I long for a HUGE kitchen of my own).

Steven's niece, Ella

Za Turkey, done.  

She looks so small there, but let me tell you, she was majestic.

Carly, arriving from work, laden with the most beautiful orange tulips: how very colour-appropriate.

At last, we eat.

The living room is so massive (in comparison to the kitchen!) that we managed to have an eight-seater on one side of the room, and a four-seat kids' table behind us.  

Steven's mum brought the most delicious carrot cake (that has made up most of our meals today, in fact, as we sit relaxing, watching movies), and ordered these little Canadian flags to stick atop them.  Sweet, I tell you, sweet.

Check out that new table!  Loves it.

This was the first away-from-home Thanksgiving (or any holiday for that matter) when I've not been around "my people".  It was lovely to introduce people to the holiday (which I think is actually a British tradition, if I'm not mistaken, when they pillaged our villages came to Canada back in the Good Old Days), and they were so gracious: many of them Googled all about Thanksgiving so they'd know about the traditions.  I just felt a little like a girl standing alone on a dock, if you can visualize it.  All is calm, I'm very grateful to be there (as we always are alongside a lake); there's just something about solitary about it all.  But Steven's great and the way he looks at me after I've put out a spread to feed his family is golden: he's proud and grateful and a little amazed.  It makes it really special.

In the end, it was a fantastic night.  It's the kind of night that reminds you how blessed you are to have a fridge full of food, family all over the world, and the ability to provide an environment that emits positivity.  For Steven, this was the first event of its kind that he's hosted, so it was pretty rad to be a part of the inauguration.  

I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving at your homes and that you're busy now thanking whoever/whatever for all the amazing people we know and share our lives with.

Three Sisters and a Navy Sweater

Though I've been on a Justin Vernor bender for the last two days, Haim is so undeniably cool, I thought I'd have to remark on them.  Loved them at that 

Also, Kathleen told me that V-neck sweater just will not do anymore.  So I found a few that were undeniably chunky and fall-perfect, round-neck or not.  Loves me some wool.

Images courtesy of The Epitome of Quiet (Haim and sweater).

West Coast of Ireland(2002) - Justin Vernon

Wet Pavements

Image courtesy of Ethel & Bev

It's raining here.  The kind of rain that stops you from going outside, tempts you to cook whatever you have in the house (lump of tofu with barbecue sauce poured atop for me tonight), prompts you to look out the window at the people waiting for the bus and thank your lucky stars that you're tucked in here, makes you wonder if it will ever let up.  It's so encasing, so cozy, so intoxicating.  

Pavements here are wet most mornings.  It's a little noticed, taken-for-granted fact that we have never really talked about.  And I'll bet that if you don't live here, you didn't know that, did you?  It's not just in cooler seasons either; it happens in the dead of summer.  Does it always rain at night?  Is it dew?  Were they washed a short while ago?  Why are they always wet?  It's part of the mystique of the place, this old England.  It's part of her seemingly undying charm.

We're tucked in tonight.  It's raining and I'm still feeling a bit delicate after my flu-turned-cold-turned-migrane-turned-back-to-flu.  Steven's doing some homework with Calum in the living room and the sounds of rain and quiet instruction are so endearing.  I'm planning the day tomorrow: when the giblet stock has to be started, how often the turkey needs basting, how long the peas will take to heat up after the bird has vacated the oven.  It feels like home around these parts.

A Long London Walk

When summer was still fighting and winning, I took a long walk one day.  Even familiar sights when seen from a different perspective have a tendency to look a bit different...

I just love this picture below...it's so quintessentially London.  It's a great place to be, I'll happily admit.

Headed into SoHo for some pints and some colour...

...then slightly lopsided, headed back home.

How I miss those lazy days of summer...

A Proper Conversation

I've been under the weather for two days and since Steven's been at work, have been in a very, very quiet place for a full 36 hours.  It's been very nice.  

I'm so tired.  This job is more than I thought it would be and though I can't say I don't enjoy it, it's absolutely exhausting.  Getting up at five is hard, but getting home, perhaps not consequently, but subsequently for certain, at 6 or 7 is just hard.  

I found this and thought, unfortunately, it describes me.  

You’re always in a rush, or else you’re too exhausted 

to have a proper conversation. 

Soon enough, the long hours, the traveling, the 

broken sleep have all crept into your being and 

become part of you, so everyone can see it, in your 

posture, your gaze, the way you move and talk.

Quote was written by Kazuo Ishiguro in Never Let Me Go, 

courtesy of That Kind of Woman

So much so that I plan the weekends on the way into work on a Monday, thinking about the way I can spend Saturday in the city watching the seasons change into a brisk, chilly version of London, or how I have to spend Sunday walking down the isles of the supermarket, falling ever more so out of love with food shopping.  Though it saddens me to wish the days away, the weeks away, the terms away, it is what the prevailing thoughts have become.  

I've finally spent some time listening to Justin Vernor's newest band project, Volcano Choir.  I'm absolutely loving the serenity and quiet of Alaskans.  I just imagine him up in Alaska, quietly observing inhabitants, smoking, wearing a baseball cap, drinking freezing cold beer from a can.  There's something so liberating about a life of making music, isn't there?  Gosh, I wish I could do it. 

Steven and I are hosting Thanksgiving dinner here this weekend.  We got a beautiful new table to seat everyone (the adults anyway) and I'm really excited (even in my headachy state) to put on the first dinner party in what seems a hundred years. Better rest up.