Favourited Spring Activities

Yesterday my sister, niece, boyfriend and I tried to swing like monkeys on a jungle gym. It's more difficult than I remember. But playing with exuberant enthusiasm is just as fun as it was when I was 10.

Welome, Spring. You make me feel young again.

The Missing

I missed St. Patrick's Day. I apologize. Here is a little green fairy to make it all up to you.

Shhh, she's sleeping.

Highlight

Have you ever felt the weight of a little bird in your hand? its skinny feet grasping your finger? its funny eyes staring unblinkingly at you from 30 cm away?

We spent the weekend in Whistler snowboarding. And this was probably the highlight.

Of the Homemade Variety

Bread. I've gone and made it. My first and second attempts were eatable (by John's questionable standards) but unsatisfactory: one too crusty, the other undercooked. But my third! It was beautiful. So beautiful that I arranged some fruit behind it and took a picture. Corny? I don't think so.

I have two favourite memories of homemade bread: One is of my mum kneading the dough in a huge yellow bowl. She would kneel in the little entrance-way to the kitchen where her knees would be on the carpet of the living room and the huge bowl of dough would be on the linoleum of the kitchen floor. She would kneel there and knead, her hands strong and quick, folding the dough and pushing with the heels of her hands. She made something like ten loaves (one for each of her children, perhaps?) at a time. The most I've made is two. It's tiring, kneading that dough. I have a new respect for her, now that I've done it.

My other memory is, of course, of the product of her labours. She would often time the bread to be out of the oven just before her children got home from school. We would enter the house and the delicious aroma would immediately overtake us. We devoured thick slices of that bread, slathered in peanut butter or honey, in seconds.

I never stopped to wonder at the satisfaction my mum must have felt at her children's enthusiastic response to her baking skills but now I can only hope that she felt as gratified as I do. John is a very complimentary eater. Even my less successful attempts have been rewarded with nothing but encouragement.

The Time Has Come, the Time is Now!

Hey peeps!

I haven't had the opportunity of taking pictures as of yet but with or without pictures you should know: it snowed! Mostly up in the mountains. They look gorgeous from Cambie Street.

The snow has invoked great excitement in my household. Finally we can snowboard again. The last time weather conditions allowed John and I to snowboard was in January at Big White. Fantastic powder and some great runs there. Just sayin.

Canadian-ness

"I saw all the flags and everyone wearing red and white and I felt so ... so proud to be Canadian."

I've heard variations on this theme every day since the Olympics came to (and left) Vancouver. Initially it grated on my nerves. Why does their patriotism arise only on these sorts of occasions? But I realized that I'm guilty of the same crime.

Don't get me wrong, I love Canada. All the time. But before I saw the seas of red and white filling the streets and hundreds of maple leafs waving at me from every angle I wouldn't have said I'm particularly patriotic.

So what is it that incited this swell of feeling in us during the Olympics? I think it comes down to one word: community. For two weeks we weren't separated by race or creed or political leanings (for the purposes of this post please just accept this statement). We all identified with an overarching commonality ... Canadian-ness! The property of being Canadian.

We were reminded for a little while that there's at least one thing that unites us. It felt good to be a part of something, a community, a group of people with a shared goal. It felt good to belong.