Back in the fall when I was growing a Buddha belly I decided to go on a diet. I managed to lose ten pounds and then December happened, the season of shortbread, wine and chocolate. It comes but once a year, I rationalized to myself and ate with abandon: cookies for breakfast, cheese at every opportunity and bonbons on an hourly basis. I told myself that I would be sick of all the indulgences by the time January rolled around and vowed that as soon as I finished feasting at the annual New Year’s Day Dim Sum blow out I would eat salads again. Then January arrived, that awful month when I am running on empty in the serotonin department and find myself crying under the covers with a pie. I was all over the pasta, loaves of bread and every sugary item I could shove down my gullet to muffle my irrational sobbing. Now it is February, and like those pets who disappear in a hurricane and somehow limp back to their owners months later, the pounds have returned.

Today I am debating whether to go to the gym or bake The Sweetie his favourite oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. When I bake a batch he always reaches for a cookie when they are still too hot, then grunts like a caveman and pretends that his hand is burned. It makes baking them all worthwhile. I have tried to expand my cookie repertoire but The Sweetie always complains that they are not like his favourites. This morning he had a nerve root injection into his spine at the hospital. He was a brave little soldier and what kind of wife would I be if I opted for the elliptical machine instead of baking him a tray of cookie medicine? Obviously I have to do the right thing and keep that sports bra balled up in the back of a drawer for a little longer.

The Sweetie’s favourite Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies:

• Cream together 2/3 cup butter with 1 cup brown sugar
• Add 1 egg and 2 tsp vanilla
• Mix in 1 cup flour, 11/2 cup rolled oats, 1 tsp each baking soda and baking powder and 1/2 tsp salt
• Stir in 1 cup of semi-sweet chocolate chips and 3/4 cup toasted walnuts
• Bake in 375 degree oven for around 10-12 minutes
• Leave tray on top of oven and wait for a caveman impersonation as your unwitting victims get overly eager and reach too soon for a hot cookie. Snicker.

I have a confession to make. I am not a fan of pears. This admission always seems to provoke incredulous gasps and protests. There is always the indignant, “How can you not like pears? What did a pear ever do to you? What’s not to like about pears?” It is a texture thing for me. They are mushy. Often slimy. They bruise easily. I don’t like that overly sweet grainy sand-like sensation. Frankly, I find them a little pretentious. Perhaps being a small chested, child bearing hipped woman I resent the pear for invoking my shape. This hasn’t interfered with my love of butternut squash, however, which has a similar physique.

The Sweetie gets the same incredulous indignation when he admits that he doesn’t like smoked salmon. People can’t accept it. Rather than being indignant shouldn’t pear and smoked salmon lovers rejoice that there will be more left for them? The Sweetie does love pears though. Knowing this my parents brought over a pile of pears for him. Every day I nag him to eat the pears. I leave them in strategic spots for them to catch his eye, much like I do for myself with my vitamins. I decided to take matters into my own hands and save the pears, feeling heroic for saving something I don’t particularly like. It must be the season making me more charitable. I found a recipe for pear bread that looked enticing despite it’s star ingredient and set to work. It was delicious.

It turns out that pears have taught me a valuable lesson in keeping an open mind, expanding my horizons and overcoming biases. Unpalatable things can be made acceptable if we are willing to bend a little. All you need to do is put them in a cake.

I  have a new sunrise alarm clock that I bought in the ongoing battle against SAD. It is supposed to mimic rising with the sun and trick you into thinking that there will be light, even on the gloomiest of days. Instead of a blaring alarm, you hear a gentle steel band or chirping birds when it is time to wake up.

This morning was beautiful. It was dark when I got up. There is a peace that comes when the rest of the world still seems to be sleeping. I padded around quietly in my ratty old monkey slippers, my coffee cup warming my hands. The cat followed me briefly but was soon bored and curled up to go back to sleep. I felt calm and peaceful and relished the quiet. I made crepes, the mixing and the swirling on the pan feeling meditative and hypnotic. I wasn’t bothered by the ones that didn’t turn out. Momentarily I debated turning the radio on but decided that I wanted to pretend that I was the only person awake for a little while longer. As the sky started to brighten and streaks of  grey began to appear I filled a crepe with Nutella and ate it off my favourite cat plate. Whatever else happens today doesn’t really matter. It has already been a good day.

And then of course there is tonight to look forward to. Naturally I am the second guy.

Found here

It may say September first on the calendar but I declare September to be the new August. I am determined to remain in a state of denial until the snow falls. I will wear white pants after labour day. I will wear open toe shoes until my toes turn blue. I will continue to paint my nails cheery bright colours. I will eat my weight in peaches. I will have friends over for a barbeque and game of croquet even if we are wrapped in blankets and our trembling fingers can’t grip the mallets. I will make watermelon rind preserve, even though I’m not a huge fan of watermelon or preserves for that matter, I will make it anyway because it sounds summery. I will be so busy having barbeques, wearing summer frocks and making watermelon preserve that i will not notice the leaves changing colour or the days getting shorter.

It is summer it is summer it is summer.

The temperatures are soaring up to the high thirties today and with the humidex it is going to feel like it is in the high forties. That is a bit much, even for a heat lover like me. I expect people are going to spontaneously burst into flames on the street. Even if I end up as a sizzling smouldering heap of ashes on the sidewalk I will still take the heat over windchill any day.

To stay cool I will be making frozen fudge pops that I found on Epicurious. I may venture out to the video store later and rent The Thing. I’ll eat frozen treats and watch some carnage in the Antarctic, relieved that I am not freezing in some outpost, paranoid and tormented by an alien being.

I am in a bit of a funk. The Sweetie is in a funk. All of Toronto is probably in a funk today, waking up to blowing snow and nasty wind. Just when I was getting cautiously, secretly hopeful that there was a trace of spring in the air, March unleashed a nasty sucker punch.

I found a recipe for Vegetarian Cassoulet here, along with thoughtful musings about bad moods and our fear of them in our “happy face culture.” Bad moods scare me. I panic, thinking that I am on a downward spiral and that I will end up a cranky old crone, yelling at the television and shaking my fist at squirrels. I wonder whether I would be crabby all the time if I wasn’t keeping myself in check. I am not a natural Pollyanna. I can feel gleeful but I can sink into darkness just as quickly.

My mood has lasted more that a day, as has The Sweetie’s. We are both a little glum and tired and sigh a lot, shuffling along our days, not feeling particularly inspired. Maybe our spirits have been tossed and windswept for too long and winter is finally kicking us to the curb. Maybe it is the weight of all the tragedy and insanity happening in the world that is finally taking its toll. Maybe everyone just needs a low period every now and then, as part of the ebb and flow of life. The shuffling will turn to light steps again, just as this dastardly biting wind will eventually become a gentle breeze. Maybe it is okay to just go with a bad mood and not pretend that everything is perfect all the time. When life hands you lemons you don’t always need to make the lemonade. Sometimes you can just suck on the lemon and have a sour face.

In the meantime, I will make my vegetable cassoulet, hoping that its warmth and goodness provides some comfort until the sun shines again.

Significant holidays always seem to bring about a significant pimple. One Thanksgiving I grew a doozy that friends started calling my horn of plenty. This year the eruption has appeared just in time for Valentine’s Day. I am growing something resembling a rhinoceros horn, which is far from seductive.

Luckily, The Sweetie and I do not get caught up in Valentine’s Day madness, so the holiday pimple will not be competing with other rosy hued items. I always tell him not to buy over priced Valentine’s chocolates when they will be half price the next day. Besides, they are usually assorted creams and who actually likes orange and strawberry cream filled chocolates?

Despite my harrumphing, my thoughts eventually turned to chocolate. I decided to try a Martha Stewart chocolate pudding recipe. The Sweetie deserves some chocolate as a token of my affection. I know he is doing his best not to let his eyes settle on the holiday pimple, although I have caught a few lingering glances. I know he loves me, rhino horn and all, and if that’s not love on Valentine’s Day, I don’t know what is.

We are in a state of deep freeze right now. It is minus a gazllion degree outside. The kind of cold that slaps you across the face and leaves everyone on the street with an expression of grimacing horror. It is days like today that remind me of why I don’t bother getting a cute winter coat and stylish boots. All I want is my shapeless sleeping bag puffy coat and sturdy boots with snow tire treads to navigate along the icy sidewalks. In my attempt to fight the good fight I have the Christmas tree lights on and I am cooking up a storm. Thick pea soup spitting at me, chili bubbling on the stove and the smell of roasting vegetables are making me feel cozy and warm, at least on the inside. I am cold in our drafty house, my toes are still frozen despite thick socks and my sock monkey slippers, but I will wrap my Popsicle fingers around a warm cup and dream of floating in a hot bowl of soup for the remainder of the winter.

Yesterday was one of those wet, dreary November days that chill to the bone and make me want to curl up with a hot cup of tea and hide from the world. I briefly played with the idea of being productive but the grey skies and overall nastiness of the day made my resolve falter faster than the final leaves could fall off the trees.

I tried to do an Axl Rose impression of November Rain to entertain The Sweetie which caused him to flee the house. Left to my own devices, my thoughts again returned to hot beverages. A beverage on its own seemed so lonely and forlorn so I decided to make lemony shortbread cookies. Sunny yellow lemons added a small bit of brightness to an otherwise completely grey palette. I forced some much needed sweetness into a harsh and bitter day.

I am seeing my fake knitting group tonight.  So far we have yet to knit anything but our intentions are good and it is always a night of great food, camaraderie and future plans of crafting superstardom.

Tonight we will be meeting our friend’s new baby, eating middle eastern food and watching Spinal Tap. I am bringing peanut butter brownies, or at least the half remaining after The Sweetie and I “tested” them. I would probably be a little more smug about my tasty offering if I hadn’t stumbled across this: cupcakes topped with marzipan balls of wool. Then again, if I am not finding the time and wherewithal to knit, I can’t really expect myself to be making miniature scarves and balls of wool from marzipan, now can I?