Cabane à sucre

One of my favourite Quebec traditions involves going to a farm in the country to eat an enormous breakfast doused in maple syrup. We went to la p’tite cabane d’la côte, a cabane à sucre (maple farm) in Mirabel where they played popular Quebecois music and delivered endless quantities of ham, steaming hot baked beans, mini tortière (spiced meat pies) and fresh bread. I ate far too many oreilles de chrisse (pork crackling) and stuffed myself with pan-roasted potatoes, buckwheat pancakes doused in maple syrup, and fluffy fine herb omelette, which, served in a cast-iron pan, was more like a soufflé. On the table stood jars filled with home-made ketchup, pickles and beets and of course, a large jug of maple syrup. It would be a lie to say that any of us didn’t overeat.

After their “grand-pères dans le sirop“, we went outside to twirl our popsicle sticks in little puddles of maple syrup on a bed of ice. Stickiness ensued. And running around. And an unbelievably bumpy ride on a horse-cart. And a “stew” made in a puddle with sticks and leaves as ingredients. Good birthday.

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Tags: breakfast, cabane a sucre, food, restaurants

The best birthday present

After reading stories and cuddling in bed, I told April that she was the best present a mummy could ask for. Her eyes lit up and that sneaky little smile cut across her wide open face.

“But I’m not a present,” she said giggling.

As my belly gets heavier and my bones begin to shift, I have started reflecting on what it was like when I was pregnant with April. The anticipation of the arrival of new life: for the little person who will soon be outside of me, and for all of us. April will be a big sister. I will be a mummy twice over. Our little family will simply be a family. Adventures await us.

With the pace of life with a young child and an impossible habit of working too much, I sometimes forget to stop and enjoy it. Baking a cake with a three-year old who can’t keep her hands out of the batter; listening to her recite pages from Peter Rabbit and insist on “reading”  her favourite books to me; watching her piece her world together, whether in the bathtub or walking down the street on our way home from daycare. Being a mom really is a gift, even if sometimes I’m just too damn tired to recognize it.

Pirate party!

I can’t believe that you’re already three. Happy birthday, April.

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Cottaging

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Halloween Party!

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Autumn

Thanksgiving weekend brought sunshine and temperatures unheard of in October. Although driving for eight hours to my folk’s country house in Western New York is more car-time than any of us were happy about (one day of driving, two days there, another day of driving), it was worth it. The drive was breathtaking. A wonderful mini-holiday.

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Swimming

Sometimes my emotions come out of me like a flood of heavy water, crashing over my common sense and logic and drowning me in the cold murky darkness of fear. It is at these times that I long to be a stronger swimmer, to keep my head above the water and learn to swim away from the current rather than to fight it.

I am tired of swimming. I’m so tired and I feel like my life is a constant game of catching up when it should simply be one of existing. I cannot possibly get as much done as I wish to and yet here I am, struggling to swim, struggling to keep my head above the water, to ignore my tired aching muscles that tell me to stop, to let go, to give in and sink effortlessly down.

I would rather float. I would rather lie on my back in a calm cool sea, hot sun baking down from above and exist in the moment. But the sea isn’t calm and I have to work hard simply to stay afloat.

But I will. And some time the sea will calm, the crashing waves becoming concentric ripples, the surface reflective like an enormous mirror showing off the beauty of the world. And then I will lie back and breathe deeply and feel thankful that I know how to swim, because the joy of floating is much greater when you’ve had to work hard to get there.

 

Tags: catching up, feeling overwhelmed, life, working hard