The Arrogance of Government

There's a new government in town. Some seem unhappy about it. The election was not a coup d'etat. The new president won in an unprecedented landslide victory, in a democratic election, in the United States of America - the greatest show on earth.

Having 'peacefully' taken the oath of office as the 45^th president of the United States of America, President Donald Trump is here to stay, for at least 4 years. He is an unusual person in everything he does. During his campaign, he said things that were better left unsaid, perhaps. History cannot be changed. But he made promises. We heard it all. Social media was everywhere. He became its showman. I wondered how Roosevelt, Eisenhower, JFK, would have fared had the glorious web existed back then, hounding their every move. Things were very quiet back then. We had busy lives to lead.

The American people were reminded to vote for the candidate who would do what was in their best interests. And so they did. Government needed to change. For some, President Trump was an unlikeable sort. An election is not a popularity contest, however. There was much work to be done. Being in charge is never easy. (Ask any parent) The desire to please is not always possible. Mr. Trump's platform, to restore honesty and integrity in government, at a 'fair and equitable' price, in making the country great again, was a constant refrain. He began his governance, under a dark cloud, facing a plethora of dire issues, opinions, and people to 'command'.

President Trump had been elected to power with a resounding electoral vote as the head of state of the most powerful country on earth. Voting lineups, in all states, were very long, unlike anything before. As I watched the news media, its subjective, objective? interpretation of the election began. Few media outlets supported his views and the promises the president made, yet millions of American citizens thought otherwise. Fox and Friends, with Bill O'Reilly, Sean Hannity and Tucker Carlson, among other 'dignitaries', presented a balanced view of the political reality we were watching. (It was a relaxing atmosphere, too). Job creation, healthcare, decent housing, safe communities and great schools were uppermost on the minds of all americans.

It seemed, however, that the 'politicized professional politicians', were stalling the governmental machinery, whenever possible. For better or for worse, President Trump was here to stay. Was he posturing? Many said no. The 24-hour media was present, willing and able to dismiss, disregard and derail the new administration. Over the course of the last few months, words and phrases, associated with government and the games played there, began to surface and intrigue both my husband and me. In the everyday vernacular of government dialogue, words such as: 'executive branch', 'senate as an institution', 'sub-committee', 'government of continuity', 'budget reconciliation process', 'oversight committee', 'senate majority leader', 'house oversight committee', 'regulatory reform plan' and 'minority leader' were heard and confused us both. Then there were the all-powerful Senate, Congress and House, branches of government with politicians, at 'play'. The most puzzling phrase heard on television was 'bureaucrats before people.' Oh My. What did that mean? It did not sound good. Was that the sole purpose of government? Was an election a ploy to land a plum job and support the established 'costly' layers of the government bureaucracy? Government meant money, it seemed, with lots of it to go around, with pensions, too, for a select few who had been elected into office by the voters, the citizens of the United States.

As we discussed the growing malaise of government and the ridiculous words/phrases/costs associated with this modern-day institution, my husband reacted. Government speak came to mind. And so he wrote:

“We are here to begin a determination to study the feasibility of a committee to undertake the massive uncontrollable, unaccountable expenditures required to see which path we should take to spend the largest number of taxpayer dollars to see if we can decide anything at all.” ... As the words tumbled out, I laughed then stopped, realizing the hidden meaning of it all. Each title, position or committee - (comprising of at least two people) - had high costs attached, perhaps six figure incomes, with expenses, included, as well. Government was about money. It was not cheap. And who was footing the bill for this largess? The unsuspecting hard-working American taxpayer, of course! There was money to be made in this 'slow elephant', called government, while the citizens of America waited and waited for decisions to be made, with no deadlines in sight. Opposition demonstrated its might. Only in government. (But not only in America).

It was a 1944 docudrama that is difficult for me to watch. I know the ending. The heart-wrenching movie, The Fighting Sullivans, tells the story of an American family from Iowa whose 5 sons joined the navy, served on the USS Juneau together, then died together, when their ship was sunk. The brothers joined the military to help keep the world safe, not just their beloved country, America. It behooves us all to be ever so grateful of the might of the United States of America. It behooves those who are in charge of this powerful nation to the south to remember how little time the entire Sullivan family had together before death came calling and the supreme sacrifice they - and the many millions like them - made for human rights and freedoms. They died so we could 'live.'

Being an elected member of a democratic government is an absolute privilege. Democrats or Republicans, why does it matter? Party affiliation, regardless of origin, is window dressing. Doing what is right for all citizens is the cornerstone of a democracy. We are missing the broader picture. Governing is not a game. Righteous indignation has no standing. Those in government have an absolute duty to perform, having been given a mandate by the voters. Enough pandering, 'discussion', yelling and ill-will. The Sullivans, their descendants and the American people deserve better, a whole lot better.

Next week: Slowing down with sauerkraut pierogies. Oh Yum.

Hockey Resumes, Once Again.

It was the second period when things got rough. Both players took 5-minute penalties for fighting; 2 minutes for roughing. I went into the house for a time-out, myself. Things were getting out of hand.

Freezing rain had arrived again, serving to provide the slippery surface on which 'dog hockey' could resume, exciting our wiggler, the 3-year-old retriever. Hockey was here to stay. Discovering the potential of a large discarded hard plastic egg-shaped football, from last summer, turned our young retriever into a player, albeit, a gentle one. 

A kick of the 'puck' was no longer a prerequisite for winter fun. Our wiggler would simply run to it, look at me with that piercing, suspicious look of his, then run off into the distance. It was 'face-off' time, again. He was motivated again but his 'teammate' was nowhere in sight. “I'm not that gullible today”, he seemed to think. A new winter sport had been discovered.

Looking far and wide, 'Wiggles' saw the 'puck' under the wrought-iron chair. With nimble paws he pushed it out, from underneath. With snout-a-plenty and mouth ajar, our wiggler began to set things in motion, once again. Such a revelation. Such precision. He was wiser today. His sister, the bully girl, was waiting to grab and run with the 'puck', the object of his affection. He would have no part of it, however, not this time. The 'puck' was his. They ran to the corner. As Sally approached, he stood his ground, waiting for her to push, then run. Using her mighty front legs to assert herself in this wildly spirited game on ice, she began her routine, maneuvering into position. 

 

Like two moose in the wilderness, they ran into each other, as if to dance on the ice-covered surface. Was this boarding, I wondered? I intervened. They ran. “Where was this going?” It was going nowhere. The puck was just lying there waiting to be moved, again. I kicked it. Mayhem restored, the game continued. The puck rolled near the house, under a table, where getting it was difficult. Both 'players' attempted what neither could do: retrieve the puck from near the house and roll it once again. Help was needed. There was a pause in the game as Sally pondered her next move. Should she even bother, she wondered. He was now using his snout and front legs to increase his skill, speed and agility. He had learned from the best. She could no longer compete.

I watched as these seasoned 'players'-2 highly trained retrievers- fought for control of the 'puck'. It was an amusing and exciting feat of motion. Then the unexpected happened. 'Mr'. Wiggles stopped and changed his strategy. He began carrying his large summer ball, while nudging the 'puck' he had been shooting to define a new format of this game of hockey. 

 

With his love of carrying every manner of object in his mouth, from mitts, gloves, socks, toys, bones and Kleenex tissue, he decided to push the 'puck' with the lattice silicon summer ball, his favourite summer carry-all, firmly locked in his mouth. (During the summer, moving two large balls simultaneously was normal for our little wiggler, though his sister was not inclined). Today, he wanted more leverage to play the game he loved.

Mr. Wiggles will be four next month; the Momseyblog, its 5^th. My little wiggler was being 'created' as I began TheMomsey blog. A year later this unique, sometimes 'misunderstood' puppy entered our lives. Whenever his diminutive cousins come to visit, he goes a little ballistic, barking and running, momentarily, hoping they will be staying for the day. He is so happy to see them. 

Mall Cop informs him, however, that certain rules of public decorum need to be respected. Adults have rights, too, not just puppies. They look into each other's eyes and nod in agreement. And so another day of busy begins. The 'puck' is ignored, when all are together. No need for its use. Family has arrived. That is all that matters. Hockey can wait. ...When warmer temperatures begin their ascent, the 'puck' will no longer have the power to engage or entertain our Mr. Wiggles. It will suddenly be invisible, again, lost to the 'toys of summer'.

“Bring the dogs”, our son replied. The invitation to dinner, with dogs in tow, became a busy, hilarious time for all. From the time we arrived till we left, our wiggler walked, wiggled, walked, glowing from his eyes down to his tail. He was visiting his 'cousins' where all manner of teddies, squeaky toys, bones, hidden slippers, ball of yarn and gloves were his for the carrying. He left a trail, everywhere. No mess followed. Was he genetically programmed to 'carry'? 'Hockey season' will soon be over. It doesn't matter to him, though. He can amuse himself anywhere. He is, after all, a man of all seasons.

Mr. Wiggle's Winter Sport

As he signalled his need to go outside, our delightfully rambunctious retriever, Mr. Wiggles, changed his plans, once he got there. Suddenly, he began to play hockey, Canada's game, with the 'puck' that had been lying there for months.

He eyed this rather large plastic egg-shaped 'football' that had been ignored for most of its early summer 'release', last year. It had been 'sidelined', having absolutely no play value, according to our wiggler. As it could not be carried or grabbed in the mouth of our youngest retriever, the yellow 'puck' remained a daily dismal reminder of a pet store purchase gone horribly wrong. Why had it been for sale, anyway? It was a nuisance. But I had misjudged its play value in the life of our perpetual gift-giver, Mr. Wiggles. 

It was winter, now, a season of ice, snow and freezing temperatures as our 3-year-old pup deigned to want more from his outdoor play routine. Mr. Wiggles walked towards this new toy that suddenly had merit and deserved serious consideration. Last summer, this large, awkward misshapen albatross could not roll easily on the rough uneven surface of the freshly laid straw. (Grass had disappeared long ago). It could not be picked up in the jaws of our retrievers, lovers of the grab and go. 

I wondered what to do with this mystical nonsense of outdoor play 'till Mr. Wiggles showed me how last week. I began to refer to this thing as the 'puck' so as to not confuse them with the 'ball', the other curved instrument of play. As Mr. Wiggles moved, he began pushing the monstrous 'puck' ever so quickly across the snow covered icy patches of ground, while eying me up and down, for my reaction. He looked up at me with that “I dare you to touch this thing" look. Naturally, I did. Nudging this thing, left and right, with my foot, gave our Wiggler a reason to react, pushing the 'puck' with his snout and open mouth, quickly, along the icy surface. 

His hockey lesson had begun. He moved this yellow egg, affectionately known as the 'puck', with an intensity and agility only a seasoned hockey player could. I was intrigued by his veracity and focus. The slippery surface had given him the idea. I had no part in this new invention of his. Hockey was officially his game. It was also Sally's claim to fame, our 8-year-old female retriever, as she began to watch, then hustle her baby brother in a high stakes game of face-off hockey, with my help, of course. I hoped they would see the potential in this new winter routine. 

Keeping the 'puck' moving, engaged our Wiggler and his sister into action. Exercise is number one in a healthy pet's life. A gentle kick, here and there, gave him the idea to push it further and faster, away from his sister who had ideas of her own. He watched as I kicked the puck, ever so gently, out of the dips of the ice and snow. Sally out-maneuvered us both, as she ran, lifting and kicking, using both front legs, like a double cohort of hockey sticks, taking over and scoring on both of us. “Oh, my. We'd been hustled." Their personal 'hockey' styles played to an engaged audience. I was amazed and intrigued by it all.

Sally's skill set was top-notch. (Had she gone to hockey school, I wondered)? As the 'puck' got closer to her, she grabbed, pushed, and ran with it using her personal 'equipment' to defend her territory as her baby brother attempted to push the puck with his mouth. She growled. He barked. This incessant 'chatter' was relentless. “Hey, sis, This is my idea, my game. Go away.” “No way”, she seemed to say. “Catch me if you can.” And on they played. 

The noise of this plastic egg, rolling along, on the bumpy icy and snow covered surface, seemed to excite them both as I watched from afar so as to not be injured, as in the past. Mr. Wiggles would stop, his eyes on me, wondering what my next move was going to be. The 'puck' gained momentum whenever I got close, shooting it down the length of the yard. This gentle kick seemed to ignite his enthusiasm more, in another round of playing for the 'puck'. “Had I been icing the puck?”, 

I asked my husband, a diehard Montreal Canadiens' fan who loved and had played hockey for years, knew its rules and loved his team. “Yes”, he replied, “under those circumstances, you were icing.” But now Sally, Wiggler's wiser, older sister, was fast becoming a bully, hoarding the 'puck', in the 'corners'. This was called boarding, I was told. 

Our female 'smart face' had taken this game of hockey, up a notch, moving the 'puck' faster and faster, using her front legs, strategically, in a competitive dynamic force of wills. Mr. Wiggles stood there barking, wondering how a game he discovered could suddenly be lost to his sister, on such short notice. Trying to assert himself was of no use. He had lost control of the game he loved. A referee was needed. Who could that be? Not me, I reasoned. And so it continued.

Hockey had been discovered one slippery, icy winter's day. The misshapen plastic football, purchased last summer, had remained an 'invisible' useless outdoor accessory, devoid of any therapeutic value until our sweet Mr. Wiggles discovered its potential for fun, one slippery cold winter's day. 

It took a very young male retriever, a teen in human terms, to teach me that I did not know it all and that a little outside-the-box thinking, on a cold wintry day, was all that was needed. A profound moment in Wiggler's life and mine. Sally, his sister, had kicked Canada's game up a notch, claiming the top spot as  her own as CEO, Canine Excitement Officer, in charge. 

My 'Pressure Cooker' World!

It was an intriguing wedding gift, an appliance that I had never heard of or ever seen. (It could be a dangerous one, however, if you were not careful). Since then, the pressure cooker has been modernized, modified and is now made of healthy stainless steel, not the aluminum of yesterday, with an unmovable 'pressure gasket' that cannot be knocked off, accidentally. This important cooking 'tool' now graces my front-line meal time 'appliance' line-up, next to my Phillips Air fryer. Oh My, how times have changed.

In our pressure cooker world, it is comforting to know that there is an appliance that fits into our timed constrained lives. I began to use this 'pressure pot', again, recently, when I needed to make chicken soup, in a hurry. Only a frozen chicken was available. (A family member was struggling with a sore throat. She felt fine but her voice 'spoke' differently). Scientists have said that chicken soup has a profound effect on the re-building of immune health. So, from beneath the bottom cupboard, came the pressure cooker I had not used in years. With the lid locked securely in place, the frozen chicken began high pressure cooking for 25 minutes on medium-high heat. When the burner was shut off, the contents continued to cook as the internal pressure and temperature, higher than the boiling point of water, began its slow descent to room pressure. Forty minutes later, the 'red gasket' on the locked lid finally dropped, indicating room pressure had been reached and I could safely 'unlock' the cover. I removed the partially frozen chicken, sectioned it, then placed the pieces back into the cooker along with bay leaves and onions for a repeat performance of the cooking process. Vegetables were added, later, having repeated the cooking process one last time. With a bit of ingenuity and my pressure cooker, delicious chicken soup had been made. I had reached a new place in cooking, not realizing that the flavour of the chicken soup had intensified by using my 'long-lost' pressure cooker. At a 'cooking' temperature reaching 250 degrees, the steam generated inside this pressure pot literally cooked the chicken from the inside out, intensifying its flavour and producing a more nutrient rich soup. Could take-out fried chicken be next?

Decades ago, after arriving home from school and realizing I had forgotten to take something out of the freezer, I thought we were doomed to eat eggs again. Then I remembered the pressure cooker. The countdown to dinner began as I waited for this prized 'cooking assistant' to begins its magic, in real time, in no time, tenderizing the meat with incredibly high pressure steam from this '1973' futuristic 'appliance.' After 15-20 minutes of 'pressure cooking', I turned off the burner and waited for cooling and depressurization to occur, taking about 20-30 minutes. I then removed the partially frozen roast. Slices of it were made, then cubed, and finally returned to the pot to begin another countdown to taste perfection. The vegetables were added, 'layered' near the end of the cooking process. Since foods have different cooking rates, they should cooked in staggered fashion in the pressure cooker for taste, tenderness and nutrient integrity. Within one hour of arriving home from school, a delicious stew had been made, as tender and flavourful, as any that might have slow cooked for 2-3 hours. And all it took was a pressure cooker to do it. ...(Take-out could never compete with the pressure cooker on cost, nutrient content, flavour and time).

Today, the array of modern table top appliances is mind-boggling. But nothing can compare with the pressure cooker and its interior 250 degree temperature. Steam both cooks and tenderizes in record time. But my cooking arsenal has been up-graded, now, to include my Phillips Air Fryer, a name synonymous with quality and my childhood. It was bought two years ago and is akin to a mini-oven and fryer in one. Re-heating suitably baked or fried foods is a breeze. (I have baked 4 cookies, in an emergency dessert situation fashioning a baking sheet out of aluminum foil). I used the fryer, one day, to re-heat pizza. It was as though this party favourite had just come out of the oven. Pizza never tasted so yummy. The Phillips Air Fryer's method, with 1 tablespoon of oil, has given french fries new meaning for me. The air moves while the food remains within its tightly woven wire-basket. After many months of use and asking “Do you want fries with that” I decided to up my french fry game. Something was missing. Frying them in another pot with added oil in the last few minutes of doneness gave me what I was looking for: that take-out golden look and flavour hit. ... Food truck fries had finally arrived - in my kitchen!

In the Air Fryer by Phillips, I now enjoy fries without guilt, using organic or non-GMO oils, with high smoke point, just in case. (Momsey is highly suspicious of 'marketplace' fries). Is the oil being used changed as often as it should be? (Over-used and unsuitable oil is a menace to human health). Are trans-fats being used? I am now in french fry heaven. (Sweet potato fries are next).

The re-introduction of the pressure cooker and the purchase of the Phillips Air Fryer have made the kitchen a practical fun place to be. Delivering chicken fingers with yummy spicy fries, quickly, means my take-out world has finally come home to stay. I now have more time to relax, play with my animals, de-stress them with dry-brushing and figure out how to make a perfect Mojito, just in case.

The 'Burden' of Curfews

Curfews were a mainstay of my upbringing, understood but never mentioned. I just knew. There were implied rules that seemed to hold to this test of time. Decades later, as the mother of three sons, time management seemed to be a good measure of our effectiveness as parents. If our sons could not manage their time and the activities within this 24-hour window, while living with us, then somehow we had failed them. Society would eventually become their cruel masters.

I remember it well, the day when the rule of curfews was abolished for our children. It was graduation day for our oldest. All three would hear the new 'family directive' prior to the ceremonies. Later that evening they watched mom give the parent address to the audience of grade 8 graduates, teachers, parents and guests. “New Beginnings” was the title of the four minute speech which was well received, I could see. (Praise by others soon followed). 

 

Within the next three years, our sons would be in the big leagues: high school. It would become a tumultuous period and the only time to test what they had learned during the 'elementary' period of the previous 9 years of life with mom as the director of operations! Curfews are arbitrary rules or laws that can help or hinder development. During infancy and the 'play period' of a child's life, curfews help establish the rules and purpose of conduct. Soon, however, parents must begin the process of letting go. 

 

My life became simpler when 'curfews' became the responsibility of our sons. It was the next step in the acquisition of independence and freedom. (For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.) It was understood that our sons had control, most of the time, over their lives, within their various environments: home, school, and the workplace. There were many people to consider and animals to care for in this new world order. These were called obligations and responsibilities, things real adults managed daily. It was a busy time but a fun time, too.  I wanted little to do with the 'details' of our sons' lives. I had enough to do.There were boundaries, stated and implied with household duties, as well. ... 

 

Abolishing curfews generated new found respect for one another. Trust was the main component of this new arrangement, that solid foundation upon which all relationships are built. It would be a test for real life. ...

Reaching that magical 'adult' age of 13 years, marks the beginning of a grand dress rehearsal that brings our children closer to real life, the testing ground of independent readiness. It was incumbent upon us to mix the 'marketplace' and the mettle of our sons, in tandem, as soon as possible. Grade 9 seemed a good place to start and end the established law of curfews. 

 

Coping and resilience were qualities we hoped our children would possess by high school. Making sound decisions, exercising good judgement while away in university, college or travelling could be problematic if our sons had not 'practiced' this critical skill-set, early in life. Under the guise of no-curfews, our sons began to exercise this new found freedom. Informing us of their plans was the only condition placed upon them. (No curfews also helped to characterize us as 'user-friendly' people). ... 

 

Our sons' first trip as licensed drivers required a phone call upon arrival; another, upon departure. It was a critical first step for them/us. It was a basic requirement for the awesome privilege of driving a car owned by another person. Week-day evenings were not sacrosanct. School, homework, band practice and eventually part-time jobs were there to consider, too. 

 

Time management was the name of this adult game. Adding curfews to their already busy schedules would demean our sons and diminish their effectiveness as the adults they were. (I did not need or want another role). If a crisis arose, they needed to be able to solve it expeditiously, without curfews added to the mix. 

 

Respecting the rights and privacy of family members was also a driving force behind 'no curfews'. Arriving home, anytime, was not the purpose of this new standard. That would have showed a complete lack of consideration, respect and trust for family members, including two large dogs who needed their sleep, too. Our pets had rights, too, with sleep being at the top of their list. Everything was simplified and amplified. And it worked because it was expected to.

When the 5 years of high school ended, our boys were ready for real-life beyond the safe, predictable place called home. By this time, they understood and could appreciate the wonders and complexities of the future that they had envisioned. They had multi year experience in planning and organizing their lives and making decisions based upon what was important to them. (Money management was at the top of their list). ... Imposing curfews would have been a burdensome rule for them. It was simply nonsense. I was not their jailer.

 

Though  studying and homework were important and all-consuming, at times, I imagined other things mattered, too, like helping a friend or simply being with him/her during the weekday. In the final analysis as long as each son was ready to meet the school bus by 7:00 a.m., each week-day morning, our liberal experiment had succeeded.

The Expectant Momsey Editor

The Momsey editor is expecting this spring. The diminutive young lady who walked into our lives, a few years ago, is now, in stark contrast to The Momsey of yore, enjoying this time of 're-birth', renewal and eating! As a first-time mother-to-be, The Momsey was sick, day in and out, while hoping the fetus would survive inside the womb. We mused at the comparisons.

Lucy has been eating, non-stop, every hour-and-forty minutes, throughout her pregnancy. She is now in her third trimester, a period of great weight gain for baby, before life, outside. Lucy has a timer to remind her to eat. She recently passed 30 weeks gestation, a milestone Momsey never reached with her first. My, how times have changed. So much has been learned about birth since then. The words, “I am hungry” were foreign to me. Morning sickness was an all-day event for me yet a foreign concept to Lucy. ... She is enjoying herself in this newest life-altering chapter of her life. She takes being pregnant very seriously as she goes about her job of managing her 'Music in the Home' company. When she wakes in the middle of the night, she eats. During the day, she eats at normal times, with added meals in between. She rarely eats red meat preferring 'high protein' plants to feed her ever-growing precious cargo. Beans are her favourite go-to protein 'bar', in either chickpeas or mixed beans 'flavour'. My. My. Homemade reigns. It is refreshing to know someone who is enjoying this period of her life. Being pregnant with my second child was a painful time knowing I could give birth, perilously, at the 5-month mark. But here, with Lucy, no such threat exists.

Lucy's moments of hunger are expected and planned for. She craves only the best for her baby while she is mindful of the foods that might cause an allergy, later, in her newborn's life. She nixes any food with nuts, just in case. When we first met, her love affair with salads was unusual. Who eats leftover salads, anyway? Now, it is one of many significant food sources for 'Timmy'. How refreshing to see such dedication to a well-executed plan for a developing fetus. My first-born depended upon a limited supply of whole grains that I was able to tolerate, for only a few minutes, before 'havoc' paid a visit, 30 minutes later. “I'm hungry”, she responds when asked how she is doing. This time is easy. This time is fun. She has had enough health challenges in the years before now. Today, it is clear sailing and it is about time!

Lucy holds people she cares about in high regard and is always happy to see them. She is a GPS, in disguise. Nothing stops her, except when it is time to feed 'Timmy'. She is very meticulous about the most important job she has ever undertaken: the creation of a human being growing inside her. 'Timmy' is a priority, each and every moment of the day or night. Snacks are in abundance for instant gratification and nothing is left to chance. All meals are carefully chosen and prepared in accordance to her rigid adherence to nutrient dense foods. She has a mid-wife monitoring her, every two weeks, now. (A hospital is nearby for that 'you never know' moment.) I should know. Decades ago, my family doctor left me 'holding the bag'. In the throes of full blown labour, yet over 3 months before delivery and not knowing this, I drove myself home from my doctor's appointment only to realize the depth of my medical crisis. He was unaware. I had been abandoned. It is amazing how a crisis can suddenly wake you up to a new reality that you are now in charge of the life of another human being, unable to communicate.

Throughout my own pregnancies, decades ago, I craved wholesome foods. But that horrible queasy feeling never left me. Our first born was 'crafted' out of buckwheat kasha, cornmeal, oatmeal, red river cereal and cream of wheat. With Lucy, however, a modified food pyramid is front and center in her journey to motherhood. She loves all foods and all foods love her. Wow, such devotion. The web has acted as her adjunct professor, helping her find the answers she needs. With the birth of their baby, Lucy will have come full circle and finally know unconditional love, a love like no other.

A few weeks ago, Lucy's father died. He was 64 and alone when it happened. He was excited to become a grandfather. It is a sad day knowing that will never happen. Lucy is comforted by the knowledge that a father-daughter relationship had been maintained, however strained, over the past 7 years. He had told her how proud he was of her achievements and those of her partner, my son. She gave the eulogy only a loving daughter could. He will be sorely missed.

2017's: Eat More Pie!

As I finished the incredible apple pie, I had just made, I remarked to my husband that my New Year's resolution was to eat more pie. How could I not! There was a condition, however. All pies had to be made by me. No visits to the bakery, in-store or not! No short cuts, whatsoever. Ha. Ha. I knew there was a catch!

The New Year's resolution to eat more pie seemed like such a ridiculous notion. How did that happen? More importantly, why did it happen? Could it have been the result of savouring, not eating, my still warm apple pie, at that moment of truth? Of course, it was. The pie was homemade, nothing better, nothing more. It had been a few years since I had made an apple pie. Such tardiness on my part. (Last year, pie was not on my 'radar'. Most store-bought ones have hidden things in them that wreak havoc on my thyroid and health. No thanks. I must pay attention.) Over the holiday season, much food had been prepared. My best-ever stuffing was made using sourdough bread, made with eggs, dill and homegrown dried sage. I adore my stuffing, now. In my blog, The Simple Loaf of Bread, (8/2015) I soon discovered the health benefits of eating sourdough. (I now make sourdough breadcrumbs.) Sourdough is a bread that takes time, lots of it; while its costs, greater, to achieve the pinnacle of taste. ... (The Canadian Food Network Star, Anna Olson, a pastry chef, has remarked that the best breads are those that take 2-3 days to make. Sourdough then must be the best.) The secret lies in the slow, days-long fermentation process. The flavour is unlike anything I have known, with added health benefits, too. Now, back to the pie.

Apples had been on sale in the latter part of 2016. Since 'Mr. Wiggles' and 'Sally', our delightfully intelligent and adorable retrievers each devour one a day, it seemed prudent to buy a lot more of these important fruits for health. Alas, I had bought too many. We could not eat them fast enough so I had to rid the refrigerator of these perishable fruits the only way I knew. I had to make pies. I had not made pastry for a very long time. Once upon a time, I used pastry flour. Funny, how things change when new information is learned. Now, I use organic all-purpose, (less two tablespoons), then replace 'equally' with cornstarch. Anna Olson mentions this step when converting all-purpose flour into the other, softer version, for cake or pastry. I use organic white vinegar, too, added to cold water. (Sugar is added to apples in tablespoon increments, with extra lemon juice and cinnamon.)

As I bit into the tender, flakey morsel of apple pie, I blurted out my New Year's Resolution: to eat more pie; maybe cake, too. My taste buds could not believe what my mouth had said. (Neither could my husband). We laughed. It was an indescribable moment of deliciousness. A few days later, an Italian olive oil cake was made without using my gluten-free mix of concocted high protein flours. I followed the original recipe, as directed, but reduced the organic sugar amount more than I had done previously. Extra lemon zest and juice were included, along with an extra egg, into the egg/sugar mixture, beating well till the batter volume had increased. I took notes. I always do. I get confused, if I don't. The olive oil cake was over-the-top, delicious, made with the new changes. My husband preferred not to share what lay under the cake dome. I argued the point and won. I would make another one, later.

New Year's resolutions come and go, every year. The most popular ones have to do with health: exercise and a better diet. Those should be daily promises to ourselves, not yearly ones. To address the culprits of a diet gone wild we should look no further than to our carb 'littered' day. How wholesome are these energy filled foods, anyway? Was it really necessary to eat that high sugar/starchy dessert, whatever it was? Who made it and did they care about what they put into it? Maybe not. It is our body we are 'feeding'. Some of us have an affinity towards the decadent, occasionally. Momsey gives in to those delicious thoughts, but not without serious thought, now. I have noticed the difference in my joints and overall well being when dessert is reduced, eliminated or simply homemade.

Flavour and savour are my dynamic partners in my war on weight, equal partners in my homemade dessert mission for 2017. My taste buds hit the mother lode in every way when I'm in charge of making dessert. How can it not? Sugar is reduced, considerably, and the desire to indulge, again, is diminished greatly, over time, because I have 'experienced' the best. My brain is content and so am I. My 'unadorned' special teas are a part of the overall experience, a necessary part in helping process the carbs I am eating. A win-win situation all around for me and my three girls.

Being on close terms with the baker and pastry chef in me is to know I can have whatever I want, whenever I want it. That is what keeps me content. That is power! In-store bakeries and other free-standing ones do not stand a chance. Their products seem suspicious, now, and definitely too sweet for me. My 'homemade' sights are now turned to the ever popular lemon meringue, coconut cream and pecan pies. Their recipes will change to reflect Momsey's New Year's resolution mandate to eat more pie. It will be done. It must be done. Someone has to do it so it might as well be me.