Of Porridge, Stollen, and Mead

I have been sleeping in this week. My son wakes me up and asks for a "proper breakfast". He's mimiccing my words. "Porridge?" I ask, and I am thrilled he says yes. I happen to have some coarsely ground organic wheat berries that the kids in his class milled with a pedal mill from Our Community Bikes. It cooked up in about ten minutes and he absolutely loved it with almond milk and brown sugar. Great. I have been eating low fat yogurt, pears or apples, and chia seeds for my breakfast.


However, I must confess I have been indulging in winter treats. Arggh. It gets me every time--all that butter in the Christmas cookies and stollen that I love so much. As my Hungarian friend says, it adds rings around the middle like a tree expanding with its yearly growth. It's dark. It's cold. I want to crawl under my electric blanket and dream, perchance to catch a glimpse of the next big step I'll take in my life. I can go for walks here in Vancouver almost any time of the year, but this is the time of year where I miss the cross-country skiing and skating of living in a cold climate. (Well, I miss apres ski hot cocoa even more.) I've been yearning for a family Christmas in a big old country lodge in Alberta or the Eastern Townships where you can ski and eat and then take a plunge in the outdoor hot tub under the stars. Expand and contract those blood vessels! I'm getting invigorated just thinking about it.

Yesterday I set off like a mad squirrel on a secret mission in search for stolen on for half price after Christmas. I love the mouth-feel of the sweet crunch of the icing sugar and granulated sugar covering the rich, nutty bread with its rum-soaked raisins and soft marzipan heart. After dinner, Peter and I slice piece after piece of it, with ceremonious and tender reverence. It's so good. We also opened a bottle of Tugwell Creek Melomel, which is one of my favorite festive treats. It's not sweet enough to have with the stollen, so maybe we'll have to open a bottle of port too . . . .