1 ripe avocado
1 T pure cocoa powder
1 t cinnamon
1/2 T pure maple syrup or honey (to taste)

Mash the avocado in a bowl, then thoroughly mix in the spices and sweetener. I use my potato masher in a flat-bottomed bowl when I am in a hurry (hence the green bits). If you are inclined, throw it all in the food processor and whiz until smooth.

The texture and appearance is similar to chocolate pudding and I heartily market it as such.

I always serve this dip in a small dish for dipping with apple slices, pear or berries. My kids generally will not touch avocado, but they love this stuff! For little ones who cannot yet do apple pieces, I will spoon-feed this with a side of apple sauce or grated raw apple, or banana pieces.

My Mom used to diligently tuck her pants into her socks before she got into Old Yeller.

Old Yeller was a 1954 yellow Ford pick-up with his name brushed in turquoise paint across the hood.  The bench seat was lacking somewhat, but bolstered by skeins of baler twine piled high enough to cover the wire springs that were likely to catch the crotch of your pants as you exited and entered the truck.  Entering and exiting were quick because there was no door on the drivers’ side.

Mom also pounded the seat a few times before she got in.  Naively, I always assumed this was a gesture of propriety.  I was young, so the comic irony of dusting off that seat was lost on me.

I learned to drive Old Yeller before I was quite tall enough to reach the pedals and see over the hood at the same time.  Not long after, I asked Mom about the pants thing.  Why the tucking?

She looked at me with seriousness – knowing she was about to unleash fear into the future of her blonde-haired blue-eyed baby.  She was hesitant.

“You whack the seat to scare the mice out of the truck,” she paused.  ”Then you tuck in your pants so a mouse can’t run up your pant leg while you are driving.”

Now my father probably could catch a fleeing mouse in the groin of his coveralls and dispose of it without taking his eyes off the road.  The man is virtually unflappable.  But I assure you that NO ONE wanted a mouse to run up the pant leg of my mother, especially while she was driving.  The possibility of scurrying vermin entering her clothing struck such fear in her heart that she never – ever – entered that truck without whacking the seat and tucking in her pants.

She wasn’t paranoid, by the way.  Mice are small and they hide, but they were there – in the seats of old trucks, munching lingering bits of grain in augers, machinery and wooden granaries.  We had fat, well-fed farm cats that we never fed.  There were mice a’plenty.  But that was on the farm.

So, when I made my way to the compost bin last week and began heartily turning the bin with my pitchfork, I was more than a little surprised when a scurrying, desperate mouse flipped up in the bin and began to run circles around my fork.

Unfortunately, I didn’t really inherit the unflappable nerves on my paternal side.  The next few minutes involved some gasping, muted screams, the hose, the tucking of the pants, some skulking up to the bin and banging on the outside of it, and the most cowardly act of all…

“Sweetie, peek over the edge and tell me if the mouse is still in there, okay?”

She peeked, and he was out of sight.  (She did ask to see him!)

At this moment, my neighbour, who was raking his leaves, perches a baited, set mousetrap atop the fence.  He even provided a stick for me to carry the trap to the bin without touching it!  My hero!

The next day I batted my eyes at Den Dad and asked him to empty the trap for me and return it to the neighbour.  Another (reluctant) knight in shining armour!

I couldn’t bring myself to dig in with my fork for two weeks.  I kept imagining a skewered, wriggling mouse.  When I finally did give things a stir, all was compost-y, damp and still.

Until yesterday, when a new set of little black eyes peered out at me on about the third turn.  I watched him do a few laps, then I tucked in my pants and took a deep breath.

I pulled the bin apart.  I used my fork to spread out the compost and left it in a thin layer on the ground for a few nights.  The black bin is a warm refuge on these now-freezing nights, and it needs to get less comfortable.  I pulled out the finished compost, then re-layered the leftovers in the bottom half of one bin with some fall leaves. I left the top half off.  The other bin is empty and sitting out in the middle of the garden.

And if I am brave enough to get them going again, you will see me tucking in my pants.

WOW.  Revolutionary.

I am not a document and data kind of person, but I have always thought of myself as rather reflective and self-aware.  Thoughtful, even.  Sadly, it turns out that I am blatantly subjective when it comes to my personal well-being and perhaps a little less “aware” than I thought.

The beginning of my period always induced one of two reactions:  ”What?!  Already?”  or “Did I skip a month?… It feels like I skipped a month.”  I have traditionally felt this was my burden to bear as a woeful woman with irregular cycles.

Turns out I’m as steady as a clock, within a day or two.

I have also proclaimed over the last twenty years that I don’t really suffer from PMS.  I just feel crampy, dizzy and miserable on Day 1, take a bunch of Tylenol and move on.  The noble gentleman who has lived with me for fifteen of those years will sit straight-faced at a table while I share this information with someone.

Turns out I am cranky, irritable, depressed and exhausted for at least 48 hours between Day 21 and 26.  In this 48 hours, I also want something like brownies and ice cream very badly no matter how solidly I am on the diet, the exercise schedule or the educational programme.

Note to the app developers:  An email warning to one’s partner would be a prudent option, here.  A “purchase” button for FLOWERS or CHOCOLATE is also a good idea.

Said noble gentleman noticed long ago and pays attention, listening with an empathetic ear to my unique struggles each month and never telling me to get over my PMS-y self because…

Turns out I am considerably more … friendly… on Day 28 and 29.  Dirtbag.

Now, I need to make a couple of excuses for myself.  I was on the pill for a very short time in 1996, but haven’t been since.  I am assuming this is a fairly common method of tracking one’s personal hormonal havoc.  Also, I took about 5 years off… with all the babies and such, where I had three or four periods total.  Preggo and Lacto have their advantages, to be sure.  And, I’m busy.  One repetitive, irritating, inevitable event is not worth an extra ounce of my precious mental energy.  I’m not one of those girls who will wax poetic about the torture and tribulation of the feminine plight.  It’s whatever.

But, now that I know… liberty, my lady friends.

I am not cyclically responsible for overdoing it and putting myself in a stressed, unhealthy state that manifests in a cortisol meltdown…  tighter compliance to the diet and exercise regimen may not necessarily help.  My expectations for life performance in general can be a bit different on certain days because I know the factors at play under the surface.  I indulge a little today because it is THAT DAY that comes only once a month and I know I will feel more normal tomorrow.  I make an effort to not dump on my family.  It really is me, not them.  Hormones actually can and do make you a bit crazy, but not less of a responsible and normal human being.  Done.

Weird, to be sure, that I am getting my head around this at an age that suggests menopause more than adolescence, but perhaps this is the point in my life at which my health has mattered to me most.  Certainly I am working harder at it than I ever have.

In the future, ANY weight tracking, fitness performance, mood and appetite tracking I do will all by done with my cycle on the same calendar.  It is not a small contributing factor, but a series of major hormonal shifts every month.  Every day I am making decisions about diet and exercise as a result of how I feel:  why not make those decisions proactively, with all the pertinent information at hand?  Makes sense to me.

Awareness is enough for me, but f you are interested in more, “That Paleo Guy” presents a thorough run-down on menstruation and performance here and here.

My mom always grows Cobra staking tomatoes.  I’ve mentioned her greenhouse, but have I mentioned that she waters with warm water?  She prunes and ties up her plants so that they grow into perfect towers of production.  It is entirely possible that she sings to them on star-lit nights.  Whatever her secret, they are abundant and amazing.

In lieu of the tomatoes-on-toast I ate every day for years through this season, this has been breakfast lately:  Two giant slices of tomato, half an avocado, three or four slices of bacon and two fried eggs.  Not too shabby… this baby was the size of a pie plate.

Only one of my girls really loves tomatoes, but I presented them in a kids’ lunch the other day and they went down smoothly.

Tomato, Chicken and Bacon Lunch

• 4 slices of bacon, cut cross-ways
• ¼ a small onion
• 2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut in strips
• 3 – 5 ripe tomatoes
• half an avocado
• salt and pepper to taste

In a hot skillet, fry bacon in bits.  When it is almost done, add onion and sauté until soft.  Remove bacon and onion from pan.  Turn up the heat to medium-high and fast-fry chicken.  When cooked, stir in bacon and onion, then remove from heat and cover.

Dice the tomatoes and avocado and stir together with a small amount of salt and pepper.  Serve a scoop of chicken with a scoop of tomato and avocado on top.

I cut up my chicken the night before and put it in the fridge in a small container.  You could also easily use leftover chicken.  Total cook time is less than 10 minutes.

I should have known what would happen, being an authentic farm girl and all…

I planted a little garden at my house this year, but I planted a much bigger one at my retired parents’ farm.  I chose to put the lower-maintenance items out there, believing I would need to do some processing and picking later in the season, but not routine “tending” beyond a couple weeding trips.

I can buy into the liberty garden concept: that producing our own food from quality soil is a better choice, and it certainly is more economical if it goes well, right?

I was also really looking forward to spending more time with my parents, and I wanted the girls to experience the farm more fully.  It is only a couple hours’ drive out of the city, but we do not go often enough.  There are acres of bush to play in, horses to ride and kittens to catch and tame.  It is beautiful, quiet and safe.  Time spent out there is always good for my soul.

I planted rows and rows in early June, but the weather was suddenly warm and dry.  The wind blew for three weeks under clear skies and not a single weed or seed sprouted.

My father, watching the bare ground out his window and watering every day, re-seeded green beans and carrots at the end of June.  He tended all the seedlings I had transplanted from my little trays.  This garden, that I had promised would not cost him an ounce of sweat, could not die under a retired rancher’s watchful eye.

Then, it began to rain.  Alberta received more rain in the last week of June than we usually get in a summer.  After that, it rained more.  Then the sun shone and things GREW.

Everything came up and grew lush and thick; the original rows and the new rows planted between them.  All those rows went into full production and I have been picking and canning and blanching and freezing and dehydrating ever since.  How exciting to have produced masses of amazing food!  But…

I am beyond stupid-tired.  I do not exaggerate when I say that there has been an extra 20 hours or so each week since August 1st that I have spent picking, scrubbing and boiling things in giant vats.  I didn’t really have an extra 20 minutes in each of my working weeks.

I am not sure why this surprises me, but it does explain a certain lack of enthusiasm on my Mother’s part.  She knew.

We did 40 quarts of tomatoes and we will do 40 more.  There are 20 pints each of green and red tomato salsa, about 24 family-sized frozen bags of green beans, a few beet pickles and frozen bags of beets.  I have  30 spaghetti squash and 12 pumpkins.  In August I pitted and dried four gallons of sour cherries and I’ve turned 10 gallons of apples into fruit leather (there are 8 more gallons in the basement that I’m working on).  We ate corn on the cob twice a week all month and I have another couple weeks of feeding left.  We have eaten snap peas, onions, fresh beans, cucumbers, tomatoes, zucchini, purple cabbage and turnips.  This weekend I washed half the patch of carrots.  Observe the load in my van last Friday when we came home after our weekend work-venture.  This is the peak.

The idea of growing your own food is a stellar pursuit, but to truly feed one’s family is more than a full-time job from August 1st to October 31st… I expect I have put away only about 20% of the fruit and veggie mass we will need for the winter, but even for that small amount I’m not sure I can afford the cost of this workload in September – the month when my team needs their head coach to have her head in the game.

I will be gushing about the amazing taste and incredible dishes we have come up with (101 ways to eat spaghetti squash, anyone?).   I hope I will also be marvelling at a dent in our grocery bill.

Our house is full of fresh food that we grew ourselves.  We will be making a trek next weekend to the farm to clean up our planting ground and sit back and be thankful for what the earth has given us.  It is much to be thankful for, indeed.

Six kids. All day. Every day. We are outside as much as humanly possible and visit the playground frequently. Very little in the house gets done.

We escaped on a family holiday for a week to the lovely Okanagan Valley. We swam, played, drank wine and spent time with my 92 year old Grandma, who I have not seen in three years. It was valuable beyond measure.

Den Dad and I snuck away ‘sans enfants’ for three days of backcountry hiking. The weather was chilly and the mosquitoes were thick, but the weekend alone was gloriously quiet. On Day 2, at 2400 m, we hunkered down above a snowbank to make some fresh coffee. There were wildflowers blooming around our feet. If that doesn’t rejuvenate a soul….

The first haul from the garden produced two gallons each of fingerling carrots and beets from thinning, three gallons of green beans for blanching, a gallon of sugar snap peas and a five gallon pail of turnips. The greenhouse is spitting out long English cucumbers by the dozen and the tomatoes are an impending tsunami of goodness.

We are embracing the desperate fervor of an eight-week summer with all we have. I will reflect more in September when I’m down to only four little friends during the day. Much is percolating…

I used cucumber, cheese and ham because I had it, but think bacon-tomato-avocado, or egg slice-mayo-bacon, or pork-apple-cheese… What I like about these is that I can use any kind of roasted meat as filler.  Any slice-able leftovers from last night’s supper will work.  Cucumbers are excellent little platters for holding the good stuff.

Last Saturday, she was my little, little girl again at a karate tournament.

When they announced that they wanted everyone to try a team kata, she asked two boys from her dojo to form a team at the last minute.  They were 12 and 14, and they said “yes.”  She had the highest ranking belt, so she was the team captain… a tiny blonde between two towering teenagers.

She made a tiny mistake coming out of the gate – one of her teammates caught it and adapted, the other didn’t.  It threw their timing off in the first few moves.  When they didn’t place she stood back, avoiding their eyes.  I helped her talk to them for a minute.  It was okay.

When it came time for her to do her solo kata, she was blushing and her allergies started to act up.  She began scratching her neck and sneezing.  She practised ten times in the hallway.

When you do a kata, you execute a series of karate stances, kicks, blocks and punches in a series.  You perform side-by-side with another competitor of similar rank.  When you are both finished, the five judges sitting at the edge of the ring flip a flag to vote for the winner.  It is ruthless and instant.

First round she performed perfectly, but she was up against the star of the tournament and she lost unanimously.  When they called her up for a second round she stepped to the line with twice the uncertainty.  She turned the wrong way and missed a step.  By then, she had also lost her kiai (the strong battle cry that accents certain moves).  She finished quietly and lost unanimously again, but this time it felt worse.

When the sparring round started, I was starting to feel queasy.  In a class of 7 to 9 year-olds, some of the pairs were aggressive and serious as they went after each other in their first round.  She hasn’t had any real experience or guidance doing formal sparring at our dojo.  She took some wild swings at a young man who was clean and took the round 3 to 0.

At the end of the day, she was disappointed and exhausted.  Her Sensei congratulated her, proud that she had done all three events.  Her dad and I hugged her to death.

It is easy to be proud of your kid when they have a gold medal hanging around their neck.  It is bittersweet when they have proven their character so thoroughly without any external reward.

I know, I know… the external reward is not really the most important thing.  But it feels important when you are seven, you really wanted a medal, you worked your butt off, and so many others are posing for photos with their rewards clanging about their necks.

I’m no karate expert, but the formalities, the protocol and the attack plan seemed much more familiar to everyone else in each event. Much of it was stuff I hadn’t seen happening in our classes as of late.  I feel like her instructors could have given her a little more before she was thrown to the wolves and I am going to decide how to address that.  But, I need to be careful.

I am a bit of a perfectionist.  Definitely quite competitive.

I have to be careful how much I want her to do well.  When I push for excellence – that I know she is capable of – is it too much?  I would never want her to feel disapproval for making a mistake, for not winning… never.  But does she interpret it that way when I push her to practise an extra time?  Where is that line?

I was pushed when I was growing up.  Not in a Tiger Mom sort of way – I was never shamed or abused – but my parents expected my best when it was important.  Piano practise was the battle of the house for a long time.  Mom was determined to get my sister and I to where we could read music with some competence.  Years later there came a point where we pushed ourselves much further because we could really play.  It was fun.  Looking back, I am grateful that she pushed us through the beginning.  There was also horsemanship, public speaking, school… these are all things my parents expected us to invest in.  We were not always at the top, but often pretty close.

I want my daughter to know that she can compete with the best if she wants to.  I want her to feel the amazing reward in working hard and doing well.

If she is to keep competing, she needs to be better equipped.  She also needs to start enjoying herself a little more.  We may just begin training at a dojo where there are other students at her level.  We will probably forego the tournaments for a while.

She fought through three tough events without asking to quit.  I don’t really know what was going on in her head, but at the end of the day she seemed able to see that her performance was not only ferociously brave, but also a personal best.

She is only seven.

And I am so very, very proud of her.

1/2 cup onion, diced

1 cup raw bacon, sliced crossways into bits (1/2 cup cooked bacon)

reserved bacon drippings + coconut oil or unsalted butter to make 1/2 cup

8 eggs

2/3 cup coconut flour

1/2 tsp baking soda

1 cup sharp cheddar cheese (optional)

Slice partially frozen bacon cross-ways to make bits and brown it on medium-high in a skillet.  When the bacon is almost done, add the diced onion, reduce heat and cook until the onion is translucent.  Remove from heat, drain the bacon fat into a heat-proof measuring cup and add coconut oil or unsalted butter to bring the volume up to 1/2 a cup.  I just heard the heart-healthy people gasp!

Whisk eggs, bacon, onion and fat together.  Sift coconut flour and soda into a separate container.  Add the cheese to the dry mixture and coat with flour.  Fold together.

Drop by generous spoonfuls on a parchment-lined cookie sheet or into papered muffin tins.

Bake at 400 F for 15 minutes.

Makes about 16 delicious morsels.

This was our lunch with a side of raw veggies. Super-healthy and tasty… even for those who will not eat fish in any other form! I prep the mixture early in the morning, then fry them up at lunchtime.

Fish Cakes

2 cans wild salmon

1 can flaked tuna

3 eggs

1/3 cup minced onion

3 teaspoons dried dill (fresh is better if you have it, but use quite a bit more)

1 1/2 Tablespoons (a hefty squirt) of prepared mustard

1/2 tsp salt

1 tsp fresh ground pepper

1/4 to 1/3 cup sifted coconut flour

Drain and remove the spine from the canned fish. Place all ingredients in a bowl and combine with a fork or gently pulsing food processor. Add a bit more coconut flour if needed to get the mixture to adhere. Coconut flour will absorb more moisture as it sits, so err on the side of a little less. If the first batch doesn’t hold together well, you can always add a little more.

Drop with a spoon into a medium-hot cast iron skillet, well-oiled. I gently pat them down with the spoon to make a “patty”… there is no need to pre-shape them if you make your patties on the small side. Gently flip them over after a full two or three minutes. You will get a feel for the cooking time, depending on your patty size and heat.

You can vary the fish content as you wish: pure salmon, pure tuna (might be a little dry), or leave the bones in and whiz with the food processor… whatever your clientele can handle.