The First White Christmas

Charles and I are back up in Ville-Marie, Témiscamingue, for Christmas. And while it would be out of character for me to not admit that I prefer it here in summer, it is exceptionally beautiful in winter, too. This has been my first-ever White Christmas and—boy, oh, boy!—has it turned it on for me. So. Much. Snow!

On Christmas Eve, we went to Midnight Mass with Charles's parents. Miraculously the church didn't burst into flames for hosting me, but that's a story for another time. On the big day, we had the full-shebang of roast turkey and bûche de Noël, and then the child-cousins killed lots of things dead on the newly-gifted X-Box: some things are universal, I guess.

It felt weird to be so far away from my own family and friends, that's the penalty of so much change. Thankfully all my French lessons are beginning to pay off, though. While the northern Québec accent still has me stumped on some pretty stock phrases, I can now communicate with non-English-speaking members of my new family-in-law and don't feel as bewildered by the conversation as I did back in July.

Yesterday, Charles and I decided to go work off the Christmas stuffing by snowshoeing at Rivière-des-Quinze, about 40km north of Ville-Marie. Stunning! There were only a few other adventurous souls out there, and we had the delight of a fresh track. The little bays, the long vistas and the abundant evidence of an active beaver population ensure we will be back again for a picnic come summer. The track we chose was quite rugged, and as I stopped and stared up one last major climb I was surprised to find myself suddenly on the verge of totally losing my s**t. It was nothing that some water and a good handful of dates and dried figs couldn't fix; however, after two hours of walking, when we finally doubled back on our tracks at the very beginning of the circuit, we found we could barely see them due to the effects of wind and snowfall. Having recently lost one of our beloved cats to hypothermia during a cold snap in Montréal, it was a healthy reminder to not be blithe about a harsh environment simply because it's not the Australian desert.

As we headed back to Ville-Marie, we realised that yesterday, the 28th, was the six-month anniversary of my arrival in Montréal. That was quick! Almost instantaneously, I got a craving for poutine, so we headed to the local casse-croûte, whereupon I promptly demolished a medium heap of that particularly Québécois delicacy—a new world record for me and a most appropriate way to celebrate.

Rediscovering the Forgotten

As predicted, I have managed to make myself pretty busy of late, but one of the things I am up to is 20 hours of French classes a week. My trip to class takes me through the beautiful Parc La Fontaine every morning and back again at lunchtime. I amuse myself with the squirrels' antics on the walk through the park, and I was quite amazed when I first saw the elusive champagne-coloured ones that live there. This morning as I wandered through, I realised that apart from a couple of days in Adelaide in May 2009, I haven't experienced an autumn for over a decade. A decade! Quel surprise! Maybe it's the novelty of it all, but I am finding this autumn in Montréal especially spectacular.

Last week, Amy, one of my oldest friends from my hometown, came to visit for five days. On her first day I took her for a walk up the Mont-Royal. It was yet another gloriously sunny day, and tiny yellow leaves were gently raining down through the sun's golden rays onto the wide, wide path. Oh, just stop it, you! We were both seriously impressed.

One of the great pleasures of a Northern autumn is harvest season, and the boys and I have been solid in our appreciation of that. The weekend before last we went apple picking at Vergers Philion, near Hemmingford, down by the U.S. border. Philion is an organic orchard and the air was filled with lady birds. I spent a busy five minutes trying to stop one or two from risking drowning in the port-a-loos on first arrival, only to realise there were 50 more banging on the door trying to get in. I just had to leave Mother Nature to deal with it in the end.

We picked about 7.5kg of apples and pears, and my great excitement of the day was Russet apples. I had never heard of them before: tough skinned, sweet and very firm in texture, they were once known as leatherjackets, and were hugely popular in Victorian times, though now fallen somewhat out of favour for anything other than cider production. What I was most fascinated to see were the 'cracked' ones on the first few trees we encountered. Cracking is technically a fault, caused by inconsistent water supply during the formation of the fruit, but it appealed to my Ugly can be beautiful too philosophy, and I picked a cheery armful, much to Lolo's bemusement. They were superb with cheese and bubbles the next day when we had visitors.

The other produce we couldn't help but see on our little road trip was pumpkin: totally ubiquitous around here at the moment! Strangely, though, Canadians don't eat that much pumpkin, certainly nothing like Australia's obsessive consumption from weaning to old folks' home. I'm having contraband thoughts of sneaking some seeds of my beloved Jap variety in from the Old Country to blow the minds of a few folks I know who think of them as only for making pie and as decorations. We've been busy eating pumpkin and peanut dip, pumpkin risotto, roast pumpkin, pumpkin in tagine, and roasted pumpkin seeds, peasants that we are! Interestingly, I encountered an article this week by a Paris-based writer, David Lebovitz, who noted that, despite the Légumes Oubliés movement in France, pumpkins still have too much of an association with war-time deprivation there to be commonly found in the markets. I also recall relatives of my former Italian bosses dismissing them as "pigs' food".

Autumn, pumpkins, Russets: forgotten, ignored or neglected all. When combined with a five-day visit from a beloved friend of over 20 years, it has been quite a pleasant couple of weeks of appreciating the Forgotten.

P.S. I've read no more of Proust than his infamous homage to the madeleine, but having been eating said cakelet for breakfast a bit lately, I can quite appreciate what all his fuss was about!

 Cracked Golden Russet apples:
hitting every branch on the way down as they fall out of the Ugly Tree!
 

Summer lovin'

Okay...it might be time to take a break from gallivanting across half of Québec to tell you a little bit about my adventures.

Just as I had hoped, I have been having a relaxing Northern summer, and it's been almost like finally having a honeymoon except for the fact that Charles has had to work. A few weeks ago now, we went for a trip to Charles's home region, almost nine hours' drive from Montréal, to spend some time with his immediate family—just the 15 of us! Only one brother-in-law was missing.

On the drive there we stopped at a picnic area for lunch and within 10 minutes Charles had snuffled out something he had long told me about: a patch of wild strawberries. They were everything I had hoped they would be! Tiny fruits as small as my little finger nail with more flavour in each one than a whole handful of commercially grown ones. There were also a few wild blueberry plants and raspberry canes, but it was just a little bit early for them, sadly, and there were only one or two ripe ones to be found. Charles showed me the types of spots the strawberries like to grow in—sunny patches that aren't prone to water-logging—and after that I was on the scout.

When we arrived at Charles's parents' home in Ville-Marie, Témiscamingue, we learned that a relative had been out picking wild strawberries and had discovered a plot so good he'd picked enough to make jam. Proving that blood is not thicker than a good confiture, he refused to tell anyone where his special spot was. I was scandalised, but apparently that is just how it goes, so we determined to find our own patch and be childish and not tell anyone else where it was either.

The next day we drove up and down the back roads, me oohing and aahing over the scenery while Charles eyed the grassy verges like a hawk. After two hot, dusty hours we stopped at yet another prospective patch—me losing a little hope if the truth be told—and blam! There it was! The motherlode!

What followed was one of the most perfect 30 minutes of my life: picking teensy, ripe, wild strawberries and the occasional blueberry under the summer sun in a daisy field with my beloved. Yep, perfect! We only stopped because that summer sun was pretty ferocious and we were starting to get sunburnt, but after half an hour of solid picking by two grown adults we were able to hold our heads high and return with this great bounty:

Um, yes, well...ahem! Do you like the way Charles cleverly chose a colour co-ordinating t-shirt for the outing? Oh, look over there! What's that?

Suffice to say no jam making for us, but we did have renewed respect for the elderly relative who had done so well. The next morning we were doubly lucky enough to be able to eat all of the haul for breakfast ourselves—the kids don't like blueberries (what!?) and the adults were kind and claimed they had already eaten a lot of wild strawberries this season, so we should have them. Since we still had to hull each berry, it took us another 30 minutes to polish them off.

So, as you may gather, I have had a very happy introduction to the joys of wild berry picking in North America. I look forward to it being a regular summer event over the coming years, just as I am looking forward to going apple picking in Autumn/Fall. Below is a picture of our special wild strawberry patch, the berry plants well hidden down below the daisies. But come now, beyond vague geographical hints, don't imagine for a second that I am going to tell you where it is!

In contemplation of brown spirits

Goddammit, I'm sick! After walking about seven kilometres yesterday through the Plateau District, then on to Downtown and Chinatown, I've succumbed to a cold. Given that we received a nice dollop of snow last night, it's probably best I stay indoors rather than traipse around town as I was hoping to do, but when you want to be adventuring, being sick is a frustration.

One of my favourite home remedies for a cold is the old faithful: hot lemon and honey. Even if its benefits are purely psychological given the destruction of the lemon's vitamin C by the boiling water, I'll happily take that placebo effect. I usually add thin slices of fresh ginger if I have it handy, which is probably the most useful ingredient. And on the occasions when I have some joint pain (as I do today), well, then ... my secret ingredient is a generous shot of some variety of brown spirits. Joint pain? Gone!

Brown spirits—whisky, whiskey, bourbon, brandy, dark rum, etc.—are not, in general, a favourite of mine. I've just never been able to get into them. White spirits—gin, vodka, even white rum in a well-made cocktail—are fine by me, but brown spirits have either failed to appeal or drawn outright disgust. After hearing many a friend extol the virtues of a cheeky snifter in the hot lemon pot, though, I tried it and had to concede it was rather helpful. It is the only time I drink such stuff.

I am, however, exceptionally curious about whisky, particularly single malts. As a lover of food and wine, ever interested in regional variations and the impact of 'terroir', I'm intrigued by the range of flavours reported. I also love smoked foods; Lapsang Suchong tea; a properly made, smoky babaganough; smoky pinot noirs ... so the prospect of a peaty, smoky-flavoured spirit appeals greatly to me. I also have this curious fantasy: Hopefully in the northern Fall, when I have moved to Montréal permanently, Charles and I will take a road trip to the Gaspé region. There, in my mind, it will be blowing a gale and be suitably autumnal. We will stay in a B&B with lace curtains, eat lobster rolls and seafood chowder, wear cream Aran fisherman's sweaters, and I will enjoy drinking whisky as we laugh in the face of the cold. You see, my fantasies are pretty innocent, really. The only catch to this scheme is my current aversion to brown spirits.

Of course, I have a plan to overcome this. My friends Jane and Chedy are big lovers of Scotch, Laphroaig being their favourite. I am going to visit them at their Northern New South Wales multiple occupancy community (no, it's not a commune!) in April, so I shall take a bottle of Laphroaig with me and, by hook or by crook, I will enjoy the damn stuff by the time my long weekend stay is over.

For now though I see that it has passed the hopefully-acceptable time of 10am and it is still snowing in big, fat flakes. So I am off to make a pot of hot lemon and honey with a little dash of something extra. Santé!

All in a day's work

Entrance to Mossman Gorge Centre

Wow! Crazy times! I am in the middle of the biggest three weeks of my annual work calendar and tomorrow it is only two weeks until I get married. I have so much I want to write about and absolutely zero time to write about it (except for these precious few moments tonight before I pass out cold on my bed).

This weekend is the Cairns Indigenous Art Fair (CIAF). My organisation historically does three months' regular trade in a week during this time. The amount of work to prepare for and clean up from such intensity is immense, but it is very rewarding and it's great to catch up with so many people in the industry and see what artists have been working on since last year.

The two artists we are presenting in our galleries have absolutely knocked it out of the park: both have developed the work in their exhibitions as a result of residencies and both have reached a new level of technical mastery and clarity of self-expression. I'm really happy for both of them and proud to be able to sell their work, although, really, it's selling itself, I'm just holding on to my hat trying to keep up with demand! We were also beyond privileged today when Seaman Dan offered to sing a song as part of the opening ceremonies for the exhibitions. He's just released a new CD at age 83, so much for his plan to retire from singing at 80! He was amazing, of course.

In the lead up to CIAF I went on two great road trips. One to the Girringun Art Centre in Cardwell, and another to the recently opened Mossman Gorge Centre, which is an initiative of the Mossman Gorge Aboriginal Community and employs 80% of the community.

Sugar mill, Tully

The trip to Girringun is three hours' drive each way, into the coastal country south of Cairns that was so devastated by Cyclone Yasi in February 2011. The Girringun artists were in the pre-CIAF production frenzy and two workmates and I went there to bring screenprint editions to the artists to sign. I won't post photos from the Art Centre because every which way you turned a photo opportunity would be a breach of artists' copyright since they weren't all there to ask permission of; however, the mood in the Art Centre was uplifting—everyone was excited about their work and there was a lot of playful teasing going on between the artists, making for a fun and funny working environment. It was also a perfect Far North Queensland mid-winter's day and it was sugar cane harvest, so the air was thick with sweet smoke and dust, and the steam plumes coming out of the sugar mills along the way were beautiful in the afternoon sunlight. It was one of those days in life that is just perfection in every way, right down to working on the tan during a late lunch of barra burger on the beachfront with a view over to Hinchinbrook Island.

Cardwell looking to Hinchinbrook Island

Cardwell

Mossman is another sugar town, but an hour and a bit to the north of Cairns. It is one of my favourite towns in the region. The Visitor Centre is the culmination of 20 years of work from the local Indigenous community to make their vision of a sustainable way to have tourists come to view their Country a reality and provide jobs for the community. As a $20M development, it is a massive achievement for the community and their funding partners and has consistently hosted 800–1,000 visitors a day during the two months it has been open—that's equivalent to a CIAF a fortnight! The Centre is environmentally and culturally sensitive and stunning and will disappear into the rainforest in a few years as the forest regrows from the reclaimed sugar cane field the Centre is built upon. It was a very happy day. 

I may complain about a lot of things in this life, but a boring job is never one of them.

Mossman Gorge Centre

Sugar cane field near Mossman