Going Home

I went home to the Okanagan this weekend. Not that I lived there very long, but it was a very special place, and driving along highway 97, the road sometimes hugging the shore of Okanagan Lake, made it seem like just a while ago. It tugged at my heart, and brought back wonderful memories.

My family moved around a fair bit. It wasn’t that my Dad worked in a field that required that; it was more that he was a greener pastures kind-of-guy. The short time we spent in Summerland, B.C. was idyllic. We rented a house on top of a hill surrounded by orchards. We were free to help ourselves to the fruit from the various surrounding orchards, which were rented by someone else. As an 8 year old, I enjoyed exploring the area with my older sister and two younger brothers. We had special place names for various spots: a neighbouring hill with pine trees, a lower pasture that had some horses, the apricot grove, a nearby gravel pit. We had a little clubhouse in a tiny outbuilding, and collected birds nests, and any other interesting things we could find.

Our garden boasted strawberries and raspberries; and the basement had a real root cellar for storing carrots and potatoes and canned goods. It was at that time that we got our precious beagle puppy, Daisy. We adored her. She ran around the tall grass in the orchards and all you could see was the white tip of her tail, wagging. The house looked out over the lake and down below at Rotary Beach we learned to swim. Years later in (Catholic) school, when the topic of “heaven” was discussed, my brother said: “I thought heaven was in Summerland?”

This time my visit was threefold. I got to spend some time with treasured friends; I had to do some local research for a project I’m starting on in the area; and most importantly I visited my Dad, 82, who happens to be back living in Penticton, and broached the subject of him moving down to Vancouver to be closer to us, so I would be 5 minutes away rather than four hours, as he moves towards a more care-intensive phase of his life.

It’s a long time since this photo, from 1968. I’m holding Daisy, without a care in the world.

Ode to Ruska

Hard to believe one could write a few paragraphs about one’s dishes! My dishes have an interesting story.

Arabia of Finland’s “Ruska” pattern was designed by Ulla Procope in the early 1960’s. My big sister worked in an independent kitchen boutique in the late 70’s where they sold these dishes, and she fell in love with them and bought a half dozen place settings. While she moved back home, I was getting married and in gathering mode so we made a deal. Now they were my dishes. They were pretty cool, and very Scandinavian: which was both exotic and cool.

The coolest thing is that they were designed in 1960’s, and then apparently won a design award in 1989, which is a testament to their classic style. In fact, years ago at the Canadian Craft Museum, here in Vancouver, there was a display of 5 decades of housewares and furnishings and two of my types of dishes were in the museum display: Ruska, and Russell Wright’s Iroquois stoneware (but that’s another blog post!).

The most fortunate thing was one day a designer friend of mine (who notices things like this, naturally, she’s a designer!) stumbled upon a box of dishes at a garage sale. She called me up: “Uh…Mary….I think this is a box of your dishes…for $10….shall I buy them?” “Yes!” I responded enthusiastically over the phone. In the box was a coffee pot, some soufflé dishes, more bowls and cups and saucers – worth over $300.

Over time, I’ve needed more when ones have broken or when I wanted to expand place settings, but they’ve gotten hard to get, and expensive: $30 per piece or so….so I’ve supplemented with another pattern from IKEA that is super reasonable and blends quite seamlessly.

I see them occasionally in print advertising, usually in soup ads…the chocolate brown colour is rich and warm. Their provenance is rich and warm too…and cool.

Blueberry Bliss

It’s winter now…I guess I can start eating the blueberries.

I bought 60 pounds of them the previous summer so we had lots of berries to eat over the winter. We ran out before this summer arrived. So, this year I set my sights on more: 80-100 pounds to last us through a winter of blueberry pies, crisps and lots for our cereal, pancakes and scones.

This year, a friend of mine closed her organic blueberry farm to public picking, but kept it open to friends who wanted to pick their own for pennies. I hadn’t picked in 40 years, since I was young! What would it be like now? Would it be torture like it was when Dad gave us quotas and we struggled to fill our pail?

We had a fabulous summer this year, weather wise. And I was working on a very relaxed schedule. For four Fridays in a row….sunny, hot, gorgeous Fridays….I got in the car at 7:30 am, picked up my sister and/or a couple friends who were free, and headed out to the blueberry farm.

It. Was. Heaven.

There was still some coolness in the air, a wonderful freshness. The birds were singing, the bushes were plentiful and we picked, and talked and solved the world’s problems, and caught up. I managed to pick about 20 pounds in 2-3 hours, so I reached my quota by the time the month was up. We’d leave the farm by late morning and head home for lunch. I’d pack up the days pickings and bag them in 1-2 pound bags and freeze them right away.

The freezer is full and the berries taste even better knowing that I picked them on those sunny mornings with my sister, and soul sisters around me.