Falling apart and full of vintage charm, the happiest part of a girl's kitchen are those old cookbooks cheerfully lining a shelf.
Sometimes it's the tiny things in life that are our biggest nightmares. Things that make grown men turn as white as the snow covered prairies in the dead of winter and ladies full of maturity shriek like a two-year-old.
The days are getting shorter and the weather is brisk! It's time to curl up with a tasty, warm drink and relax by the fire.
Getting outside during winter can seem like a bit of a palaver, but all the good hardy folks of the prairie provinces know that breathing fresh air is as healthy as downing a spinach salad. This is why our dear mother's have us yelling "hard" right after we learn hello, or tying up hockey skates is second nature to pulling on your underwear.
Not many people can capture the Christmas spirit in thousands of tiny, sparkling bulbs quite like my Grandpa Larry. The man makes the most elaborate homes out of Christmas movies look like an amateur job.
The pendulum swings on the clock, while prairie mama’s hurried hands start Christmas preparations.
Cookies are baked, presents neatly wrapped, and each tiny piece of the nativity set is lovingly set out.
Some grain farmers from Alberta head to the deep south in winter, to see a little sunshine and experience warmth in our Canadian winter bones.
Each day, the busyness of our home is lulled to sleep by shadows of the evening, and soon our calendars are quietly flipping months. It seemed like the delights of Jack Frost leaped on my back and I somehow didn't seem him sneaking up.
It's closing in on three decades that I've been tromping around on this planet, and you would think I would be used to Old Man Winter by now, but I still feel a little like sticking my tongue out at him as he sweeps by. It's the time of year the goobers in your nose seem to freeze your nostrils together and I feel like I need to pull out some kind of manual about surviving the cold in this bleached land. Alas, no manual is needed, a few short hours in the cold and it all comes back to me.
Last weekend, I was reminded that a group of pink apron-wearing, fixed-up hair, fancy jean-wearing women from rural Alberta are nothing to mess with.