It was my birthday last week. Considering last year's birthday was a let down between a hospitalized family member, underwhelming gifts, an especially difficult body day, no birthday cake, and the fact that a lot of the people I loved best forgot about it entirely, I knew I wanted something different out of this year. Once I stopped feeling sorry for myself, I remembered once hearing that if you want to feel better about your life you should help someone else. With that seed planted, I knew I wanted to mark the day with a gesture of kindness, but I was not coming up with any bright ideas.
A few days before the day, a couple of Facebook friends must have mis-read the date and wished me a happy day. Eureka! The fuzzy, unformulated idea quickly came into focus: I would pledge a dollar for every happy birthday I received on Facebook and donate the wishes to our local Food Bank and Learning Centre. I expected a little over a 100 wishes.
By the end of the day, I had 269 wishes, two friends who graciously agreed to match my donation, and another who made a donation directly to the Centre.
Today, October 16, is World Food Day. If you go to Food Banks Canada's Facebook page and share their post, Cargill will donate $5 (https://www.facebook.com/FoodBanksCanada). This is significant. World Food Day allows us a chance to think and
talk about food and food security. Each
month nearly 1 million Canadians visit a food bank, over a third are
children, and those numbers continue to grow. I don't feel that it matters who the visitors to the Food Banks are; I have a hard time thinking of anyone not knowing where their next meal is coming from, and an even harder time thinking about anyone being hungry and not having options, but if it helps you care, know that the people who need food and food security are people just like you. They include students, seniors, people with disabilities, working families, newcomers, and children.
Tracking all the wishes, receiving the news about the matches, and
reading the messages from so many friends who loved the idea became the
happiest part of my day. I knew that giving can do so much good, but it
took my Facebook birthday wishes to help me realize that giving also
feels good. I want you to feel good too. Please consider giving, and while you are at it, give thanks for what you have.
Where You Least Expect It: Uncovering the Beautiful in Every Day
Friday, 16 October 2015
Thursday, 1 October 2015
More Pears
More Pears.
There were still 10 pounds of pears on my kitchen counter. The cobblers were such a hit, I decided to make more. However, when I took out the ingredients from my pantry, I realized my white flour was all but gone. Inevitable, given all the baking.
I adapted. People with disabilities have a genius for adapting, in case you were not aware. We must roll with the punches in big and small ways every single day; adapting is a necessary part of survival. Ah, but back to the cobblers. Here are the variations.
Using the same method from yesterday, I just replaced the white flour with whole wheat. I also replaced the white sugar with brown, and I added a cup of ground hazelnuts, an extra bit of baking powder, and all the warming spices. The result is nutty, with more bite. It's just as sweet and aromatic, and, because of the added nutrients and fiber from both the whole wheat and the nuts, a little healthier. Of course, if there are nut allergies to consider, it won't matter if they are not included. To prove this point further, I made another cobbler with a gluten free and vegan baking mix called "Many Cakes." It is more cake-like, but light and tasty. My goal is to make this method adaptable and accessible. Just as the world should be.
A cobbler for everyone. Beautiful!
nom nom,
hk
There were still 10 pounds of pears on my kitchen counter. The cobblers were such a hit, I decided to make more. However, when I took out the ingredients from my pantry, I realized my white flour was all but gone. Inevitable, given all the baking.
I adapted. People with disabilities have a genius for adapting, in case you were not aware. We must roll with the punches in big and small ways every single day; adapting is a necessary part of survival. Ah, but back to the cobblers. Here are the variations.
Using the same method from yesterday, I just replaced the white flour with whole wheat. I also replaced the white sugar with brown, and I added a cup of ground hazelnuts, an extra bit of baking powder, and all the warming spices. The result is nutty, with more bite. It's just as sweet and aromatic, and, because of the added nutrients and fiber from both the whole wheat and the nuts, a little healthier. Of course, if there are nut allergies to consider, it won't matter if they are not included. To prove this point further, I made another cobbler with a gluten free and vegan baking mix called "Many Cakes." It is more cake-like, but light and tasty. My goal is to make this method adaptable and accessible. Just as the world should be.
A cobbler for everyone. Beautiful!
nom nom,
hk
Tuesday, 29 September 2015
Pear Cobbler
Hello Readers,
No need for a reminder; I am aware. It has been over a year. More about that another time.
For today, I want to write about the beauty of fall, harvest, bounty. And pears. Yellow, juicy pears.
Charmed by the folks at our community farmer's market, I bought 20 pounds a few days ago. On the weekend, I made a pear crisp with a hazelnut and gingerbread topping. It was so good I made 5 more. That took about 10 pounds. Today, I quickly searched up a cobbler recipe and to my dismay, I mostly found methods that used cake mixes. I don't have any cake mixes in my pantry and I thought I could do better than that anyway. So I made it up.
Don't let people try to tell you that baking is a precise science. Well, maybe for French pastry chefs it is. But for a passionate home cook like me, it is often an organic process. It starts with an appreciation for the ingredients I have in my kitchen, and being absolutely okay with it if things don't turn out. This is the essence of living a creative life. Find inspiration in what surrounds you and just take the first step - in my case, buying 20 pounds of fruit - and see what happens.
Back to pear cobbler. Here's how to do it.
Wash, core, and slice pears - about 7 or so, whatever you need to heapingly (yes, I just made that word up) the bottom of your greased 9x13 baking dish. No, I did not peel the pears as I feel it is a ridiculous waste of time.
Sprinkle with about 1/4 cup of sugar
In a bowl, mix:
1 cup of sugar
1 cup of flour
2 teaspoons of baking powder
1 tsp of salt
and some warming spices - I used about 1/2 tsp of each cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and ground ginger
Add 1 cup of milk
1/2 cup of melted butter
and a glug of the best vanilla you have
Mix it all together, pour over the pears and bake at 350 for 40-45 minutes.
Your house will smell like a cross between an orchard and a bakery and everyone will love you just a little bit more.
I'm back, beautiful people,
hk
No need for a reminder; I am aware. It has been over a year. More about that another time.
For today, I want to write about the beauty of fall, harvest, bounty. And pears. Yellow, juicy pears.
Charmed by the folks at our community farmer's market, I bought 20 pounds a few days ago. On the weekend, I made a pear crisp with a hazelnut and gingerbread topping. It was so good I made 5 more. That took about 10 pounds. Today, I quickly searched up a cobbler recipe and to my dismay, I mostly found methods that used cake mixes. I don't have any cake mixes in my pantry and I thought I could do better than that anyway. So I made it up.
Don't let people try to tell you that baking is a precise science. Well, maybe for French pastry chefs it is. But for a passionate home cook like me, it is often an organic process. It starts with an appreciation for the ingredients I have in my kitchen, and being absolutely okay with it if things don't turn out. This is the essence of living a creative life. Find inspiration in what surrounds you and just take the first step - in my case, buying 20 pounds of fruit - and see what happens.
Back to pear cobbler. Here's how to do it.
Wash, core, and slice pears - about 7 or so, whatever you need to heapingly (yes, I just made that word up) the bottom of your greased 9x13 baking dish. No, I did not peel the pears as I feel it is a ridiculous waste of time.
Sprinkle with about 1/4 cup of sugar
In a bowl, mix:
1 cup of sugar
1 cup of flour
2 teaspoons of baking powder
1 tsp of salt
and some warming spices - I used about 1/2 tsp of each cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and ground ginger
Add 1 cup of milk
1/2 cup of melted butter
and a glug of the best vanilla you have
Mix it all together, pour over the pears and bake at 350 for 40-45 minutes.
Your house will smell like a cross between an orchard and a bakery and everyone will love you just a little bit more.
I'm back, beautiful people,
hk
Wednesday, 4 June 2014
Looking Up
Hello readers. I am marking 38
years of living with a spinal cord injury today. I like to acknowledge the day
with a couple special things and this year I want to do that by doing my first
video blog. So this is the 38th
anniversary that I was in a motor vehicle accident, paralyzing me from my chest
down. I have used a wheelchair ever since.
I was six years old.
While my body changed drastically
at the time of the accident, what changed more were the expectations, or rather
the lack of expectations, that others had for me. It was not expected that I would finish
school, go to University, do any sports, get a job, find love, or raise a
family.
My Dad had a bigger imagination
than this though. He would often tell me
that I could do anything, and he tried to help me believe that that the
possibilities in life were as vast and infinite as the big, open, prairie
sky. He was a sky watcher, my dad, who,
from time to time, would call me from his farm to ask me if the sunset was as
lovely here as it was there and if I had to name that colour, what would it be?
As a child, I often sat with him on our
doorstep, watching the northern lights, lightning storms, or following the
constellations. Unlike the map of the
stars, though, both my parents had no script on how to navigate me through this
life. They just believed in trying, and
trusting that those possibilities were out there for me.
My
Dad died 4 years ago. I have tried to carry on this optimistic attitude and a few months after
his passing, I had an
opportunity to participate in a fundraiser called
the Drop Zone that supports Camp Easter Seal and Easter Seal programs in Saskatchewan.
All
I needed to do was rappel off of a high building (in Saskatoon that is the
Carleton
Tower
on 4th avenue) with the support of some ropes and carabiners.
When I asked people for pledges and
explained what I would be doing, that I would be wheeling off the roof and
descending down Carelton Tower to raise money for Easter Seals, they would
always ask (with alarm): have you ever
done anything like this before?! And I
would always answer, “There has to be a
first time.” And besides, I thought, how
hard could it be?
Meanwhile, I was given a lot of
advice: Focus on something in front of you.
Close your eyes. Don’t, whatever
you do, don’t close your eyes. Have a
shot of scotch before you descend. Have
a shot of whisky when you hit the ground.
It’s okay if you throw up. Don’t
do it. My friend Julian said, I will
pledge you $70 to NOT do this. And most
of all, over and over, I heard, Don’t look down. Don’t look down.
The day of the Drop Zone, was
exactly 4 months since Dad had left me, I parked any lingering anxiety I
had and I got on my gear. I gave the DJ down on the ground my Paul Simon song
to play and told him exactly what to say as I descended and that if he called
me “special,” even just once, I would come over and punch him in the nose when
I landed.
I took several deep breaths, and
took the elevator to the 22nd floor, then with help, climbed the
flight of 16 steps to the roof. And what
I saw when I got there was the most spectacular view of my fair city. I looked my new friends on the
climbing crew in the eye. And I told
them I trusted them. And I did. They
ushered me over to the edge. Then they
slowly, painstakingly, and very literally, pushed me over the edge.
At first, I was hanging on my side,
with my head bumping against the building.
I needed to use my strength to right myself and start the descent. After I did that, for just a second, I heard
my advice givers: Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look down.
So I didn’t look down.
Instead, I looked…up.
I looked up into that big bright
blue sky and felt my Dad’s strength through my gloves that held the carabineer. I looked up and felt the possibilities, saw
the sun, and lived the moment, and listened (and sang out loud, if you must know)
to my chosen song as I descended, the Obvious Child by Paul Simon.
I chose the Obvious Child for
obvious reasons. (“Some people say the
sky is just the sky and I say, Why deny the obvious child?”) I chose it for the obvious children, and all
persons with disabilities should NOT be denied the opportunities to live big,
full, happy lives.
With the trust that he somehow was
with me on my descent, I stopped singing sometimes and talked to my Dad as I
rappelled down. He never once denied me,
his daughter, his child, the opportunities I deserved to live a big, full,
happy life, and when I couldn’t believe this for myself, when I started to look
down, he would help me look up again.
As
the only completely wheelchair accessible camp facility in Saskatchewan, Camp
Easter Seal is dedicated to providing a fun and barrier free experience to all
campers. Campers go swimming
and boating, horseback riding, and have cook-outs and
picnics, all the same kinds of camp experiences that a lot of kids have…and
that all kids should have the chance to have.
My
friend, Colleen Courtney is going to rappel down McCallum Hill Tower
II in downtown Regina on August 23 this year. Colleen has been a champion for
people with disabilities for many years, she has built a career out of helping
people with disabilities look up, plus she is a fine human being. If you have
it in your heart to offer her a pledge you can go to her personal fundraising
page at: http://my.e2rm.com/PersonalPage.aspx?registrationID=2183099&langPref=en-CA
If
you did, it would mean a lot to me, but more importantly, it would mean a whole
summer’s worth of memories for some kids.
wishing you the beauty of looking up,
hk
Monday, 5 May 2014
Finding North
Finding North
North: a cardinal point of the compass,
lying in the plane of the meridian and
If you know where North is, you can find
your way in the world.
My Dad always knew where North
was. From his skills as a grain farmer
where he could tell the time by the placement of the sun in the sky, to his
talent as a hunter who could find his way in the bush, and by being a
dyed-in-the-wool prairie boy who was gifted with an innate sense of direction,
Dad always knew where he was in the world.
For this, and many other reasons, I always felt safe when I was with
him, and certain that he always knew where he was going.
On his 79th birthday,
however, I do not think he could have predicted that he would end up in the
Emergency Room while experiencing cardiac arrest. After that, he had a stroke. Our family was called in; the priest gave Dad
his last rites. We all kept a vigil by
his bedside that night, and wordlessly took turns holding his rough hands (he
had, after all, hauled his own railway ties just a few days beforehand) and
stroking his whiskered cheek. He seemed
unconscious, because his eyes were closed and he was not “responsive” to our
voices or touch, and yet, he emitted an energy that I can only describe as
warrior-like. I had every confidence
that he was, in fact, fighting for his life.
North
is the fundamental direction used to define all other directions.
That night, my mom and I were wide
awake and on guard for a sign, any sign, that could prove to us that time, in
fact, had not stopped, and that Dad was still with us and that he was going to
be all right. Around 5 a.m., we caught
a glimpse of the pink and orange streaked sunrise through the tiny window of
the intensive care unit, and Mom mused aloud, “It’s Spring. The days are
getting longer, the sun is up earlier. I
wonder which way North is?” I took a
guess. Mom took her guess. Then, to our amazement, my Dad lifted his
hand and pointed, in a forceful and assertive manner that, although no words
accompanied his gesture, was full of meaning: it is that way, you
fools.
He hung on for a week. He won and lost many battles during that
time. As many families can attest, to
watch this happen, all the while knowing but denying that there is an
inevitable end is an intensely emotional and deeply painful experience, which,
at the same time, deepens one’s respect for the wondrous miracle that is
life. Dad believed in this miracle. This miracle, this magical mystery, was his
North.
Unlike my Dad, I am not blessed
with an internal GPS. I cringe if
someone gives me directions like “enter from the South side,” or “take 20th
Street East.” I prefer instructions
like, “go left,” or “turn right at the convenience store.” Little wonder then, that I seemed to lose my
own spiritual sense of direction when he died, and when I believed he left
me. In the weeks, and to be sure, months
after his death, I became progressively more lost. Well-meaning friends kept telling me that I
would heal with time, but time’s passing did not seem to help.
In fact, the more time passed, the
more I felt held down by questions:
“What am I supposed to do without you?”
“How can it be that you are not going to walk through my front door
wearing a toque and a beaten up but warm coat with candy in the pockets?” “Are you gone?” “Are you with me?” “Are you in the stars, the sunrise?” And mostly, “Where are you now?” I felt strongly that if I could just answer
that, if I just “knew” where he was, that I could move on and find my way in
this world again.
I was stuck. Every day, sometimes several times a day, I
could transport myself to his hospital room and to the moment when his breath
changed and how my brother’s eyes locked with mine, and when my mom buried her
face into the nape of Dad’s whiskered neck, and how we cried out that we loved
him and that we were with him and where the gurgling noise in his chest
abruptly stopped and he sharply drew in one long, long inhale. And died. Time did not change this memory one bit. Often, I thought, if only I had a map to
guide me from here to there. If only I had a spiritual compass.
A
compass needs to be set at North for navigation.
When I was in grade eight, my Dad
accompanied my classmates and me on an excursion called Outdoor Education. We were grouped together for the Orienteering
session. We had to go into the bush, and
then use our compass to help us find our way out. However, our compass did not work. I was dismayed because we were supposed to
have our progress evaluated later on by our teacher. Instead, Dad placed his hand on my shoulder
and told me not to worry. He picked up a
fallen branch and pushed it into the pine needle-covered ground. “Look for the shadow,” he told me. Then he marked the end of the shadow on the
ground with a stone. “Be patient, and wait a little while,” he explained,
“since the shadow moves a little.” Then
he marked the new spot of the shadow's end with another stone and drew a line
in the ground between the two stones. Standing between them, the first on his
left (West), and the other (East) on his right, he grinned, “You are now facing
North.”
There
are many ways to find North.
Since then, I have learned that there
are several ways to find North when you do not have, or cannot rely on, a
compass. You can figure out which way is
North by the way moss grows on a tree, by the placement of the Sun, by using an
analog watch, or taking note of where spiders make their webs. Even at night, when everything is dark, you
can find your way by looking for the North Star. Indeed, I well remember the many cloudless
and inky black nights at our family’s farm where Dad would point out the constellations
to me, including the North Star, reminding me that it is the last star at the
end of the Little Dipper's handle and the one star in the night sky that does
not move with the rotation of the Earth.
“Try to see past it,” he would
encourage, so grounded in his faith that the Universe was bigger and more
wondrous and mysterious than he, or any of us, could ever imagine.
I hope he knows that I try to see
beyond the stars like he wished I would, and although I still do not know for
certain where he is, my fallen branch is solidly in the ground and I am turned
toward the sun. I hope he knows that I
am trying to be patient, to give it some time, and that although my faith moves
around in my attempts to find North, I am a little less lost than I once
was.
wishing you the beauty of your own North,
hk
Thursday, 6 March 2014
Paralympic Beauty
Tomorrow
marks the opening ceremonies of the Winter Paralympic Games in Sochi, Russia.
With 6 Winter sports - biathlon, snowboarding, curling, sledge hockey, alpine,
and cross-country skiing - this is a beautiful thing. Sir Ludwig Guttman
is credited with starting the Paralympic movement because as a neurologist who
founded the Stoke Mandeville Hospital in the United Kingdom to deal with
injured World War 2 soldiers, he also believed in sport’s potential to build
both physical strength and self-respect. He organized the first Stoke
Mandeville Games in 1948, which eventually grew into the Paralympics that are
currently held “parallel” to the Olympic Summer and Winter Games every two
years.
Full
disclosure: I am a former Paralympian and therefore have a vested interest in
the games. As a person with a spinal cord injury who had no role models growing
up and who lived without the expectations that I would ever live a quality
life, I had no imagination that I would ever be involved in any kind of sport.
My Dad, however, had a bigger imagination, and it was because of him that I one
day found myself at a competition with other wheelchair athletes. One thing led
to another and I made the national team when I was 17. Meeting my team members
and the national coach, together with getting to know people from other
countries who also had disabilities, completely and beautifully transformed me,
how I saw my disability, and how I viewed all disabilities. Wheelchair sport
then coloured everything in my life, from my education to the decision to
become a parent. Simply put, I owe a lot to sport.
While human excellence is found in many other areas
of this beautiful life, for the next two weeks I will be celebrating sport and
the Paralympic Games. I will celebrate spirit, excellence, perseverance,
strength, hard work, and hope.
I
hope you will join me.
Wishing
you beauty,
hk
Thursday, 20 February 2014
True Patriot Hockey Love
There are many lessons to be learned from sport: focus, determination, hard work, commitment, and striving for excellence to name a few. The Olympics are full of stories with these themes. Sometimes though, the lessons are bigger and more beautiful. And for Canadians, today is one of those days. Today the lesson was not giving up and when things look dark, choosing to have faith.
Let's face it. Pulling a goalie with seconds left in a hockey game does not often work. It is an act of desperation, of pulling out all the stops, of grasping at straws. With seconds left in the game, our women's hockey team had many more reasons to give up than continue on, but here's the beautiful thing about sport, and heck, about life: you are always given a choice. And even when it doesn't work out the way you want, it is always best to go with hope over resignation. This day will go down in our history of being one of those days to choose hope.
wishing you the beauty of true patriot love,
hk
Let's face it. Pulling a goalie with seconds left in a hockey game does not often work. It is an act of desperation, of pulling out all the stops, of grasping at straws. With seconds left in the game, our women's hockey team had many more reasons to give up than continue on, but here's the beautiful thing about sport, and heck, about life: you are always given a choice. And even when it doesn't work out the way you want, it is always best to go with hope over resignation. This day will go down in our history of being one of those days to choose hope.
wishing you the beauty of true patriot love,
hk
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