Had tea at three and bundled up in ski pants and long mink coat for a walk. Headed for the road in order to get out of the trees and be able to see across the fields, but turned around immediately when the wind cut into the uncovered skin of my face and neck. It is only about 8C below, though, so instead of coming into the house I went north through the inlaws' yard, which is well treed. Once past the horse's corral I decided to circle the north perimeter of the yard, which you see above. One very deep snowdrift had me panting for air and at the west end of the circle the wind got through my tuque and scarf, biting my throat cruelly. It was a short walk, maybe 10 minutes, but refreshing.

Everett is taking a home ec class, and does two cooking labs per week at home. This is to my advantage, as not only must I taste and approve the end result, but he sets the table and serves me. Last week he made fudge one morning and these "Blackbottom Muffins," filled with cream cheese, the next day. This week it will be taco salad and lemonade cookies.

We have not one inch of extra counter space in the kitchen, but there sits a small fraction of my cookbooks anyway, the ones most often used. My culinary training started around age nine when I joined the Margo 4-H club and took its cooking classes for two years. Throughout high school I often baked and Mom made sure to encourage me by admiring my cakes, which rose light and high. However, when I moved away from home, all I could cook were eggs and fried potatoes. The only argument I can remember ever having with Cathy when we were roommates (or ever) was over the correct way to cut them for frying; each of our mothers did it differently. We still chuckle over that down-and-dirty fight. Pfft. Now that I think of it, there must have been a few more because I remember how they always ended — and soon — by one or both of us opening our arms to the other for a hug. No disagreement was worth shutting each other out.

It was not until I moved into a one-room log cabin in the woods with a beau in northern New Brunswick that I began taking an interest in making meals. He was a francophone, but had a cookbook that had belonged to an English aunt. It was The Joy of Cooking, and I put it to good use. It's where I learned how to cook a roast, among other things; the book tells you not only what to do, but why, and I read it from front to back with my feet tucked up on an overstuffed chair near the fireplace. Many contented hours were spent in that little cabin.

The Joy of Cooking remains on the cookbook shortlist.

~ steam off the South Saskatchewan River in S'toon on Sunday ~

In spite of the weather advisory for Saskatchewan on Friday, I picked Scott up in Wynyard, where he was drywalling a new grouphome, and we drove to Saskatoon to take Cathy out for supper on her birthday. On Saturday we picked up a DVD that had been ordered for Emil (Brooks and Dunn Greatest Hits videos, a Christmas gift from Grandpa), browsed through flooring samples at one place, and hit the highway for home. The day was clear but the thermometer was reading around 30C below, before wind chill. We were glad to get home before dark.

While in the music store I bought the new Robert Plant and Alison Krauss CD and have been playing it every day.