Fishcakes

Cod cakes , fish cakes or potato cakes with cod all say the same thing. The very thought of these yummy morsels makes my mouth water. Several times a year I get the urge to make - and of course eat - these down-east cultural blessings.

As a child we used to buy a bale of salt cod when needed. A bale was usually 25 or fifty pounds. The cost was something like 10 cents a pound when delivered. The fish were big and the dried cod were often five or six pounds each. The poor fisherman used to get a few cents a pound for the green cod delivered to the fish plant. The other day I bought two pounds of salt cod bits and they cost $6 per pound. Normally they cost $8 a pound. Inflation I guess. At any cost, you have to have the fish to get cod cakes.

To make them I use my mother's recipe, as best I can remember, with a little help from my sister Jeannie. I always test the cod for salt and eat a little raw. This sometimes makes me thirsty and a little down-east screech and Pepsi does the trick.

Soaking the salt cod with a minimum of three waters also does the trick. Start with boiled potatoes - not too soft so they stick together - and onions partially cooked, added for their wonderful flavour. Pull apart the fish or mince it and add an egg. Use your hands to squeeze the mixture through your fingers until the mixture is soft and sticky. Now my specialty is to add some garlic, fresh if on hand and powder if that's all you can get your hands on. Poultry seasoning will provide the special taste I love.

Have fun trying to make 24 balls of equal size and place on something flat like a counter top. Use the potato masher to flatten. This also makes nice grooves for the heat to penetrate and cook. Use cooking oil in small amounts and high heat to brown the cakes on both sides. Most time you lose pieces of the cakes when turning so these become testers. Finish by letting these cakes cool and either freeze them or better still - eat them.

My daughters love the delicious taste of these cakes and I want them to learn the secrets to making this - about the simplest dish going. My daughters Glenda and Lynda usually get their share but Dar misses out as she lives too far away. In any case the tradition of cod cakes will live on in our family as I will give them the recipe for a gift someday. The reason I have not up until now is I love to make them myself.

Try them sometime and you will surely agree.

Proud Grandparents

Driving 112 km across 403 and up 400 was a pleasure this day as we were going to experience a special event. Our grandson Henry is an Air Cadet and this was the final parade for the year and also the awards evening. The drive was completed too fast as we were watching the development along this highway almost boggles the mind. We make the trip several times a year and the scenery changes dramatically. The lush farms become factories with huge, barren buildings or sub divisions with look alike houses or condos. This was not our mission as we were here to share a family treat.

Early supper was served by the host and hostess and all talk was of the evening. Henry is a third year veteran and proud of his achievements. Tonight he was in the colour party for the march by and was nervous. He also knew he was in the running for some awards although he he never expected to win.

Because he is a glider pilot and a three year airman he has goals for the future. He wishes to make his life related to airports, aeroplanes and space. I met one of his heroes while I was living in the arctic and passed some time with Mr. Hatfield. Hatfield was one of our Canadian astronauts and was in Cambridge Bay to expose the Inuit to his achievements and to study the aboriginal food for future use in space.

While he was there he gave me patches he wore while in space and I realized that the person who should have them was my grandson Henry. My wife presented them to him before the ceremonies at the armory. He was thrilled and I am sure he will treasure them as I did.

We watched the cadets go through their routines and the big moment came as the awards were presented. The last award was a medal from the Canadian Legion. Six may be given in any year for outstanding achievement and citizenship. When the award was given to Henry all of us there basked in reflective glory and shared this special recognition. In this case pride is not a bad thing but a symbol of well deserved achievement shared by loved ones.

The drive home seemed to go by quickly as we talked of what this evening meant to our wonderful grandson. We shared our reward of being grandparents to such valuable young people and look forward to the many future occasions when they make us proud once more.

Pantheist

Nature has a way of curing many of our ills if we tune in and listen. For myself there is no better way of clearing the mind and refreshing the soul then getting your hands dirty in the soil. As I view my favourite plants in our backyard I see that there are a number of things I have to care for to keep the appearance of a loved and acceptable garden. We grow nearly everything that we need in our patches of good soil and I take the challenge of the no weeds policy. Weeds have a way of sneaking in beside your vegetables and you have to do battle with them on a daily basis.

As I work away in the soil I have a time of reflection without distractions other than the joy of seeing the first tomato blossom and the beans pushing themselves upward towards the sun. I believe in the story of Jack and the Beanstalk because pole beans grow so fast . We begin to observe the growing patterns of both the good and bad vegetation and marvel at how adaptable they really can be. Weeds are only plants that grow where they are not wanted.

Because I compost and then use the product - I have all kinds of rogue plants in places they are not wanted. Some of my best and strongest tomatoes grow in amongst the carrots and sunflowers pop up all over the place, although I never planted them. I am not the only gardener in our yard.

Squirrels and chipmunks share the patches and crops of oak trees and numerous other plants show up in the plots. After a few hours I realize that my time in the garden must end as supper is waiting, and I feel refreshed.

Nature does that to me. And a minister once told me vehemently that I was nothing better than a damn pantheist. I guess he was right - I do love nature.

Omingmak Frolics in the Arctic

The sun finally gets its head above the horizon and the Inuit begin to plan for a week long celebration. After 6 dreary months with limited sun for most of the time and no sun for three months it is time to let loose. Many communities in the Arctic calculate the day on which the sun makes its appearance in the south eastern sky and for a few minutes there is cause to rejoice.

Groups of people gather and wait on the tundra to glimpse the worm red rays of life. Everything comes to life so quickly, as the summer cycle has to be completed in the long days of a two month spring and summer. The first sign is the return of the Snow Bunting sitting on a snow bank shivering but hopeful of warmer times.

In Cambridge Bay (Iqaluktutiak) where I lived for a few years, the mood changes overnight with the memories of last year's celebrations and the planning with enthusiasm to make this year's ever better.There are Inuit games of skill, dances, special bingo, feasts, outside entertainment, snow mobile races, and religious gatherings. This all starts with a parade and everyone takes part. Muskox burgers, caribou burgers, ribs and muktuk all served to the community outdoors. The temperature is sometimes still in the - 20 degree range.

I think about this at this time of year because it was one of the fondest memories I took with me from the far north. This is special because it is a happy time and characterized the real spirit of the Inuit. They have had such a struggle to move into the modern age in the last fifty years when it took us hundreds of years to accomplish the same. I shall write a little every day about this subject and share my love of the Arctic and its wonderful people.

Building a Pegola with a Friend

What is a pegola? I didn't know until my wife placed a picture on the kitchen table and told me that is what she wanted on our patio. In the picture I saw a beautiful structure surrounded by professional landscaping making a perfect scene right out of homes and gardens.

I studied the picture and quickly became excited for the prospect of a project such as it was. I got out my sketch book and drafted a plan and listed what I should need in materials. I was satisfied that I could build the thing but how much better it would be if I could coax my son to help. He is always there when I need him for big jobs. He is strong and can see ways of improving my thinking in a way as to not rattle my ego and to make me think it was my idea anywhere.

I asked my wife if she would like to come to Home Depot to price the project and see if all the materials were in stock. She declined the offer and told me I needed time alone so get on with it. I love shopping in hardware stores where I can handle the good tools and dream of owning them come Fathers Day.

After a half hour I had the list priced and was amazed that the price came close to that which I quoted Theresa earlier in the day. Under $400 for a pegola 12 by 14 feet. The one at the store was 10 by 10 and cost nearly a $1000. Wow - I was saving $600. I never think of the labor cost or the volunteer help.

After the phone call to my friend, my son, we planned to get started next morning when he was off work and would complete the task in a day and a half. I was responsible for getting the materials to the sight and I made two trips with my van and loaded it to the roof. The hardest part was getting good product. I needed 6 by 6 timbers and went through two piles to get good ones. When I finished it looked like a disaster in the store. Getting 2 by 8s and 2 by 6s was even more difficult.

My son and I work almost without communicating about the task. We seem to know how to work together; sharing the different skill jobs and working at a fast pace we erect the timbers. My son does the measuring and I do the cutting. We do make mistakes but these mistakes become plan B and we move on.

All through the day we move from one stage to another. We plan to cook supper on the barbecue but we have lost the sense of time. It is seven pm when we finally take a rest.We were so engrossed that time did not matter. My son realized that we have practically completed the job except for a few small items.

We kind of laugh and start to prepare our steak and potatoes remembering the past when we did the same thing on another project. I lose all track of time when working on a labour of love. On this day the labour of love was being united with my son for a whole day by myself. We ate heartily and talked of the work completed and how we could have made changes for the better but we were satisfied. The next morning after a long breakfast we finished the unfinished and called Theresa for a final inspection. Her smile told us we did well and we were satisfied.

My son was off home in the early afternoon and we made plans for our next project, laying a hardwood floor in my granddaughter's condo. I hope the projects never end so I might call on my friend to spend a little time alone with his father.

May 24th

Every year about this time we would start to think about the May 24 holiday. This was the opening of trout season in Cape Breton. For we boys fishing was almost a religion. Our small group planned the first day and dreamed of the first fish. Tommy, Orville, Harry and others would be ready for the opening day. The night before was almost like Christmas as we prepared our bikes, packed our lunch and tried to sleep.

At five in the morning we would creep out of bed , dash downstairs and pack our sack with all the essentials. The weather was of no concern. For my lunch it was always bread , cut thick with jam and peanut butter packed down and stuffed in a bread wrapper from the co-op. Some cookies if available, an apple and matches for the fire. The worm can overflowing with juicy eye catching crawlers was the most important bait. Black fishing line and a can of hooks of various sizes and a sharp knife for any use called upon.

With a warm jacket and sometimes even gloves, we hurled our bikes into action to meet at Sexton's store step. Someone was always late and began making weak, useless excuses when within earshot. Heads counted, we rode at record speed to reach the big pond bridge where we looked over to check for fish. With none being seen we tore through Florence and headed for the swinging bridge at Little Bras D'Or where we saw the whirlpools on the right side of the bridge, meaning the tide was going out.

The next part of the trip was uphill for a couple of miles. In those days the road from here was not paved and the going was rough. Near the top we dismounted and walked talking of the fish waiting to be caught. McKenzie Brook was our destination and we arrived at our secret spot and hid our bikes and made for the alder woods to cut a fishing rod. Always the same thing, get a gad about 6 feet long, straight if possible. Quickly remove the bark and take in the strong scent of the new growth and cut a notch at the end. The black line was quickly made into a noose to be placed over the notch. The slip knot was pulled and we were ready for the hook and small sinker.

All this completed we started to make the game work. A pop for the first trout and another for the biggest. A nut bar for the most.The bets made - and a mad dash for the favourite hole which promised many fish. With skill the large worms were threaded down the hook and at last, we were fishing.

What a pleasure, what a feeling when the tug on the line meant a pure gift. Shouts were heard and calls about the big one an so on. For hours we drew in our little speckled trout and each of us had at least two dozen. We stopped for lunch and the crushed lunch wrappers we opened and grasped by worm infested hands but that did not matter. We were fishermen and this was part of the fun. The sun shone hot on our faces and our first spring burn was well underway. We gathered moss and packed our precious cargo to return home to show our bounty.

On our bikes again we drove at break neck speed and when we got to the top of the hill overlooking the lake we again made bets. Who could go the farthest without peddling and who could go down the hill with hands behind the back. With shouts and squeals we descended to the road below and continued forgetting the bets but wishing to get home to show Mom and Dad the fish.

As we approached our home we said our goodbyes and raced to our respective homes. Mom I'm home and look at the fish I caught. Mom's smile made it worth the day. When we sat for supper Mom said in a proud manner, "these are the fish Henry caught today", I was so happy. I was so tired and I was ready to go again tomorrow.

Brother Murray

My older brother Murray passed away last week. Murray was 76 years old and during all those years - other than the years he lived at home before he joined the RCMP - we met very few times. He lived a full life and had many experiences that few of us know about.

As a young boy growing up in Sydney Mines, NS he was a typical youngster taking part in all the usual activities which presented themselves. Sports were on his schedule and he played a fair game of hockey and baseball. One activity which took much of his spare time was fishing and he could cast a dry fly just as well as Dad. He knew the names of the flys and at Trout Brook he would use a black knat. This fly was so small but used properly it was effective. Dad tied some of these flys and Murray would have done the same but he had other matters to attend to.

Murray joined the RCMP as a 18 year old and was so proud of his uniform and kit. He looked like the picture boy for the force with his clean cut 6 foot frame and perfect posture. For the next number of years he worked in law enforcement in various capacities. He once was the chief of police in Sioux Lookout. While there he used his learned skills working with a large aboriginal population. He loved his work.

Murray married several times and fathered a number of children. He was particularly proud of his last two daughters and spoke of them in glowing terms in every phone call. I personally lost contact with Murray for a number of years but rekindled my relationship with him about twelve years ago. This came about as I was travelling through Creston and stopped in several times for short visits. All the years in between, Murray tried his hand at business and had a popular country store called Charlie Brown's Country Store at The Mira. Here he made the best pizzas and people would come from miles around to experience the speciality.

Once our relationship was reunited we phoned on a regular basis. It was during these hour-long conversations I discovered the brother I missed. Murray would often tell me in great detail about his experiences, and there were many. My sister Glenda hooked up with Murray about seven years ago and became close phone friends talking and sharing many experiences. Their friendship was very good for both of them and they lived life through their mutual need of a friend to share. Sometimes they spoke more than once a day.

Murray was ill during his last years and accepted his role by fighting the pain he suffered and concentrated on enjoying life through the TV and the phone. He did get around Creston on his scooter and knew many folks along the way. Murray and Glenda watched hockey together and interacted like brother and sister should. The only difference was, they were 2500 miles apart.
As Murray passed on I finally knew him and only wished that that all his family and friends could have shared those final years with him.