Diane Jarvis-Schuller

“Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.” ~Harriet van Horne

I love that quote. Some people who know me might wonder why it appeals to me because I can often grumble about cooking. You see, at my age, I often do find cooking a chore. But then there are days when I do it more as a gesture of love. This is another creative outlet that comes from my mother. She often said she wasn’t a good cook but I always disagreed; she may not have had a lot of creative ideas for variety but what she did cook was utterly delicious — and made with love.

A few weeks ago I was making potato salad — something my mom made better than anyone I know — and naturally I thought of her. She would spend hours-upon-hours cooking, dicing, making her own dressing, tossing and tasting until it was just-so. As if that wasn’t enough, she went to all the trouble of making pretty little flowers out of radishes, cucumbers, and onions and would decorate the entire top of her salad with them. I sure wish I would have thought to take a photo of one of those creations.

Since I’m making an effort to write about some of my life, besides photography, I decided to share more posts about the food in my life.

A few days ago when my husband was out of town, I took hold of the opportunity for a light and meatless meal. I made a really tasty salad (photo above) of shredded curly lettuce, diced fresh tomato, diced onion, sliced avocado, cumin, coriander, pepper, and a generous squeeze of lime and of lemon (I always use fresh; never that phony stuff in a bottle.) It was so full of flavour despite not having any fresh cilantro on hand.

Last night’s meal was a real dandy but I didn’t take any pictures. To redeem myself, I do have a recipe to share. Unless I’m baking sweets I almost never use a recipe. There are numerous recipe books in my kitchen cupboard but I tend to use them as inspiration for something new or different, especially if I’m in a cooking slump. Yesterday I knew I was making pork tenderloin and I wanted to use the fresh rosemary my husband brought home from Edmonton. I remembered seeing a recipe once for pork with cranberry and rosemary so I plugged that into Google. I found 3 recipes that appealed and this one for Rosemary Pork Chops with Cranberry, Rosemary, and Port ended up being my primary inspiration. Of course I made a few of my own minor adjustments (didn’t use the chicken stock, for instance). It was easy to make and turned out so delicious I was wishing we had company so I could show off! That means I highly recommend it. If you’re wondering what I served it with … a loaf of artisan Turkish bread plus I made a bowl of EVOO (extra virgin olive oil) emulsified with a rich balsamic vinegar and fresh garlic. I also made one of my summer salads. These vary every day depending on what I have on hand but last night I diced up red pepper, white onion, cucumber, tomato and sprinkled with a pinch of basil, oregano, and pepper. Needless to say it was all delish and I most definitely ate far too much!

Today is meatless but I know my husband will love it. I’m making rosemary pan bread (from scratch of course), hummus with my own little twist, and a tomato-avocado salad. We’ll have a nice dry but fruity white wine (yet to be selected). So that’s about it for my discussion on food. What’s for dinner at your place?

Summer is a time of lush gardens, vivid colours, and overall vibrancy. So why am I posting a mocha-chocolate black and white, especially of a flower? I’m not entirely sure of the answer myself. Perhaps it’s because of the concern and worry with my father’s failing health or perhaps it’s as simple as the opposing emotion of joy — the joy from black and white photos that has always appealed to me.

Now that I’m back home from visiting with my dad, I need to immerse myself into work once again. There is a lot of catching up I have to do, yet I’m so distracted. Every time I sit down to my computer to work on a client’s album, I find myself uneasy. Uneasy, partly because of the emotional distractions but also because of that distraction I know I’m not putting 100% of myself into the work at hand. To help nudge me back into a working frame of mind I picked up my camera and took a few photographs. The peonies picked from my garden were my inspiration.

My mother always grew lush peonies and I can’t look at a peony without having incredibly fond memories of my dear mother. Peonies remind me of her soft, gentle ways, and the love she had for every living person, creature, and flower. Memories are as delicate as each of those opaque petals and I’m set on preserving those petals for as long as possible. So to honour the memory of my dear mom, here’s a pair of colourful lovelies.

What moments are you preserving today?

His hair – and he had lots of it – was orange as a persimmon with curls that make steel wool look tame. It was his hair that first caught my attention, though my guess is most people would have first noticed his awkward gait and slight lilt toward one side as he struggled forward, winding his way along the crowded sidewalk.

Turning aside, I settled onto a sidewalk bench that faced the opposite side of Patricia Street and the mountains beyond. It’s surprising how the simple act of facing away from the crowd allowed me to feel like I was in my own private world, about to unwrap and enjoy the custom sandwich from the deli immediately behind me.

“Hey!” I felt a gentle tap on my left shoulder.

“Would you mind if I share the bench?” He asked this with a smile as wide and obvious as the slur in his speech.

“Sure,” I responded. Somehow I knew the slur wasn’t a result of inebriation.

It wasn’t the intense midday sun that created a glint in his eye.  The young man with the persimmon hair settled so far on the opposite edge of the bench he was definitely not fully seated. The way he looked over at me, I could tell he wasn’t sure I really meant the welcome.

Intuitively I quipped in a soft, reassuring voice, “Hi.” He responded with a look of obvious relief. I knew, without asking, most people are likely not as welcoming or open when first being met with his assertiveness.

“I knew you would say “yes.”” He’s not the first person to pick me out of a crowd – I suppose there must be a smiley face invitation mark on my forehead.

He immediately began telling me about a skiing accident he had, in an effort to explain why he looked and talked the way he did. It was a skiing accident at Lake Louise. His head took the brunt of the impact as he pointed out the two points of head trauma. His right arm was badly damaged. The brain damage affected his speech and mobility.

As he was sharing this information with me, I couldn’t help but wonder how many people must greet him with jeers or insult. This young man felt obliged to explain to a total stranger why he looks and moves the way he does.

“What’s your name?” I asked. He sat back on his end of the bench, unruly eyebrows raised, with such a look of amazement you’d have thought I just swore at him. His voice stumbled as he attempted to respond, “Roy.”

“It’s nice to meet you Roy. I’m Diane.”

Roy held out his left hand, again apologizing because his right arm doesn’t work, “Diane! Oh, it’s nice to meet you too.”

“Wow,” he offered with a voice so quiet I may not have known he said anything had I not been looking directly at him.

As I finished my sandwich I had said how sorry I was about the accident. Roy’s immediate reaction was to reject that notion and to share how he felt it saved his life. He had been on drugs and was certain he would have wasted his life away. The accident ‘woke him up’ and he has since chosen to live a clean life. He felt fortunate to be alive.

After a few quiet moments I looked at him to say, “I have to leave now Roy. I’m still sorry about your accident.”

With a smile as bold and unique as his hair he said, “Thank you for talking to me!”

- 30 -

Everybody has a story. If only we took a moment to consider there is likely a very good reason why someone looks a certain way or behaves in a certain way. Besides, why should it matter how someone looks anyway?

 Yes, everybody has a story.