American Fez

The Winter Waltz

November's early snowfall, wispy, intermittent, and non-sticking, what the weatherman calls 'a wintry mix,' otherwise known as sleet. Imagine icy rain floating down to Earth wearing a white parachute of flakes; rain in a fur coat rubbing cold shoulders with rain in a polyester anorak, there is no social barrier in the late Autumnal air. 

It's a hint of Christmas Yet To Come, Yuletide directly ahead, the Compliments of the Season we are walking into, and therefore Jack Frost's nose-nipping reminder to rehearse jolliness instead of misery, even when your fingers and feet are frozen to the marrow and your blood feels like it's turned to sub-zero slush.

Easier said than done, of course. You've forgotten how itchy that scarf is, how cumbersome your heavy Duffel coat is, how this bobble hat barely offers protection against a slight breeze never mind skull-shattering wind chills. And why did you buy those fingerless gloves again?

Nevertheless, fa-la-la la la la is the tune we must aspire to dance to every day, no matter how frigid it is outside. So put on your dancing shoes (the waterproof ones you can wear with thick, woolen socks) and take your positions for the winter waltz.

Orchard Precautions

Per old wives' instructions, I eat an apple every day (usually a Gala) to keep the doctor away. Obviously, at a certain age, this becomes a mostly ineffective strategy and, although not exactly shoulder to shoulder with me on a daily basis, the doctor can still be found lurking at an indiscreet distance. "Bugger off," I want to yell. "Can't you see I'm eating an apple?" But the doctor merely laughs maniacally while whipping his stethoscope around his head like a cowboy with a lasso. So much for Mother Nature's medicine cabinet. At least eating apples is enjoyable, which can't be said for drinking those revolting and equally worthless kale smoothies that the New Wives' Tales suggest.

In my imagination, I saw doctors reacting to apples much as vampires react to garlic: a hiss and a snarl and then cowering away back into the shadows of the examination room. But I now know this was pure fantasy. I don't know, maybe I should be eating two apples every day? I could even mix it up: my regular Gala and a Golden Russet, or even 'go-green' with a Granny Smith. I could wash both apples down with a pint of cider, cold in the morning and hot-mulled at night. And since I'm upping the ante, why not add a nice slice of apple pie every evening to my regime? You are what you eat, they say, and I'm prepared to turn myself into a human orchard if it means I can avoid my annual check-up at the clinic.