Rock climbing

Thursday was parents' night at Guelph Grotto where Brenna attended rock climbing camp. I got to do a little climbing myself, but mostly watched her scramble to the tops of various walls. The skill she mastered in a few days was impressive. She was at a disadvantage through the week because most of the other kids knew one another, so she had trouble finding a partner. At parents' night we were attended by one of the staff, who served as belayer, the person who stands below and keeps tension on the rope while you're climbing. So Brenna climbed more high walls than she had done all week.

Brenna has a particular approach to new challenges. She doesn't like to attempt them when anyone is watching. If she wants to master something, she'll tackle it again and again to perfection when she thinks no one is looking. Each climb is rated 5.4 (easiest) to 5.11 (hardest). She nearly made it to the top of a 5.7, harder than anything she had done all week, then got shaky and asked to be let down. The 5.5s and 5.6s she finished without hesitation.

Too bad Marian and I get vertigo. I'm almost inspired to overcome it and learn how to rock climb so I could take her climbing some cliffs along the Niagara Escarpment. Of course the expensive equipment is another matter. Everything costs.

Here Brenna demonstrates ascending, a technique using a rope and tackle, useful for scaling sheer surfaces that offer no handholds.

St. Jacobs and dill pickles

I suggested going to the farmers market this morning. Brenna started talking about the famous apple fritters, and giant dill pickles-on-a-stick. That's not Guelph, it's St. Jacobs, but I couldn't resist the idea. So St. Jacobs it was.

I doubt there's a more happening place on a Saturday morning in rural Ontario than St. Jacobs. There was a long lineup for apple fritters, but they're worth it. An army of young women gutted, peeled and sliced apples in front of us. Each slice gets dipped in batter, deep fried, then dredged in sugar and cinnamon. They're not as good as the ones made in Holland, but they're the best you'll find anywhere in Canada, says the Irishman in front of me. He strikes up a lively conversation with the woman in front of him. She came from Holland at age 11, but her syllables still have a certain clip, and she gives that characteristic smile and bob of the head to tell you she's listening with utmost interest.

The Irishman tells a joke: "If the Dutch lived in Ireland, it would be the most beautiful country on Earth. If the Irish lived in Holland, it would be underwater." I am also part Irish, so I can repeat it.

Almost as good as the market is the lovely countryside we drive through to get there and back. The trick is to get from Guelph to St. Jacobs without using Highway 7.

We brought home two used DVDs, several old coins, Ontario apricots, red raspberries for combining with mangoes in a jam, two quarts of cucumbers and a bunch of fresh dill.

This afternoon Brenna and I made one of her favourite things, dill pickles. I had to haul the big canning kettle out of the basement and scrub off years' worth of dust (I never bother processing jam, jelly or chutney, but with pickles it's essential). Last time I made them was more than 10 years ago. Now I wax nostalgic.

In each clean pint jar go three smallish cucumbers, 1½ teaspoons of mixed pickling spice and a head of fresh dill. A garlic clove and a dried chili pepper are optional. Add boiling brine (4 cups water, 4 cups vinegar, 8 tablespoons salt), then apply lids. Dunk in a boiling water bath for 10 minutes.