Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire

Roasting on an open fire, oven baked or steamed, chestnuts always say Christmas to me.
At the Santa Claus Parade in downtown Toronto in the 1960’s, there were always a few mustached Italians, bundled in dapper woolen coats and ascot caps, selling small bags of roasted chestnuts from their decorative wooden carts.

Traditionally, Dad bought us some chestnuts to munch as we watched the fabulous Christmas scenes in the Simpson’s windows, move magically, sending our imaginations reeling.  We could feel the heat leaking into our mittens as we held the small white paper bag and retrieved a special treat.  Part of the fun or sometimes pain in the butt, is the cracking open and peeling off the husk to reveal the soft, buttery flesh inside.  Most of the chestnuts I have consumed over the years were burned on one side or even rancid.  In some ways, it is a lottery choosing a roasted chestnut to eat and the reward of getting a good one is tremendous!

So I twisted my ankle...

So I twisted my ankle when I stepped into a mole hill and crashed to the ground.  I could walk on it but not turn my foot inwards; only a minor disability lasting a few weeks.  And no, I did not make a mountain out of the mole hill!  It got me thinking about those amazing extremities at the end of our legs, our feet.

In Elementary School we were instructed to sit cross-legged while watching a movie in the gymnasium.  On one occasion, I waited for the teacher's call to get up, line up and file back to class.  Mr. King was my grade four teacher and I had a minor crush on him.  For a ten year old girl, a crush meant nothing more than my belief that he was a very kind man and that I liked the way he called out my name for attendance.  I wanted him to like me.

As I rose to my feet with exuberance, I found myself sprawled across the gym floor.  My nose was planted on the highly polished floorboards against the lingering smell of sweaty feet.  I could feel the eyes of everyone in line whose progress back to class slowed in order to watch the spectacle.  My face burned scarlet as I tried to get up again.  My feet were both "asleep" (paresthesia) and down I went landing with a little more grace than before.

I knew that feet could "sleep" and that before they "woke up" one had to endure a session of prickly hot and cold stabbing sensations.  I did not know that both feet could go off to slumberland at the same time.

Well, much to my horror, over came Mr. King who lifted me up and carried me back to class.  I wanted to move out of the neighbourhood so that I wouldn't have to return to school again!  From that point on I never allowed teachers to be thought of as anything more than people who deliver information, some well and others not as much.

I wonder if bird's feet fall asleep?