Some of us are great cooks. Some of us express ourselves eloquently in words. Still others among us find our muses behind the camera. Then there are those like Jean Pope who step outside these boundries. These are the artists. My summer series continues with heartfelt adventures lived close to home. It comes from Lemons and Anchovies and reminds us that "A work of art is above all an adventure of the mind- Eugene Ionesco". GREG

Even before the last bell of the school year rings, plans will have been set in motion for a summer full of adventure.  Rock climb in Telluride. Check.  Build sand castles on the beaches of Phuket. Check.  Frolic in Paris.  Check.  Sail in the Caribbean? Why not?  Weeks would fly by, home being just a stopping place to regroup, recharge, refresh the suitcase.  Memories would be made, new ones to be added to them the following year.  But these memories are not mine; these were not my childhood summers.

Our friends' children are the fortunate keepers of these memories.  In contrast, my childhood summers were decidedly more simple.  I spent my first decade in the Philippines.  Partly because I was so young and also because there are no photo albums to prove otherwise, I don't remember very many vacations.  Those long ago, hot, humid days were instead spent free from a Catholic school uniform and chasing damselflies around my grandparents' garden.  The weekends (when my cousins came around) were designated for family time at the pool.  One of my great aunts would glide underwater, hands held over her head.  The goal was to get one of the older kids to spot those hands masquerading as dorsal fins so they could yell "Shark! Shark!" Of course, they would scream in mock fear and the little ones would squeal with delight.

There is a quote from Robert Brault that I love. It goes: "In childhood, we press our nose to the pane, looking out. In memories of childhood, we press our nose to the pane, looking in". It's a sweet image. One to which we can all relate. But today, Mardi Michels reminds us that there is more than one way to turn the tables on on youth. And some of them are seasonal. Here is eat. live. travel. write. in a cross-hemispheric tribute to the Christmas' of summers long past. GREG

 I am 8 years old. It's Christmas Eve. I'm at Nana (on mum's side)'s annual Christmas Eve dinner. And there it is. In all its gelatinous glory. The custard tart.  The tart I despise. The tart we will all eat despite despising it because someone, somewhere back in time told Nana they loved it, just to be polite. So there it is on the table in pride of place. Every year.  And every year we all have a slice and pretend to love it but it's just not that nice.  I don't know if Nana made it (I doubt it) but it was just the most cardboard crust you have ever eaten with a solid, you-so-know-this-has-a-ton-of-gelatin insipidly flavoured yellow filling. With a sprinkle of nutmeg on top. Delightful. Not.