#more vanilla

Upgrade netherite emerauld Helmet When on Head: +4 Armor +1 Knockback Resistance More Vanilla by thedemon_05

It looks like we have a ton of ice cream, but in reality, all of these have approximately one scoop left.

I'm dreaming up some more, and will share them as I go. The food gifts will come later, starting with some rose and violet marshmallows....

There is a group of tireless workers out there who would never dream of going on strike, even if they had the option. This may be a generalization, however, it is an accurate one. Cooks cook, not only because they love it, but generally because they must. Passion trumps many things and for a cook, that list generally includes; decent pay for long arduous hours, benefits of any kind, an option for a social life and possibly sustainable health. Don't misunderstand however, this is usually the last group of people you would ever hear complain - they seem to be intensely driven, for a society that are so often overlooked. If they did complain, the only people that hear them are other cooks - they work that much. Yes, the celebrity chef is enjoying quite the onslaught of camera lenses and bags of cash lately, but they are infinitesimal compared to the majority of kitchen staff that fuel the daily fires. The reality of a cook's life is not the glamor shot that is played on a loop on most food channels. It is not driving around in expensive rental cars, touring the ends of the world and eating out around the globe. Most chefs and cooks are lucky if they ever make it to the market. Their homes consist of walk-in fridges, passes, hot lines, cold stations, dish pits, mops and a whole host of weeds..... and they return to it after only a few hours sleep, every day, for more. Most artistic communities can tell the same tale. If you get into the business with a dream of becoming a celebrity, you probably will not be around for many pay cheques, let alone the limelight. For the most part, it is a pretty thankless job. Yes, there are some very lucky men and women out there who work in kitchens that belong to people who value them and who compensate them well for the hard work they do. These cooks are lucky, and they know it because they have all worked elsewhere. There is scarcely a cook who hasn't been yelled at (and I don't mean mildly) for no reason, worked for less than minimum wage (when you tally the hours), gone without dental work because they couldn't afford it (or a trip to emergency when they needed stitches because it was the middle of service), missed a year of holidays with their family, or gone days without eating a decent meal because they work when everyone else is eating and cook staff meals they don't have time to share in. For those lucky enough to work for restaurants run by chefs, things are different. Unless that chef has forgotten his days on Garde, their brigade is taken good care of. I often wonder where they pluck their drive from, what fuels their desire to create, plate and reinvent. The answer is often, "It is what I do. I couldn't do anything else". They dream about food, they talk about food and they do what we were told throughout childhood not to do - they play with food. In general, this crew respect and care for food like doctors do for patients. For the most part (because I can scarcely speak for them all), they are meticulously clean - hand, surfaces and food storage spots are scrubbed religiously. Again, this is the majority. Even though there may be rotten apples in this bunch, they don't go far or long because prison rules apply - you will not be treated well if you don't take this seriously. This faction of the public, this posse of apron wearing, pirates of the line, they are working harder and longer for less because they are driven by desire. Pay cheque to pay cheque is their existence due to devotion to a craft. If all office dwellers gave half of what this bunch did, the landscape would be markedly different. There is a small place near me that has a few hardworking cooks slaving away to a packed house every night. The owner was kind enough to leave a plate on the pass of the kitchen window that looks onto the dining room. I have never been there without leaving a tip in the billfold and then adding extra to that plate for the kitchen. It always struck me as odd that kitchen staff didn't receive a cut. Some places do tip out to the kitchen I am told, however, more often I hear that most don't. If luck is on their side, this wave of adoration for a few of their team will translate to increased respect and support for them all. The age of chef magnate is a good thing, it just isn't a reality for the lion's share. Perhaps the new regard for this profession will mean changes to wages and insurance packages for a group that could really use it. Let's face it, if these people are able to care for themselves and have happy families, imagine how many good cooks they will raise. So never be stingy with your compliments to the kitchen. Whether those words of appreciation make their way to them or not and regardless of whether anything changes for them, these people will still be working to get your food out, with heart.

Not even a week old - even if there were kinks to be ironed out - here, they would just add charm. Already a favourite spot, Rose and Sons is everyone-friendly, as humble as it is cool and packed with flavour. Only a few words are necessary. Get in here.

Thank you Barbara and Jenn for coming up with just one way for us all to feel a little helpful.

Every year at this time, Toronto is graced by the arrival of royalty. The smell of manure and other animal scents waft up from Exhibition Place and the city knows... it must be November. The Royal Winter Fair has been an institution here since 1922. It would have started in 1921, but the heating system for the Coliseum wasn't installed in time. Save for the two years that Canada was involved in World War Two, we haven't missed a year in over 90. Tens of thousands of entries arrive each year from across our nation and some from the United States to compete in all manner of agricultural challenges and exchange ideas and advancements. Horse shows, rodeos, milking competitions, butter sculpting, show goats, best corn, best hay, tallest gourd, those incredible kids in 4H.... the list goes on. The greatest beneficiaries of this tradition though, have got to be the city dwellers who are afforded the opportunity each year to marvel at the wonder of those who tend the land and the livestock. The farmers and their families that keep old and invaluable traditions alive, passing down skills that are fundamental to our survival, from one generation to the next, so that they are not forever lost. Every year, when entering the arena of the Royal, you are reminded of the importance of the message it brings. There is life beyond the city, a whole world of craft and dependance on our ecosystem - a group of people that we depend on. Every year, this is our chance to show them some appreciation. Having only spent a couple of years on the farm, I only have a cursory understanding of the commitment and breadth of knowledge it takes to exist and thrive, on the land. Other than a backyard garden in the city, I purchased that land without any real clue as to how I was going to learn what I needed to. What I managed to figure out early on, with the help of some very generous farmers and neighbors, was that farming requires constant learning, as change, is the one constant. I moved in June, late June, it should have been too late for most of the crops I wanted to plant. What I didn't know until later that year was that my ignorance, the fact that I planted regardless, went unnoticed by Mother Nature. My first year was a success because the heavy rain in the spring had done damage to most crops planted at the 'right' time. I had gotten lucky. Many lessons were painful, most involving my animals. Nursing frail newborns every 2 hours through the night in the bitter cold of the barn was easier than when they didn't make it. I didn't appreciate hearing the familiar credo, "If you have livestock, you're going to have deadstock." I never got used to that. But the veterinarians that work with farmers are heroes. I owe a lot to those animal doctors who taught me so much, were so patient with the city girl and so kind when I sobbed like one. When I rescued a mare and her foal at the meat auction, my kind vet told me that I was a fool. I was warned that she had been so neglected that it was too late, that she wouldn't make it through the night and her foal was too wild for me to break on my own. Yet, he came out many times over the next three weeks and tended to her regardless, as she ailed and he waited patiently one day as I lay her head in my lap and spoke to her as he administered the final shot to end her pain. These vets come to you, and they don't charge nearly what they are worth. It is a drop in the bucket compared to the city. Thanks to that kindness and care, that foal is now a beautiful Paint, talented and happy. There were the kind neighbors who schooled me in how to protect my livestock (not to mention my daughter and myself) from predators of various kinds, coyotes being the biggest concern. Dealing with well water is something you want to master; fertilizing naturally is a time consuming endeavor well worth all the effort; hay doesn't bail itself; watering takes hours from your day and it seems as though the majority of the day is spent feeding the animals, while the rest of it consists of cleaning up after them. I have never felt so vital, purposeful or healthy. My daughter's education came first though, so here we are, city mice again. I am thankful for her exposure to that life and thrilled that she misses it. Her farm education was invaluable, however. I would be thrilled for her if she ends up going back to the land one day. I myself hope to settle on a little farm again. Filling a table with food that is entirely of your own efforts, from your own farm - there is really nothing like it. I have a hard time enjoying eggs in the same way anymore, it just isn't the same as eating ones from the hens you care for yourself. No doubt about it though. For all the romanticizing, it is hard, hard work. We owe a great deal to those who find that amount of labour and uncertainty, rewarding and worthwhile. The Royal Winter Fair allows us to shed a little light, each year, on just a few - on some that can afford to take the time to share their achievements with us. There are countless more like them, those that they represent, that we don't see. If we are lucky though, all of the children that file through each year, raised in the city, take this farm experience with them as they grow. For fostering an appreciation in all of us, for the efforts of agriculture, The Royal deserves a 1st Place ribbon.