Breath on the Window

Some of my earliest memories of winter came rushing in this morning: waking up in my grandparent’s old two-story saltbox house.

The room was still dark. The air felt sharp and cold. The windows froze overnight back then. That was normal.

First thing I’d do after crawling out from under the covers was to blow warm air onto the window, creating a clear circle big enough just to see what kind of day it was outside.

Getting out of bed meant committing to it fully. There was no easing into it. You’d throw back the covers, feet hitting the icy floor, blow on the window to look outside and then beat it flat out down the stairs to the kitchen because you knew it’d be warm there.

Grandda would already be up and have the wood stove lit with the kettle slowly simmering on top of it. That kitchen was always the heart of the house, but especially in winter.

St. Shotts River: January 5th, 2026

Today, I think about how much we take for granted.

We flick a switch and the lights come on. We turn a dial and the house warms up. We check the weather on our phones without ever touching a window. Comfort is instant. Warmth is expected.

Our grandparents didn’t have that kind of ease. Their lives were harder in ways we could barely imagine today. But what they did have was resilience, resourcefulness and a deep sense of care for one another.

There wasn’t much in the way of material things. But there was love, and lots of it. There was always food on the table and a roof over our heads and warm fire for us to gather around.

Those kitchens taught us something important.

They taught us that warmth isn’t just about temperature, and that taking care of people doesn’t require abundance—just attention and effort.

At The Keeper’s Kitchen, those lessons linger in the way we cook, the way we welcome people in and in the gratitude we hold for what came before us.

We honour the hard lives our parents and grandparents lived—not by romanticizing them, but by remembering them. By noticing how much has changed and by being thankful every single day for the ease we now live with… without forgetting the hands that carried us here.

Sometimes, all it takes is a memory flash—breath on a frozen window—to remind us just how lucky we are!

Stay safe and warm out there today as we clear up last night's snow.