trying to get home for xmas. New traffic extension for Google Chrome: https://t.co/MXy7N9dU
| 12 October 2011
I love Saturday mornings at the Farmers’ Market, wandering through the stalls under a slowly warming sun, the dewy air scented with herbs. Vendors sort through their wares on long tables under canvas tents. Shoppers carry bouquets of sunflowers as they examine bushels of ripe peaches, glistening black grapes, green and orange melons, baskets of trailing impatiens, herbs exploding from tiny pots, baby fingerling carrots with soft leafy stems, papery yellow onions and slender scallions, sweet cherry tomatoes, cartons stuffed with new potatoes and green beans. There are juicy berry pies, tarts and bar cookies baked fresh that morning, baskets of buttery dinner rolls and loaves of shiny-topped egg bread. This is the time of year to discard the grocery list and buy what’s beautiful, plump, perfect, and in season. Read more
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| 30 August 2011
The long Labour Day weekend inspires picnics in the park, neighbourhood parties, lazy mornings at the cottage, a dip in the lake, and a good book in the hammock under the tree.
I am giddy, light-hearted and mirthful. As summer winds down, I warm to the idea of inviting guests over to bask in the rays of Mother Earth’s affection. I long to commune with friends. I want to hear our laughter fill the night sky, I want to see our joy bounce off the sharp edges of the crystal stars.
The Labour Day menu is simple, easy and breezy.| 07 July 2011
I am so immature. This thought occurred to me as I watched the magnificent series The Tudors. Mind you, I really try to pursue scholarly subjects with a somewhat sophisticated attitude. But my brain resists, taking an unprovoked right turn at the crossroads of mature intellectual pursuits and Monty Python. The fact is I was born laughing. Let’s look at my puerile sense of humour.
Katherine Howard was the doomed fifth wife of Henry the VIII. If we are to believe The Tudors (and why wouldn’t we believe Hollywood?), Katherine Howard was a bright-eyed Lolita with a dash of Hannah Montana and a soupçon of Disney princess sprinkled in. Today, she would snag a starring role in a TV series. Back then, she earned a one-way trip to the chopping block. Now, let’s face it, I should be overcome with empathy for milady. But every time the poor queen discusses the loftiness of the Howard name, I can’t help but summon the Three Stooges into the fray by shouting, “but what about your brothers Moe, Curly and Shemp, Miss Howard?”
In the first season of The Tudors, Lord Buckingham’s woes bring to mind the pop group of the late 1960s who rode the British Wave via Chicago. When Buckingham complains he is the rightful heir to the throne I blurt out, “Kind of a Drag, eh Buckingham?” And then the poor fool is sent to his death by King Henry (a prettily pouting Jonny Rhys Meyers — yes, I have a teenybopper crush — but as I said, I’m immature). Anyhow, when the poor fool is just about to get the old melon chopped off, instead of gasping in horror, I’m driven to yell another of The Buckinghams’ erstwhile hits: “Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!” (Which, by the way, was composed by a desperate Lord Cromwell in a letter he penned to the King just before his own pumpkin hit the deck).| 20 April 2011
On a sunny spring day many years ago when I was just 14 years old, I walked up the street to the library and checked out a book about dreams. On my way home, with the book in my arms, I met a boy named Ron. He was lean and lanky and by the look of his too-short trousers had probably just gone through a growth spurt. I liked the way his dark brown hair fell over his forehead and I was mesmerized by his beautiful brown eyes, which were wide-set and fringed with long thick lashes. He was 15 years old and, in my estimation, very mature. I fell in love with him on the spot. That night, I carefully wrote this entry in my diary: “I am in love with Ron.”
He was the first real love of my life. Up to that point I had enjoyed a one-sided romance with Paul McCartney and, occasionally, John Lennon. But an imaginary romance with a Beatle simply couldn’t compare to my real love, my true love, my teen love Ron.
As spring gave way to summer, the romance grew. On our first real date, Ron walked the mile from his home to mine, while I waited breathlessly for him on the front porch. He took both of my hands and gently kissed them. Then he tucked my arm into his and gallantly escorted me back up the street to the local movie theatre. Coincidentally, my father decided that he, too, felt like a walk to the movies. He enlisted my younger brother Dennis in his scheme and the two of them followed us, with my father muttering under his breath while Ron and I did our best to ignore him.