I spent six weeks in Tuscany cooking in a villa near Panzano. A gorgeous country walk to Volpia. A good story with other stories nesting inside, like a matryoshka. The first item on my daily shopping list toward the end of my stay was husband. It made the company I was with laugh. It was done with a light heart and expressed how hard I’d fallen. Leaving felt impossible. When that day came, the man I cooked for came to collect me from the clothesline where I’d gone to cry. He said nice things to me on a grassy hill. His words carried on a soft June breeze. On the way to the Florence airport, I could see my reflection in the window, like an underpainting on the receding landscape — Cypress trees passing over the hands in my lap. I longed for the place for weeks after. Felt the heart pangs of a breakup. I’ve fallen in love with many things. Hard for places, people, stories, books, paintings, and restaurants. I get serious crushes. Some fantastically irrational. I didn’t need a man to create conditions for staying. There were good people I was sharing the experience with. But there are places where I recognize the absence of that intimacy. When it’s good. Have you been to Paris in April? Culturally we equate singleness with a failure to form attachments. Can I introduce you to my friends? Passion is not something I’m short on. Living alone is just another way. And it’s not terrible. I have enough coupled friends to know. And I’ve been there. Alone and together. *** One morning this week, I heard on the news that researchers believe the Orcas are playing in the Strait of Gibraltar. Boat rudders look like fun to the giant creatures. It made me smile. Socially, it’s interesting. Unless you’re a boat owner lacking consciousness of living with other beings. *** The photos were taken in another special place. A few of you know its beauty. *** Sampha’s words. His lyrical voice. 2017I can hear birdsong even in the busiest parts of the city. The natural world is within my hearing range these days. Is this what happens at 60? Listening for bird chatter and stopping to admire trees? I recommend getting older. As a woman, there's a new freedom. It comes down to the personal work I've done over a lifetime and the work I did during the pandemic. The quiet activities of reading and writing play a role too. Here are a few of life's pleasures right now: I get to eat with others at work. I live alone. It means a lot to me. I've met some lovely people. Gold-star standard bearers of the hospitality industry. Sitting to eat as a cook is important. I got into cooking because I wanted to eat. Period. And nourishing the spirit and sharing ideas and culture outside of the kitchen with others is rich — like good gravy on a plate of golden fries. I saw the film Past Lives, a beautiful and life-affirming love story. It's up there with Moonstruck for me. Celine Song, the writer and director, is Korean-Canadian. Reading a book on the subway on the way to work. Thirty minutes of uninterrupted time before I've had coffee or breakfast. Right now, in my backpack is Under the Sea-Wind by the American naturalist, Rachel Carson. At 6:30 in the morning, speeding east across Toronto, my imagination is steeped in New England coastal birds and maritime aquatic life. I like it when my mom tells me she had pie at PJ's in Strathmore. She loves their pie. Mostly she orders lemon meringue, chocolate, and coconut cream. It makes her happy. I can hardly wait to have a slice with her. It's been almost two years. Knowing the hollyhocks will soon be back. And if they're in your garden, I'll tramp through your yard to get closer. Good eggs fried in the fat from roast chicken — when the white gets a crisp bubbly frill. A summer day to myself. Packing up my journals and a book and heading out for a walk and one or two Cortados. Creatively, this is a freeing practice for me. Good things happen when I leave the house (the words of a wise friend). The quality of my week is measured by how much time there is for writing. And time for getting out. *** I've shut down comments on my website and YouTube and my contact form on my website because of comments and emails I've received since the start of this year. I keep a file with details. Do you do that? It's par for the course when you're a woman with authority and opinions. At this point, I protect my voice and ideas. I'll spare you the distressing stuff, mostly because my mom reads this. Ten days ago, I got an email from a stranger I had to block on Twitter. It was awful and again, anonymous. Below are two minor examples of online interactions. Always these individuals operate behind the veil of anonymity — approaching me incognito — like creeps. Why do you need to create an identity to share a link to an article? (Left image) Walton.john64 had zero followers and posts and was following no one. His alias was Samuel the Prophet. There's no human connection, no friends in common, and no context. It's not normal behaviour. I don't read on command. Share the article as yourself with a few nice words of introduction, or take a pass, please. This is not Watergate, and you are not Deep Throat. Months after this piece ran in the Washington Post, these comments appeared on a YouTube companion video. (Right image) I was torn about leaving them up. I'm not ashamed of this discussion. I told "Davey" that I pitched an idea, an editor bought it, and I was paid well. I covered Regan's alcoholism in a piece I wrote in 2018. Frankly, I don't find relapse interesting, and I say that as someone who's spent almost 30 years in recovery. It's a regular, everyday occurrence in my experience. It's not extraordinary. I say that without judgment. I want people to do whatever it takes to be free. If you have a story angle, go sell it. Write about alcoholism and relapse, or wrap something else around it. I'll probably read it. What I loved the most about Fieldwork was how Regan was maturing as a writer. And a second book is always interesting. Most chefs and restaurateurs only have one in them. The focus also reflects where I'm at as a writer. I covered it beautifully. I also believe in privacy, especially for someone who's written a memoir. In sharing themselves candidly — showing up as human — the writer has been of service. They don't owe us more. Why did I break the golden rule and respond? Because I'm human, and it triggered me. I've spent a long time dealing with strident individuals in recovery. And a lot of alcoholics believe they're fascinating. "The alcoholic is like a tornado roaring their way through the lives of others. Hearts are broken. Sweet relationships are dead." Real depth and gravity there. I'll take "Davey" is jealous for $500, Alex. *** I'm grateful for the social media community I've built. I'm mindful. I've been curating it for many years, and it's full of culture, broadly speaking. People talk real and nice. It's mostly peaceful. It's safe to be me. I'll do whatever it takes to keep it that way. *** Voting is a vital tool of democracy. Can we please make it cool again? Do it this Monday in Toronto, please. There are one hundred and two candidates. Go fucking crazy. *** Turn this song up. 1985I like making jam. And I’m good at it. Some of you are lucky enough to know. It’s my obsession, a stand-in for sourdough. A conduit for bread. Which I like a lot too. I always laugh when someone asks if I sell my jam. The cost of making it without pectin and paying close attention to the details is insane. The international jam makers I admire charge a lot. And it’s still not enough. How do you account for the labour and knowledge? At corporate grocery stores, jam is mass manufactured with natural flavourings and liquid sweeteners. It’s made quick with liquid pectin, so profits don’t evaporate. A knife can stand up in it. Capturing the fleeting taste of ripeness is left to the marketing department. It’s what billionaires spread on their price-fixed white bread. Think of it like a duck decoy from Home Hardware. Or a cottage country gas station lure. It’s not worms, and it doesn’t quack. And the sad thing is it establishes a value in people’s minds. I make jam to give away. My best work is gifted. I still like being an apprentice to something — jam or writing currently. My sole goal is to get better doing it. When it comes together just perfect — a few times a year — it makes me smile. That’s the feeling I’m chasing. The big deal. It’s an adventure. A skill tester. The means to measure. Jam demands I pay attention to the season. Here’s what I learned about rhubarb in 2023: Sometimes I rush the season and use forced rhubarb. The colour is gorgeous, like rosy peonies, a seasonal garden companion. But rhubarb grown outside produces a better texture — it sets to a soft gel that clings to translucent bits of fruit and it's glossy. The technical mastery of jam is achieving a nice texture (and a fruit forward flavour). Rhubarb from a local patch is superior in that regard. Maybe I’ll try to play with a ratio of the two next year to perfect the colour. The method I use comes from the Alsatian queen of jam, Christine Ferber. During the summer Mes Confitures is often open on my kitchen table. *** Cormac McCarthy will always be a master of dialogue to me. He created until the end as an artist and didn’t do it for accolades and awards. He left us with riches. *** I had dinner last week with a woman I met in high school. Time fucking flies. One day we're sitting around a campfire at Point Farms Provincial Park, howling into the starry night sky, holding brown Crystal stubbies high on a summer Lake Huron holiday long weekend. Fast forward 45 years, and we’re in a Korean restaurant talking about our teenage home life and arthritis and remembering people — some long gone. Steve Miller is for us, Linda. Glad to know you. And Edgar Winter bending gender in the 70s. 19771972In the 70s, when my grandfather's boat, the E.B. Barber, came into Toronto during the summer season, it was a family event. He was chief engineer on that lake boat and was away from us from March to December. We'd drive into the city and spend a few hours with him. My grandmother Theo would do the same. All of us circled the wagon and spent time together in restaurants. I remember having lunch at Shopsy's on Spadina. There was a steam table to your right on the way to the dining room — a panelled room with black and white celebrity photos nailed to every square inch. I remember matzo ball soup. Thinking of that lunch makes me feel light and sweet. Food brought out the best in most of the people I loved. And then there was the fun of being with Harry. I was sure he loved me. Before going to the restaurant, we bought bagels and cream cheese from a Jewish dairy in Kensington Market. I'm here because last Saturday, under a periwinkle late May sky, I stood across the street from what once was Sai Woo restaurant. I was filled with happy memories of being a kid. And there was a bittersweet twinge in my heart about the passage of time. Theo loved the restaurant, and again, when Harry's boat was in Toronto, we would sometimes meet them there. The room and food were grand and elegant to this seven- or eight-year-old girl — plus ultra. It was above street level. You went through the doors to the left of the building and up the stairs to a waiting area. It was always busy. There were a few round banquets in that large room. The extraordinary restaurateurs were Bill and Mary Wen. Look at this photo of Rompin' Ronnie Hawkins and Bill. That's where I had sweet and sour soup the first time. My memory was starting to get good about food. The hot earthenware oval dishes and the round plates with the colourful band came piled with bright, saucy, lacquered goodness. Learning to eat with chopsticks was a challenge. Having so many delicious things to eat all at once was a delight. Sai Woo is long gone but remains forever vivid in my memory. Do you have a restaurant like that? *** I have despaired over the whittling away of Chinatown since before the pandemic. It could be a natural evolution. But consider Queen Street West between University and Spadina to see how quickly the culture and character of a place can be stripped. Corporate encroachment is heart breaking. I hope there's another way. After more than a decade of mediocre leadership in this city, maybe we'll vote for the kind of mayor who will make haste to grant Chinatown heritage designation. History and culture are worth protecting. *** Someone put the idea of Tom Jones in my head this week. What a performer. His show was one hundred percent a reflection of 70s chauvinism. The way he moves — channelling Billy Preston. Also, this new The Weekend, Madonna and Playboi Carti’s song is a perfect summer song. I love the Festival de Cannes backdrop (and The Weekend in a tux). It's been thirty years since I was on the Côte d'Azur during May and June — a forever golden life experience. The review of opening night this year in Vulture is *chef's kisses.* It’s mandatory reading for anyone wanting to be a critic. Madonna: You can't take my soul without a fucking fight 19692023Do you know what's trending in Toronto bakeries? Jam-filled doughnuts. I had this one on Friday afternoon. An "it's the weekend" treat. But when it comes to reasons to eat doughnuts, I can think of a million and one — including maintaining my menopausal midriff. I mean that in the most loving way. Trying hard to appreciate growing older. It's from Petite Thuet. I had to step out of the sidewalk crowd and stop to eat it. It demanded my attention. One of the big joys is the heavy sugar coating. It's messy. I felt like a kid. When it was done, I raised my arms toward the powder blue sky. A salutation. Momentarily transported to a happy place. Just me celebrating on Yonge Street. I'm a jam maker, and it's about the guts — this one was raspberry. The ratio of dough to jam was perfect. This is a critical detail. It's wholly unsatisfying when there's not enough filling. The dough was soft but not completely tender and white, which made me curious about the fat. Dough plus filling is simple. And real difficult to do right. Bà Nôi fills their doughnuts with stewed rhubarb and custard if you're looking for seasonally sublime. You definitely need it. Also, a butter tart chaser. I've been a few times. I like that bakery a lot. I'm glad I don't live closer. In Bloor West Village, the local Polish deli, Kingsway Meat Products, sells Paczki from a bakery we're still trying to sleuth (we're pretty sure it's in Etobicoke). The quince-rosewater filling and eggshell thin sugar glaze are an Eastern European dream. Go early. *** The men in these videos look like my friends from high school or someone I dated. I was a classic 70s teenage girl. I loved both songs. Still do. I grew up in a golden era. 19771974The first French book I bought for myself as an apprentice. On Valentine's Day. Made by Gault-Millau with an introduction by Pierre Salinger — an American journalist and politico who looks like Paul Bocuse's long-lost brother. (You need to look — classic 70s guy.) Here's an episode on Burgundy of the PBS show. At the time I was working in the kitchen with André Donnet in Hamilton at L'Escargot. A terrific cook and a good guy. My golden start. In the early days of yearning. I flipped out for French food — strutted right off the end of the high diving board at the local quarry. In almost 35 years, it has taken me to interesting places. I mean that wholistically — from extraordinary to terrible. Hard work made me fortunate. I paid my dues. I spent too much time with French men. I'd like to write some of those stories. My adorable book inscription is below. Like a schoolgirl, the pen drawing of the heart is a pre-emoji emoji. Beside it is a photo of the chef I worked for in France five years later. My fate was sealed at the Table of Contents. On February 14, 1988. How completely happenstance. Life's poetry. It took five years to turn that dream into reality. I had enough confidence in André to tell him early. He never led me to believe it was impossible. That's one reason why it happened. I hope you all know the pleasure of realizing a long-term goal. I remember the people who got me there and those who were barriers. Because that's life. I bought the book at Edwards. Remember that Queen Street West? Those were the days. I am old. Now it's like the Mall of America (with a few exceptions). If you feel up to it, show me the first cookbook that meant something to you as a young cook. Send a photo or link to me on social media. *** I lost a friend two weeks ago. A woman who was there for me in my early recovery. We were close for almost 20 years, and then we drifted apart. What a cook — I would sprint to her dinner table. A blue-ribbon amateur. We spent lots of time in the kitchen together. I can hear her belly laugh sitting here writing this. She had the joy of living in the human sense. She was a long-time meditator. We would sit in morning meditation up at her cottage — in chairs facing one another. The gentle lap of water on the lakeshore, the busy morning trill of birds making the day's plans, maybe the lone wail of a loon if it was overcast. There's nothing like a friend you can be quiet with. Also, friends, you can read around. And older friends. I talked to her husband of 59 years this past week. It was a nice conversation. We laughed, and it was solemn. I remember her in many ways — smiling in the sauna and jumping in an icy lake, both of us on the VIP tour of Graceland. Times you never want to end. Completely grateful. *** I picked the songs for my heart. Elton John and Bernie Taupin were extraordinary storytellers. They could write for his uniquely baritone voice and the piano. Top of the Pops was a big deal. Both performances about a year apart when things were taking off for him in Britain. They are subdued, but his brilliance as a showman in the jackets and the lighting in the second video is clear. A man behind a piano. A legendary performer. Close your eyes and imagine being in Royal Festival Hall in 1972. 19711972If I ever have a garden again, the first thing I'll plant is black currant shrubs. A glut of the berries in July is a blue-ribbon problem. I'd gather them in greying popular fruit baskets to make the Cassis Jelly recipe on page 231 of Saving the Season. According to a note on the page, I made it first on July 24, 2013 — a Wednesday. My muslin jelly bag is permanently stained an inky black purple like the colour of a new tattoo. The flavour of berries, citrus, and herbs is a palate stunner. It's got pucker. Spreading it thick on toasted sourdough with melting cultured butter is a pleasure. Eating it standing barefoot in dewy grass is even better. Cassis jelly is a country good morning. "Recipes need stories," writes Kevin West. Now you know why I like the book. It's made by a writer in no big hurry. To say it's about preserving is not the half of it. Like a Tennessee Waltz quilt, West stitches together recipes for Sunshine Pickles and Peach Jam with essays on a Shenandoah Valley road trip and the sensual vegetable portraits of Charles Jones. There are lines of poetry from Pablo Neruda, "I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees." On almost every page, there's a new seduction. "Lemon verbena and sweet wine in the first variation provide weightless layers of flavor, akin to the translucent atmospherics in a Turner painting," he writes about Apricot Jam with Honey and Lemon Verbena. Threading a homely craft to a master painter is the work of a writer who embraces culture with warmth and generosity. The headnotes are like cocktails before dinner, with nice snacks. A space to build appetite and nurture a connection with the reader-cook. West delivers technique with a side of charm. In the intro for Zucchini Dill Spears, he recalls something his mom said about growing zucchini that will bring a smile to a gardener's face. "After you pick a plant clean and walk away, you can glance back over your shoulder and see new ones that already need picking." Any opportunity to tie the kitchen to the garden is seized. "We are saving, even in our urban kitchens, a sense of the agricultural cycle," he writes in an essay on Edna Lewis. There's a photo of seven-year-old West holding a flat of sun-warm crimson strawberries on page 52. Smiling for his mom behind the camera. The two of them just back from picking. He's a wholesome vision of childhood in worn jean coveralls and no shirt. I go to the book mostly for jam, jelly, and marmalade. My passion. Because it's made without commercial pectin. I like the challenge. The cook must consider the season's imprint on the fruit's fragrance and taste. Or, as West says plainly, "Getting it right each time is different." Maybe it's owing to his Southern roots, but West excels at making introductions. We meet June Taylor, a jam-maker he calls an "archeologist of pre-industrial country life." To get a sense of her obsession, Taylor labels her preserves according to fruit varietal. And another California jam-maker, Robert Lambert, says, "I don't want to run a business…I want to make stuff." (If there was ever a mantra for my working life, that's it.) If you need to ask how much their jam costs, you don't know a stick about what goes into making it this way. But for the record, it's a lot and not near enough. West and his friends "put up" in small batches. This is not your family's all-day-by-the-bushel-canning-bonanza. Those days are mostly past. But the photo of Ada Mae Houston's root cellar on page 421 will stir nostalgia for that home-grown abundance. The cookbook's been open on my kitchen table while Mason jars made a racket in a boiling water bath, and a trail of sweat ran down the small of my back. And I've sat and read it for the learning. There's joy in it, and not just for the cook. We're friends if it's in your collection. There are homespun innovations. West suggests lining the bottom of a water bath with ring lids instead of a rack to raise the jars off the direct heat. And he fills a Ziploc bag with brine to use as a weight for a crock of dill pickles in case it springs a leak. West would be eyeing the ring-bound books in your grandmother's kitchen for inspiration. Mrs. Dorsey Brown's Green Tomato Pickle is a church-lady recipe from a St. Thomas parish cookbook near Baltimore. And the Orgeat, or sweet almond milk, has roots in a 19th-century cookbook, The Kentucky Housewife by Lettice Bryan. Last week I added more 'to-make' tabs for Cherry Preserves with Red Currants and Piquant Pears with Bay Leaf and Black Pepper. The book is crafted with Stahl house care. Modern Americana with its heart in California. I could take it from the preserving section and squeeze it between Zuni and Chez Panisse Cooking on the shelf. Where it sits in my heart. West wrote the book in the Hollywood Hills in a place called Greenvalley. Take me there. West writes about a friend's cookbooks: "What distinguishes Ziedrich's two Joys are the intangible qualities of ambition and authority, traits common to all enduring cookbooks." An apt counter-narrative for much in our high-speed machine-made world. Clear through to the end, he delivers. The Epilogue is a solid reference section. My three-word blurb: — endearing and enduring. Saving the Season is a book to pass through generations. *** The brilliant pop-art strawberry is from Jay Heins at Numen Communications. He's art directing on the cookbook posts. What a relief to focus on the words. And to collaborate with a talented, creative human. Less is more for me these days. I'll be posting every two or three weeks about a cookbook. *** I went back and forth on the music. Settled on the new and the old. I could serve Steve Winwood in so many ways — the Spencer Davis Group, Traffic — but I chose Blind Faith. An extraordinary musician right from the start. © strawberry by eva.yuna via Freepik. 20231969During one of the bleakest periods of the pandemic, when loneliness was like an anchor tied to my spirit, I started a project. I read an important cookbook in my collection — from the front matter through the acknowledgements. In the prison of imposed quiet, I watched the writer's hand, discovering their quirks and imperfections. I began collecting small phrases — expressions of personality — in a 25-page document. I have a few ideas for it. I'm looking at my food and cookbooks in new ways, as objects of a writer's artistic practice and a record of career development. And I'm going to start writing about them here. *** In 2013/14, a few pieces I wrote while at the Humber School for Writers were about cookbook collectors. A well-known Toronto food writer opened their home and library to me as a student. A generous gesture. If I'm in a room with a cook and their collection, I find the latter distracting. *** I began collecting in the mid to late 80s. My library is a culinary fingerprint. I'm starting with that pile. There are some stories in it. I had lunch with one of those writers. There's a book there I gift as often as I can. I have a big beef with the research in one of those books. Some of them are out of print. If it inspires you to buy, please support local cookbook and used bookstores. Remember going out of the house to get books? Being in a shop with people all leisurely like. Spending an hour in the afternoon in Nicholas Hoare on Front Street in Toronto (I miss that bookstore). I still have a few of their bookmarks. *** There's something else. A friend is art directing. It was a spontaneous offer made in the last couple of weeks. I'm grateful to focus on the writing and am excited about the collaboration. I'm working on the first essay. It's up May 6. *** This week one of the good people in my life showed up wearing a Def Leppard t-shirt. My kind of woman. Pure fire. *** Everything But The Girl is back. Tracey Thorn's black coffee voice. The second song makes me long for a dark, crowded nightclub. March 14, 2023February 22, 2023Me and my mom at Calgary airport. I was in the final weeks of training for my first marathon. Some of my SCS students will remember me like that. My running career ended in knee replacements. Those days are over. I did them real good. *** Cooks are often driven by an outrageous need to constantly be pushing on their physical and skills capacity. Having a career in the kitchen is like being a crazy ultra-marathoner. Have you ever seen the documentary, The Barkley Marathons? The subtitle is, The Race That Eat's Its Young. Woo boy, it's insanity. Reminds me of working in the kitchen at Rundles. That should make a few of you laugh. IYKYK. I can't write that way. It does not work. It's a whole different relationship to productivity. Sometimes I'll hear a writer humble-brag about producing an astonishing number of words in a single sitting. What kind of fucking words, I wonder. Are we talking like Jack Nicolson in The Shining: "All work and no play make Jack a dull boy." *** Half a block. Do you know how far that is? I thought I would die those first few weeks of running. I ran the first race within weeks of starting. It was called something like the Hilly 15. Basically, fifteen kilometres of expert-level cross-country. I was not prepared is an understatement. The medal is a testament to my will. The nice thing about training in Stratford was the country roads and my farmer friends outside the city limits. I'd pull up to their doors sweaty, 20 or 30 km into a long run, and fill my water bottle. Do you know how good cold tap water tastes? On a sweltering day, it's three stars. *** There I am, crossing the first finish line. Tired...joyful...proud...hungry...grateful. So fucking ready to stop. It rained the whole way. You can't imagine the chaffing after four hours. Here's what I learned about taking the glory lap before the actual finish line. You don't want to do it. It's an energy suck. Experienced writers don't talk much about what they are working on for the same reason. Sports psychologists might disagree. They want you to believe in everlasting winning. That makes me want to lie down too. Then when you lose, you smash your racket to pieces on the court. *** All week long, I had different songs lined up, and then this came up in explore mode last night and it made me feel good. 1987A 1968 Mustang. Is there a nicer car? Why am I going here? Because I saw this photo on Instagram this week. Taken in Tehran. The culture that historically gave us beautiful things related to food. Clotted cream. The colour of that car. I’d look good behind the wheel. The thought of driving it sends me over the edge. I think I had a good time in one as a teenager. I mean that in the purest sense. Maybe that's where my love for the car started. *** This week I was reminded of maps. Remember those? The robotic drone of Google directions is a poor replacement. It disrupts a real-life pleasure. Another kind of travel. Out where you can't be tracked. I can see a map laid out on the hood of that car. On the side of US 101 or Highway 1, somewhere between Portland and San Francisco. The Pacific Ocean out the passenger window — smells briny like salt along with pine and moss. A wild and extraordinary drive. I’ve done parts of it near Cannon Beach and in Sonoma County. Navigating is something I’ve always enjoyed. Finding the way is a challenge. Like solving a mystery. An exercise in following instructions. A cookbook for the road. One of the best games. And a source for epic fights. Many in public. Pouring over maps before a trip. Planning a route to a restaurant, a botanical garden, an artist's home or museum. Just thinking of those journeys makes me smile. Michelin regional maps of France are made of a material that doesn’t deteriorate at the seams — they're quality. I used one on this solo weekend trip in the Haute-Savoie. Wonder what their long life is? Do you have a favourite style? I could fall down that rabbit hole. Someone on Twitter pointed me to the Blue Guides. Another talked about the dog-eared Lonely Planet guide they travelled through Europe with in their late teens. Do you have one of those? The memories that imprint on us. *** On Wednesday my mom said, "You have to take chances." Seems imperative right now. *** Making a playlist for a road trip. Give me that job, please. These songs would play in that Mustang, on that coastal highway. 20232022 |
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