Arborists are one notch above master carpenters in my book, only because some of them swing from trees while they work. There were at least ten of them here last week cutting down an Elm hanging precariously over a balcony out back. In numbers and duties they reminded me of the efficiency of a French kitchen brigade, with ranks running from sweepers to climbers. I’m sure a few of the ground crew were apprentices or interns. The scent from the chipper out front was a parting gift. I wanted a big bowl for my desk but was too shy to ask. The fragrance triggers something primal. Think of the smell of a hot cedar sauna.
 
The Elm was not in a location to accommodate a truck and bucket, and there were dead sections in the top of the trunk. All factors that make the climbers job in the canopy with a chainsaw interesting. I watched one of them recover beside his truck after, drinking water and catching his breath. It is physical exertion, and I went looking for the laws governing safety.
 
Danger is part of the attraction to the job. A charismatic Irish man I once knew turned his career to the study of trees. I thought of it as a sign of well-being — planting his life in sanity. Also, his black humour, which made me belly laugh. 
 
Some of the gnarled, velvety roots were poking out of the crumbling clay bank. They left a tall stump to ensure it did not topple over and accelerate erosion. Tree roots are structural stability for riverbanks and there are laws governing removal. Living next to significant parkland with an astonishing diversity of trees teaches you about changes in the environment and the thoughtful conservation response. 
 
Through the trees beyond it are glimpses of the Humber Marsh — a breathtaking micro-environment. You can’t imagine how many gorgeous photos I have of it. My heart melts all the time. 
 
Thank you WMD Tree Services for answering my questions. You’re a top-notch crew. 

​***
 
The rusks above have been on heavy rotation in my kitchen lately. I’m attending a community building event this week and am bringing it as one of the snacks. I think of it as a fresh variation on Serbian Ajvar:  chop and combine the last of the summer tomatoes, sour dill pickles, roasted yellow pepper, white onion, celery, celery salt, sugar, pickle brine, apple cider vinegar, and olive oil. Let it sit for a couple of hours at room temperature to get picklelicious. I put it on crisp Greek sesame rusks with a palette knife of labneh and garnish with dill flowers. 
 
This American Masters documentary on Willy Nelson is stunning and nourishing. His voice and guitar picking sound like honey. A grade schoolteacher praised his poetry.
 
***
 
These two songs came into my playlist in this order and fit together. 'Cause the breeze don't blow 'cause you want it.” 

I’ve done what I can to protect its location. It’s in the process of becoming one with the landscape. Where a car is last parked has meaning. 
 
I rounded a corner on a long walk one day and there it was in the wild. I check on it occasionally, looking for something new to notice. 
 
“The Sunday car,” writes dannysdailys on the model page on the Cadillac Forum. 
 
“You are in no hurry,” adds Faded Crest, “This behemoth was tailor made…for a single man…It epitomizes pure unadulterated, sexy, personal extravagance.” It’s also a nice fit for a single lady.
 
The colour is vanilla soft serve. It’s either Cotillon or Cameo White according to Cadillac paint names. I’d call this Biarritz, Butter. 
 
I can see Greg Allman behind the wheel. Bankers in my Lake Huron hometown bought them in black with red leather interior. It was DeNiro’s ride in Casino, albeit a later model.
 
A 1978 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz, according to an amateur. Details like the silver swoosh running along a rise in the hood toward the logo and the spoked rims are clues. It’s for long drives and smoking, with tufted marshmallow cushions and a silver ash tray and lighter at every seat. Half windows in the back give the interior a lush privacy. The antenna disappears into the body — a sign of electronics. 
 
It’s 20 feet plus in length and most of it is out front. Driving it on the Boulevard du Général de Gaulle — the turquoise Mediterranean out the window — in its namesake town would be meta.  
 
The story of the owner could go off in as many directions as the spokes on the rims. 
 
I’m expecting one day to round the corner and find its imprint on the pavement.  

***
 
Whipped cream in baba — another paint colour name.  
 
Happiness is a Friday night meander that ends at Serano Bakery. It is real busy straight through close. The service is European — brisk and professional. The goddess of hospitality introduced me to it just this year. Twenty-five years in Toronto and still learning.
 
***
 
You can bet this song played in that car. The music is another custom detail. Cadillac’s were first built in Detroit, the city where the Commodores recorded for Motown. I was fourteen when Easy was released in 1977, and whenever I hear the piano opening I feel that age again. Both versions are good. You pick. 

A former colleague sent me a text last week saying that Michael Ondaatje’s poem, Notes For The Legend of Salad Woman could be written about me. The sentiment was soft and green and healing. 
 
Since my wife was born
she must have eaten
the equivalent of two-thirds
of the original garden of Eden.
Not the dripping lush fruit
or the meat in the ribs of animals
but the green salad gardens of that place.[1]
 
My mother understood the light nature of the ingredients in what Escoffier categorizes as a simple salad. There was lots of room for tossing in her buttery rosewood bowl. Lesson One:  Do not crowd the ingredients. I loved her Caesar salad from when I was little — it’s a race-to-the-table memory. 
 
As a young cook, I worked in a station called larder — the British version of the French garde manger. I made sausages and terrines, pickled and dried vegetables, and managed the cheese under supervision. I turned local tender greens into towering structures to test the steady hands of runners. 
 
Salad requires the same finesse as an omelette. It’s a good first exam for a new cook — it can be massacred by a lad who shellacs it with dressing and tosses it like a Thai masseuse, so it arrives at the table on life support. 
 
The contents of your crisper interests me. I can step into most kitchens and make something original or classic. I’ve made fantastic salads for staff meal. That’s what inspired the text message.
 
There’s a reel circulating on social media of clips of Werner Herzog saying read, read, read, read, read, read, read, read. *laughing* Think of me saying salad, salad, salad, salad, salad, salad, salad. 
 

[1] Ondaatje, Michael. “Rat Jelly.” (Toronto:  Coach House Press, 1973). p. 18. https://archive.org/details/ratjelly0000onda_h9v3/mode/2up

***
 
One of my standard vinaigrettes is made with apple cider vinegar, a hint of garlic and  Dijon mustard, unpasteurized honey, salt and MSG, and avocado oil. It’s good with fruit, cheese, or nut garnishes. Also, squash and farro. The best apple cider vinegar in Ontario comes from Niagara Vinegar Co. It smells like a bushel of picked fruit. I tossed the Ontario French beans, tomatoes, and corn above with it — what Escoffier calls a composed salad. 
 
A Japanese-inspired dressing in the small dish in the image on the left might call for a visit to a specialty grocery store for ingredients. No great hardship. Combine Goma sauce, Kewpie mayonnaise, rice wine vinegar, enough ginger to make it bright, one small clove of garlic, a few drops of sesame oil and shoyu and shio koji. I’ve made variations with lime zest and juice and imagine it would be delicious with Calamansi or Yuzu juice. Lesson Two:  A well-made dressing always wakes the palate up. 
 
Green Onion-Yogurt Dressing. 
 
***
 
There's always a day in September when my heart sinks over disappearing tastes and early sunsets. I still listen to this Leon Bridge’s album like it was released last week. It’s a perfect match with a low sun on a late afternoon walk. 

​The warm and fleeting feeling of love and gratitude spread through me when I stumbled on this video taken in 1949 from a boat in Toronto harbour. I was looking at the skyline through my grandfather’s eyes, and welled up. How many entries for Toronto are there in Harry’s blue logbook? I’m sure there were times at the end of a too long season when all he could see was another grain elevator. But he also would have arrived on a day when the waves glistened, and the sky was a hue between powder and azure blue. Looking at the city from a boat’s perspective has meaning for me. It’s a whole other world for people who work on the water. 
 
As chief engineer, Harry would not have been playing tourist on deck while docking. Or maybe he would with a good engine room crew. Later, smartly dressed and topped with a Ben Hogan or Fedora, he’d climb down the ladder and head off to meet us for a meal at Sai Woos or Shopsy’s on Spadina. 
 
Family was important to him, but the arrangements were unique and difficult. For the better part of every year he was a man beyond reach — a shadowy presence at home. In the early years communication was not easy. Mail boats would occasionally snug up against a laker to exchange letters and packages. He was home for six to eight weeks, and then gone. Harry missed an awful lot. Was he ever in the stands when my father played football for Notre Dame in Welland? 
 
I can still hear him holding back laughter — the living room on Lyons Avenue glowing with the late afternoon sun. The ice in his scotch clattering against the crystal as he neared the climax of a harrowing-comical Great Lakes tale. In a family of storytellers, Harry was high ranking.
 
The photo of my grandparents below was taken before they were married maybe on the S.S. Easton in the 1930s. Theo, my grandmother, is peeking out the door. There was a lot of that life that suited them as a couple, including time apart. When the kids were grown they would babysit boats during the winter break. I imagine Theo boarding a train in Welland, and hours later coming up the stairs at Central Station in Montreal where Harry was waiting. There’s a photo of them dressed for winter, taken on the street in that city, and they both look happy — enjoying time as a couple.
 
I loved being in the galley as a kid, but was forbidden to even think about working on the water. The threat was death and conveyed the potential for danger. 

​***
 
I miss the internet. It has basically gone. It’s been put through the Silicon Valley razzle-dazzle machine.
 
This interview with British nature writer, Robert Mcfarlane, was done in a spot I walk by several times a week. I’m aware of my proximity to a historic river and landscape that predates Canada by millennia. Stay and listen to the people who join him. What does it mean for a river to be ‘alive’?
 
***
 
This is one of those rare covers that may surpass the original in brilliance. Listen for the size and depth of the band behind him, and the piano refrain in the opening. It’s verging on orchestral. Joe Cocker's voice was an amazing instrument. Ricky Stainton on the keyboard stirs my inner teenager.