When I turned the page in Melissa L. Sevigny's Brave The Wild River and saw the two photos below, I burst into tears. I’ve been leisurely reading about two botanists who, in 1938, ran the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon to document the flora and fauna. The first women to take on this adventure, with real dangers. The photos are from the day Lois Jotter and Elzada Clover left the river and stepped onto the shore at Boulder City. Some men were in their corner — their fathers, one man from the trip, and another who approved the field research. But in the hours after finishing, some of the men they encountered scolded them as if they were errant children needing to be brought in line. Men in their party thirsting for notoriety went to great lengths to squeeze the two women out of the story and make it about them when the journey began as a dream for Elzada Clover. And then there were the men in their academic institutions who framed the journey as reckless rather than legitimate scientific inquiry. It would be interesting to know how many of those men have work that lives on at The Smithsonian.
 
Two educated, professional women going to great lengths to achieve career fulfillment. Competent and determined in a world that saw women as frail, weak, and silly. ‘Those were the times’ is not the whole story because it still happens too often. Exceptional is unacceptable for one gender. I came away from reading the book with a clear sense of how attractive the spirit of adventure is in women, especially when mixed with intelligence. Admiration sparkles in me for Lois Jotter and Elzada Clover who were way out front doing work they loved.
 
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I always worry that Spy apples will just up and disappear because of a lack of demand. My local market generally brings in only one bushel a season. They make superior applesauce and pies because they are juicy and have a bright natural acidity. Most recipes today call for a few generic apples. I wrote on the varietal dilemma for Mark Bittman and spoke to some smart people in Vermont and Germany. 
 
I made this apple cake from Smitten Kitchen. Any cake with sour cream or buttermilk in the batter has got me. The crumb topping hits the perfect salty note. On the surface, the recipe looks simple, but it’s tricky. The cake batter is thick and requires care in baking so as not to end up with a mucky centre — the riddle of all fruit-centre cakes. I baked it ten minutes longer because I chose a juicy apple. Do as instructed, and leave a few apple wedges out. Instead of vanilla, I used Fiori Di Sicilia, which brought out the floral essence — a reminder that the fruit starts as pink and pearl apple blossoms fluttering in a spring breeze. The cake is sweet and rich and is absolutely better on the second day. Perfect for a weekend lunch.
 
Baking always makes me feel better. I was in need of extra tender loving care on the day I made it.

When I lived on Lake Huron, I had a friend across the street, and her mom, Mrs. Carlisle, was a superb home baker. She would have worn a crown on competition baking shows. You could tell she loved being in the kitchen in her apron with the oven on. There was always at least one sweet on their kitchen counter — date squares, apple pie, bundt cake, chocolate chip, and oatmeal-raisin cookies. That made it a super bon place to land after some of our teenage extra-curricular activities.

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​
THE QUEEN of all chanteuses is, in my opinion, Whitney. Her vocal range and the power of her delivery were phenomenal. She was a natural-born performer and an all-around exceptional woman. Watch Steve Tavaglioni on tenor sax grooving for all of us. If I had a time machine, I’d be in that audience. 
 
This is the sweetest thing on Instagram this week.

​Added it to my New York City file in Notes for my next visit.

This news about the sale of a Denyse Thomasos' painting is stunning. Her work is so important to this country and the international art world. I spent several hours at her show in Toronto last year.
 
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New songs from two women. 
 
I’d play these songs for her if my friend Lynn were still here. I think she’d like them. It makes me smile thinking of us at fifteen, sitting in her room, half-baked, eating her mom’s treats, laughing and talking.

My grandmother Theo's cameo. It might be an image of Amphitrite, Goddess of the sea. Given all the years Theo spent on the water working on lake boats and canalers, it’s fitting. The cameo is costume, but I love it, and in the last few weeks, I’ve been wearing it pinned over my heart. I’m working on something I know she would love, and I am sure she would be proud of me.

Inside the box below are pieces of her jewelry and a scarf Theo wore often. It blows my mind how much it smells like her. I can bury my nose in it and be transported. My uncle sent it to me with a note. I only open it occasionally because I don’t want the scent to disappear. It's the Hope Diamond of this house.
 
That’s her recipe book dressed up in a scrap of wallpaper. I imagine her sitting at the kitchen table and covering the black binder. Finding her own joy in the midst of six kids. Mostly a single mother because Harry was working on the Great Lakes nine or ten months of the year. One small way she made her daily chores more beautiful. A homely piece of household art. It’s full of recipes she scribbled on scraps of cardboard and paper, newspaper clippings, and pamphlets from the ’70s from Robin Hood and Quaker Oats. In red pen she's written 'Good!' at the top of a recipe for Scalloped Potato and Tomato with Cheese, there's a Peach Schnapp's Cake with my aunt's name on it, and at least a dozen recipes for fruit cobblers — a staple recipe when you live in the Niagara region and have a small posse of children. 

The photo of Theo was taken in 1960 at Nickel Plant Beach in Port Colborne — apparently one of the nicest beaches in Ontario, still. According to my uncle she'd pack some of the neighbourhood kids in the car and while they were in the water she'd sit on the beach, smoke Peter Jackson's, and read. We had a laugh talking about the fact that Theo couldn't swim two strokes. Good thing the kids never got in trouble.

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​Publishing on my website is delicious. I share Mandy Brown’s enthusiasm in Coming Home. “Writing on my own site has very different affordances: I’m not typing into a little box, but writing in a text file. I’m not surrounded by other people’s thinking, but located within my own body of work. As I played with setting this up, I could immediately feel how that would change the kinds of things I would say, and it felt good. Really good. Like putting on a favorite t-shirt, or coming home to my solid, quiet house after a long time away.”
 
"but if you are a gracious host
joy comes back."
  
The Wonder of Stevie. I played an episode and the next day played the album spotlighted in its entirety, and so on through six episodes. What a body of work. Lots of dancing here and BIG respect. Evil is a song for our times. So is the violence he sings about in Living For The City.
 
Keanu Reeves delivering solid advice on people in Destination Wedding.
 
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All the songs came to me when I was out for a walk on Thanksgiving day. Sometimes the music comes in a rush — along with some of the words — on the day I publish last week's story.

Goodbye, field tomatoes. I’m crying like Jimmy Swaggart.
 
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Every profession has evangelism — faith, chefs, books, sourdough, movies, tech, vintners, politics, and clothes — with preachers selling their way and handing out labels like scout badges. We’re all wrapped up in it. A friend sent me this fascinating interview by Nahlah Ayed with David Samson to add to the discussion about tribalism from last week. One of his suggestions is an offering custom-made for Thanksgiving — focus on “pro-social, face-to-face relationships.” Gather and feast, people. Do it again soon. Exercise your hospitality skills. Invite people in.
 
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I felt dread and panic reading posts of people unable to evacuate from Florida this week because of poverty, isolation, incarceration, illness, or disability. There’s a grassroots culture of national and local mutual aid on social media. BlueSky is reminding me of the goodness of Bluebird Twitter. It’s a relief to see a virtual community, “the helpers,” jump into action. (There are better moderation tools to stem toxic invasions from the evil believers — the evangelic trolls — who try to follow me with fake Keanu Reeve’s accounts.)
 
Maybe you have friends in Florida starting completely over or calling it quits. Climate migrants leave a place in a hurry and never look back because of too much first-hand experience. Think of it for a moment. Even prepared, there are hard decisions to make at the last minute. Imagine the run on supplies in the few days before. Then spending hours on a highway in a long chemtrail of taillights hoping there’s enough gas to get to safety. This kind of stress is an increasingly common experience for us. 

Cole Gregson writing for Oxford American about North Carolina. Being a helper first and a writer next. Doing rural wellness checks and spreading the word of great need. All the way to the end showing us the spirit of Thanksgiving.

What if every time you turn on an engine this week, you thought for a moment about global coastal and island citizens losing everything? My tribe has advocated for Mother Nature since way back. I dug the button below out of one of my precious tins. I wore it on my jean jacket in Katimavik when I was seventeen — in this together.
 
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I turned some whipped M-S Dairy cream cheese into a fabulous salad dressing. I shook these ingredients in a small jar: cream cheese, white wine vinegar, avocado oil, garlic puree, lemon zest, sugar, salt, MSG, and pepper. Bring to room temperature if refrigerated.
 
At one of my local markets, there was a sign advertising newly harvested carrots for $1.99/lb. How could I resist? I made a sweet, crisp julienne of one using a mandoline, added pea shoots, and tossed it with the dressing. So. Damn. Fine.

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​A harrowing story from APTN. Basically a re-enactment of our entire history — the experience since the first invasion. Another thing sent to destroy the First Nation’s culture. The storyteller is reporter Kenneth Jackson and he shows up brave, demonstrates respect at every step, and cares for people.
 
“…and had no idea what it felt like to be queen in this castle of dissolute men.”
The Anita Pallenberg documentary is deep-fried perfection — extraordinary and bittersweet. Scarlett Johansson narrates Pallenberg’s journal entries. The footage is breathtaking and it’s revelatory in terms of her relationship with Keith and the band. So much of their enduring style and culture came through her, a vivacious and magnetic Euro girl. Keith is a whole lot of things and a large side of tender. Their children are brave, brilliant, and candid. Prepare for devastation and love — the Kate Moss finish is delicious. Kudos to directors Alexis Bloor and Svetlana Zill.
 
When I was a kid, I had a portable record player and a small pile of Jackson Five, Osmond Brothers, and Beatles 45s. My most prized possession because music was the first place I felt free. 

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Music notes are the crème Chantilly of communication.
 
The Oliva Dean felt like a snug fit with Keith serenading Anita. The two songs are like parallel parking in sunny Villefranche-sur-Mer. I’m am basically supersaturaed like confiseur at this point with Leon Bridges. An evangelic sound.

I set a big work goal for myself this week. I’m embarrassed, but I will tell you it was to write 7,000 words. I’ve never done that much in five days in a decade of writing. I will never write with the speed of Kazuo Ishiguro. Five to seven hundred words a day is super bon. (Of course, there are days when I can do more.) I don’t know if this is the way it will always be. On Wednesday, it was clear I would not make it, so I took a ride on the mental rollercoaster called Funk. Living alone, there was no one to remind me to get off. Then I remembered my ex would look at my To-do lists and ask me why climbing Mount Everest wasn’t on it. Poking fun at the gap between my desire to achieve and what is humanly possible. Making me laugh was helpful. Is this a women's thing? Is it a way to prolong disappointment in myself? A micro-abuse to act out daily. A lifetime of making restaurant mis en place lists with tasks perpetually dropping off the bottom into an abyss. After a few hours of moping, I settled on being more than halfway through the first draft.
 
Then I turned Friday into a minor celebration of my achievements because cake weather is back. I’m a card-carrying member of the night baker community. I made the Banana-Date Tea Cake from one of my favourite books, Tartine, because Elisabeth M. Prueitt writes good recipes. Sent a friend a text later that read: “This is the best banana cake I have ever had.” The crunchy sugar crust is texture perfection, and the dates and toasted walnuts give it elegance.
 
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This devastating photo from Liz Renzetti of the clear-cut at the former Ontario Place circulated on social media this week. I imagine seeing the same thing in cottage country from a boat when a big property is being built. A sure sign a developer lacks the imagination to embrace the landscape. Globally there was one big takeaway from the pandemic and that is the value of being together and outdoors. Some can’t imagine nature having priority over commercial waterfront development. The idea of public space delivered by the people who don't spend summers here. Projects born on a wave of bullying have doom built into their DNA.
 
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Something I read this week written in 1961 by Robert Ulich at Harvard University:
 
“In many groups hatred against outsiders has been a social glue as effective as internal understanding; we have not completely overcome the dangers of tribal mentality.”

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​My standing desk in the kitchen. The blinds were down, and a fan blowing on me because Tuesday, October 1, was humid in the city.
 
“We know it’s not individual genius.” Long live Derrick Gee. The discussion on bands is *chef’s kisses.* 
 
“I always say it feels like church...When I go to AMC, I just sit there. And I can’t really experience that communal thing that we have here, where we’re all just worshipping at the altar of celluloid.” Because watching movies is not better at home.
 
Fangirling over Andrea Brusendorf.  Then, out for a walk with a friend, I see an Honorine Jobert anemone growing in my neighbourhood. I must take half a dozen photos of flowers every time I’m out for a walk. Who can resist? Might need the reminder in February.
 
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I was introduced to Melody Gardot at the place of heart-shattering sunsets. The rest came this week in radio mode.