This week, a bunch of parsley root (Hamburg Root Parsley) at my local market was the starting point for soup. It looks like a parsnip but tastes less pungent, milder, and sweeter like celeriac. They’re sold with a shaggy head of greenery, maybe to distinguish the two roots. At the Polish deli, I bought a piece of smoked pork trim, and poking around in the back, I found a bag of white beans called Piekny Jas -- handsome johnny beans — and was seduced by the name. 
 
Besides the parsley root, pork, and beans, I added onion, carrot, celery, a heap of garlic, smoked paprika, canned tomatoes, bay leaf, and a bundle of herbs tied with string. When the beans were creamy-tender and savoury, I added half a bunch of Lacinato Kale cut in a chiffonade and a small handful of flat greens beans. I like to cut the vegetables into smaller pieces. When I taught young cooks, I told them the goal was to get a mixture of ingredients in every spoon. The golden ratio for a soup like this is mostly vegetables and a little meat. I served it with sour cream leftover from baking. Happiness is a few containers in the freezer. 
 
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After posting “today” in the early hours of Sunday morning to catch readers waking up in Europe and the night owls in Canada, I sit for a bit with the real-time view open in analytics. Blue dots appear on a map and grow in size according to the number of people who open it in places like Toronto or Washington. I try to imagine who is up at 1 a.m. near Golden Lake, Ontario, or in Ashburn, Virginia. Last week, a point lit up in the far north in a place I’d never heard of, and at the same time, someone was reading it in Ireland. I’m a woman at a keyboard practicing. Connection is a gift I never expected. 

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M.F.K. Fisher sitting in a chair that’s been attacked by her Siamese cats and living like the rest of us. 
 
Deb Freeman and friends cook and pay tribute to the American chef Edna Lewis. 
 
Another reason to visit Chicago. 
 
“Being urban is a participatory sport.” Yes to all of this by Rebecca Solnit.
 
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Sweet songs of love by women are a prescription for the insanity of this week. I’ve been gorging on If I Told You for a few days. Roberta Flack singing a song from the Bee Gees — the organ trails her voice like a velvet ribbon.  

I woke up feisty on Wednesday, ready for a rumble. I did good work through to Friday and then took myself out for a minor celebration on Saturday night to Beast, a place where the people know my name and the pizza’s a dream. I sat at the bar and had a house salad for the pickled yellow pepperoncini and the Crust Monsieur — grainy mustard bechamel, Swiss cheese, ham, and chives — Stew Gots can top a pie. The crust is Nathan's masterpiece.
 
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I want you to play a small game for a whole day this week from when you wake up until you sleep. Count every fifteen people you meet — family, strangers, colleagues, and friends — and then imagine the sixteenth person standing in a food bank line. It might hurt if it’s your mom or best friend. The population of Ontario in 2023 was 15,623,207, and over one million of us used food banks. Is there anyone in this province who doesn’t know someone struggling to have enough to eat? One in sixteen people in Ontario are hungry.
 
Something to think about when you get that $200 cheque from the Ontario Progressive Conservatives. I wish I could believe any government was that brilliant with money. It takes me back to 1991 when Bob Rae was premier and sent us $75. The budget looked like an art gallery catalogue.

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“To live and work online now is to exist in this rolling disaster/gladiatorial arena in which it’s increasingly impossible to tell the difference between amateur 4-Chan style griefing, inept political destabilizing campaigns, and just a bunch of randos who imprinted on being horrible.”
Erin Kissane beautifully distills the vitality of community building.
 
“The water was already knee-high on the ground floor of the hotel where Aitana Puchal had taken refuge when she received a text alert from the regional government of Valencia at 8 pm on Oct. 29 warning people to shelter in place from severe flash floods."
"Leaders” who choose ignorance and self interest over caring for the people they represent are a global epidemic.  
 
Something beautiful on Instagram.
 
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I love hearing an audience lavish a woman with love, respect, and admiration like Florence and the Machine. The second song has the wavy gravy sound of the sixties, Sgt. Pepper-style. The last song is for the family I ate Portuguese Coconut Ring with this week, and the person who sent me a note with my name in 40 point all caps followed by a lot of exclamation marks, and the person who sent a beautiful card and invitation, and the friends who checked in on Wednesday. 

June 1963 on the E. B. Barber. My grandfather Harry was chief engineer and worked on the Great Lakes his whole life. I was five months old when the photo of him was taken. I also love the picture below of him wearing a black beret and standing in front of a broken boom. It happened unloading cargo, and you can almost hear the deck crew saying ‘fuck’ in unison — looking at a horizon of overtime. There were probably a few laughs later below deck. Most people who work on the water can turn a temporary tragedy into crackin' entertainment at some point. 
 
One of the many things I liked about being with Harry was his ease with people. He was happy as a clam in the middle of a conversation — even better if it was in a bakery or butcher shop. I have an enduring image of him at home in Welland, drying dishes in the kitchen and visiting with us after dinner. He always wanted to know what was up with me. Male curiosity is delicious. So is a man who listens.
 
Recently, while I was out on a walkabout on Roncesvalles, I struck up a conversation with an employee in a store who told me about a Caribbean restaurant, Kish’s, in Mississauga. She had me when she turned her eyes toward the sky while talking about their roti. Because the action is intuitive, it’s a 3-star equivalent in my books. We were both transported into the ethereal realm of imaginary eating — a pleasure that runs a close second to the act. Now I need a race car to take me there.
 
Talking to strangers when I’m out is following in the footsteps of a man I adored.
 
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Harry didn’t drink in the last fifteen years of his life owing to diabetes. I don’t remember him having a breakdown about it, either. He took care of himself. After his funeral, I kept thinking about that while everyone raised a glass of scotch in his memory. I was ten months sober in September 1995 and still felt like an alien in social situations.
 
I’m grateful to have the chance to work on me alongside others in the engine room of life and to understand it’s never done.
 
Harry was home on winter layover in February when I was born. This week, my mom told me a sweet story about him and me from that time. You know where I tucked it. Thirty years have passed since I last saw him. Love to the man who sent me three new photos.

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“His car isn’t built for chases, but neither is Katagiri.”
 
With the speed of a bullet train, a new car drove into my heart this week. I’ve been watching Tokyo Vice on Kanopy using my Toronto Public Library card. The city as the backdrop is seductive. Then there is the character of Detective Hiroto Katagiri, who drives a Nissan Fairlady Z S130. Is there a word for swoon in Japanese that fits the man and the car? Here it is in my favourite colour. It will require a cover for half the year unless you live in California. Imagine the thrill of the first spring drive.
 
 Wally Dion's art is stunning.
 
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Patrick Watson is a gorgeous fit here.
 
I’d be playing the KEXP performance by Gregory Alan Isakov in that car. He loves food and farming and talks about it at the end.