I wish I'd saved some of my old band shirts. Van Halen, the Diver Down tour and U2, The Incredible Fire. Why didn't I collect more? I was in a swish shop a few weeks ago, and classic rock band t-shirts cost between $400 and $1400. Seventeen-year-old me didn't know they'd become collectible. I also wish I'd saved copies of Creem and Hit Parade magazine. I bought a Bowie shirt at the AGO (from the V&A touring show). I wore it one day in Charleston and was stopped twice and asked where I got it. *** The CNE starts this weekend. Whoosh… My mom took us every year. Those childhood memories are a full tank of fun. There's a photo of two of us on the Polar Express — we're maybe six and eight years old. It's mostly tonsils. The ride operator asked if we wanted to go faster, and we screamed, "No." We went on the steam train that ran parallel to the Gardiner. I still have the ticket. We visited the horses in the stables. From the time it opened until just before closing, we did everything. My uncle Jay was a DJ at CFRB in the 70s. His baritone voice was smooth and rich. We'd visit him in the booth. Being in a glass box felt special — people looking in at us. If there is a heaven, it's how I remember the International Food Hall. My mom bought us gendered surprise bags one year. She paid decent money that my dad worked hard for. In my bag, the big prize was a girdle. A GIRDLE. I was too young to understand that a woman's body needed restraining. We weren't worshipping in the temple of FUPA in the 70s. In my early teens, under severe bodily insecurity, I fished it out from the back of a drawer and tried to squeeze into it. Imagine the person who packed those bags. *** Seeing Thelma & Louise might become an annual event for me. I feel relief that I never hitched myself to a husband like Darryl — that shot of his dinner and the note still in the microwave when Thelma calls at 4 a.m. because she's in trouble. That loathsome moment is brilliant storytelling. The movie's been restored, and I saw it with a full house at the TIFF theatre last Saturday night — we applauded their courage a couple of times and laughed along with them. I had a good time. Watching the taillights on the 1966 green Thunderbird convertible weave through the desert night — Marion Faithful crooning The Ballad of Lucy Jordan — is breathtaking. It quenches my thirst. Thank you, Ridley Scott. I went looking for something to read about it the next day and discovered this jewel of an essay by a favourite writer, Rebecca Traister: "It's not just that Thelma and Louise get inarguably hotter with every discarded lipstick, floral blouse, and trapping of conventional femininity; it's that, in Khouri's script and through director Ridley Scott's lens, along the geographically impossible road from Oklahoma to Mexico, their increasing liberation makes the country itself more beautiful, both to them and to us. These women and their willingness to disobey, hang up on, laugh at, and even kill the men who degrade and underestimate them are not a blight on the nation; rather, their trek west, toward imagined freedom, flatters America, lights it up from within." *** My friend Heather sources "gently loved vintage." She has a great eye. And it's getting better with practice. That's what happens when you do something you love. Some of you have admired this old-fashioned glass I bought from her. She sold me the four plates in the photo. I want to use them. Do you want to come over for biscuits, homemade peach jam and cultured cream, the colour of okra flowers? *** Broken English was huge when it was released in 1979. I was sixteen, and everyone had the album. Thirty-three-year-old Marianne Faithful expressed the anger and sexual confidence we were craving. I've been loving Yves Tumor. 19792023Remember when bonfire orange was all the rage in the 1970s? Today they'd call it butternut squash or cantaloupe. Paint colour names, there's a rabbit hole to fall down. The photo was taken on or near Christmas. There's a gingerbread house in the background. Sunday night meal was always special. The table was set nice for just us (sometimes company). My parents loved Scandi design. Look at those pre-IKEA tapers. My mom has a talent for making things look beautiful. She’s always moving the furniture. I don't know if there's a more adorable photo of me — the crocheted vest and my strawberry blond hair. Chubby and beautiful, apparently forever. *** My dad was a foreman at the Ford Motor Company in Oakville when they produced cars and trucks. Every two years, we got a new car. The Gran Torino was his favourite. Look at it. No real back windows. Built for the kind of man who wants to pretend they don't have kids. Chuck would have laughed at that. There once was a picture, but things fall through the cracks when a family splits. He was a 70s macho man — had a handlebar moustache, hairy chest, and gold chain. His monthly subscription to Playboy came into the house in a thick brown paper wrap. I remember looking at it illicitly — my parents had telepathically made us aware it was a secret, off limits. Does it get more delicious? I was about eight or nine. We lived in Burlington in a low-rise apartment building about a ten-minute drive west of the Pig & Whistle. (That will be a memory for some.) I still love driving along the Lakeshore and catching glimpses of the beach down cul de sacs. We were free-range kids. Chuck would tell us to "get lost," and we'd take it seriously. The building was on the south side of Lakeshore — a cliff and the lake was behind us. I remember kids getting into real trouble on the cliffs and being rescued by the fire and police departments. We had fun and got dirty. I remember coming in on an August night and my skin prickling as I got into the bath — a combination of my skins exposure to the daytime sun, cool night air, and hot water. *** Have you seen the brilliant film C.R.A.Z.Y by Jean-Marc Vallée? It's a boy's coming-of-age story set in Quebec in the late 60s and early 70s. I related to aspects of it so much. I know I'm not alone. I saw it in a packed movie theatre when it came out. You should see it if you haven't. It's extraordinary filmmaking. And the soundtrack... *** As kids, we'd laugh about cutting out eye holes and a mouth in the newspaper for my dad so we could spend quality family time together. What I wouldn't give to talk to him about some of the stuff going down now. This Washington Post story on masculinity is something. If Chuck were alive, I'd send it to him and follow up with a phone call. There's a lot to think about, not the least of which is the epidemic of fatherless sons. In some important ways, that was my dad's experience with his father, Harry (who worked on lake boats on the Great Lakes and St. Lawrence River for nine months of the year). *** I have a thing for drummers. Hello, Dave Grohl. Also, bass players. The whole rhythm section, really. I got obsessed with percussion intros in the last few weeks. That's why there are four songs. Each distinct. Don Brewer wailing away on his kit for Grand Funk Railroad. I'd love to hear the Foo Fighters do a cover of We're An American Band. Low Rider because…duh...that bass line. Is that a high hat in Shaft? I've already established I'm a sucker for a horn section. The song's orchestral — made for a movie. Chuck played it loud. The Light Pours Out of Me is like whipped cream on a hot fudge sundae. It's perfection. All of them would sound good coming out of a Gran Torino with me behind the wheel. 1973197519711978This started as a story for Catapult. I signed a contract to write about No Meat Required and the process of creating a first book. I’d done an hour-long interview with Alicia Kennedy. Then the magazine folded. It freed me to write as I like — to be wildly biased. *** I was standing in the poetry section of a bookstore on a grey March day in the same week I’d received an ARC of No Meat Required. As I’m scanning the spines of the hyper-slim books, a thought drops — Alicia Kennedy has the same publisher as Jane Hirshfield, James Baldwin, Mary Oliver, and Colm Tóibín. Beacon Press, of fucking course. Stitching the connections together made me smile. “In college, I studied philosophy and read Marxist texts, including One-Dimensional Man,” Kennedy says, “I was really excited about having the same publisher as Herbert Marcuse.” Did you know she’s a total geek? *** “I was born in 1985. My mom made chicken cutlets and spaghetti. We didn’t even eat yogurt.” (Show me a better bio.) That’s the Long Island girl talking — fresh, relatable, calling in her audience. Born a few generations behind Moosewood and Diet for a Small Planet, she locates herself in mostly modern history. How she became a vegan is convoluted and Moby makes a guest appearance. She started a vegan bakery, wrote reviews for the Village Voice, and was a senior copywriter for New York magazine. “The book is cultural criticism, but it is like a love letter to this weird subculture that has given me so much,” she says. Her diet is anything but static. She won’t say no to oysters on the half-shell. Is the martini a trademark? Some of it challenges the evangelists. “When you have an alternative diet, people will think you’re coming at them with judgment. I started the process, hating the term plant-based eating, but I found it useful along the way. It’s a phrase that brings people in. We need to do whatever we can to make it more inviting.” *** Go to the back of the book — to Notes and the Bibliography. Alicia Kennedy reads. I marvel almost weekly at how she keeps it all straight for the newsletter — From the Desk of Alicia Kennedy. I’ve put books she’s mentioned on hold at the library. So have many of you. “I sold the book in June 2020 and imagined writing it in the Rose Main Reading Room at the New York Public Library, working with the world at my fingertips. If I needed anything, I’d talk with a librarian. But I wrote it during a pandemic in San Juan, Puerto Rico. There was no public library. I bought books, used Open Library a lot, and paid for an app to access academic papers,” she says, “I take handwritten notes while reading, which I often only return to when fact-checking. That process imprints the material on my brain in a different way.” She credits Jonathan Kauffman’s Hippie Food as a source of inspiration. Sarah Schulman is her favorite non-fiction writer. *** “I found the process of writing a book hard,” says Kennedy in the first five minutes of talking. Hearing it is a relief. And I'm curious. The plan was to write a chapter a month through to the deadline. But a year went by with no progress. Anxiety took root in the absence of work. The real fear and worry of living in a global pandemic didn’t help. And Kennedy was still busy, writing bi-weekly essays and building an audience. Advances for first books are not enough to stop working. Discovering the internal barrier was the diamond that came out of the months of inaction. Kennedy believed the book had to be wildly new and original and knock everyone’s socks off. “My career was on an upward swing, and I had this idea that this was my only chance to prove myself,” she says. Letting go of unrealistic expectations was a turning point. *** I tore through No Meat Required. I could not shake the feeling it will be big. It made me want what’s next. “The book feels like a closing chapter in a certain way for me,” she says. May she make good money and take all the time a second book demands. Her win is ours. No Meat Required is cultural history written by a bright mind. It’s punk rock with a homeopathic-sized dose of nostalgia. It’s modern Americana. Alicia, onward. Shoutout to your mom. You did good, girl. 🤟 *** Full disclosure: I attended a micro-conference in Brooklyn in 2018 — the Food Writer’s Workshop. The cotton bag still hangs in my closet. I can’t bear to send it to Value Village because the experience was pivotal. It’s proof I was there. Tickets, including lunch, were $13.50 U.S. It was affordable...inclusive...a space for me. The big food publishing events cost hundreds of dollars — a barrier for new voices. Alicia was an organizer, along with Layla Schlack and Emily Stephenson. The panels and discussion were rich — I took one photo the whole day. I made invaluable connections — met Lukas Volger, Korsha Wilson, Mayukh Sen, and Marissa Rothkopf. I spent four days in New York and stayed at the 92nd Street Y. My room was so cold I wore everything I brought in my carry-on to bed. All my extra pennies went into eating. Duh. I wasn’t thinking about that hardship sitting across from my friend Lauren at MeMe’s Diner. Priorities. This expresses some of the joy of that trip. *** The album Dynamo by Soda Stereo was what Alicia listened to a lot while writing No Meat Required. She shared a playlist from that period. I chose the song because, damn, that guitar intro! Turn it up. Disturb your neighbours. 2007 (1992)When I got sober, I was living in a room in an unfinished basement — grey concrete block walls and the blackened underside of exposed first floorboards. I cooked on a hotplate in a corner near a tool bench — in one hundred years of wear and dampness. The owners were kind to me. It's the place where I changed. Six weeks in and I looked in the dingy bathroom mirror one morning and was shaken. Pantone 15 – 559. My eyes were the colour of tropical water. Big clear turquoise pools. Windows into a new soul, maybe. I stood there grappling with how hard I had tried not to see. Dodging reality to keep on lifting the lager glass. It hurt my heart and felt like a miracle. My eyes were a measure of my denial. I crawled toward change. Below ground…sending out weak new shoots. Waking up to life in a basement is poetry. *** For the addict and their posse of co-dependents, late-stage addiction is madness. And the world right now reminds me of it. Why act here and now if some distant hostile country is not doing the same? Why care about losing an island somewhere I'll never go? Almost every day, we cross a new barrier. Rationalize environmental disaster. Consume fossil fuels like it's not a matter of life and death. *** It's raining again in Toronto. And it's hot. Hardly "extreme" conditions. Here, the only sign of fire is smoke. The Humber River is moving fast but we've been spared catastrophic flooding. Farmers in southwestern Ontario are dealing with too much water. In Strathmore, where my mother lives, everything is parched. Ottawa's taking stock of the damage and cleaning up again. We need to change. In my experience, some of it will hurt. *** "Love on top of fucking pain." We like our male rock stars fierce. Chewing the heads off small birds. Not so much the women. You must read this about Sinead. 20161990I've been recording conversations with my mom for a couple of years. A spot lights up in my heart when we talk, and I know I need to record. I'm creating an audio collage — bits and pieces that express her human beauty. We talk a lot about when she was young — in the time before me. On Friday afternoon, she remembered a period when she lived in Ireland in County Donegal near Letterkenny. (When I was well and alive in 1985.) She met a man who taught her rebounding has consequences. The lonely person's seduction — someone telling you you're wonderful when you know you're complete shiite. Now we laugh about it. Then it was painful. It took her on an international adventure. She worked in the hospital in Letterkenny and lived about a 3-mile walk in the country. It rained almost every day of the nine months she was there. She had this to say about the weather on those walks, "It's a nice soft rain, and it feels so wonderful on your skin. It never felt like a soaking rain. I couldn't get over the different greens in the countryside. And their fields are separated by rock walls." At 82, my mom channels gratitude. There's so much more. Listening to her talk about drying clothes in front of a peat-burning stove melts my heart. Writing has made me ask better questions. I can close my eyes and see my mom on the shoulder of a narrow country road. Walking parallel to a mossy rock wall. Green fields dotted with sheep. Under a felt grey sky. Probably walking in high heels. *** I wish I had a recording of Chuck. The two of us laughing so hard we're crying. The Reids can cut it up. *** Working in kitchens has been hard on my knees. I did not give it much thought as a young cook. Rushing around all day long in wooden clogs through the 90s. The only sitting I did was on a milk crate in an alley while inhaling a cigarette or a post-service beer. I'm living with what are likely mechanical issues from an aging knee replacement. And operating in a healthcare system squeezed by rich white men wearing suits bought at Tom's Place. Wonder what deal they get. Are any of your friends going to private clinics? Some of mine have. I'm jealous. Wear the best work shoes you can afford. You'll be glad you did at 60. If you're ever thinking of a knee replacement, pick your surgeon and hospital carefully. Don't just ask your GP for a recommendation. I could talk your feckin' ear off. *** Just so you know, my mom hit a home run third time around. A happy coincidence — the song was released the year she was in Ireland. I hope it makes you want to dance with someone you love. Even on hurtin' knees. 1985Winnipeg on the left. Montreal on the right. In the same gorgeous season — the gateway to harvest. When a gossamer yellow settles on bright green leaves. The temperature is ideal for wearing your most beloved sweater at night. A good time to be travelling — if you're not working your ass off. The photos were taken on Canadian FAM trips organized by a local tourism board — I've been on two in this country. That's enough, and it's not. The terms are fraught with obligation, and the schedules are breakneck. From arrival to departure, there's not a minute to collect your thoughts. I always come back having met interesting people, eaten superb food and smelled gorgeous wines. And with stories that don't land with travel editors. There are a few I'd still like to write. I came close to selling one to Canadian Art magazine just before it folded. It's in the untold file, with other gems. *** Name a more perfect fruit than raspberries. Okay, I'll give you peaches. Here's some quirky trivia: Raspberries aren't mentioned once in Elizabeth David's French Country Cooking. I know that because I made an interesting writing exercise with that book. There's nothing like studying the hand of a master for learning. Raspberries are a gateway to peak season — when fruit and vegetables start rolling in quick. Weathered bushel baskets are ready for filling. You'll swear you'll only plant one zucchini next year. Or at the roadside farmstand, you buy one of everything to bring back to the city. *** There is a restaurant kitchen you'll work in that will leave a big imprint. Each place will give you something. But… I know what place it is for me. Some of you can see it in my cooking. A canadian chef could not believe I worked there. The surprise registering in the high-pitch in his voice when he said the name of the restaurant. I had credentials. Get the fuck out. *** I was playing with three songs. This one felt like it fit the spirit of the week. Michael Kiwanuka is a brilliant singer-songwriter. 2012"All I know is that I've wasted all these years looking for something, a sort of trophy I'd get only if I really, really did enough to deserve it. But I don't want it anymore, I want something else now, something warm and sheltering, something I can turn to, regardless of what I do, regardless of who I become. Something that will just be there, always, like tomorrow's sky." Kazuo Ishiguro, When We Were Orphans The symmetry and play in this passage are masterful. How "a sort of trophy" relates to "something warm and sheltering" and, "did enough to deserve it" relates to "regardless of who I become." Using "really" twice. I like a rule breaker. *** I work full-time. And I write. I'm at a point where I can't not do the latter. I attribute it to ten years of practice. I let go of stuff at home to make it work. My mom and I laugh at the idea that's why some men have wives. To clear the way on the domestic front. To create a grand allée toward his bright future. I'm under the influence of the poet Maggie Smith's book You Could Make This Place Beautiful. How her ex-husband shows up for her career success is challenging — it's less than half measures. She paints a portrait of male jealousy. And makes a case for creative women to hold out for something better. *** This header image on Nick Cave's The Red Hand Files yesterday is *chef's kisses.* "I am afraid that I don't think I am the right person to help you navigate my music though. My relationship to my songs is too entangled with their personal history, and I have no clear understanding as to which are the good ones and which are not." As if it's not enough to create music, people need an artist to tell them what's best. Create a list with guarantees — The World's 50 Best Nick Cave Songs. Remember discovery? Listening to all the tracks. Finding a song you love on the B-side. *** The way the girls scream when the curtain drops in the first video. Their young hunger. A musician I miss. George Michael left us with much. And not enough. In the end, he was true to himself. 198419901998I 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. 19771972 |
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