You get a sense of Theo's height from this photo. She never made herself small — for my parent's wedding, she chose kitten heels over flats. What a smile, and legs for days.

***

I have more to write about my grandmother. Here's a link to a few earlier pieces. 

One of the things I'm practicing is waiting patiently for an idea to form — and remaining confident of its arrival. Good things happen under those conditions. 

This week a painting turned up in my Twitter feed. It was there with a purpose — a message to get cracking. I was going to show you, but I need time with it. It's a work by a Canadian woman. Today I spent time at the Reference Library reading about her — what a character.

I had a colour print made to hang in the "office" corner of my studio apartment. A trip to the National Gallery to see it in person is in the near future. I want to stand on the spot where it was painted in Montreal.   

I've felt certain for a while that another piece on Theo opens in the Montreal harbour. Her first year working as a cook on a canaller on the St. Lawrence River was likely 1933. She would have come into the city often. 

***

I've been listening to a historic crime podcast on BBC Sounds. Journalist Audrey Gillan goes to great lengths to correct the record about three young women who were victims of a serial killer in Glasgow in the late 1960s. Police and news reports at the time laid part of the blame on the women. They were young, poor, and liked a night out and those details are used to explain away their terrible deaths. 

I admire Gillan's sensitivity and found myself focusing on her process — how she conducts interviews, examines historical bias, and questions a perverse patriarchal narrative. And she's a gentle human. I was teary listening to one of the victim's grown sons talk about his mother's death for the first time. The respect in the reporting made the intimacy possible.  

The skewed narrative had me thinking about what Theo was up against working on a boat, mostly with men. About the morals and values of the time and how they applied to her. Montreal was cosmopolitan, but it was still under Catholic rule, an oppressive force for a young woman with a mind and spirit of her own. 

***

A few months after Chuck passed, I walked along the Lachine Canal toward the Atwater Market. I wondered how often Theo would have passed this way as a young woman. They were both gone. I called my aunt Pat to talk with someone who knew. 

On Monday — tomorrow — my dad would have been 82. He lived way past his expiry date when he passed in 2015. We'd laugh about his longevity often. 

***

People go just where they will
I never noticed them until I got this feeling
That it's later than it seems

The plum suit. Cinched waist. Skinny belt. Seventeen years old. My high school graduation. I like the photo even though it's an outtake. There's quiet in the closed eyes, expressive hands, and the creep of overexposure in the corner. 

Chuck took my best friend Linda and me to the Red Pump in Bayfield for lunch. In 1980, the restaurant was a gem. We started with Kir Royale. I knew how to read a table — the glasses and cutlery each had a purpose. It was the first time a waiter put a napkin in my lap. An intimacy that left me breathless. The food was terrific. It felt adult. 

***

I was trying to hold it together. Wanting to leave the small town on Lake Huron where I'd spent my teen years. But where did I belong? Home was a memory. My dad had left a few months earlier, and soon after, my mother and sibling went west. Friends took me in so I could finish high school. Divorce can cause massive levels of self-absorption in the adults involved. My needs were not a consideration. 
​
Chuck's departure wasn't a death. It was cold-blooded murder. When I told a tender-hearted therapist the whole story, they talked of shock and rage. My experience was validated. But that was much later.

At seventeen, I was sure if I could be better, the people I loved would not leave. 

*** 

I'd missed a lot of the final act of the marriage due to drugs and alcohol. The weekend everything began to change; my parents had gone away. I had a party in our beautiful home on Wilson Street — the kind that gets too big real quick. I was elated and worried about the living room's glass-top tables and crushed velvet chairs. Two guys I didn't know parked on my dad's beloved front lawn. They tried to start a fight and then fishtailed their car on the way out. A sweet neighbour came to the front door in her dressing gown to complain about the noise. The cops arrived a while later. It didn't slow us down.

But the cigarette burn on the custom-made kitchen table and the torn-up front lawn barely got a mention, given what was going down between my parents on their return. 

***

I idealized Chuck at that age. Bought his side of the story without question, for no good reason. My mother thought we were co-conspirators. I believed he'd made a big break. Got a better life. Thought he had the kind of freedom I felt after the third drink. 

Then I grew up. My perspective broadened. 

***​

In some circles, I hear the expression, "they did the best they could with what they had." It's something people say to appear fixed. To bring painful life stuff to a neat conclusion. Often I want to call bullshit. 

What was good for Chuck was what went down. Some endings are messy. And a pithy saying can't explain it away.

And 'what he had' is my inheritance. Destructive patterns don't disappear with a generation. Dealing with them takes consistent effort. I've come some ways. 
​
***

I played the grooves off this album. I was still likely listening to it around the time the photo was taken. 

I was a child bartender. That smiling girl with the funky collar knew how to make a Manhattan. I could have used it as a talent for Show and Tell. Rolled into class with a bar cart. It was the 70s. I was hardly exceptional. Many of my classmates knew how to crack a beer and fill a shot glass.

The clink of the bottles in the cabinet. In the hour before dinner. The conviviality in the living room when family first came together — light and friendly. The way they looked at me when I brought their drink. Being part of them. 

Sometimes I'd get the maraschino. My chubby fingers would fish it from between slippery spent ice cubes at the bottom of the lowball glass. The cherry cured in Red 40-dye had an amber hue from sopping up rye or bourbon. It tasted like the magic kingdom.

***

On the corkscrew spiral of my beautiful DNA is a spot marked for alcoholism. At 31, I did something about it. I quit the day before Dia de los Muertos. Life is poetry. 

I got help through a program and maintain a modest commitment still. This does not make me "so fucking special." If done right, it has the opposite effect. I'm aware of how human I am — in good and bad ways. 

Because I was a cook and loved restaurants, I learned to be gracious at the table and on social occasions — I did not want to be an outsider. Like the cocktails before family dinner, alcohol brings great pleasure to many. Abstinence does not equal aversion. And now there are so many things for me to drink that taste like belonging. 

Saying more about recovery sounds like I've got it all wrapped up. And I'm not even close.

I celebrate choosing life in late October. It's been tenuous at times. But I want it, still. 

***

I've always liked a shag haircut. Even at that age I had acute anxiety about being fat. Shame was a constant companion. Now all I see is the girl who loved food with blue eyes and a bright smile. 

***

Billy Preston's been filling my heart this week. That suit. Those moves. The horn section. Ray Charles grooving at the piano. Chuck had a few of his albums. The sound of my childhood. 

I can't remember when Chuck started adding Chinese celery and ginger to chicken stock. He liked chef Kylie Kwong, and it wouldn't surprise me if the idea came from one of her cookbooks. Last weekend, I added aromatic pandan and culantro. I was craving the earthy savour of Hainanese chicken and rice. Because there's just me, I make stock overnight in the crock pot.

The apartment smelled like a cry in the morning. I got that out of the way. Then I made a soup with miso, shimeji mushrooms, gai lan, and pasta O's and garnished it with garlic chives. It tasted like the plaid flannel shirt hug I needed. I'm going to tinker with it over the winter. A cook on Twitter suggested I try it without pandan. That's next. And I'm going to use white miso. I found a copy of China Moon's Double Chicken Stock in my accordion recipe file. Barbara Tropp...of course. 

Chuck would make that annoying slurp and sigh — Dad Eats Soup — sound while eating. A global phenomenon. Soup turns a lot of men into loud eaters. Do you know about misophonia?

I have to make his Russian borscht with short ribs and cabbage. The recipe is in an email dated April 12, 2010. He thought it came from the Time-Life series, Foods of the World, but had checked, and it didn't.

"What follows is the currently made version sans quantities as they will depend on the quantity of soup being made and your own propensity for particular flavours." He liked parsnip and cabbage in the winter. I do too. I'd tolerate the racket to eat a bowl of it with him again. 

​Also, I've got questions. 

***
​
I wrote the first draft of this longhand in my journal, sitting outside Moonbeam Coffee Roasters in Kensington Market, enjoying the last slice of patio season. They make a proper cortado. 

There's been a minor renovation since I'd last been. Inside was a bit more congested (in a neighbourly way). But out front, the plastic teal patio furniture from the 90s was reassuring. My bag of stock ingredients plunked in the chair opposite — leafy tops of Chinese celery flopping out the top. 

There's something about being out, undisturbed, and writing in cursive. I also use a voice memo and notes app on my phone to capture ideas and sentences. Over the last few months, I've been wandering one day on the weekend. It's a good new thing. 

Will I find a way to continue in the cold and snow? It's coming soon. Have I mentioned that?

***

These songs came back-to-back in explore mode. I immerse myself in the music during the week while writing. Connecting the two is a pleasure. Songs are parked at the bottom of the 'today' playlist waiting for stories. Some I'll never tell. 

Look at that Black Keys album cover. According to Wikipedia — the first source on Google — the minivan is a replica of one they used to tour early in their career.

​The faux wood panelling stage of artistic development is poetry. When you are fucking hungry. 

I am a family of one. Flying solo on this Canadian holiday weekend. The plan is to have fun. 

I love your company. But I have no problem taking myself out.

Maybe I'll see a movie, go to the Denyse Thomasos show at the AGO, or walk along the Humber river. I'm cooking a bunch — stuffed shells one night and roast chicken with all the sides on another. There were Italian pole beans at the market on Friday night. I can never walk past them — the attraction feels ancient. I'll either make fasoulia or have them steamed with too much butter. 

Three days of nothing but me. Super Bon!

***

My family lives mainly in the West and the U.S. on both coasts. We have not seen each other in a while. Some of them since my father's memorial. 

I was on the Queen streetcar today, texting with my dad's youngest brother in B.C and my aunt at her home in St. Helena. I love them, and they love me. That's what's important. I hope soon our knees will be under the same table. Turkey's tolerable with the right company. 

***

I was walking by Famiglia Baldassarre one morning this week at 10:00 a.m., their garage door was up, and this song was blasting. Thirsty Joe Cocker first thing Tuesday. An early morning reminder of life's pleasures. I busted out a smile. Shared a thumbs-up with the guy behind the counter. 

I drew this picture on September 5th, 1967, the first day of kindergarten. The Tuesday after Labour Day. I was four years old. It's in terrific condition because my mother had a career in record keeping. I inherited her talent. 
 
Conceptualizing a slide — the stairs and descent — was a lot for a wee brain. And apparently, some men look like angry caterpillars (paging Carl Jung). I hope you have this kind of childhood stuff. Unfolding a yellowing page of newsprint and bridging an almost 56-year gap is sweet.

From the start, being at school made me happy.
 
***
 
I've been thinking about creativity and the winter ahead. About a project I mostly parked over the summer. It seems pressing to crack on this season as an antidote to the bleakness. Staying connected to what's happening in the world and being a good, vocal citizen mean a lot to me.

And I have to feed the spirit to tip the scale toward hope — essential for my survival. I spent years attending meetings where the joy of living was a mandate (sometimes, I hated that). 

Making time for self is a hard concept for a lot of cooks. Because our work compass is fucked up, sometimes beyond all recognition. 

I am conscious of having art in my life. I went to see the Bowie documentary, Moonage Daydream. It's fabulous. There's a clip of an interview where he talks about shifting his mental disposition toward the positive and being of service to others. He's speaking several years after his Berlin transition. 

This week I watched Museum Town on Kanopy (with my Toronto library card) about North Adams, Massachusetts and the MOCA Mass. The Nick Cave exhibit "Until" was captivating. The shimmer and tinkle of crystals and the crank of chains as the great cloud ascended toward the ceiling. The size of the community it took to create. So many believers. I want to stand under it, and have my vision blur from the coloured foil weapon whirly gigs. 
 
***

On Friday afternoon at work, there was preparation for pork hocks cooked in sauerkraut. I was staying present with memories of my dad. He always made a big crock and had all the equipment, including a big wooden mandoline. I'm pretty sure he bought it at Denninger's in Hamilton. The cabbage and riesling came from a ten-minute drive from his front door in Grimsby. It would ferment in the cold cellar, on a shelf with his oval copper chafing dish and cast-iron Dutch ovens. His cookbooks were down there too. Magic happened in that corner of the basement. I can still smell the boozy-acidic tang. 

I have never made my own. That should change. There might be tears. 

***

​ELO were masters of the dramatic entrance — they knew how to set the stage for a song. 

Goodbye hollyhocks.

An old girl in the garden. This one in magenta, a shade of lipstick your nan might wear. I'll admire them if they're in your front yard (and sometimes trespass to get closer). These flowers towered over me, crepe paper petals dusted with pollen dander. It was mid-August, and fat bees were nudging stamens, acting on the rhythms of nature.  

I don't run headlong into flannel season. Letting go of late summer is hard. I know it will come around again. I'll be standing in someone's yard next August. Inshallah, as my friends say. 

***

Who can look away from the events of this week? The images of feminine courage. The fight for autonomy. There's a brute masculine force trying to dictate the terms of women's existence. 

You might want to seize the opportunity to read Al Jazeera if your news comes from a singular North American source. There's something beneficial about widening the lens — getting a global perspective.

Here are links to people talking sense and taking action:  

I made a sprint for the finish line. There are four songs this week. The thought of hitting 100 songs — finding music to fit that many occasions — makes me happy. It's been a big part of the fun of this. Music's a place of magic and solace. 

***

You want to know how it feels to talk about myself? In a way that conveys I'm interesting? At 59?

Freedom. 

'today' began May 4, 2021, with this post. Having a space for creative writing that's non-monetized and with only select external input is delicious. I've tried new things. 

The loneliness of the pandemic was too real at times. The long and short of it was I wanted to talk to you.

***

Here's some other stuff that makes me happy:

The Hollies, Long Cool Woman (in a Black Dress). Is there a better song? It makes me want to pull on roller skates.
 
The sunrise on the railroad tracks that run parallel to Geary Ave. At the level crossing. There's more of it to share at the end of the year.

The quiet of the late night. When you're all asleep, there is peace.
 
The hot fudge sauce recipe in the Boulevard cookbook. I add espresso powder. 
 
Bare tree limbs against a Lawren Harris blue winter sky. Admiring them with my grandmother, Theo, out on a country drive near Fonthill. She planted that seed. And so many more.
 
Bubble baths, very long ones sometimes. 

My cat has always let me sleep in the morning — like he was custom-built for me. He lies on my chest for snuggles when I wake. Sometimes he stands up and puts his full weight on my sternum, which hurts. He sleeps in the middle of important stuff on my desk while I write.

Raspberries and apricots. I fantasize about having an Eastern European jam garden-orchard. Sounds like more work. 
 
Playing Yahtzee with my mother over FaceTime. Look at this sweet picture from a week ago.
 
The bay window in my studio apartment. My desk faces a heritage Catalpa in the front yard. It's a tree native to Ontario and was likely planted at a time when this end of Bloor was farmland. It has a unique life cycle — shedding white blooms in late spring and long bean-like seed pods in the fall. By parks and recreation's standards, they're messy.
 
A mostly unscripted wander in the city on a weekend afternoon. Stopping to write notes. Or record voice memos.
 
Cortados made proper. It's not a small latte. 
 
My Trek bike with the panniers full of groceries. 

Full-fat anything, dairy mostly.
 
Standing in front of the four Kandinsky panels commissioned by Edwin R. Campbell at the MoMA. 
 
Road trips. 

Two scoops of ice cream in a sugar cone. Rum and raisin...blackcurrant...
 
Kayo O’Young’s porcelain. I have three small bowls, one a gift from my dad. The cat hasn’t broken them, yet. A fucking miracle.

Dahlias, because I grew them in Stratford in the first year of recovery. My addiction counsellor told me to plant something. And I obeyed.
 
Meals you've cooked for me.  

The Humber River. I've walked it in all conditions — external and internal.
 
Good perfume (and cologne) worn discreetly. 

Going to see movies in a theatre with popcorn. All kinds of stuff. 

Baba au rhum with crème Chantilly served in a chilled silver bowl — condensation droplets dulling the surface. Eating it all without apology. Two are forever in my heart. Tobey's baba at Edulis and the way she elegantly fusses with it. The other at Abel, a bouchon in Lyon. I gasped at the mound of cream. It felt like I'd found my people. 
 
Linen sheets in the summer. Flannel in the winter. 

The smell of something good cooking in the deep fryer. Duh.

The photos of your babies on social media. 

Summer evening lane swims in a city pool. 

Ripple chips because the crunch is where it's at. I like dip too.

Refreshing adult beverages of the non-alcoholic kind, like Alchemy Pickle Company's kombucha.

Settling in at a French restaurant, opening the menu and considering the nature of my hunger in relation to what's on offer. 

Figuring out my part. And owning it.

Lonely Days. The BeeGees. Maybe I saw them first on The Andy Williams Show or Merv Griffin. Andy Gibb, all the way.

Madame Benoît's Rum Baked Beans. 

The cards, art, and gifts in my mailbox over the past three years. The generous spirits who sent hope.

Tuna salad sandwiches with pickles, celery, and green onions. 

A band with a horn section — orchestral depth. There are more of those songs lined up in the near future. My dad had a nice stereo and liked Chicago. Feelin' Stronger Every Day.

Clouds. I took the photo in Bronte while acting as an amateur driving instructor with Jessica in the summer of 2020. Destination ice cream.

Having secret creative projects.

My membership on team lemon tart.

Takin' it to the Streets. The Doobie Brothers. Can't get enough of it, again. 

***

Big hugs to anyone who has read what I've written here. And to those of you who send messages. The conversation and connection are welcome.

​The photo was taken in my grandparents' living room on Lyons Avenue in Welland, Ontario. My dad looking through the lens and catching me in the act of opening a Christmas present. I don't want to tell you what album it is. Something I wanted at age 13. Harry, my grandfather, hamming it up with a sweater. 

My teen years were difficult. I know some of the best of you can relate. Anxiety was in high supply. The medical community at the time was asleep when faced with the symptoms in children. Help was not available, and the culture was tilted toward shame and secrets. My survival instincts were quick. I was always ready to fight for my safety. There's more to say but consider this a start.

Gosh, to sit beside Harry again. A mostly stable male with a pleasant disposition.  

***

I watched all the music shows growing up. Late Friday night and early Saturday afternoons — The Midnight Special, American Bandstand and the far superior Soul Train. The sound of Don Cornelius' baritone. At 11 and 12, I danced in front of the television in the basement to the Commodores, Earth, Wind & Fire, James Brown, Gloria Gaynor and The Jackson 5.

I was fat and self-loathing, with puberty approaching like a freight train. We were living in a new, much smaller town. I could cut a slice of loneliness. Music and dancing gave me a temporary sense of belonging. 

The best radio station on the dial in Goderich was broadcast across Lake Huron — CKLW out of Windsor. The lights of the Detroit skyline across the river at night. I'd drift asleep listening to Motown and R & B on a transistor radio. In the quiet, it helped drown the noise of my feelings (and on some nights the sound of my mom being thrown around).

***

Frampton Comes Alive was released in 1976, the year I turned 13. I tried a lot of stuff for the first time during that 12 months. In a state of rebellion, on the express track to maturity. I felt sure growing up would change the way I felt about everything. And I had a sense of youthful optimism about how long that would take.

Chuck pulled hard enough on the reigns that I could taste the metal bit. He played offence with any male attention that came my way. Under his control, I missed out on a young women's experiences, like dating. But I came to this planet and my family with a Big Will. His battle was futile (there's a grand finale story).

By 1 a.m. on Friday nights, I was home in the basement, buzzing on a substance I'd ingested earlier. Had to pass my dad reading in the living room as I came in, trying to avoid eye contact — mine were glassy with pinhead pupils. I'm sure the moss-tar scent of hashish trailed me some nights — inhaling the vapour that rose from between two red hot knives. In the days when an ounce of Mexican cost thirty dollars. I once came home mid-acid trip, which I do not recommend.

By then, I was listening to rock anthems. I have a soft spot for drum solos and guitar players with mad skill. 

Wolfman Jack was the affable host of The Midnight Special. All The Bands were on the show. For a girl like me, it was a perfect musical nightcap.

Peter Frampton's appearance on Friday, September 5, 1975, is a classic performance. Ten whole minutes for one song. Maybe that's the first time I saw him perform. His skill as a guitarist. A beloved studio musician. 

Afterward, I'd flick the lights off on the three short flights of stairs up to my bedroom, where the walls were plastered with Creem and Hit Parade magazine posters. Long-haired rock stars, Frampton among them. His blond curly locks and pink satin pants inspired some nocturnal fun. 

"Do you feel?
 Do you feel?
 Like we do. 
 I want to feel you."

***

Forty-six years later, I still love the sound of the audience clapping along and the crazy-wavy drone of the mouth organ. Double album, remember those? 

The way Helen Reddy flicks her bangs while introducing him. Girl!   

What apprenticeship taught me is there's beauty in progress.

It began in 1986 and lasted about 14 years. A bit long, but I was a woman in a still mostly man's world. Working in French kitchens at the top of the business. It was highly competitive.

When I returned from the River Cafe in 2000, I knew I'd graduated. 

My skills are stellar, and my knowledge of French culinary history spans decades. 

In case you didn't know that about me.

***

French cooking has been like a good lover. 

I sacrificed for it — long term-partnership and children. I never had strong feelings about the latter, which doesn't mean I don't like kids. I do. Some a whole lot. 

Do you know the feeling of falling in love with your career? That's what happened. I did something men were allowed to do. My singleness of purpose got in the way of developing some personal partnerships. What to do with a woman who wants so much for herself?

So it's been a solo journey. And plenty of it has been wonderful. 

***

The night André Donnet slipped a pan-fried sweetbread to me — butter froth residue on its surface. The gesture was nurturing. Without missing a beat, it was in my mouth. I shot to heaven and came back, just like that. Nothing was the same after.

On Queen Street West in the late 80s, killing lobsters at Le Bistingo. The horror. Nothing felt humane about it. Ingredients flown in weekly from Brittany. What is the name of the supplier? He made deliveries Thursdays in Toronto and had a small white truck. He'd come through the swinging kitchen doors with wooden crates of Fine de Claire oysters, samphire, and Valrhona chocolate for sorbet.

Claude's sea scallops à la nage — shedding silken tears at the thought — and the tarte fine aux pommes with Calvados sabayon. I got an advanced diploma in whisking that year. Claude's career was peaking, and his personal life was tanking. The things I understand now.

Fast forward to killing so many lobsters at Rundles. I'm certain retribution of some sort is inevitable in the afterlife.

I've eaten in enough Michelin Two- and Three-Star restaurants to say it was Two-Star. Hands down, perfect. Where I spent a formative five years of my life. Worked every station.

I want to eat a boozy sherry trifle, put a walnut drop on my tongue and let it melt, and snap a jewelled florentine in two. Neil Baxter trained as a pastry chef. I still use his recipes — you can't imagine how hard I worked for them.  

His talent was not limited to sweets. There were pommes boulangèr, rabbit sausage, and, oh my god, the sauces. 

He was not an amateur electrician. I returned from a Sunday afternoon break once, put my hands on the proofer while preparing to bake sourdough rolls, and got a shock that scared us both. Neil had been doing some tinkering while I was out. His laughter broke the silence. I wondered if it was intentional. If you worked at Rundles, you'd understand. 

Ann Marie Moss and I once had a competition to see how many crème brûlée we could eat in one go. It must have been late summer to run with that crazy idea — probably during an after-theatre shift on a Saturday at the end of August. All of us punch drunk. I can still see the two of us laughing. Wearing our kitchen dresses — like Upstairs Downstairs. I think we made it to three each.

And then Bryan Steele, graduate studies in being a good human and cooking like a master. Our family meals were off the charts. Bryan would braise rabbit with green olives and tend a pot of polenta like he was cooking for his nonna. I admired that spirit in him. 

I'd wear the gears on the blender emulsifying extra virgin olive oil into tomato sauce, channelling Marcella Hazan. I hope the thought of that pasta brings a smile to some of your faces. We ate at a picnic table under an umbrella, beside a koi pond, in the Prune's glorious garden — the loving work of Eleanor Kane and David Scott.

***

Study was a part of a traditional European apprenticeship and my stages were world-class — in a Michelin Two-Star restaurant on the Côte d'Azur and with Lydia Shire, Ruth Rogers and Rose Gray. The careers of all four chefs were peaking. Gault & Millau had just crowned Jacques Chibois, France's chef of the year. Catherine Deneuve ate in the restaurant opening night of the Festival de Cannes. Her mirrored Rolls Royce at the hotel entrance — glittering like a diamond with each camera flash.

Stages were always international, lasted six weeks, and were financially sponsored by the restaurants I worked for in Canada. It did not require a year of my life or wealthy parents (all good things). And there were not more than two or three stagiaires in the kitchens I visited. A stagiaire should come away with a sense of a chef's singular approach. 

There was an application process — formal letters were sent by mail. Staging is culinary diplomacy — creating goodwill between restaurants. It's an investment in a developing cook and a reward for loyalty and hard work.

The thrill of working with women whose work I adored. I hope you know that feeling. My anticipation walking the footpath from Hammersmith station to the River Cafe along the Thames the first morning. 

An imprint. All of it.

***

I've been thinking of getting a tattoo. Something to honour the experience. But where to begin?

Also, this turned up in my Instagram stories this week. It's hilarious. Is it a sign?

***

The pressing question is how to write about the hard stuff. My apprenticeship was real — not a fairy tale. There are things about me and others that might need to see the light of day.

What's helpful is talking to friends. People whose opinion I want to consider. One of them sent me a note yesterday morning — the thing I needed to hear. Going it alone holds no appeal. 

I've been brave up to this point. And am currently working up more courage. 

***

The photos:

Left: Twenty-five-year-old me in the kitchen of L'Escargot. Hand on my hip — heart beating mad fast.

Right: At a Stratford Chefs School gala in the basement of Centro restaurant. I was training for my first marathon at the time. I can't remember who took the photo, but they captured some of my spirit. 

***

How big, how blue, how (beautiful)
How big, how blue, how (beautiful)
How big, how blue, how

So much time on the other side
Waiting for you to wake up
So much time on the other side
Waiting for you to wake up
Maybe I'll see you in another life
If this one wasn't enough
So much time on the other side