I know it. Anticipation. 
 
That thought sends me straight to cookbooks to find these Nigel Slater sentences:
 
"…the feel of the peach's soft fuzz on first my upper and then my lower lip, the way the skin puckers as I bite, a teasing prelude to the sweet flesh that will follow. And all this before the juice — sweet, cool, sensuous — even touches my tongue."
 
I want to associate taste with varietals where the need to travel is not imperative. In southern Ontario local could mean eating a peach called Harrow, Garnet Beauty, Redhaven, or Vivid. The names of starlets at central casting.
 
Calling them peaches is like calling us humans. Why don't we all know the varietal at all the stores? What's the commercial benefit of a generic identity? How hard is it for fruit growers to flip the consumer switch? 
 
I'm eating organic Saugeen Country yogourt and Ontario peaches for breakfast. Lux over here. 
 
***
 
My blinds are down, and I've been fantasizing about Italian marble floors. Sitting in front of a fan, listening to air conditioners, traffic, and global climate news. A big jar of lemon ice water is sweating into a puddle on a coaster. Outside it's gem lettuce and fava bean green with hollyhocks and sweet peas.
 
How does an increase in rain affect an orchard, long-term? Are we scrambling or prepared?
 
***
 
It began with the stories I read in Creem and Hit Parade as a teen. Rock and roll journalism is way up there for me, On tier 'crème Chantilly.'
 
This podcast — The True Story of The Fake Zombies — is special. What a story...and teller. It's high on craft.    
 
There's nostalgia in it, too. It's a reminder of 11-year-old me living in a new town on Lake Huron where the taste of isolation was metallic. A place hard on a tender spirit. A night DJ led me toward Detroit, glittering on the choppy cuttlefish ink water. Bob Seger and Motown walking me toward sleep. A music city on the Detroit River.

I had some high quality lake boat talk tonight with an uncle — always a pleasure. He and Harry passed through Detroit often. Probably Theo, too. 
 
Here's to The Zombies. Colin Blunstone's voice and Rod Argent on keyboards. I went looking for covers and fell for this one.  

This morning, I came across a terrible index in a cookbook. I want to read or write a long-form piece on the subject.
 
Index makers are heroes. They are map makers of a sort. Never underestimate their contribution. Like plumbing in a restaurant, it is not a place to skimp or bargain shop. A book without an index is fatally flawed.   
 
***
 
I am between two worlds. Working out how to get over, in a good way.
 
Among the problems I have right now is that all my ice cream buddies are on holiday at the same time, and I keep thinking about black currant or apricot sorbet.
 
I can take myself out, no problem. But ice cream and company go together real nice.  
 
***
 
I was like a bobblehead of agreement listening to this podcast — sent it to girlfriends. Thank you, Sarah Manguso, Laura Good, and the woman on Bluesky who told me about it. They spill the tea on marriage, divorce, and being a successful creative woman. I will never forget the term "chaos janitor."
 
Listening is hard because the main character must reckon with her choices, having called in a partner trying to derail her creative power. Living in that terrible human place she must see in order to change. 
 
It reminds me of a line from Lauren Elkin's Art Monsters:
 
"To be a good wife is to accommodate yourself to someone else's story, a story in which you are not an artist."
 
I put Liars on hold at the library.
 
There's a whole other discussion to have about how our culture makes a leg iron out of professionally winning for men.
 
***
 
Birdy and Sweet Baby James.

Among the newspapers and books piled on Theo’s footstool in her living room in Fonthill were copies of Canada’s History magazine. She was a subscriber. My love for the subject is another inheritance. I have a story I'd like to write for them in time. Imagining my grandmother after dinner with her feet up, apron on, inhaling a Peter Jackson while reading it is a pleasure, like eating poached apricots and custard in July.    
 
***
 
A good memory from first-year university is sitting in a Catherine Parr Trail College classroom and listening to Alan Wilson share his passion.
 
The class was small enough to be held in the history department office. Maybe 12 of us around a large teak table in a quiet room with Danish floating bookcases, woven wall hangings, and big windows with a lush backdrop of trees and shrubs. A seasonal theatre for his animation. Canada came to life in that room (mostly settler history in 1983). One of the essays I wrote for him was about Nellie McClung. Teachers like that are a gift. 

***
 
Going to the Toronto Reference Library beats the loneliness of my desk by a lot. I'm reading a dense and delicious book over visits about how we tell history, The Past Is A Foreign Country, by David Lowenthal. It's adjacent reading and has made me laugh out loud in the Quiet Area.
 
***
 
Women
Non-White
Non-binary
Immigrants
Refugees
Journalists
Academics
Librarians
Anyone in a war zone

Among the people I worry about, along with all the other stuff in my life. Being of aid to humans fleeing oppression might happen on a scale. Are you having those conversations? History is each day that passes.
 
***
 
I wish the Jacob Bank's song went on — I could listen to it for an hour. It led me to versions sung by Mahalia Jackson and Elvis. The horns and percussion on Loaded are all that. Stitching these three together was nice.

In my first year of university, I worked part-time in a health food store. My cookbook collection at the time filled half a milk crate and included Moosewood, Laurel's Kitchen, and the Tassajara bread book. I was mostly vegetarian (and I still cook that way). 
 
I was 21 and was hired just as the business was derailing. That didn't come up in the interview.  
 
The manager called me late one Saturday night, asking where the cash bag was. After closing on the busiest day of the week I'd hid the brown paper bag of cash and coins in the usual spot in the dry stores, and it wasn't there. That had nothing to do with me. I don't know what happened after I locked the door that evening. But the call was my first clue that something dark was going down between the partners. They folded soon after. I don't remember if any of us got our final pay. Sometimes endings are messy. 
 
***
​
www.estherperel.com/podcasts/hw-s2-episode-8-im-your-special-one

This conversation Esther Perel mediates between artist and gallerist is honest. I felt like I was listening to myself when they discussed work, children, and intimate partnership — a subject ripe with complications for women.
 
I was sure I did not want children long before I began cooking in restaurants. It was a solid gold decision — young wisdom that calls for a party and lots of gifts. 
 
As a cook, the disadvantage was obvious. Women who left the line to have babies rarely came back. 
 
***
 
WAIT: Why Am I Talking?  
 
An acronym via Anne Lamott. Also, a good question. 
 
***
 
I had a new release lined up — a rock and roll anthem that makes me feel like a teenager. Then, in radio mode, I was reminded of Donny Hathaway. My father played the duet album he recorded with Roberta Flack often. I hope this remix makes you want to turn it up and dance. The second song is extraordinary and was written by Leon Russel.

Ripeness lasts the length of a shiver with strawberries. A light jostle, and they bleed. Someone who knew a few things about their business tossed these with a whisper of sugar.  
 
I stumbled into a strawberry social at a small church — a homely wooden building with half a dozen pews. On a grassy slope behind the rectory was a scattering of white plastic tables under craft fair tents. Everyone was cast in a blue watercolour wash, sitting under their shade. 
 
The person in charge of crème Chantilly had a big spoon and generous heart. We know the same hunger.
 
The chiffon cake was ethereal — light, buttery, and hardly sweet. I went looking for the baker to extend congratulations. I was told many people in the parish bake according to their own recipes. I'm thinking of all the cakes arriving through the morning. Sitting on melamine counters alongside flats of berries. The scent of a few weeks in the season. Parishioners bringing them through the kitchen door. The local chatter competing with the whirr of an electric mixer. 

I am no big church person but good things can happen in their basements. I've met wise and loving humans in a few of them. 
They helped get me here. 
 
This photo is filed under well-being in my dictionary. An earthly blessing.

***

One of the best parts of writing is research. It can also be frustrating — a time suck and you have to establish limits because the distractions are real. But the Stacks at the Toronto Reference Library is a place that makes me believe in magic. I try to imagine where the books are stored. How much space does it require? What determines the life cycle? The business of a library is fascinating. 
 
This week, I went looking for three books. The first had a sixty-page chapter that addressed a specific interest. It was a bit academic and just what I needed. The second book was written by a statistician. There was lots of information, but it was super dull, and I returned it quickly. After finishing the first chapter of the third I found a copy used online. I love a good historical story — especially one starring women — and I'll gallop through it in a day or two. 
 
Things come up while I read. I scribble ideas longhand in a journal beside me. Pulling on those threads might lead to more discovery. 
 
***
 
I'm late to this wonderful Design Matters interview Debbie Millman did with Gloria Steinem last year. It's moving listening to her talk about her mother and the unlived lives many women of that generation faced. Not too long ago my mom told me she had to quit her job with the Bank of Canada in Shelburne, Nova Scotia when she got married. What the... 

https://www.designmattersmedia.com/podcast/2023/gloria-steinem
 
***
 
I heard this song last weekend. Not for the first time. It fits my mood right now. 

White wine vibrates. After dinner reflection. It still does not interest me. I hope that doesn’t bother you.
 
***
 
Fumbling around the internet, I found this tribute to Mimi Sheraton written by Norman Van Aken. I’m late to it, and it’s gorgeous.
 
***
 
A few times, I’ve witnessed a female food writer speak in a manner I recognize as superior. Conveying a fresh depth of character. Self-confident without the gross defence many women, including myself, practice to boredom. It’s attractive.
 
One was a woman on a food panel. She’d won a James Beard award. I think one of the first for this country. Listening to the different perspectives on Canadian food was fascinating — each wrote with a singular voice. Imperative in a small place (or anywhere). As instructive was watching them interact.
 
Sometimes, I miss Gina Mallet. She was forthright, had opinions, rose to a challenge, and looked good asserting authority. I feel the same way about Mimi Sheraton. She was fearless. Both had clear boundaries around likability. They knew themselves.
 
I asked someone about Mallet recently, and they were happy for the reminder.
 
***
 
“…the past with its pains and joys has a place and a voice that the present should and can allow.”
 
I can’t stop thinking about Celia Paul’s Self Portrait. I knew nothing of her and bought the book based on a blurb — finished it in two days on long subway rides. It’s hard not to admire her conviction. Art is central to her life.
 
As a student, she became involved with the artist/painter/teacher Lucian Freud. There’s very little anger in the reading. Is it fair to wonder what would have happened had a powerful man exercised some measure of control over his appetites? Chose not to mess around with a young woman’s discovery and learning. Is that a welcome message?
 
***
 
I can’t stop listening to Yamê. Or Billy Eilish.

Friday night...engine revving...waiting for the checkered flag to drop. About to enter flow. How to make two hours vanish.

I still love it. Coming on forty years.

***

I’ve told you before that my friends get me. One of them sent me this beautiful piece of music writing about the song Wichita Lineman. Thank you, Neil Crossley, for distilling the song’s brilliance. It reads like magic. That it came together so quickly for Jimmy Webb and Glen Campbell feels like a miracle worth crying over. I especially admire the detail about the bassist Carol Kaye. An accomplished woman. Just look at her photo. 

On the version of the song below a listener posted this comment:

I remember too. Not in the same way. I was seven in 1970. We listened to AM radio as a family going for drives (at that age in the Gran Torino). 

***

I've been writing 'today' on the subway rides to work and back. A tap on the shoulder.

***

My mom’s recovering nicely. There's more time for her to tell me she loves me always.

Thank you to everyone who checked in with me in the last few weeks.

Sometimes the distance between family members feels impossible to bridge. My gratitude for a handful of women in Strathmore is boundless. One of them has cooked her a couple of good meals — mashed potatoes, roast chicken, and a slice of pie. She dropped in one day with homemade brownies. And another acts as a surrogate daughter — we talk and problem solve together. 

Today my mom and I are playing Yahtzee online for the first time in almost a month. Is there a better reason to put off cleaning for another hour?

Mateo Granados, Healdsburg Farmer’s Market, Breakfast, May 22, 2010.
 
I’d read about Chef Granados in Edward Behr’s The Art of Eating. I’d put a visit to his stall on my California wish list. The photo speaks to my sense of pleasure — the tiny branches of candy-pink flowers nestled in the greens. We sat in the sun at an oilcloth-covered picnic table with our huevos rancheros and hibiscus iced tea.
 
I was visiting my aunt at her home in St. Helena. I arrived at night. When I opened my bedroom curtains the first morning this was the view. I stood there for a long time — astonishing beauty. Did I wake up in paradise?

***

This is for my Toronto friends,
 
Remember when David Miller took the TTC to city hall? We all saw him. I saw him more times than I can count. There was something reassuring in it. Like he knew what life was like for us.
 
If you travel to work or to medical appointments or school on the TTC, I see you. The only way to describe the experience is awful. I spent more than $100 this week on taxis because of scheduled and emergency subway closures, random stops in the tunnel, and delays. The cost to travel in this city more than doubled for me. What jar do I take that out of? 
 
I like that Olivia Chow rides her bike. I want that infrastructure too. But I have no sense she understands what it's like to commute by public transit in the city of Toronto.
 
The cost of living here is high. Many of us must live at a distance to work. I have a cook-friend who travels from Scarborough to Bloor West Village for work, and lately it’s taken him more than two hours to travel one way. That’s less time with his young children. His eight-hour day stretches to twelve.
 
There is no regard for our time or well-being.
 
Public transportation isn’t a darling of the extractive ruling class at Queen’s Park. They get hot for the private sector...the grocer barons and Roger's board members. They like us best in cars.

Meanwhile "the better way" means abject mediocrity. We're held captive in a failing system. And there's radio silence from the mayor, Mr. Rick Leary, and Rob’s older brother.
 
***

I'd put a French mini moto logo on my chef jacket. Just saying I'm open to transportation sponsorship. It would look cute parked out front of the restaurant. Colour to be negotiated.

***
 
I’ve been loving this new-to-me song this week.

​Royal Hospital Road, Michelin 2-Star, solo lunch, spring 2000.
 
I was a stagiaire at the River Cafe. The brilliant Rose was alive. Both women on the cusp of releasing the Green Book. A pre-tour excitement in the air.
 
Part of the study was going to restaurants.
 
Feeling hugely self-conscious approaching the door in my stagiaire good clothes. IYKYK
 
Then I met Jean-Philippe. For me, the grand master. I cannot untangle him from the good feelings I have about the experience. He was the antidote. The room was calm.
 
Gordon was in the kitchen. I went in to say hello. Looked around for my kind. None in sight.
 
A new generation of Paul Bocuse. 
 
***
 
I missed you. It’s still Sunday.
 
***
 
Steve Winwood was born to sing. Look at the percussion section.

It’s been a grey flannel January in Toronto. Still, there are small things that make it better. Here are a few from right now:
  
My building has a hot water heating system. There are three cast-iron radiators in my apartment. Through the summer there was an expensive upgrade to the system. Now, the radiators are too hot for my cat to lounge on. The heat it generates is nice — right behind a wood stove or fireplace. I keep my hat and gloves on it so the first few minutes outside are extra warm. I do the same thing with my inside clothes before I go out for a walk. Putting on something toasty when my body temperature has dropped and I’m sweaty is nice. So is a warm towel after a bath. I wish it had a bread warmer.
 
Homemade strawberry jam in local organic yogurt makes me believe January is as good as early June. My appreciation is sharper in the winter because every market isn’t selling gorgeous Île d’Orléans strawberries. 

Until recently, I had a top-five desert island book list that includes A Fine Balance and All The Light We Cannot See. Now, it’s a top-six list because I’m reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperhead. No surprise she won the Pulitzer Prize. The writing is exquisite. I pay attention to her structure and technique. I’m not alone in saying the story makes my heart ache. Ezra Klein perfectly expresses the experience of reading it in the introduction to this interview with her. She is powerfully empathetic to opioid addicts and talks a lot of sense, including about the benefits of harm reduction.
​ 
Japanese sweet potatoes. The simmered, sweet soy-saturated shards served as banchan — Gamja Jorim — makes me wish I could make the short subway ride to Tofu Village. I’m still searching for a restaurant replacement.

Alice Choi put me on to baking the sweet potatoes. The dense golden flesh is a good lunch after a cold walk. I dip them warm into a mayonnaise sauce. Here are two I like (the second is my favourite):

Kimchi mayo — mayonnaise, finely chopped kimchi and green onion, and Korean red chili pepper flakes.
Goma mayo — mayonnaise, Goma sauce (bought at Sanko on Queen St. W.), finely chopped garlic and ginger, toasted sesame seeds, and sesame oil.
 
The plum, rose and apricot tints that spread like watercolours in the sky on my late afternoon walks along the Humber River. I stopped in my tracks last week when a pack of coyotes started howling and yipping in the near distance. They had the frenzied sound of feasting.  

***
 
One of the benefits of writing 'today' is that I listen to a lot of music in a week. This song came to me through a reel on Instagram. There's a lot of depth in the sound — long live De La Soul. It's another feel-good dance song.​