 Making crepes this week. Standing at the stove. Soft heart. Remembering twenty-five-year-old me. In the kitchen of L’Escargot. Near Grange Park. In Hamilton, Ontario. Working four pans. In a circular rotation. The caramel smell of sugar, butter and toasted wheat. Stacking them high on a plate. Crisp crinoline frill edges. Cooking was everything. Anything was possible. It felt like a dream. *** 1985 Just out of McMaster University. English literature major. Art history minor. Taking third- and fourth-year classes. Got two grade A papers. That year. One on the painter Kandinsky. The other on Chaucer. ‘You are what you eat in the Canterbury Tales.’ I could have gone further. Academically. But I couldn't see a future. *** Working for Leslie at Bold Appetite catering. On weekends and at night. She saw it first. Pointed straight at my talent. Talked to me about taking another route. Closing the books. Deep in me. It made perfect sense. She held the door open. Sent me off into a French kitchen. I'd like to hug her. Right now. *** Two songs I heard twelve-hours apart. Thirty years between them. They work together. Maybe just for me. *** But when the night is falling You cannot find the light (light) You feel your dreams are dying Hold tight You've got the music in you Don't let go You've got the music in you One dance left This world is gonna pull through Don't give up You've got a reason to live Can't forget We only get what we give 19981968Comments are closed.
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