The Pits and Pieces

  I’m reading Shashi Bhat’s book, The Most Precious Substance on Earth. I would say more about the novel, but I haven’t finished it yet. And anyway, Kerry Clare gives it a review here that is much better than anything I could write. But these two sentences in the book stopped me: “ I thought you were a proud coconut.” Coconut: brown on the outside and white on the inside. I know that word Coconut well. I’ve been called it myself. It might have been because of the need and desire to assimilate, or because we were raised with the widespread but unspoken message that white western culture was the superior one. For whatever reason, even though Canada is a mosaic and not a melting pot, there are many, many East Indian, Goan and Pakistani coconuts here.  The coconut word triggered a few memories of instances when I felt misjudged or slightly vulnerable because of my skin colour. When I was a new mother, I took my daughter for a walk around the neighbourhood. It was the middle of the day whe

What is this? This moment of buttery bliss? Not long ago, Cathy from my writing group, wrote about making homemade croissants with her granddaughter. Prior to the actual creation of the lovely little crescents, they went on an investigative mission: searching out good croissants in Oakville. My ears immediately perked up.  A search for the perfect croissant in Oakville ? I was in! Cathy’s essay was delightful and descriptive, with information on French pastry making that I never knew (the Détrempe, the Beurrage – these were terms unfamiliar to me). With her wry humour, the piece was incredibly funny, resisting the obvious approach of turning it into a sentimental grandmother-granddaughter cooking story. But long after our writing session ended, what lingered in the back of my mind was:  I need to go get myself some croissants. Today was the day. I decided I would go to three places. My first stop: The Danish Pastry House. This business, founded on authentic Danish recipes and traditio

  Hygge: a Danish word for a quality of coziness i.e. feeling warm, comfortable, and safe, that comes from doing simple things such as lighting candles, baking, or spending time at home with your family. The word became increasingly popular a couple of years ago. (Maybe more, I’m slow to adapt to trends. I’m not yet on Facebook or Tik Tok and will likely never be). As we slide deeper into the fall season, the word ‘hygge’ keeps cropping up, inviting me to get cozy. I’m not talking about baking or lighting candles (although I do love lighting incense in the early morning). But I’m thinking about snuggling up on the couch with my soft blanket, a book, a glass of wine, my electric fire on. The fire has no crackle or pop or warmth as with a wood fire, but the visual is what matters. Or maybe I’m doing hygge wrong? I n the past few decades, home has become so much more than the place you stash your stuff or lay your head. Today a home must reflect your lifestyle, it must be your haven, your

The other night I finished watching ‘MAID’, the much talked-about Netflix series. A young mother lives in a trailer with her daughter (a toddler not yet three), and an emotionally abusive husband, an alcoholic. He’s not always mean and abusive. When he is not drinking, when he’s trying to win her back, he has his likeable and redeeming moments. Which is why it’s also difficult for her to break free. She gets a job as a maid, cleaning other people’s homes, seeing the insides of their lives. She’s a writer. And this is the part I loved about the series: how, despite how difficult her life is, she writes. And writes. Scribbling away in her notebook, dreaming of going to college and becoming a writer. She is a wonderful mother, playful and tender with her daughter, and also a caring daughter to her own mother – an unconventional hippie/artist, still struggling to claim her place in the world, still searching in all the wrong places. ‘Maid’ is at times haunting and poignant, yet also troubl

A couple of weeks ago, a friend asked if me I’d read any of Louise Penny’s books. I had not, but had long been meaning to (having been an ardent fan of Agatha Christie and mysteries in general in my teens). I randomly picked up a Louise Penny book from the library to take with me on my country retreat, after I finished the book I was then reading. Although the Penny books are a series of Inspector Gamache mysteries, I’m told there’s no need to read them in sequence. I picked up: ‘The Long Way Home.’ Penny is a best-selling author and the characters in her book, set in Quebec, are delightful. The insights, woven into the story, are unexpected. One old, curmudgeonly poetess says, “Fear lives in the head. And courage lives in the heart. The job is to get from one to the other.” How can you not love such characters? The other book I finished reading before starting Penny’s was Gail Caldwell’s “Let’s Take The Long Way Home.” I didn’t see the sameness in the titles until many days later. Cal

Arriving at my little rural farm retreat where I’m spending a few nights, I found a bowl of fresh eggs awaiting me. The pale brown ones are gently speckled, the white ones appear to have a faint tinge of blue. I’ve never seen eggs like these in a grocery store carton. Isn’t it wonderful how a bowl of fresh eggs can bring such joy?  But isn’t that what we all want? The ability to find pleasure in the little everyday things. Although these were not everyday eggs. I cooked up a couple of them the next morning, wishing I’d thought to bring some bacon. They were delicious, the yolks a deep yellow. Later that afternoon I took a walk around the farm to see the chickens that laid the eggs that I consumed for breakfast. To say a little thank you. The hens were in their coop, separated from the roosters who roamed more freely. But I know nothing about the formalities or practices of chicken and rooster get-togethers (simple urban-dweller that I am). The hens seemed happy, the roosters appeared

Yesterday both, truth and beauty. The truth part: I spent the morning of our first National Day for Truth and Reconciliation, watching the CBC and listening to the Indigenous speakers, among them, survivors of the residential schools. Listening as they told us their stories. Listening as we acknowledge the history of our land. A step towards truth. It's not for me to write about, it's only for me to listen and learn. Then I knew I needed beauty. Online I went and booked a ticket for an afternoon slot at Beyond Monet, the immersive exhibit at the Toronto Convention Centre. This required my first GO train ride in over 19 months! Where was that Presto card? I fished it out and checked the balance that remained. (Pre-COVID I used to commute into Toronto twice a week).  Even the GO train had changed. Now there were little plexiglass dividers between each seat. Early for my timed slot at the exhibit, I went for a walk. How good it felt to walk the streets of downtown Toronto again. U