A bachelor and a TIFFhole

After eight days and nights of eating with my hands–think skewered meatballs and shrimp, tuna ceviche on flat bread and itty bitty tacos–I had my first meal on a plate topped with food that I consumed with a knife and fork on Thursday night.

I covered the TIFF party scene for Metro this year. It’s my fifth year reporting on the festival’s nightlife, and–like clockwork–I metamorphosed into something I call a TIFFhole. I define what this is here. If you have no interest in reading that, I’ll quote myself, which is a really TIFFhole thing to do: “The transition to TIFFhole is a well-known phenomenon in some circles. It’s two weeks of obsessing over party invites, name-dropping and filing stories as the sun rises,” I wrote. “The TIFFhole is a werewolf, ashamed of what it’s become but hungry for its prey and the second-rate rubbed off luminosity of being in close proximity to the stars that it’s hunting.”

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Sundays: You’ve changed. Plus, sushi.

Last night we got a bit cray-cray and watched Wedding Crashers followed by The King of Comedy.

In keeping with living on the edge, I ate dinner–some sushi and sashimi that we picked up from Sushi Nomi on Roncesvalles–in my new white cotton Ralph Lauren romper.

It took about 37 seconds before I had soy sauce spilled all down the front.


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Pax closets. And peace.

My four-day-long Nova Scotia holiday glow disappeared fast on my flight back to Toronto. There was an adult a few rows back who insisted on playing a video game on their tablet involving laughing and screaming characters and annoying music. They played the game at full volume–without headphones.

I would’ve offered them mine, if I’d remembered to bring them along.

Then there was a child seated across from me who insisted on asking her grandmother absurd questions: Why are we moving. Why are we moving now? How fast is this plane going? What time is it? Are we there yet? Are you awake?

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Porchetta, Panama hats and a director whose name we will only whisper

My friend Giovanna had a bunch of us over for dinner on a recent summer night. With a baby perched on her hip, or on the counter, she prepared a cherry pie, rhubarb crumble, roasted potatoes, green bean salad, panzanella, and a porchetta.



She’s extraordinary. So was the food.

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Fat Pasha and quiet lamentations

I think I’ve seen the Beast cry three times: during certain parts of Ken Burns’ Civil War documentary; certain parts of Ken Burns’ Jazz documentary; and,  always, over the ending of Dances with Wolves.

I saw him cry for the fourth time two nights ago, the day his boss of 13 years, Lynn Albert, passed away. She had not been well. He had been managing the store in her absence for a several days. He visited her that morning and held her hand. She was surrounded by her three sons and family when she passed, which was precisely what she’d wanted. What we all want, I imagine.

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Babysitting, networking and pho

Foodie: I love your outfit.

Beast: I don’t know about it. I don’t think it’s very me.


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A Barberian’s birthday

The Beast didn’t get home until 10:00 p.m last night because he worked late. So I came home to an empty house. At first, I thought I could wait to eat dinner with him. But by 8:00 p.m., I gave up.

It was our Friday night pizza party. While I prepared my toppings and waited for the oven to heat up, I decided to watch some TV on my computer in the kitchen. For no explicable reason, I settled on the last episode of the last season of Six Feet Under, a series I’ve already seen but have never revisited.

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