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.
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.
Foodie: I love your outfit.
Beast: I don’t know about it. I don’t think it’s very me.
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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The Beast and I got home at exactly the same time on Friday after work. He was carrying an LCBO bag filled with cocktail necessities and was eager to get down to business. I was eager to get into my caftan and drink whatever he was about to create.
Although there have been sunny days in 2015, something about Friday felt like it was the first of the season. We didn’t want to miss a moment of it. By 5:30 p.m., we were sitting on the deck with reading materials and drinks. The Beast was reading a 650-page biography about Saul Bellow for an upcoming book review he’s writing. I was reading Twitter.
The Beast and I met up at the big Chapters at the corner of Bay and Bloor on Tuesday night. I found him in the politics section, gently turning over a tome on ISIS between his hands. “I have to go to the washroom,” I told him.
“Meet me in fiction afterwards,” he said. “I’ll be in the dick section.”
Foodie: Last night I dreamt that I bought a condo.
Beast: Last night I dreamt I was a Ralph Lauren model.
Foodie: And it was really, really big. Like, it had two levels.
Beast: And I got paid in clothes.
Foodie: Did I tell you what I saw yesterday looking out into the backyard from the sunroom?
Beast: Not yet.