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.”
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.
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.
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.
This morning, in the kitchen:
Beast: We need to get rid of our sugar bowl.
Foodie: No we don’t.
Beast: Yes we do. And that little plate it sits on too.
Foodie: No we don’t. I love them both so much.
Beast: They look like they belong in a fucking dump: like they belong to a character in a Miranda July novel.