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.
Foodie: Do you want to see the photos I took of you asleep last night on the couch?
Beast: I look like a character from a Wachowski brothers’ movie.
Outside of Harvey’s on the Queensway, a favourite resort-like destination for us when we have access to a car, the Beast turned to me and said, “Doesn’t this feel like the kind of slightly rundown place where a business man would come into after a long day at work to order a burger? And in the movie version, he’d be at the wrong place at the wrong time and there’d be some kind of armed robbery?”
This year I tried to curate the holidays before they even happened. I discovered this can lead to moments of both disappointment and happy surprises.