It’s the kind of store where you have to do a bit of hunting in order to find a treasure. And I did find one, in the form of a little gold crest pin with the word “citizenship” stamped across it. It was only $2 but I didn’t have any cash and the Beast was already outside. So, after holding the object in my hand and turning it over and over a few times, I gently set it back into a sea of a hundred other old pins, and joined the Beast out front and continued on our way.

Foodie: That was a fun store. (pause) I can’t stop thinking about this little citizenship pin I saw in there.

Beast: Was it like the Attendance and Punctuality pins in Rushmore?

Foodie: Just like those! (pause) Did I ever tell you about the time I won the Citizenship Award in grade three? It was a very important award; only one girl and one boy received it every year at Mary Bucke Public School.

Beast: How many people went to Mark Bucke Public School?

Foodie: Maybe 60 or 70? It was a little four room primary school. Still though, the competition was fierce. I remember sitting on the tiled floor with the rest of the school for the award ceremony and I had no idea I was going home with one of those felt crests that day. I was over the moon.  And I was absolutely in love with the boy who won, too. David Lepischak. I thought it was a sign; you know, that we both won, so we were meant to be together.

Beast: Silence

Foodie: I’ll never forget; after we accepted our awards, we both sat back down and David turned around and said, “Congratulations,” and he extended his hand for me to shake and oh my lord did I want to take it–I probably wanted to kiss him right then and there–but instead, well, I’m ashamed to say that I shook it and then made a funny face like I was grossed out because I’d just touched a boy’s hand and wiped it on the hem of my dress.

Beast: Why in the hell did you do that?

Foodie: Because all my friends were around, man! What would they say? Girls didn’t go around shaking boys’ hands in grade three. Oh no they did not! Anyway, I think I’ve regretted my pour behaviour ever since.

Beast: Do you want the pin? I have $2 right here.

Foodie: Oh, I didn’t know you had cash on you. Oh gosh, no. It’s okay. Really? You wouldn’t mind? I’ll just scoot back and grab it.

The Beast and I decided on a matinee showing of A Dangerous Method, which we both enjoyed quite a bit.  With our minds saturated and our stomachs growling, we walked to Porchetta & Co. for a couple of  sandwiches.

Foodie: I can’t believe I haven’t been here before.

Beast: Neither can I. Do you like your sandwich?

Foodie: It’s so good. I really like this bun. And the rapini. A really nice touch. Except it’s hard to chew in some bites.

Beat: That’s my only complaint. If they’d just chop it up a bit more.

Foodie: I’m shocked you liked the movie, to be honest. It seemed like something you’d hate.

Beast: I thought it was great.

Foodie: Even Keira Knightly?

Beast: She was a bit too visceral at the beginning and that was hard to watch, but she was good.

Foodie: Yeah, visceral. That’s what I thought, too. Well, that’s just great. Maybe you understood more parts of it than I did.

Beast: Why would you say that?

Foodie: You were laughing when the the rest of the audience was quiet during a few scenes.

Beast: Well, some of the characters reactions were so Freudian I just assumed it was deliberate.

Foodie: You used to read all about this shit, remember? When we first met? Did Jung really get into all that mystical sort of stuff?

Beast: He sure did. Some really whacky shit.

Foodie: Do you think Freud was right?

Beast: I don’t know if “right” is the right word.  I’m not sure he’s the kind of man who’d want everything he said to be taken as dogma anyway. But when it comes down to it–and science, as far as we can tell backs it up–is that we’re hard-wired to do one thing and one thing only. We have one basic drive.

Foodie: God, I’m hungry.

Beast: And even after 100 years, that’s still a very jarring fact and it’s incredibly difficult to take at face value because we’re distracted with so many other things in our modern lives.

Foodie: Do you want these fatty bits?

Beast: Sure. Freud called it sublimation; you take a desire and then channel it into something different.

Foodie: What do you think Freud would say about me buying that citizenship pin today?

Beast: I bet he would probably say something about you knowing that I had that money in my pocket so you kept hemming and hawing about the pin until I offered you the money.

Foodie: I didn’t know you had money in your pocket!

Beast: You know what else Freud says? That when we’re accused of something and then we deny it, it’s pretty much a sure-fire sign that you did, in fact, do it.

Foodie: Is this all we’re having for dinner? Or is this, like, an appetizer? Because I’m not full.

Foodie: ** 1/2

Beast: **1/2

Beast: What’s up with this new lounge wear you’ve been sporting?

Foodie (looking down): What, this?

Foodie: It’s my new home-time uniform. This sweatshirt is so soft!

Beast: It’s really nice, don’t get me wrong. But do you know what you kind of look like, sitting there with your wet hair and cut-off sweat top?

Foodie: What?

Beast: You look a bit like white trash.

Foodie: I do! Don’t I!

Beast: “Billy Bob! Don’t you go fishing in that there crick no more, now! Go on! Get out of that there crick!”

Foodie (laughing hysterically): I do look like that! I do! I do!!! Oh boy. That was a good one.

Beast: You look like Danny McBride’s trashy sister.

Foodie (more laughing): Holy shit! That’s totally true! (Pause)  Can we go for brunch now?

And there sure is no shortage of places for us to choose from in our west-end neighbourhood. There are old classics, like Aris and Mitzi’s, plus a whole whack of new places, including the Ace, the Westerly and Barque. Many people, including the media, have come to affectionately refer to Roncesvalles Street, the main thoroughfare in the area, as “Roncy”. And the term “Roncy” really bothers the Beast.

Foodie (walking along “Roncy”):  Look it this! What a beautiful day and every one is out and about enjoying it. Fuck man, you just gotta love Roncy! You know what I mean?

Beast: You know what? We should start using it as a verb, like, “We’re having such a great ronce today, just roncing along the avenue.”

Foodie: Yeah! Roncing! To ronce! Like, “Hey man, you wanna ronce tonight, or what?” Totally. That’s totally hilarious.  Hey man, do you want to try out the Ace for brunch? Erinn and I had such a nice dinner there last week.

Beast (rolling his eyes and sighing): I guess so.

The Ace used to be the Ace Chinese Restaurant but it’s been boarded up for over 20 years! When the new co-owners (one of whom is that cute Maggie of Dakota Tavern fame) came on board, they found a nearly perfectly preserved 1950s style diner covered in several inches of dust. Not only did they manage to do a beautiful job at bringing the place back to life, but they also serve really tasty comfort food that’s classed and sassed up a bit, and the servers are really friendly. The Beast, however, isn’t as enchanted with the place.

Foodie: Isn’t it just lovely? And listen! They’re playing old timey music. You love old music! Who is this? Louis Armstrong?

Beast: No. And it’s okay, I guess.

Foodie: What are being so cynical about this place, man?

Beast: Well, for starters, I just feel like it’s another place that caters to a cynical type of phony hipsterism. It creates an aura of false authenticity by hinting at this throwback to the 50s–an era that’s already tinged with irony.

Foodie: Oh. (Pause)  But aren’t you over-thinking it just a bit? If you dissected everything that much you would never be able to just enjoy anything ever again?

Beast: Silence

Foodie: Oh! Everything looks so good on the menu. I should probably have the oatmeal but I’m going to go with the huevos rancheros. Oh! Did you see that they have cheese biscuits with scrambled eggs topped with white pork gravy? Isn’t that that the kind of gravy you like? Like they serve at Cracker Barrels in the US?

Beast: Yes it is. And I’m getting it.

We drank our delicious drip coffee from nice white porcelain diner cups and before we knew it, brunch arrived, on vintage mismatched dishware.

Foodie: Maybe I’ll just take a photo of this.

Beast: For FATB?

Foodie: Oh, I don’t know.

Beast: Hey listen. You know you don’t have to end it, right?

Foodie: I know.

Beast: Are you having second thoughts?

Foodie: I don’t know.

Beast: You don’t have to listen to me, you know that, right? Keep doing it!

Foodie: I know. I don’t know.

Beast: It makes you happy, right?

Foodie: Ever since I said it was going to end, I’ve just felt like maybe it doesn’t have to. I’m just nervous about starting a new job and not having time to dedicate to doing FATB properly, or with any sort of regularity. Maybe there could just be special editions?

Beast: Listen, you’ve done an amazing thing; you stuck with doing something creative, that you didn’t get paid for, for nearly four years, which is more than a lot of people manage to do. And you’ve built yourself an audience. (Pause) You might not realize this, but you owe a little bit to FATB for landing you your new job.

Foodie: You think so?

Beast: Of course! It made you write regularly! That means you were always practicing and improving.  Listen, maybe you just hit a rut because we were never going out to eat. We basically spent a year at home, eating the same things and fighting a lot. What if you tried to limit FATB to the sort of experience that we’re having right now? We’re eating out and we’re talking.

Foodie: That’s a good idea. But will people think I was just trying to get attention by saying it was all over? Do you know how many nice things people said about FATB?

Beast: Don’t worry, the people that know you, will know that although you do love attention, this was not a ploy to receive it.

Foodie: How’s the white gravy?

Beast: A bit thin. How’s yours?

Foodie: It’s so good! Just the perfect size. (Pause) Thanks for talking to me about all this. You’ve been really supportive and it means a lot.

Beast: You’re welcome.

Foodie (pointing to her head): Io non ricordo.

Beast: I don’t get it.

Foodie: From the Godfather Part II? You know, when young Vito Corleone has to leave the grocery store job because the Don’s shitty little nephew needs that job and he wants his boss, who looked after him since he got off the boat, to know that he won’t forget his kindness. That’s what I’m saying to you.  (Pause)  You know what the best part of today is?

Beast: What?

Foodie: We can burn off brunch by roncing our asses off!

Foodie: ***

Beast: *1/2

Footnote: More details about the new job will follow. And if you’re wondering where we were going to go for the last FATB dinner, when it was decided that FATB was ready to be retired, you’ll have to wait because it’ll make for a nice bookend to this thing, someday.

Beast: What are you doing?

Foodie: Silence

Beast: Why are you doing that?

Foodie: I’m trying to get a photo of my running pants with the flour hand prints all over them.

Beast: Do you want help?

Foodie: No, I got it.

Beast: But why are you doing that?

Foodie: To illustrate that I run not to keep fit but only to facilitate some of my poor dietary habits. And to illustrate that the first thing I always do after a run is eat like a pig. I couldn’t even shower before making the New Year’s Day biscuits. I had to make the biscuits.

Beast: You know that you have a bit of a camel toe right now.

Foodie: Do I?

At least I got the shot.  With the tea biscuit made and breakfast prepped, I took a shower while the Beast played the piano. Then, I began to assemble a breakfast fit for royalty.

Beast (in the kitchen): What did you put in your hair (frowning).

Foodie: Some sort of curl enhancer product.

Beast: It smells. (Pause) Remember when I had long hair? Do you remember how awesome it looked?

Foodie: I remember, yes.

Beast: Do you remember that photo shoot we did at the cottage so long ago, when you took pictures of me playing my instruments in the woods?

Foodie: I would kill to see those right now. That’s some of the funniest shit I’ve ever seen.

Foodie: Can I put those photos in my blog?

Beast: I thought you were finished with the blog.

Foodie:  I believe I am, but I have to find a way to end it, preferably on a high note. And the readers really seem to enjoy fashion photos of you so I think that would be nice.

Beast: Better those photos than your camel toe, I suppose. Why not end it with the cabbage rolls we made TOGETHER on New Year’s Eve, and the cocktails that I made for us while we cooked?

Foodie: I wasn’t even going to mention those cabbage rolls, or the nice cozy night in we had watching Downton Abbey with the fire going.

Beast: Why not?

Foodie: Because I’ve posted about cabbage rolls twice before! It would make cabbage rolls a three-peat! I’m a one trick pony. I cook the same ten things, day after day.

Beast: That is true. But what about the fancy appetizers we made?

Foodie: You make a good point, but we really should have made some sort of dipping sauce for them.

Beast (sitting down in dining room with our breakfast): Can I just tell you that this is the one of the best things you’ve ever made for me?

Foodie: Look at these tea biscuits, though!

Foodie: This is one of my no-fail recipes from my mom and look at them! They look like hockey pucks. Don’t you remember how they normally turn out? All airy and fluffy and perfect for tearing open and smearing with butter and jam?

Beast: They taste like shit. What did you do?

Foodie: I don’t know. I just don’t know. Maybe the flaccid tea biscuits symbolize that the end of FATB is in sight.

Beast: So, how are you going to end it? You’ve got a lot of unfinished business and you owe your readers an explanation, at the very least.

Foodie: I realize that. There will be questions. There are things I have to say. It’s got to be a good final post, with no answers left unturned.

Beast: No stones left unturned, I think you mean. You don’t have to stop FATB, just because I’m always telling you to. You don’t have to listen to me.  You know that, right?

Foodie: I know. It’s just time.

Beast: What will you cook for the last post?

Foodie: I won’t be cooking anything. We’ll be eating out.

Beast: But where?

Foodie: It’s obvious, isn’t it?

Breakfast: Foodie **1/2  Beast ***

New Year’s Eve dinner: Foodie ** Beast ***

Foodie: We need to scratch the dinner I was going to make tonight.

Beast: You don’t want gnocchi?

Foodie: I really want gnocchi but I accidentally had a Festive Special at Swiss Chalet for lunch today and that means I need to take it easy at dinner. So I was thinking I would just eat my salad that I was supposed to have for lunch for dinner.

Beast: What kind of salad? Would I like it, too?

Foodie: I don’t think so. I just took the leftover vegetables from the night before and added it to a bunch of arugola.

Beast: Yuck! I hate leftovers!

Foodie: I know you do.

Beast: You know what you should call your autobiography?

Foodie: What?

Beast: I Could Get a Lunch Out of That, the Jessica Allen story.

It’s true. I love turning leftovers into healthy lunches! I LOVE IT! Have some leftover boiled potatoes and roasted brussel sprouts? Why not add them to a bunch of arugola, throw in a little chopped mint and whip up a simple dressing of lime juice, olive oil, a touch of white wine vinegar and just a nip of dijon?

Foodie (yelling from the kitchen): Do you want any of this leftover pasta with peas?

Beast: I HATE LEFTOVERS! Plus, I didn’t really like it, even when it was fresh. Don’t tell Elena that, though.

My friend Elena, a real life Italian, described her favourite comfort pasta to me recently and it sounded so perfectly good that I tried to make it for the Beast and me last week. Before I started, I sent her an email with what I remembered her telling me were the instructions:

So, I finely chop some red onion and get it going in some olive oil, add the frozen peas plus some water so that they’re just covered and let that simmer. Meanwhile, you’re cooking your pasta.  When the pasta is done, drain and add it to the peas. Toss it all together. Don’t add cheese. Maybe salt and pepper. Is that it?!?!?!!?

Elena wrote back within seconds:

Nooooooooooo!!

I didn’t respond because I was still at work. She was so panicked that I would mess up the dish that she called me, in a real state. The key is, as it turns out, to cook the pasta with the peas and onions by adding about an inch of water and doing it slowly. As the water is absorbed by the pasta, a creamy sort of sauce is achieved because of all that starch. And you definitely don’t add cheese (when I suggested that to Elena, her face contorted in disgust and offence, like I suggested adding endangered panda bear meat, or something.

Foodie: I added too much water and I cooked it too fast but I’ll nail the recipe next time. But I still thought it was good. (Pause) It’s just a little bit of pasta so I’m still having a healthy dinner, don’t you think?

Beast: Sure. Will you bring me a bowl of Cool Ranch Doritos please? As my appetizer? And have you opened up the wine yet? I’ll have some of that, too.

While I curled up with my salad, plus a modest portion of some leftover pasta,

the Beast prepared his meal of broiled hotdogs and chips.

And we watched Gosford Park by the light of the Christmas tree and the glow of a fire log.

Beast: You know, an old friend from highschool chose Emily Mortimer as his number one. Isn’t that weird?

Foodie: Number one, as in which celebrity he’d have sex with?

Beast: Yes. I just think it’s such an odd choice.

Foodie: Who would you choose?

Beast: Jessica Simpson.

Foodie: No, seriously: who would you choose?

Beast: Jessica Simpson, Beyonce, Mariah Carey…

Foodie: Are you kidding me?

Beast: You know what they say; the bigger the berry, the sweeter the juice.

Foodie: Silence

Beast: Who else…let me see. Oh yes, Eva Mendes for sure. Maybe Nikki Minaj.

Foodie: Who the hell is that?

Beast: Ah, she’s a raptress.

Foodie: Didn’t you used to be obsessed with classy ladies, like Rachel Weisz and Jennifer Connelly?

Beast: I’m done with them now. Connelly is far too severe for my liking these days. Look at Kristen Scott Thomas in this movie. Disgusting!

Foodie: Are you kidding me? Look at her back in that dress! Just beautiful. So defined.

Beast: Gross!

Foodie: I don’t know how I feel about all this information.

Beast: Who are yours?

Foodie: I’d choose to have sex with fictional characters, if I could, like Tristan from Legends of the Fall, Nathanial from Last of the Mohicans, Russell Crowe as Gladiator but not as any other character, Aragorn from Lord of the Rings. Actually, I’d have sex with Viggo Mortensen out of that character, too. And I’d have sex with that guy we both like so much…what’s that actor’s name from Step Brothers, and Party Down?

Beast: Adam Scott.

Foodie: Yes, him. I’d have sex with him. Paul Rudd, too, but just for fun. And let me see…who else. Oh, this guy here in this movie, Jeremy Northam. For sure. Also, Michael Fassbender as Rochester in Jane Eyre, and maybe Colin Firth and maybe Hugh Grant, in his prime.

Beast: I’d have sex with Hugh Grant in his prime.

Foodie: And Daniel Craig. Oh boy, would I have sex with Daniel Craig. I just want to feel the weight of his body pressing down on mine. Can you imagine? Oh my god.

Beast: You’re disgusting.

This morning, I woke to the putrid smell of stale rot ass as I walked into the kitchen.

Foodie: What the hell was that? Next time give me some warning so I can evacuate the room!  That’s disgusting! I can’t breathe!

Beast: Well ex-cuuuse me! You try eating hotdogs, Cool Ranch Doritos, Lay’s potato chips and cookies and drinking gin and tonics, scotch and white wine and see what happens.

Sometimes, the truth hurts.

Foodie: ***

Beast: ***

Foodie: Well, good morning. I can’t believe I slept in this late! Oh look, you’ve already made the coffee.

Beast: And I’m making breakfast, too. Do you want some?

Foodie: Nice kimono. And that’s my belt.

Beast: I’m just borrowing it.

Foodie: What are you making?

Beast: Toasted white bread with peanut butter and jam.

Foodie: Where did you get that store-bought jam?

Beast: I bought it.

Foodie: Why don’t you use all the homemade jam we have?

Beast: It’s all got mold on it. It’s disgusting.

Foodie: It does not! Look at this (rummaging through the fridge). Let’s see. This is a plum one I made in 2008.  Oh shit.

Beast: MOLD! You’re trying to kill me.

Foodie: Just scrape it off a bit.

Beast: Do you want any breakfast?

Foodie: Just coffee. And I promised your mother that we’d get our Shoppers lists to her before noon so let’s get to work.

Every Christmas the Beast’s mother, bless her heart, prepares giant stockings for her four sons, plus their girlfriends/wives, stuffed with wonderful necessities from Shoppers Drug Mart, like tooth brushes, deodorant and soap, plus other little treats that she picks up during sales throughout the year, like fancy packages of paper napkins. Occasionally, there are product samples from the hospital where she works. I remember one year getting a box of scalpel blades.  You know, for making crafts.

I still remember the year I opened up my first Marg Gadke stocking. First of all, I didn’t come from a family big on stockings so I was just happy to get one. Second of all, I think the Beast’s mother was thrilled to finally be filling a stocking for a girl so there were some choice products in there. As the boys pulled out Chapsticks, bottles of shampoo and sports socks without batting an eyelash, I delighted over every singular object in my stocking:  ”Oh great! BOBBY PINS! I totally needed these!  OH. MY. GOD. Will you look at these napkins with the teddy bears wearing Santa hats on them? Too cute! And lookie here! A pad of paper from a medical conference in China!  I love it! And three gallons of peach-scented body wash with special oatmeal elixirs mixed in for softer skin! BONUS!!!!!!!!”

Every year, the Beast’s mother hounds us for our Shoppers list. I learned last year, thanks to Beast’s sister-in-law, Laura, that doing a little research pays off. Last year Laura scored fancy mascara, lipsticks, body creams and maybe even a nail polish! But I just didn’t get around to scanning the aisles of my local Shoppers. To be honest, I rarely go into Shoppers any longer because I’m still using up the shit from last year’s stocking.

Foodie: Okay, I’ll write down your list if you dictate it to me.  And then I’ll do mine.

Beast: Fine. Condoms, the morning after pill…

Foodie: Okay, c-o-n-d—Hey wait a second!

Beast: Just write it down! My mom will love it!

Foodie: Please be serious. We need to get her these lists.

               The Beast

• Advil liquid gels
• New tooth brush
• Tooth paste (Crest paste advanced whitening)
• Benadryl
• Crest glide floss
• Conditioner (John frieda if they have it)
• Shampoo
• Q tips
• Zest soap
• Baby powder (Secret) deodorant
• Ojon brand mousse (with a comb on top)
• Odour destroyers
• Cushioned insoles
• Denture tabs for night guard

               The Foodie

• Shaving cream
• Venus razor replacement blades
• Body wash (Dove original smell)
• Dove deodorant (original smell)
• Karastase shampoo (orange top if they have it–might not. It’s high end Loreal)
• Advil liquid gels
• Hair spray (evolve brand or something else but nothing too scented)
• Maybelline brown mascara (that really popular one with pink body and green top!)
• Tanning cream for body!
• Anything cool that Laura asks for but not the St. Ives apricot face wash because it’s got cammomile in it. And I’m allergic to cammomile.

Foodie: Okay, great work. Now I have a really good idea. Let’s go to the No-Frills today and go grocery shopping!

Beast: Silence

Foodie: Think about how you’re always so upset that there are no snacks in the house! Think about how I came home last night starving and there was nothing to eat. We haven’t done a big shopping trip for months and if we go together we can make it into a fun activity. We can make a list. Okay. I’m ready for dictation.

Beast: Fine. Hotdogs, hotdog buns, chips, Chef Boyardee ravioli, cookies, cheese slices…

Foodie: We have cheese slices.

Beast: No we don’t. You bought no-name ones and they’re disgusting. Also, pepperoni pizzas. I like to call that the Kevin McAllister.

Foodie: Is that the kid from Home Alone?

Beast: Yes. Fine. I’ll go with you but can I play a little music first?

Foodie: That works out perfectly. I need to put in a couple of hours of work, plus make a list of holiday chores we need to do.

Beast: Silence

I managed to get a lot done. Until the Beast came downstairs from his music room.

Foodie: I could hear you playing up there. You sounded great.

Beast: Thanks. Do you want me to go get my saxophone and play for you down here?

Foodie: Um, I’m going to say no, only because I’m really getting a lot of work done and the sound of live saxophone music playing right beside me could be distracting. But thank you. Do you want to see the chore list so far? I also came up with a list of possible meals we can make this month. That way, we can buy the dry ingredients at No-Frills. But we’ll pick up the fresh ingredients from the green grocer as we see fit.

I turned around and the Beast was gone. He reappeared moments later.

Foodie: That sounds great but I need you to stop that right now thank you. Please stop.

Beast: Playing smooth jams

Foodie: Fine, I’ll just shout out the the list of chores that need to get done and you can look at the winter meal list later. (Note: lists below written on decorative paper found in a Marg Gadke stocking circa 2009.)

Eventually, we did go grocery shopping. And it was slightly more fun than going on my own, which I’m quite accustomed to doing, all the time, on my bike. When I go, I’m limited by the size of the milk crate that’s affixed to the back of my bike. Still, I can get a lot of groceries in there. Every time the Beast put stuff in our shopping cart, I couldn’t imagine walking home with it.

But we did it.

We also got fixings for a fast and easy Saturday night dinner: a little dinner I like to call, “fancy sandwich night”.  You buy some highly processed cold cuts (in this case, Genoa salami), fry up some onions and peppers, scrape the mold off some jarred corn relish, slice up an avocado and slap down some arugola into a crusty kaiser roll. We also had some haloumi that we fried up for a side dish, plus some Lay’s regular potato chips.

It was a fine meal. And we made it together.

Foodie: ** 1/2

Beast: ***

We’d get on our bikes every morning in August and ride down gravel roads to a farm, that my neighbour back within the city limits owned. And he put us to work. We played in a barn, we rounded up cute little stray kittens and fed them and we enjoyed homemade cookies and milk with my neighbour’s elderly mother around the kitchen table of the cozy farmhouse.  We’d bike home, exhausted after a a hard day of work. Well, I was exhausted.  Laurie was probably throwing herself against a brick wall just for fun.

One wintery Saturday afternoon, Laurie’s dad prepared us a lunch of Campbell’s tomato soup and white bread with mozzarella melted on top. It was the first time I’d had mozzarella out of its normal context in, say, pizza or lasagna.  It was utterly exotic, and so good when dunked into the soup.  I’m still obsessed with the combination today.

Funny that I can remember the way the gooey, slightly tangy cheese pulled away when I bit down and the make and colour of the ten speed I rode that summer, but I couldn’t remember my own birthday party: last week I was invited over to my friend Sarah’s place, along with several other friends, for some wine. When I arrived I found out it was actually a birthday party for my dear friend Susan, and myself. Apparently I’d been told about this through a series of emails and texts but I have no recollection of anything of the sort.

I’ve also forgotten complete passages of time. Just yesterday the Beast came home from work and told me that he’d met a friend of mine, an older woman who knew me from the AGO, where I used to docent as a graduate student. “She told me all about how you and your ex-boyfriend stayed at her place in Paris for a night,” he said, with only a little disdain. “She said your ex-boyfriend slept the whole time on account of being jet-lagged, but you talked and talked.” I don’t remember this.  Not one bit of it.  I remember Paris, of course, especially the little strawberries that I bought in the market on rue mouffetard and the steak frites at Le Balzar, an old brasserie on rue des écoles.

But I don’t remember staying with this lovely woman in Paris.

And when I was in New York recently, I spent time with some former students and colleagues from my teaching assistant days in Italy. Stories were told about me that, again, I have no memory of.  ”Remember at the gas station in Austria? Remember what you did when you got out of the car? Priceless!”  There were expressions I’d coined–something about a “wonky tonk”–and embarrassing things I’d done were checked off like a grocery list.  Us four teaching assistants went on road trips during the winter and spring breaks. We passed through Switzerland, Brussels, Belgium, Germany, Austria and Amsterdamn. And although I can’t remember the name of the restaurants where we ate, I do remember devouring a perfect plate of sausage, fried potatoes and apples in a charming tavern outside of Stuttgart, drinking excellent coffee in a Vienese cafe and dining on pork schnitzel with more glorious potatoes in that same city.

After a visual schnitizel, or “paillard”, nudge from Mark Bittman in a recent New York Times magazine, I decided that I would make my own version at the cottage when we visited in late October.  We thought we’d died and gone to heaven as we ate our schnitzel, boiled potatoes with chives and butter and roasted brussel sprouts with a fire roaring in the Franklin and Twin Peaks playing (on the television and DVD player that we lugged down from the bunkie.) It was so memorable a meal that I decided to make it at home last week.

It’s not as messy, complicated and laborious as some might think. After pounding down some cutlets, dredging them through flour, then egg and finally through bread crumbs, and then frying them in a little butter and olive oil for just a few minutes a side, the schnitzel is done.

It’s especially easy when you have somebody helping you in the kitchen.

I know that my memory loss is not uncommon.  Heck, it’s down right average. Still, it gives me reason to pause; to take note of all the dear and exquisite little moments, and people, that pass by; to slow down just a bit, and smell the schnitzel.

Foodie: ***

Beast: ***

It turned out wonderfully. In fact, I think it’s the best batch of chili I’ve ever made. The first night we enjoyed it with toasted and buttered English muffins. Like you, the Beast finds the pairing of chili with English muffins peculiar. But that’s how I ate it growing up.  Try it.

The second night, I decided to enjoy my bowl of chili with more English muffins. The Beast, however, had another plan. He picked up hot dog buns, jumbo-sized wieners (gross!) and cheddar cheese so that he could make chili and cheddar cheese dogs.

Before we rendezvoused at home for chili two-ways, the Beast called me at work to tell me that he had to pick up some frames at an art supply store for stretching canvas. He was going to start a couple of painting projects. Do you want to know how I reacted to this? Well, for starters, I didn’t say, “A painting? How wonderful! Tell me more about it.”  I said something like, “A painting?  Hehehe. Must be nice to have time to paint. And where, pray tell, do you plan on making your little paintings? You’re sure going to have hard time getting those canvases stretched in your music room because it’s packed with shit. And I certainly hope you’re not planning on starting this project in the dining room.”

I think the Beast is immune to my nasty, party-pooper attitude, my pessimism and to my crazy manic-mother fits. What are those? Because every mother goes crazy a few times a year, I’m certain you know what that means. Here are a couple of examples: let’s say a mother just did eight loads of laundry for her family and she feels really great about it.  The hampers are all empty, until her two teenage kids come home with gym bags full of dirty laundry and her baby shits itself so now that hamper is filled up again. Another example: a mother has just finished cleaning up the kitchen after a lavish Sunday meal she spent all day preparing for her family.  Her husband is on the couch watching fucking hockey or some bullshit thing and the kids are, I don’t know, texting their friends on cell phones that their mother pays for.  And one of this kids comes in and starts making a grilled cheese sandwich and dirtying up the just-tidied kitchen.  What happens? Ballistic shit happens.

That’s how I feel a lot of the time. Like a crazy mother. Not just at home, but at work, too. It’s not a good headspace to be in, especially considering I’m not actually a mother. Never in my wildest dreams did I believe that I’d turn out like this.

I got home that night.  The house was quiet.  The wind was blowing something fierce outside. I went upstairs and opened up my filing cabinet and pulled out a pile of old notebooks and journals.

And under the glow of a 40 watt lightbulb, I sat in my chair and looked through them. I’m not sure what I was looking for, exactly. I think I was envious of the Beast and I needed to remind myself, in a childish sort of way, that I used to make stuff too. Or remind myself that I, oh I don’t know, wasn’t always such a fucking manic mother fucker.

I saw glimpses of genius in my early childhood diary pages.

And a disturbing peak into the psyche of my future possessive, overly confident adult self.

I saw that I had written poetry in high school that presently causes me to cringe with humiliation. And I saw that I spent a lot of time in grad school watching movies.

I saw that I had big plans! I was going to make movies, write movies, write novels, design book covers and some CD covers, too, and I was going to travel and just be, you know, like so awesomely creative. I feel embarrassed reading this now.

I saw that I’d discovered the art of drinking while writing over ten years ago (I’m not drunk now.) And that I was pretentious.  So terribly pretentious. And so full of ego (which I tried to pawn off as humble self-doubt.)

Despite the cringing, I guess I felt a bit happy there in my chair; pleased knowing that I used to dream of doing so much. Because it was genuine back then.  Now though, every time I think about making a painting or writing a poem (this happens perhaps three times a year), I start making fun of myself before I start. I’m lucky that my job involves some creativity. But there’s still something I miss–maybe just the spontaneity of deciding to make something.  Anything. Without feeling silly about it.

Anyway, the Beast got home and I didn’t tell him that I’d gone through my old crap. I just said that I wanted him to use the dining room for his art project. My only suggestion was that maybe he could finish it by the holidays, when I might want to do some entertaining in there.

And I was so happy to come home last night to see this.

I want to be the type of person who doesn’t get mad when somebody wants to make something, just because there might be a little mess involved. And, hopefully, maybe I’ll want to make a little mess myself someday soon.

(Wait, does that ending sound dirty? Like make a mess in my pants? Because it was supposed to sound really serious and sentimental, like, hopefully I’ll want to make art again someday. That’s how I wanted to end this. On a serious note. But I had to go and ruin it all by making a joke. So typical.)

Foodie: ***

Beast: ***

The soup was dead simple to make–and cheap! All of our green grocers had four quart baskets of perfectly ripened Roma tomatoes marked down to $3.

I modified the recipe, that called for bread topped with cheese, ala onion soup, to be broiled on top of the soup, in order not to have to wash caked-on cheese off of our bowls and made separate little mozzarella cheese toasties for dunking instead.

And plain baguette with butter was served with the stew, which isn’t a red wine-version: it’s more of a Campbell’s beef stock-Worchestire sauce-and a little tomato paste for zip version.  And the more hunks of celery, carrots and potatoes I can squeeze in the pot, the better.  Oh gosh, I just remembered something: my mother used to have to boil a separate pot of potatoes on account of her family’s ferocious appetite for that starch–the best starch, if you ask me.

It was a doozy of a week so my organizational skills really paid off. This week, however, I crumbled.  There have been many Dr. Oetker pizzas, plus roti from Mother India. Last night, I brought home our standing order from said Queen St. joint: one saag paneer roti with medium spice for me and a muter paneer roti with mild spice for the Beast.

Foodie: I’m home! But before we eat, I need to take a shower. It’ll be the fastest shower ever but I can not relax until I wash the filth from my body.

Beast: That’s fine but you have to come see my vintage purchases that I picked up from the dry cleaners.

By now, you know that the Beast has peculiar style but lately his fashion fixation has become a bit shocking. It hasn’t helped matters that his friend David recently handed down at least a thousand dollars worth of dress shirts, pants and jackets to him. His closet literally overflows, everywhere.

Beast: What do you think? This one is Dior!

Foodie: Which one? The plaid one?

Beast: (Trying it on) Isn’t it just fabulous?

Foodie: Yes, it’s nice but promise not to wear it with sneakers or you’ll look like a clown. Can I show you the email I got today from an editor at work?

Beast: (Trying it on) Do you like my new winter coat? Isn’t it fabulous?

Foodie: Yeah. Um, let me just find this email.  When I read it, it was like feeling the sun shining on my face after being locked in a dark basement for days on end. Oh here it is.  Look.

Beast: That’s great. What do you think of the grey blazer?

Foodie: I think that you have about 15 blazers now and I don’t know where you plan on putting them all.  You need to get rid of some. Look at this part where she says, “it’s just delightful.”  Did you read that part?

Beast: Yeah. But look at how well it fits! And I just love how this striped Ralph Lauren looks underneath it.

Foodie: Whoa. Hold up. What’s that ring?

Beast: Oh, this ring?

Beast: I bought it to wear while I play the clarinet.

Foodie: You’re telling me that ring is not for me?

Beast: You can wear it too, I guess.

After my shower, we curled up in front of the television with our roti, some white wine and two episodes of The Wire, season three, to finish.  It was heavenly.

Beast: Did I tell you that Stringer F–king Bell is British?

Foodie: Twice yesterday and again just now.

Beast: Isn’t it amazing? His accent? And McNulty is British, too.  Apparently it’s a perfectly studied Baltimore accent.

Foodie: Yes, I know. Wow. Look at your hair right now.

Beast: What?

Foodie: Nothing.

Beast: What, you want me to cut it, don’t you.

Foodie: I’m just saying that if your hair is like that–

Beast: Receding?

Foodie: If your hair is receding, and you leave it long it just sort of draws attention to the fact, you know?

Beast: I love my hair. And remember when you compared it to Jack Nicholson’s in The Shining the other day? Well, I take that as a compliment.  That’s a great fucking look.

Foodie: I’m just saying, you don’t like showering too often so if you had short hair you could shower less.  Long hair needs a lot of maintenance. Plus, I was looking at pictures the other day of you with short hair and you just looked so handsome.

Beast: You know what? I don’t criticize you when you’re body changes! I always think you’re beautiful.

Foodie: Well, I don’t go around wearing cut off t-shirts exposing my fat belly! If I did, I would hope you’d say something to me.

Beast: That you’re fat?

Foodie: No, that maybe I shouldn’t draw attention to the fat by not covering it up with clothing.

Beast: You’re full of hate.

Foodie: I know. I know.

I never thought I’d be that girl–the girl who nags her boy to cut his hair or begs him to trim his bushy beard or yells at him all the time to clean up his mess. But that’s who I am these days.  And do you know what happened today? The Beast emailed me a photo of himself that he’d taken just moments before.  He’d cut his hair.

I’ve never felt worse about myself. (It looks really good though.)

Roasted Tomato Soup with Mozzarella Cheesy Bread: Foodie **1/2 Beast **

Beef Stew: Foodie ** Beast ***

Mother India: Foodie *** Beast ***

Beast: Who told you about this place?

Foodie: Anne from work. Her boyfriend is a big time sommelier and they had a great meal here. Look! Every bottle of wine on the list is $33! I love that.

Beast: I love that units of alcohol are all $4. I’m starting with a gin.

Foodie: Holy bleep. Will you get a look at our waiter?

Beast: Wow. He’s bleeping good-looking. He’s so good-looking that even my bleep is starting to bleeping bleep.

Foodie: Me too! Who do you think he’d want to bleep more? You, or me?

Beast: It’s hard to tell just yet.

Foodie: Oh my: canned fish with blueberries? That sounds bleeping disgusting. We’re ordering it.

Beast: Bleep?

Foodie: Because I want to be proven wrong. Should I just order for the two of us?

Beast: Yes. Do you know that I don’t feel capable of ordering food for myself any more? I just rely on you to do it.

Foodie: Holy bleep. What if the waiter comes over and I try to touch his bleep?

Beast: I’ll hold down his bleep so that you can bleep it.

Foodie: That’s team work!

The server takes our order.

Foodie: And he’s bleeping charming to boot! Can you believe it? He’s got it all. My bleep feels bleep.

Beast: Your bleep? You should see the bleep of my bleep!

Foodie: Okay. I was wrong. This fish thing is amazing! I love it. And the deviled eggs are such a nice touch. Have you tried the roasted corn hummus yet?

Beast: It’s amazing. And you’re right about the fish. This is really, really good.

Foodie: Oh god, here comes the server with the wine. What if I grab his bleep by accident when I reach for my glass?

Beast: Yeah, like, “Oh I’m so sorry! I thought you wanted me to just bleep on your bleep! How embarrassing!”

Foodie: Yeah and I’d like grab hold of that bleep like it was a wine glass and try to swirl it all around.

Beast: And then I’d be like, “Oh I want some too mister! And I’d put his bleep in my bleep and be all like, this wine tastes like bleep!”

Foodie: Yeah and then I’d be like, “Sir! Your bleeping wine all over my bleep and my bleep! It’s getting everywhere!” Shut up. Here he comes.

Foodie: Okay, that is like the cutest wine chiller EVER! What a great idea.

Beast: Yeah, and if my bleeps get too bleep I can just cool them off in here.

Foodie: Totally man.  Hey, you know what I like about this place? There’s a sincerity to it. I mean, sure, it’s gritty. But it’s not, “Oh look how gritty we are.” There are so many charming details but none of them feel contrived.

Beast: I completely agree. Okay. Here’s a question for you. If Oliver Platt’s body is a one and Alcide’s body on True Blood–

Foodie: Who’s that? The hot werewolf?

Beast: Yes. If Alcide’s body is a 10, then what number do you think my body is?

Foodie: Ummmmm. Four. No wait. A three.

Beast: Okay. If Vampire Eric’s body is a one and Alcide’s is 10, what’s my body?

Foodie: Minus 20.

Beast: Okay.

Foodie: How many more questions are there?

Beast: If Nicolas Cage’s hair line is a one and Alcide’s hair line is 10, what number is my hair line?

Foodie: Uh, a five?

Beast: Ouch. You really hate my hair, don’t you?

Foodie: I don’t hate it, I just think it looks so nice when it’s a touch shorter.

Beast: You’re wrong.

Foodie: You’re obsessed with Alcide, aren’t you?

Beast: I just think he has an amazing body. Do you think that if I worked really hard my body could look like that after one year?

Foodie: Ahhhhhh—

The main course arrives.

Foodie: Look how they put it all on one platter! It’s kind of like Ethiopian in style, but different.

Beast: These lamb and barley meatballs are wonderful.

Foodie: Wait until you try the jerk-flavoured sausage.

Beast: Wait until I try the server’s bleep and bleeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Foodie: Humdinga! You’re on fire! Who does the server look like to you?

Beast: Like a young, hip, more muscular, more handsome Yul Brynner.

Foodie: Who in the bleep is that?

Beast: From The King and I. He was the king.

Foodie: Oh. I think he kind of looks like an Ottoman prince, or a more muscular version of Dan Humphrey from Gossip Girl. Do you think he knows that I want to bleep him?

Beast: Do you think he knows that I want to bleep him?

Foodie: This is a really adorable place. I can’t wait to tell Liz about it because there are so many gluten and dairy-free options. Did you hear how the server described the soup with that voice and those hands–oh bleep.

Beast: Liz, Liz, Liz.

Foodie: I just said I’d bleep the bleep out of that guy’s bleep and you’re jealous because I want to tell Liz about this place?

Beast: I really like the wine you ordered.

Foodie: Thanks. It feels like it’s the never-ending bottle.

Beast: I like how you stare at the server whenever he comes over to fill our glasses. It’s not working you know. He’s not pouring you more.

Foodie: As long as he bleeps my bleep before the check comes then I don’t really give a bleep.

Beast: Oh, boom! You have gone off the deep-end!

Foodie: What’s wrong with us tonight? We are being more inappropriate and crass than ever before.

Beast: I just think we’re having a romantic night out.

Foodie: Are we not able to have a descent conversation over dinner? Is this the end of us?

Beast: If you’re breaking up with me, you should have given me more time to call my mom and dad so they could come pick me up.

Foodie: Do you think Erinn would want to go out on a date with our server? Let’s make that bleep happen!

Beast: Oh, that is a good idea. Hey, and try not laughing so hard whenever the server speaks. Some of the stuff he’s saying isn’t even supposed to be funny but you’re roaring and snorting like a maniac over there.

Foodie (snorting): I can’t bleeping help it!

Dessert arrives.

Foodie: Not bad at all for a spelt crust! I do prefer a flakier crust for a butter tart, though.

Beast: Me too.

Foodie: Did you hear him describe their oatmeal cookies and how they come out all hot and steaming from the oven and you can get them for breakfast?

Beast: Weren’t they chocolate chip?

Foodie: Who the bleep cares? I’m changing my morning bike ride route so that I can bleep by here!

Beast: Should we just get the check?

Foodie: Sounds good. I’m just going to use the washroom.

As I descended the stairs, the server dropped off the check to our table and, while looking at the Beast and nodding towards me, said “Good timing.” I threw back my head in laughter and snorted and cackled like a starved hyena. I may have even slapped my knee. The Beast stared at me, with a look that bordered between sympathy and embarrassment.

We will definitely be coming back to Zocalo. Both the service and the food were wonderful–and far more tasteful than our deplorable behaviour.

Foodie: ***

Beast: ***

And did he ever.

Foodie: Who buys medium ground beef? And why did you buy a gazillion lbs. of it?

Beast: I emailed you asking what kind to buy but you never responded! Plus, it works out to be way cheaper if you buy this much.

Foodie: It’s disgusting! I can’t eat medium ground beef!

Beast: This is going to be great!

I felt my mood start to spiral out of control like a mad women’s. It was the medium ground beef: and it was about to push me over the edge.  But on the ledge of the edge, I stopped myself. Stop being such a fucking miserable asshole. He’s making dinner. Just shut up. Just eat that gross meat and like it.

He set up his little recipe and was determined to follow it to a tee, something I never, ever do.

Foodie: Do you want me to chop the carrots, onions and celery for you?

Beast: No, I’m going to do everything!  You can just relax and watch. Okay. So I’ve five minutes to chop one garlic clove.

Foodie: It’s says here two garlic cloves.

Beast: Oh fuck. Oh, can you get the spices ready for me?

Foodie: Sure I can.

Beast: When you chop carrots, how small do you make them? What about celery? Do I have to use my hands to break up the ground beef?

As I watched the Beast chop his vegetables, I knew that we wouldn’t be eating for many hours to come. Each cut was timidly made and was followed by a little sigh of relief. So I made us two cocktails and stood back to watch the show–and clean up all his dishes as he went along.

Beast: Oh shit. Is this on medium heat? What does it mean, “to simmer”? This is not as easy as it looks.

Foodie: I’m just happy that you’re making dinner–and that you decided what we were eating. This is huge progress.

Beast: I’m trying.

After what seemed like several more hours, dinner was served.

Foodie: Oh! I’m going to do it like you did and make them open-faced! How do you eat these things, anyway?

Beast: With a knife and a fork, dummy.

Foodie: Are you sure?  I thought the whole point was that you picked them up and they’re sloppy.

Beast: Ah, no. Haven’t you ever eaten sloppy joes before?

Foodie: I don’t remember.

Beast: Trust me on this: it’s with a knife and a fork.

The Beast really, really liked his dinner.  I liked it too.  However I found the sloppy meat to be a bit on the sweet side, which I found a little distracting.  On a positive note, though, I wasn’t disgusted by the taste of the medium ground beef.

Beast: This is so good! Isn’t it good?

Foodie: YES! IT IS REALLY GOOD! I LOVE IT!

Beast: You don’t like it?

Foodie: NO! I really do like it!

Beast: I’m having another one.  Do you want another one? God, I wish we had cheese so I could melt some on top of the next sloppy joe.

Foodie: We could do something fun with the left-overs tomorrow night!  Think of the possibilities! It’s essentially a ragu: we could stuff peppers, or just toss it up with some penne and parmigiano.  Yes. That’s what we’ll do.

And that’s exactly what we did for Tuesday night’s dinner. But first, we played tennis. And the Beast made sure to dress the part.

Walking to the courts.

Beast: Are you feeling any better today?

Foodie: A little bit. No, actually. I feel so blue still.  I just can’t put my finger on it.

Beast: Have you exercised today?

Foodie: I EXERCISE EVERY DAY AND WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY BY SAYING THAT RIGHT NOW.

Beast: Whoa! Sorrrrrry!  I just meant that I bet you’ll feel better after tennis.  (Pause) At least I know you didn’t have an affair in New York.

Foodie: Pardon?

Beast (looking down at my legs): I don’t think I’ve ever seen those things so hairy. And your bikini line was atrocious before you left, so I knew you weren’t planning anything sneaky.

Foodie: You’re telling me. Those were some serious hair shorts.

Beast: You’re disgusting.

Foodie: You started this shit. Oh, and did I tell you that a nice group of men in New York, black men actually, found me to be quite fetching?

Beast: No.

Foodie: Well, I walked by a bunch of boys, maybe in their 40s, just hanging around having some coffee one morning and they was all like, “Ummmmm, girl!” And I was all like, so surprised and I think I started giggling, maybe I even snorted, and then they was all like, “Shit girl–there ain’t nothing funny ’bout that! No sir!” I don’t know what that was but they was all like–

Beast: Why are you talking like that?

Foodie: Because I shared a lovely moment with them and I’m trying to express it.  It was just nice because it wasn’t sleezy or gross. I guess because I don’t look like the kind of girl who gets whistled at, you know?  There was a sweet humour to it. (Pause.) Do you think you find me attractive because you have a black man’s soul?

Beast: Probably.

After tennis (or batting practice, practically), I decided to open up a special bottle of white to go with our special sloppy joe left-over extravaganza.

We curled up with our plates of penne tossed with the Beast’s meat sauce, some grated parmigiano and fresh basil (which ended up tasting like Hamburger Helper, or in other words, delicious), and watched a few episodes of The Wire.

And I felt…better.

Foodie: Sloppy joes *1/2, Homemade Hamburger Helper Penne **1/2

Beast: Sloppy joes **1/2, Homemade Hamburger Helper Penne **