Home alone

On Friday afternoon, the Beast and his boyfriends drove to Markdale, Ont., to spend two nights at their friend Tom’s bed and breakfast.

I’m home alone, which is extremely rare and extremely exciting.

After work on Friday I walked down Roncesvalles overwhelmed with dinner possibilities. I could eat anything! I passed Pizza Nova. For a recent solo dinner of his own, the Beast enjoyed their walk-in special, a medium-sized pepperoni pizza for only $8.99–only he upgraded it to an extra-large and ate the entire thing along with a bottle of white wine.

That sounds like fun, I thought to myself as I waited for someone in the Pizza Nova to take my order. No one was at the cash register.  The wait gave me a moment to pause. Did I even want pizza? Surely I could do better! Like frozen French fries with canned gravy.

I secured the French fries and gravy and made my way south down the strip. Oh fuck, I thought, seeing Alimentari, a fancy little Italian grocer. I think I want tortelloni sautéed in butter and sage.

Only they didn’t have any fresh tortelloni. So I spent $35 on a jar of artichokes, a package of prosciutto, a hunk of hard goat cheese, and a very nice baguette.

At home, I prepared half of all my dinner provisions–that way, dinner the next night was already solved–and sat down with this lovely bottle of Greco.

I watched Whit Stillman’s Love & Friendship, followed by The Land of Steady Habits, Nicole Holefcener’s new movie on Netflix. I left just enough white wine in the bottle so I could say I didn’t drink the whole thing, and then had the most glorious sleep. If I had a Fitbit™, it would’ve told me that I’m dead because the living simply don’t sleep this well.

I finished a book, did the laundry, and made myself a breakfast burrito all before noon on Saturday. In the afternoon, I biked to the newly opened Museum of Contemporary Art, accidentally bought a leather jacket–the markdown was extraordinary!–treated myself to an ice cream from Ed’s (butter pecan and French mint), and returned home where I tried on my new leather jacket with different outfits.

Next, I obviously I pulled out every item of clothing in both of our closets that needed ironing and proceeded to do just that while watching the first Sex and the City movie. Then I mended a torn robe and the crotch of my beloved Kettle Creek shorts. I’d tried to get the crotch professionally mended but my lady at the dry cleaner took one look at the shorts and laughed in my face. “No repair, she said. Who’s laughing now?

Would you look at that, it was dinner time. As the French fries baked, I prepared my charcuterie board exactly as I’d done the night before. Did you know that you can bring a day-old baguette back to life by dousing it in water and popping it into the oven for a five or so minutes?

I got into my evening loungewear and sat down for solo dinner number two. The twilight sky looked so beautiful from the living room window that I thought to myself: I should go outside to really appreciate this beauty. And then I took a photo from the couch.

Next I obviously purchased the second Sex and the City movie from iTunes because it was only $12.99 to buy compared to $4.99 to rent and I’m not stupid. Then I watched it with my dinner that was exactly the same as the night before, save for the wine, which I’d finished while I repaired my shorts. I opened up this Portuguese white and it was wonderful.

Every time I’d skip to the kitchen to fill up my glass, I’d say This is how you do it! Not just in my head but out loud, to myself, because I was alone.

Back on the couch, I think during the scene when Kim Cattrall is in the Abu Dhabi market and is yelling “Bite me!” to the crowd gathered around her, I thought: Why does this movie only have a 15 per cent Rotten Tomatoes score because it is not that bad. 

Or maybe I said this out loud. I can’t be certain. No one was there to hear.

My sleep wasn’t nearly as good as the night before. If I had a Fitbit™, it would have said: Are you ok?

Well fuck that Fitbit™ because this morning I read the paper and drank quite a bit of water after realizing I hadn’t consumed any the day before. Our terry cloth robes are already in the dryer and I’m thinking about making cabbage rolls for dinner.

I’m not exactly sure when the Beast will come home but let’s hope, for all of our sakes, it’s soon.


Island therapy

The Beast whipped up a beautiful dinner earlier this week. He boiled little potatoes and green beans, grilled some trout, and dressed it all with grainy mustard, white wine vinegar, shallots, and olive oil. Personally, I would have kept the grilled trout on the side but I’ve learned to keep these dark thoughts to myself.

And besides, I was wrong. It was an excellent meal.

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Here’s ‘Something’ after 10 years of ‘Foodie and the Beast’

When I saw Ontario red, yellow, and orange peppers on sale at the No Frills for $1.97 a lb, I thought What could be better than turning on the oven and baking stuffed peppers for an hour in an apartment with no AC?

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Say hello to my little friend

There’s this story that a friend of mine told me almost two decades ago so the details are fuzzy but here’s what I remember: She was living and working two or three jobs in Florence, Italy and had a real Italian boyfriend. Her Italian was fantastic. She spoke it a mile a minute. One day she had an opportunity to make a little extra money at this catering event. She was serving breakfast to a bunch of fancy Italian men. She circulated through the room carrying a pitcher of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. “Pompino?” she offered them. She thought pompino meant “grapefruit”. She couldn’t understand why the men were laughing and saying: “Si, si, signorina!” Turns out pompelmo is grapefruit in Italian, not pompino. Pompino means “blow job”.

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Confessions in Buffalo

On Friday, soon after I got home from work, the Beast appeared in the kitchen wearing mint green shorts and a breezy, over-sized button down shirt.

“Today I’m giving you Armie Hammer CMBYN realness,” he told me. “Now you go dress up like Timothee Chalamet.

“You’d be so proud of me today,” he continued. “I went for a bike ride to the outdoor gym by the water and I took off my shirt…”

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Always with the hot sauce

I was home alone last night so I did what anyone else in their right mind would do. After successfully installing a new set of shower curtains, I scrubbed the tub, harvested some chin hairs, grilled some halloumi, made a simple arugula salad with zucchini, mint, pecorino, and asparagus, poured myself a glass of cheap rosé, and watched Megan Leavey, a 2017 film about a U.S. Marine who returns from Iraq and eventually reunites with her bomb-sniffing combat dog.

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Garbage soup and being home alone

It is not uncommon for the Beast to have to fend for himself on a weeknight.

It is extremely rare, however, to find myself home alone. When it does happen, I am often overwhelmed with the anticipation of freedom: the very idea that I can eat and drink and watch whatever I want, with no debate, both thrills and paralyses me. Anything could happen.

Two weeks ago, the Beast had plans to see a concert with his older brother. It was happening. I was going to be home alone.

“I have no idea what I’m going to do tonight,” I told him that morning before I left for work.

“You could do what I do: read a play, masturbate, and then watch old episodes of Frontline on YouTube.”

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