What is died?

My mom hadn’t had a solid meal in three days so on a Monday I took her to The Little Beaver, a restaurant beside a gas station in the rural town of Komoka, Ont.

I’d read about the forty-year-old diner and bakery in a London magazine while we waited to speak to someone at St. Peter’s cemetery about burying Russ, my mom’s partner of 20 years.

Russ had passed away three days earlier.

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Salad days: A guest post by the Beast ( and annotated by the Foodie)

If I ever write a fictionalized account of my time not working I’ve already got two potential titles: Domestic Economy (which I think speaks for itself) or I Wake Up Flexing. I’ve also got the title to the sequel. It’ll be called I’ll Stop Flexing When I’m Dead. The plots are a little vague, but they all involve a protagonist who is a stay-at-home dad without any kids and who wants to have a body builder’s body but even with all the free time in the world he can’t get into healthy eating.

They call it fiction for a reason, because this summer is all about healthy eating, Beast Style.

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On camouflage and orbs

“I need to tell you something and I’m going to do it in a public place so you can’t get really mad at me,” the Beast said on a recent night out for dinner at The Ace.

“You’ve joined a men’s rights group and you’re boycotting the new Wonder Woman movie?” I asked.

“No. I bought a camouflage jacket today from Thrift-Mart.”

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The Loon Hunters

We’d just been laughing about the Beast’oun deck shoes: how absurd it was that they were the only footwear he’d brought to the cottage. I’d warned him to be careful while walking in the woods, over rocks and along slippery leaves. We were headed downhill back to the canoe, tied up to a tree branch and resting in the lake. While I steadied myself, I saw the Beast with his arms in the air like he just didn’t care, sliding down the escarpment on his butt.

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To Die For: spring, spritz, and steak salad

In the sunroom, sipping on the first Aperol spritzes of spring.

Beast: How much money would it take for you to agree to murder someone?

Foodie: [Silence]

Beast: The thing is, you don’t have to murder them yourself, you just have to pick somebody. And you’ll never be caught.

Foodie: I don’t know. Like, a $150 million?

Beast: I’d charge $1,800.

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Udon noodles for a lost, nasty woman

There are so many new and innovative restaurants in the city that I’m excited to try. So on Thursday, the Beast met me after work and we headed to the Keg on King St.

When he found me outside work, I’d just been ‘nized by a lovely young woman on her way to a Civic Action meeting hosted by Metro Morning’s Matt Galloway. “You should go!” she said to me. “It sounds amazing,”I said. “But I have to go to the Keg.”

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Bolognese blues

I got home after work on Friday to find the Beast reading in the sunroom.

Foodie: What did you do to your hair? Where is it?

Beast: I got it cut. I asked for a classic ‘page boy’, what do you think?

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Foodie: No! What about your curls?

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